Paris Hilton, Choupette, And The Press Team From Hell

At least I got a photo with the f*cking cat.

As something of a ‘veteran’ journalist, I’ve been to more press events than I care to count. I’ve reported runway trends from the front row in Paris, chatted with stars on the red carpet, and interviewed more than a few A-listers. In fact, I used to write a celebrity-style column for CNN. One of my subjects was Paris Hilton.

Maybe it’s my Gen X credentials, but I have a soft spot for Paris. She was the OG ‘It girl’ — long before influencers, the algorithm, and “bimbofication” were even a thing.

For the Gen Z audience: in the early noughts, Paris was everywhere — at the hottest Hollywood parties, on reality TV, and commandeering the red carpet with her signature brand of Y2K flash meets trash. She was the mega-rich socialite who made being famous for being famous an actual career path, and she did it on the back of playing a bimbo. Say what you want — it worked.

If Y2K Paris was iconic, Paris 2.0, the second act, is earned. Mum, media mogul, author, advocate for troubled teens, and now the new face of a major spring/summer fashion campaign — shot in Paris (where else?) by Aussie photographer Chris Colls. Who, incidentally, I worked with a gazillion years ago.

Which is how I ended up standing in Herald Square on a recent chilly Monday afternoon, press pass in hand.

The invitation promised the square would be transformed into the chic streets of Paris. Paris — herself — would be there to play a DJ set in celebration. Choupette (the late Karl Lagerfeld’s beloved cat) would also be gracing us with her fashionable presence.

To be brutally honest: I’ve been around long enough to know this was a retail event dressed up in editorial clothing — it didn’t happen outside a department store for nothin’. Whatever. It sounded kinda fun, my career wasn’t hanging on it, and it might even be one of those only-in-New-York moments I’ve written about.

So I took my son Javier, who’s a raving Francophile and dreams of a career in fashion and on a Paris runway. BTW: I have no doubt both beckon (check him out on Insta). He’s almost fifteen and has more drip and aura than Paris and Choupette combined. For now, I figured, he’d get a taste of one of these types of events — and his mum — in action.

Pink Runway, Red Flags

We exited the subway and headed to Herald Square, but were definitely not greeted by a Parisian backdrop (actually, no one greeted us at all). I’d imagined stepping into the Marais — accordion music, champagne, croissants. Instead, the press were packed like sardines into a cordoned-off pen, with the public hovering behind us.

And in the place of the Eiffel Tower, we got a tour bus, a pink runway, and a life-size Choupette.

Call time was 3pm. I arrived at 4:30 because it’s not my first rodeo. Paris didn’t show until after 5.

In the meantime, we stood around waiting. No briefing, no chit-chat, and certainly no French champagne.

I spotted a press team member — black outfit, headset, clipboard, lanyard, the whole power trip — and asked by name for my appointed press contact.

“Which one? I have three on my team,” she snapped.

I gave the last name. She tapped my contact on the shoulder. I introduced myself and asked for the rundown.

She gestured vaguely toward the crowd. “Oh, we had some croissants over there.”

I asked when Paris would arrive. “Five minutes.”

40 Minutes Later

The screaming started from the throng behind us. The star of the show had arrived — by police escort no less, and in full Paris Hilton mode: head-to-toe black, dark sunglasses, and drowning in bling. She made her way to the pink carpet.

So did I.

Because that is literally my job.

The press pack descended. I nudged forward — journalistic instinct, nothing aggressive — trying to get a quote, a photo, some footage.

Then I felt it: an arm reaching in front of me, physically shoving me aside.

WTAF?

I had just been physically ‘handled’ for doing what I had been invited to do — cover the event. If the talent was off-limits — the very idea is ridiculous, by the way — the Paris protocol had not been relayed. There was no mention of a designated interview zone. I’m not stupid; I’ve covered enough events to know there’s a hierarchy: bigger publication, more access. That’s the game.

But let’s get real here.

This was a pop-up at a department store. Not the Met Gala. Not a presidential motorcade. A pink carpet in Herald Square. And while I love Paris, she is not, with respect, the Pope.

I got one question in before the arm came again.

Shoved.

Twice.

The Story I Never Saw Coming

Mortified, I searched for my press contact. I wanted to alert her to the situation, assuming she’d be equally appalled. But when I explained what had happened, she glazed over. Then turned away.

No apology. No acknowledgment. No words actually came out of her mouth.

This was not the story I had planned to write. But when you’re handed the scoop on a silver platter…

Free press, there’s no such thing as bad press, and all that.

I’m sure I’ll be blacklisted.

The Selfie

Despite the foul taste in my mouth, I was determined to at least have the moment. So we stuck around until Paris ascended the tour bus for her DJ set.

That’s when I seized my chance to ask Choupette for a selfie.

Which is precisely when the press vultures descended again, this time demanding the photo be taken off the pink carpet. They wanted to protect it.

Despite the fact that it was already covered in footprints, no doubt headed for the skip as soon as this sh*t show was over.

I’m just glad Karl wasn’t alive to see any of this—there’s no way he’d let his precious Choupette out on the street—let alone a pink carpet—like some alley cat.

Love, NSJ 2.0