Shooting Stars (13 page)
Authors: Jennifer Buhl
* * *
This blistery, early spring Saturday, my red truck is in the shop, and Toby hesitantly offers to let me ride with him. He and his phone-sex operator girlfriend have broken up for the fifth time this month, and I can tell he needed someone to talk to.
As soon as I get in his car, Toby is paranoid. “This doesn't look good,” he says.
“Why? Who cares who you ride with?”
“Just one more thing they can use against you.”
As I see it, by riding with Toby, I am harming no one, eating into no one's profits; but at the moment, paparazzi rules are nonsensical with regard to me, and any change in protocol will be used as an excuse for further persecution. But I stick to my guns and go with Toby anyway.
We troll for about an hour before we run across a gangbang of paps perched on Sunset like an unkindness of ravens. “Unkindness” is the name for a group of ravens, a fact I learned from reading
The Animal Dialogues
by naturalist Craig Childs. It's become one of my favorite word usages since then.
“LMN,” observes Toby.
LMN is a paparazzi agency, some of whose shooters are allegedly former members of a Panamanian drug cartel. The agency is largely made up of ethnic AmericansâAsians and Latinosâand for some reason its paps seem to hate me even more than the rest do. I have occasionally feared they have a hit out on me.
We get out of Toby's car and walk toward the gangbang. It is in the center of town, and we find it on our own (versus being tipped off). We have every right to be there. To best describe my interaction with LMN on Sunset, I will quote from Childs's chapter titled “Raven”:
I began moving toward the ravens, but very slowly. The nearest birds seemed to become agitated. A few hopped onto their toes and petulantly flexed their wingsâ¦They grumbled and cawed, their tones crass, brought up from deep in their throats. I thought I could not possibly be a threat to themâ¦Why were they getting upset?
Toby and I cross Sunset and walk closer to the gangbang. There are at least twenty “ravens” surrounding a building, and Toby catches wind that Victoria Beckham is inside. They “grumble and caw” as we pass by. I keep my head down. Toby tries to say hello, but no one responds. Eventually, one of them steps out in front of us, and we have to stop. He doesn't look at me or address me. He just says to Toby, “She's gotta go.”
“Look man. We spotted it. We can shoot too,” Toby says, trying to stick up for us.
“If you don't leave, she gets fucked up,” he says soullessly.
What does THAT mean?
“Chill out. Chill out, man. We'll leave.”
Toby knew the streets. And he knows, today, they aren't bluffing. He turns to me, “Let's go,” he says. “They found her first.”
Childs calls ravens “mobbers who gang up on invaders and attack one another if one gets out of line.” By just “being there,” I am out of line. And ravens, who are “skilled at delivering torment,” are banding together to destroy me. It might sound melodramatic, but at this moment I do not know how far they will go. Will they expertly follow me home, sit outside my door, and wait for me to leave? Then what?
“She gets fucked up.”
WTF.
At this point, I'm not so thrilled with this job anymore. I am pretty freaking scared.
* * *
Monday I collect my truck from the mechanic, stock it with “Mace Pepper Defense Spray with LED, Gun Distance” (in hot pink of course), and am back on the street.
On my way to my doorstep I decide, if I were a celebrity, I'd want to be Cameron Diaz. So slick in kicking our asses, there's no way not to like her. As pap-savvy as they come, Cameron rarely talks trash to us (she doesn't need to) and generallyâeffortlessly and with
style
âavoids us;
but
if she wants it, she knows how to work it. After she and Justin Timberlake broke up (not too long ago at this point), she began to oblige our shots once or twice a week, mostly after leaving her boutique West Hollywood gym dripping with svelte, sexy sweat.
Go Cameron!
Since she's been giving it up of late, J.R.'s put Bradley and me on her Hollywood Hills doorstep. I'm not hopeful. I've never heard of anyone getting Cam from her home; rather, she just shows up when she wants to. If Cameron does come out while someone's on her doorstep, it's said she pulls up next to them, either in her Prius or her 911, smiles a giant Cameron smile as if to say,
I know you're here, and I want you to know that I know,
then drives like a fiend down the hill, past the Chateau, and onto Sunset. If she doesn't smoke the pap on the hill or on Sunset, she
pulls through gated subdivisions and parking garages until she does. Or if she can't shake 'em, it's said she'll return home. Stubborn, yes, but a fair fighter: Cam never calls in the cops. I respect that. I also hear she does her own stunts in movies. I believe it.
Midday, Bradley lights a joint. Now, here's my deal with pot. I'm all for medical marijuana, but I hate smoking. Don't like the feeling at all, and only get high right before bed on occasion so I can calm my nerves and go to sleep. But this time, for some reason, I say, “Sure, I'll take a hit.”
A couple puffs, I'm out. I crawl to the back of Bradley's SUV, then to the way-back and lie down. He, on the other hand, is jazzed: “Let's blow this doorstep and go get something!” We both know Cameron's not coming out, but I can't move and
no way
can I drive. Bradley has little choice but to take off for a troll with my worthless weight lying in the back.
Cam lives behind Chateau Marmont off Sunset and Crescent Heights. It doesn't take us long to hit a trolling route. We head west on Sunset, then go south down Doheney, pass the lunch spot La Conversation (patio checkâno one), and swing down a little side street where Cameron's gym is. Oh what luck, her silver Prius is parked outside.
J.R. rings about this time. “Ahhhhâ¦any action?”
“Yeah, J.R. We're on her at the gym.”
“Ahhhhâ¦Greatâ¦Ahhhhâ¦Stick with it.”
We can't expect to keep her exclusive in the middle of West Hollywood, and over the next hour, a few more paps roll in. Bradley has cajoled me out of the car, and I sit in a stupor on the sidewalk holding my camera and long lens. When Cameron comes out about an hour later, we shoot her with her head up, waving and smiling.
Bradley and I get on the follow. The other paps, apparently satisfied, let her go. Cam's driving slowly and doesn't seem bothered we're following. When she pulls into an underground parking deck in Beverly Hills, Bradley instructs me to get out of the car and shoot while he parks.
“By myself? Are we allowed to shoot here? Will you shoot with me?”
“You'll be fine. I'll shoot from the car,” he says with a smile.
I'm getting screwed, I know, but follow orders, slide out with my short-and-flash which I'd switched to when we pulled into the deck, and amble toward Cameron.
“Watch the lift,” Bradley instructs out his window. He means the elevator.
When I get to Cameron, I do not raise my camera. Instead I stare at her and wait for her cue.
“You're on private property. You can't shoot here,” she says matter-of-factly.
I'm still a little stoned.
Hmmm, now what?
I'm standing in a dark parking deck with zero confidence (which I know she picks up on), sorely aware that if I try to bring my camera to my face, she'll just turn the other way. She's fully in control.
So, I don't try to shoot. Instead,
I've got it,
I'll follow her again.
Into the elevator
.
What the hell am I doing?
I glance at Bradley who is thirty feet away snuggly in his carâhe smiles and waves me on.
Cameron gets in the elevator.
I get in the elevator.
My camera's down. I'm looking at the ground.
It's just me and her.
The door closes.
Just me and her.
Silence.
No one pushes a button. The elevator doesn't move.
“You need to get off,” she says.
I don't say anything and refuse to move my eyeballs from the floor. But I can feel her stare. She's looking at me like I'm a fever blister.
I'm really normal, Cameron. I bet we could be friends.
Silence.
“This is really weird,” she says.
I have an MBA, Cameron. I'm smart. I'm not like them. I'm one of you. You'd like me.
She's right. This is really weird.
Cam is a
very
experienced celebrityâshe knows pap protocol. And, as I can now attest, this is most definitely
not it.
I'm super glad I smoked pot earlier.
“I'm just gonna see where you're going,” I finally whisper, still staring at the floor.
Forever-long pause.
“
Humf
. Fine. I'll get off then.”
She pushes the button, the door opens, and she walks out. The door closes, and I'm left alone.
Eventually I push the button, the door reopens, and Cameron, standing there, moves aside so I can pass. I never look up. When I make it to Bradley's car, he's curled up on the floor and can't talk for laughing so hard.
I whack him on the back of his head. “Get up! Let's go.”
Being a Celebrity, for Dummies
Part 1
Dear Celebrities,
   I feel it's about time we discussed your habits. 'Cause the way I see it, after only five months of working in this business, if you
really
don't want to be photographed, you
mostly
don't have to be. (Now, your gut probably already tells you this, but to validate: most celebrities you see in weekly tabloids are there
by choice.
You do not need to feel sorry for them. They
want
to be photographed.)
   But for the celebrity who just doesn't get it, or for the up-and-coming celebrity, here are a few tips for avoiding the paparazzi:
   (Note: Reverse these tactics to attract the paparazzi.)
1.  Do not eat, hang, shop, go to the doctor, drive, live, or basically be
in the Beverly Hills or West Hollywood shopping areas, defined as the
City
in the Glossary of Paparazzi Terms. Ninety percent of paparazzi hang out in this two-mile radius of town. There is also a healthy smattering of us in the heart of Santa Monica and near the Country Mart in Malibu, so you may want to avoid those areas too. If you are spotted in town, you should give it up. (In my opinion.) That's the game. (Unless we followed you there. Then you may have some grounds not to.)
If you don't “want it,” then move to or shop in a different part of town. There are a plethora of fantastic neighborhoods in L.A. with much cooler shopping than Rodeo Drive, Barneys, and Maxfield. (Olsen twins, are you listening?)
2.  Don't be a person of habit. Don't go to the same coffee shop each day (ahem, Patrick Dempsey), the same yoga class each Monday (Reese Witherspoon), or the same Beverly Hills restaurant each weekend (hundreds of you). There's great variety in this city. Mix it up.
3.  When you go out of town, use it to your advantage. You should know by now that there are paps stationed full-time at LAXâusually at the American gate. Also, some agencies have airline insiders and sort through passenger manifests so they can catch you on other carriers. Ideally, you will take a private jet. If you must go in and out of LAX, try particularly hard to keep your return a secret by arriving late at night or very early in the morning. If you alert us at the airport that you're home, expect a doorstep the next day. If you come through incognito, enjoy your L.A. freedom. (No one wants to work on someone who “might” be home.) This “out-of-town advantage” can buy you days, weeks, or more (until you're spotted, of courseâso keep out of Beverly Hills. See No. 1).
4.  If we manage to get a camera near your face and you know we're there, keep your eyes half-shut the entire time. You don't see this often, but it's a classic trick and friggin' funny. Mags may buy an ugly picture of you, but they will not buy one of you with your eyes shut. If that's too hard, then take a lesson from Leonardo DiCaprio: always wear a low-billed hat or sunglasses, and keep your chin curled under even if you don't know we're there. If you do know we're there, walk with your hand casually sweeping your forehead. This way, you will not look belligerent in the few places that your hand and half of face print. (Look up some pictures of Jen Anistonâshe has the hand sweep down to a science.)
5.  Regarding your home: where you buy a house and the layout of the neighborhood is of utmost importance.
Ideally, your neighborhood will have at least two exits.
And even if it's less convenient, you need to use both of them
. This makes us either have to sit flagrantly on your house (in which case if you are the slightest bit aware, you will see us immediately and can simply employ other tactics, as in No. 4 above) or have to use double the manpower (i.e., we sit farther away from your home, one at each exit), which is much less lucrative for us. We still may work you but not nearly as often.
It is also crucial that we are not able to tell if you are home. One little garage door can change your life. A variety of cars (and a mixture of real and dealer plates) is another trick.
9
If the one car that you always drive is sitting in your driveway for all to see, then we're gonna sit on you. It's like dangling a banana in front
of a monkey. How could we not? We don't even have to get to your house early because you are an all-day doorstep target. At any time during the day, if we drive by and see your car, we might decide to sit and wait.
Frankly, it's best we don't even see your house from the street. You could live in a private subdivision with a gate guard, or your house could lie far from the road and be shrouded in shrubbery. If we can't see your house, we can't get clues that might tell us if you're home or in town. If we are never able to tell if you're home, we are more likely to pass you up. Another option is to buy a home on a busy road or one we'll have trouble parking on (a “permit only” street, for example).
And best-case scenario, have more than one home (or stay at your boyfriend's or girlfriend's often) and switch it up. You'll be hard to keep up with or we'll have to put two paps in two locationsâagain, generally more effort than you're worth.
Bottom line, if it takes too much time or too much manpower to get a shot of you,
we will give up.
But, beware: you could becomeâ¦
BORRRRIIING.
Good luck!
Jennifer
9
. In Cali, when you buy a new car, you leave the dealership with “paper” or “dealer” plates (or “without plates,” we might also say), and your real ones are mailed to you in a few months. These dealer plates depict the dealership logo and do not have identifying numbers on them as they do in some states. Thus, if you have a new-looking car (which may even be as old as two or three years), you will generally not be pulled over for driving with dealer plates. Paps use dealer plates for two reasons: one, to be less identifiable; and two, to avoid getting ticketed at red-light camera intersections.
