I met Paris Hilton at Chemist Warehouse and all I got was a seismic shift in my perception of reality

(and the world's best wedding gift)

For the optimal reader experience, listen to this song until you’re told otherwise:

---

Sometimes, when telling this story in the past, I’ve made it sound like I just happened to be at Melbourne’s Highpoint Shopping Centre at the same time as Paris Hilton. I’ve attempted to pass it off as a happy coincidence – one of those what-the-fuck moments – but the truth is I had nothing better to do with my day.

I was crashing at a friend’s place, in Brunswick, during one of those glorious transitional periods in which life asks little of you. Scrolling through Facebook on a Friday morning, an event popped up in my feed: Meet Paris Hilton at Chemist Warehouse.

O Lord, I thought. Paris. Chemist. Hilton. Warehouse. The poetry! The juxtaposition!

I learned that Paris would be launching Platinum Rush – her 24th fragrance – at Highpoint Shopping Centre that afternoon. She would be meeting people and taking photos. I learned that her fragrances, like me, were said to be sophisticated, sexy and sensual. That each one offered a unique glimpse into the diverse sides of Paris. More importantly, I learned that Chemist Warehouse had been withholding important information from the public. They knew something we did not.

Namely, “She can’t wait to see you.”

I’m not sure what happened next. Perhaps I blacked out. But when I came to, I was standing in front of a barricaded area in the bowels of Highpoint. I had travelled over an hour on public transport to arrive there, and though Paris wasn’t scheduled to appear for another couple of hours, a line had already formed. I asked a security guard whether he expected it to get busy later.

“Mate it’s easy,” he said. “Line up now, get a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick, and you’re out.”

Though he in no way addressed my concerns, he had a point. Not necessarily a good one, but a point nonetheless. I paid taxes, I flossed. Did I not deserve a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick?

And so I took my place in the queue behind eleven hardcore Paris fans. Coco – Number 1 – had already been queuing for six hours. I couldn’t say how long the woman in front of me – Number 11 – had been there as she appeared to be deaf and was busy signing with a friend over FaceTime. The friend sat topless at his kitchen table and he caught me watching over the woman’s shoulder. He waved and I waved back. And though we couldn’t communicate, I knew we understood each other. How good is this, he seemed to say. You’re about get to a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick.

The two friends continued to sign for what felt like forever. It may well have been, because time did not exist in the queue. Seconds, minutes, hours – who knew? The only time I was certain of was time being wasted.

I entertained myself by imagining what Number 11 and her friend were discussing. Fifteen years had passed since A Simple Life – Paris’s TV show – first aired. Had this woman been waiting all these years to meet her? And why wasn’t her friend with her? Did he not want to get a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick? What was wrong with him?

I have often wondered what it would be like to lose a sense. Not common sense, obviously, as my presence in the queue was evidence of its departure. I’m talking about the real senses, the Big Five.

I doubt I’d cope well, but on this particular afternoon I came to envy the woman in front of me. An hour of queueing and we’d already been treated to thirteen renditions of Paris’s cover of Rod Stewart’s Do Ya Think I’m Sexy. At this point, I could think of few things more enjoyable, more life-enriching, than going Double Van Gough and spending my remaining years in blissful silence.

I’m not ashamed to admit weakness. Yes, I was easily broken. I sat cross-legged and clutched the steel bars of the barricade as the queue behind me grew. There was no escape. It felt like all of Melbourne had come to get a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick and even Coco, our fearless leader, appeared defeated. He tucked his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth like a madman, muttering in response to Paris’s endless taunts.

Do ya think I’m sexy, Coco?

Do ya?

It became barbaric. Unhinged. Australia has been criticised for its record on human rights and I will happily testify that a gross violation took place that afternoon. This was torture, no doubt. A low point at Highpoint. It was cruel and unusual punishment. Utterly inhumane. Forget John Howard and his boats – we begged for someone to stop the music.

To distract myself, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to high school. A simpler time when getting a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick was reason enough to exist. I thought back to the day that Paris Hilton’s sex tape – 1 Night in Paris – was released. The school corridors were filled with whispers, with jubilant shouts. There were rumours of grainy footage and none of us were old enough to consider the ethics, the context, the power imbalance behind it all. All we knew was it existed. Somewhere. And having seen a pirated clip on a friend’s computer all those years ago, I now realised I had seen more footage of Paris Hilton shaking the sheets than of Paris Hilton doing anything else.

I became nervous.

Unbearably so.

What would I say to her?

What could I say to her?

Be like the fragrances, I thought.

You are sophisticated.

You are sexy.

And yes, Patrick, you are sensual.

---

For the optimal reader experience, switch to this song for the remainder of the story:

---

As Paris’s appearance drew near, the shopping centre took on a frenzied atmosphere. There were hundreds of people in line and Coco – sweet Coco – had found his second wind. We were no longer subjected to Paris’s cover of Rod Stewart; instead, I tapped my foot and sang along to Stars Are Blind with everyone around me. I knew the words by heart after the ninth repetition.

The tension continued to build. Three women behind me craned their necks to get their first glimpse of Paris. They giggled, not quite believing what was happening. Our dreams were coming true. I turned to them and smiled. We were about to get a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick – how lucky were we?

Shoppers hung over glass barriers on the levels above. They looked down on us, yes, but only in a physical sense. We were the faithful – true Parisians – and we knew we would be rewarded for our loyalty.

But not yet. Because Paris was late. Twenty minutes away, we were told, though this number meant nothing to us. Time was measured not by the clock, but by the amount of times Stars Are Blind played on repeat.

Even though the gods are crazy

Even though the stars are blind

If you show me real love, baby,

I'll show you mine.

Twenty minutes turned to thirty, to forty-five, to over an hour. It wasn’t just the gods who were crazy; the punters began to lose it, too. A Channel Seven reporter beside me cracked. She marched away, leaving her cameraman alone to capture the chaos, the anarchy. A permeating sense that all was not right in the world and never would be.

And then!

And then, she arrived.

Holy shit, I thought.

“Holy shit,” I said.

It was Paris Hilton.

The stars were blind but praise the Lord for I was not!

She was a vision, a goddess, twirling across stage and knocking over a vase.

My mind went into overdrive. Give me the perfume. Give me all twenty-four. I need three scents for each day of the week and another three for special occasions. Lather me up in Platinum Rush and Fairy Dust. Soak me in Dazzle and Siren. For God’s sake let me live.

The host asked Paris to describe her latest fragrance. She declined, instead promising it would make us sexy and that everyone would want to hook up with us.

Amen, sister.

Paris was preaching to the converted. She could’ve said it smelt like rancid bin juice and I still would’ve punched the nearest child to get my bleeding hands on a bottle. Hell, I would’ve punched Coco – sweet Coco – who was at this moment walking on stage.

I’m ashamed to say jealousy got the better of me. What had Coco done to deserve this honour? My insides burned like a spritz of Platinum Rush to the retina.

And yet I was happy, I swear, to let a young girl cut ahead of me in line. Her mother explained how excited her daughter was, how she was such a huge fan. Of course, I said. Of course she can go ahead.

I basked in the warm glow of being a Good Guy. Of being someone deserving of a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick. But I came to regret my decision moments later, when this girl – this goddamn gremlin – shuffled on stage and demanded to show Paris her dance moves.

An aggressive twerk.

A flawless split.

Advanced manoeuvres I had no hope of competing with.

I mean, this girl was gleeful.

Graceful.

She was born for the spotlight.

But she was greedy, too. No fair! I made a show of checking my watch, hoping to speed things along, but Paris happily danced alongside her, grabbing the host’s microphone and making it clear to the crowd how much she loved this young girl. “Yass Queen,” she shouted, again and again. “Yass!”

I stood to the side and awaited my turn. I wondered whether Paris might love me too. I couldn’t touch my toes, let alone perform gymnastics on stage. I didn’t even have an arse to twerk with. Would I receive a ‘Yass King’? Or would I be booed off stage?

As the young girl departed to cheers, I climbed the steps towards my destiny.

You are sophisticated.

You are sexy.

You are sensual.

I greeted Paris and she told me she loved my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to meet her own, but I repaid the compliment while focusing on her hands, one of which gripped the microphone. She was saying something to the crowd, but I didn’t hear what. I couldn’t stop looking at her hands. Unlike the rest of her, they had aged.

My god, I thought. Have I got it all wrong?

I realised these were the hands of a Fucking Human Chick. Hands that had lived, laughed, loved. I imagined high-fiving them. Pictured them wiping away tears. I could see these hands hailing a taxi. Slapping a bass. Accepting a ring then one day removing it.

Overwhelmed, I asked the person attached to the hands to sign a poster for my soon-to-be-married friends. Have an amazing marriage, she wrote, and I thanked her and left.

Away from the crowd, the spell was broken.

Paris Hilton?

Had I really spent five hours queueing to see Paris Hilton?

What a waste of my day. My life! Enraged, I complained to friends about how vapid Paris had been, how fake. How she wouldn’t stop shouting ‘Yass Queen’ but couldn’t manage a single ‘Yass King’ for me.

My friends were empathetic.

Understanding.

Of Paris, that is.

“If I had to deal with millions of people I’d never see again, I’d autopilot to yass queen too,” said one. Another mentioned that Paris’s own engagement had been called off only days prior.

I Googled her name on my way to deliver the wedding gift. It was true. Not even a week had passed. Had I seen her hands shaking as she wished the best for my soon-to-be-married friends? Had a single tear rolled down her ageless face?

I couldn’t be sure.

I couldn’t be sure of anything.

I mean, the event wasn’t even held at a Chemist Warehouse.

Don’t tell me this is A Simple Life.

My body felt weightless. I was disoriented, distracted. Had I missed my tram stop? Did it even matter? I plugged in my headphones, loaded Stars Are Blind and closed my eyes. All I wanted was a photo with a Fucking Hot Chick and here I was, missing Coco – sweet Coco – already.

The gods, I knew, were crazy.

The stars, I knew, were blind.

But I was sophisticated.

Sexy and sensual.

I would wind up where I needed to be.