For the last three years, I've been one of them. Through countless events and red carpet brouhahas, I've worked as a stringer for a major national magazine with a ridiculously high circulation and a name that makes people snap to attention and look at me with a respect and, seriously, an awe that I've never gotten in, well, anything—job, life, bingo, whatever. Screw investigative journalism and local stories about community issues. The people want to know what panties Brit—Brit's not wearing and who's the latest to check themselves into the "hospital" for "exhaustion."
Who am I to deny the people?
It all began with an e—mail from an editor asking if I'd be interested in working for this particular magazine. We met for lunch, and while it didn't sound perennially glamorous, it sounded colorful. (Despite stories about others who took this kind of gig and how they had to, say, stake out Roy's hospital room and try to get something, anything before they could go home.) A sucker for out—of—character experiences and always looking to broaden my resume, I decided to take the challenge with gusto. I was at the ready whenever the calls came, whether they were seeking celeb news at hotels or marriage—license copies, or whether I simply recited questions that the editors provided me. It was with that list that the dignity drained most, and I essentially fulfilled the role of a monkey holding a tape recorder. Questions like "What's in your iPod?" or "What was the best birthday present you ever received?" or, my favorite of all time: "Christmas tree: real or fake?" After each experience, I'd transcribe whatever answers I got and send them back to my editors, who would determine whether or not they fit into a story or segment of the magazine.
Those three years were a pop—culture immersion, a glimpse into the world of celebrity, which, in our culture, is held at about the same level as the messiah. I met some interesting people (and, on the other end of the spectrum, some reality—TV stars). I was kicked out of a club. I almost got into a fight. I confronted my fear of Carrot Top, face to face. But above all, out of it I got some interesting—and also remarkably banal—stories and anecdotes.
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When Courtney Love stopped drinking and doing drugs in 2004, she filled her time with shopping, writing and playing music.
Vanessa Marcil doesn't really get hit on. Nor does she really hit on people.
Jim Florentine says the best Christmas present he's ever received was when his mom got him a prostitute.
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Justin Timberlake has a bag line out, through the company Ful. No, they're not called "Sexybags," but FUTURESEX/LOVESHOW is printed on them, and Justin describes them as "a little bit street, but it's a little bit, like, I got the sense that, like, a skater could use it, a writer in New York who takes the subway every day could use it." Get it? Totally.
He's hosting a bag launch party at Pure, with proceeds from sales benefitting his foundation. Inside the club, local, regional and other media schmooze and drink and wait for the J—to—the—T to descend. Actually, many of them are really waiting to see if Cameron Diaz will descend with him, because there have been rumors that the couple will get hitched while in town. We care about that far more than the bag, and so does the publication I'm here for. But my editors were told by Timberlake's people that I was not to ask any Cameron—related questions. So my mission, I'm told, is to get relationship information without asking direct relationship questions. Which proves to be even more difficult than it sounds.
I'm the only print media allowed up on the roof, where I've been assigned to interview him. As I wait patiently for the celeb TV shows to finish talking to Timberlake, I interview a rep from Ful about the bag, thinking that I'll get those questions out of the way and spend more time talking to JT about stuff the public actually cares about.
He comes over and I'm struck, as I always am in celeb interviews, about how normal he looks, without the ethereal glow of stardom that must come from the love of the world lapping at your complexion.
I start in immediately with the softballs. Tell me about the bag. Tell me about your foundation. And then continue on to what I consider a somewhat enterprising but clearly simple and relationship—free query: Do you see more product lines in your future? I'm instantly reprimanded by his people. "We're only talking about tonight," I'm told.
But Justin continues. "That's funny. What if you designed a cologne named Alone, and it was the worst—smelling thing. No?" He's looking for a reaction. I chortle, picturing a stark bottle with "Alogne" printed on it.
We continue. I ask how he likes being in Vegas, and he tells me he likes playing Texas Hold 'Em—that he plays it at home and takes his friends' money and pride. "What's the craziest rumor you've heard lately about you?" I ask him. Unfazed, he says they're not crazy anymore. "Does it bother you that when you come to Vegas, everybody screams marriage?" He says no. Then, just missing their cue, his people jump in to reprimand me, insisting that I stick to the product. "What would you like to tell me about the bag?" I submit. He and his people crow some more and then announce the interview's over. Timberlake's tired.
I head back downstairs to mingle with the masses and hope that JT and Cameron will come down and give me something besides a slightly stinky joke about cologne. I'm there long enough to order a beverage when one of JT's people approaches and says he's been told to ask me to leave. I balk, but he's serious. I balk again, but he's still serious. They didn't like my questions, he tells me. I wouldn't just stick to the bag, he says. He escorts me out, making sure to grab a gift bag for me. A special memory from the first event from which I've ever been physically removed.
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Chris Pratt never Googles himself, but he does Yahoo! himself from time to time.
Nicky Hilton likes to snack on mozzarella cheese.
Josh Groban "just tries to breathe" to relax before an awards show.
Kelly Clarkson prays to Jesus to relax.
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Britney Spears got married to Jason Alexander. I'm to speak with the clerks at Clark County Marriage Services about the newlyweds, who purchased their marriage license during the graveyard shift (something the bureau no longer has). I speak to them around midnight. Two of the women on staff are chatty. They tell me how tiny Britney is, and that she was quiet and didn't seem drunk. I ask if they were touchy—feely, if they seemed in love?
"We can't really answer that," says one.
"Some people are touchy when they're in love and other people don't touch at all. It doesn't mean they don't love each other," says the other.
Judging from the annulment they got 55 hours later, it would seem that they didn't.
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Jerry O'Connell plays word association. The Swan TV show: "Freaky."
Snoop Dogg filing for divorce: "I didn't know he was married."
I
ce—T producing David Hasselhoff's hip—hop album: Platinum.
Rachael Leigh Cook's cell phone ringtone is Sean Paul's "Temperature."
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The Wild Boyz arrive at the Video Game Awards happy as joysticks, having already had their fair share of libations. Chris and Steve—O stumble out of their limo and immediately break into acrobatics, setting their drinks down to cartwheel and somersault down the red carpet. Then they get right up into the faces of reporters, their breaths thick with hooch as they utter inane answers to the inane questions. I lay low for this one, not really needing to ask them "How much is too much to spend on a woman?" but mostly to avoid being slobbered on. The reporters next to me feel differently. Once Steve—O is done with their question, he moves one step closer, standing right in front of me as he reaches into his pants and whips it right out. I instinctively look away. Seriously. And so I've never been able to answer the size question which is inevitably the first thing people ask. (He wears a thong, so it's really not too mysterious.) Not satisfied with just one episode of flashing, he continues down the carpet exposing himself two more times, just before donning Mario suspenders as Chris puts on a Donkey Kong suit and climbs a ladder, throwing barrels at Steve—O.
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Garcelle Beauvais—Nilon's favorite perfume is Burberry Brit.
LaToya Jackson's album, Starting Over, is called Starting Over because that's what she's done.
Jeremy Piven bought his mom a scarf in India.
Carrot Top liked the "Operation" T—shirt I was wearing.
Tia Carrere is peeved by people who snore on planes.
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Avril Lavigne is in town for some function, and my people have managed to get me in. But Lavigne isn't doing many interviews, except with one choice reporter who seems to be a childhood friend. I had approached her publicist, and she told me she'd get back to me. So I'm waiting. And waiting. And then, there is Avril, shrouded in her entourage, walking around the restaurant.
This is back before she married Sum 41's Deryck Whibley, but there has been speculation that the two are engaged. And so I approach, introduce myself and simply ask her to tell me about her ring. "I don't answer personal questions," she says softly, looking somewhere between snotty and scared. I consider telling her it's really more of a fashion question, and instead mentally consult my list of standbys.
"Do you have any celebrity crushes?" I ask, less than earnestly.
"No," she twitters. "Do you?"
I feel a fake Valley girl accent seeping in, enabling me to answer with a straight face. "Yeahhh," I say. "Johnny Depp. Who doesn't?"
The Canadian sk8r punk rolls her eyes at me. "That's so cliché."
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Henry Simmons has a secret crush on Jessica Alba.
Jessica Alba cannot live without her turquoise and beige Gucci bag.
Yoko Ono wore Stella McCartney pants to the opening of Love.
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Ringo Starr walks the carpet after the premiere of Love. Reporters up and down ask the basics—what he thought of the show, what his favorite song was. Not wanting to be redundant, and admittedly curious, I yell out to him, "Ringo, what would George and John have thought?" He snaps to attention. His eyes meet mine and narrow.
"Well, ask them."
And he stalks down the carpet, refusing to take any more questions.
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Pam Anderson says she doesn't gamble when she's in Vegas. It's bad, she says. But when asked about the slot machine coming out in her image (in 2004), she stumbles. "Oop. You're not supposed to know that."
Aisha Tyler puts perfume on her wrists, ears and stomach.
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Nicky Hilton and Kevin Connolly are hosting a New Year's party at Pure the night that '05 turns into '06, and the whole family, save Paris, is having a hoot of a time dancing onstage. Nicky is far more reserved and shy than her mother. Kathy's wearing a black lace cocktail dress, and while it seems she started the evening wearing a little jacket over it, that's now gone. Through the lace you can see about everything. And she doesn't care. She's too busy waving at the crowd, chatting to the masses below her perch, encouraging people to take photos of her.
I notice a ring on Nicky's finger. It hasn't been reported that she's engaged. And now it's become my mission to find out. So my friend and I make our way to the dance floor to snake through the crowd and talk to the family.
Now, New Year's really has a way of transforming Las Vegas into the ugly, lascivious drunk she can become. And the NYE parties at clubs are a little bit nutty. Tonight, patrons paid around $200 each just to get in the door, only to pay $10 and up for drinks once inside, simply to be in the presence of the Hiltons. So I already know that I don't have much in common with the crowd.
I should be keeping that in mind as I make my way across the dance floor, holding my vodka and soda above my head so as to not spill it, when some guy rams into me and, lo and behold, people get wet. More specifically, an old drunk lady who's brimming with cleavage. The drink has also splattered on her mate's toupee. They look at me as though I slapped their unplanned child. "I'm sorry," I say immediately, and try to explain that I've been bumped. All the while I'm thinking that these people are actually probably cleaner than usual thanks to my drink.
"You spilled your drink on me!" The woman is clearly in shock—shock! And looking for reparations.
"You spilled your drink on us!" whelps her wet husband.
I return the stare and, again, apologize. Because we're not going to resolve anything this way, I continue toward the Hiltons. Suddenly, something cold and wet is dripping down my head, back and legs. I turn around and the dance floor has actually parted. The old blonde is crouching down, ninja—style. Each hand is positioned in waving formation, daring me, "C'mon. C'mon." I don't take the bait. I roll my eyes, mouth "Thank you," and make my way to Kathy Hilton, who's busy informing my friend that no, it's not an engagement ring that Nicky's wearing.
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Seal kisses the ground every morning out of gratitude for his family.
Eric Idle's favorite Beatles lyrics are, "Love has a nasty way of disappearing overnight."
According to Brian McKnight, "everybody knows" that Brian McKnight is a car enthusiast who's driven everything.
Orlando Jones prefers real Christmas trees over fake.
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Britney Spears is planning a birthday party for Kevin Federline at Tao at the Venetian. I get the call at about 7:30. "We need you to be at Tao at 8. There are reservations for two in the dining room made under [made—up name]."
It's a free meal and a chance to see Britney, and there are rumors that little people will be on hand for entertainment. I'm so there.
I give the false name at the desk and we're escorted to our table. "Order a lot," my editor advised me. "This could take a while." Gladly. Well into Course 2, the silhouettes of a party of about 10 fill a curtained private room. We can tell, by the location of the trucker hat, where Kevin is sitting. From there, we can make out Britney. They're all drinking and eating and having what appears to be a typical gathering, when there's suddenly a flash of light, an explosion. A crowd starts gathering outside the window of the room, and I leave the table to get a better view. Two female little people are actually pattering up and down the extended table within the room. One is blond and one is brunette, and they're wearing sequined dresses and seem to have been the bearers of the cake, which is where the bright light and explosion came from. I'm texting notes to myself in my phone when security approaches. Rather than reprimand me or tell me to sit down, he's surprisingly candid.
"Britney's throwing a party for Kevin," he says.
"I know," I respond nonchalantly. "What I'm trying to figure out is where I can get a midget."
He looks at me in surprise. "This is Vegas," he says. "You can get anything you want," and walks off.