Commentary
The blogger was the "original influencer," but he's also a human being
I don’t remember exactly when I first became aware of Perez Hilton. Only that one day in the mid-aughts, his name was suddenly as ubiquitous as the celebrity who inspired it.
Perez Hilton, the blogger, was a product of that time. Adept at the internet back when mainstream media publications were still learning how to work their BlackBerrys, he operated with speed that print magazines couldn’t match. And he got the goods — gossip whispered but rarely published — with impressive prescience and regularity. His world had its own language and look: juvenile (think: his signature penis scribbles), irreverent, juicy, catty. It was a destination that offered the perception of access. Perez seemed privy to conversations that usually only happen behind closed doors.
In 2004, he came into the offices of Us Weekly, where I worked, and wowed the newsroom with his charisma and zero-fucks-given, brutally honest take on stars of all ranks. His command of celebrity culture — its secrets, scandals, and machinations — was already firmly entrenched. Perez had every Hollywood publicist on speed dial (as we said back in the day of landlines), and they were going to him, too — to plug events, brands, campaigns. And sometimes, to change narratives.
