Prologue
P
e
o
p
le
h
a
t
e
me.
e
o
p
le
h
a
t
e
me.
So
me
of
the
m
op
enl
y
des
pis
e
me
.
me
of
the
m
op
enl
y
des
pis
e
me
.
I
bet
a
cou
ple
doze
n
woul
d
chee
r if I
wer
e
mai
med
.
bet
a
cou
ple
doze
n
woul
d
chee
r if I
wer
e
mai
med
.
P
e
o
p
le
.
Hate. Me.
e
o
p
le
.
Hate. Me.
For some reason when I meet someone for
the first time, I feel compelled to tell them
this. “Hi, my name is Sadie Price. Yeah,
great to meet you, too! People hate me.” I’ve
gotten pretty good at suppressing the urge to
say it out loud, but it’s still there swirling
around in my mind. I’ll shake a person’s
hand, exchange the usual pleasantries, and
look from the outside to be a completely
sane person – all the while part of me silently
repeats the words, “People hate me. People.
Hate. Me. Peoplehateme.”
the first time, I feel compelled to tell them
this. “Hi, my name is Sadie Price. Yeah,
great to meet you, too! People hate me.” I’ve
gotten pretty good at suppressing the urge to
say it out loud, but it’s still there swirling
around in my mind. I’ll shake a person’s
hand, exchange the usual pleasantries, and
look from the outside to be a completely
sane person – all the while part of me silently
repeats the words, “People hate me. People.
Hate. Me. Peoplehateme.”
I think the reason this particular little neuroses developed is that it’s not some
imaginary thing. The idea that people hate me is not the invention of an irreparably
wounded self-esteem or chemical imbalance. I am not some terminal wallflower
who feels unworthy of kindness. I’m no paranoid agoraphobe with an irrational
fear that people are judging her. I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman whose
longest relationships are with a four-thousand-dollar camera, a fully restored
1979 Camaro (a gift from my father), and a lovely man called Antoni who works
in the shoe section of Bergdorf’s. I pay my taxes – approximately on time. I’ve
spent Thanksgiving and Christmas for the last five years at a homeless shelter on
the Lower East Side. I’m blond and blue-eyed (like your local TV weathergirl,
not Marilyn Monroe). I’m a college graduate with a BA in fine art. And, I am a
paparazzi.
imaginary thing. The idea that people hate me is not the invention of an irreparably
wounded self-esteem or chemical imbalance. I am not some terminal wallflower
who feels unworthy of kindness. I’m no paranoid agoraphobe with an irrational
fear that people are judging her. I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman whose
longest relationships are with a four-thousand-dollar camera, a fully restored
1979 Camaro (a gift from my father), and a lovely man called Antoni who works
in the shoe section of Bergdorf’s. I pay my taxes – approximately on time. I’ve
spent Thanksgiving and Christmas for the last five years at a homeless shelter on
the Lower East Side. I’m blond and blue-eyed (like your local TV weathergirl,
not Marilyn Monroe). I’m a college graduate with a BA in fine art. And, I am a
paparazzi.
P
eo
pl
e
d
o,
in
fa
ct,
ha
te
m
e.
eo
pl
e
d
o,
in
fa
ct,
ha
te
m
e.
When I first started out in this business the people-hating me thing really
rubbed me the wrong way. The same kind of rub as, say, a dislodged
underwire gouging into your skin. While you’re forced to do jumping
jacks. On a trampoline. In those days, when I met someone I would
make excuses, “Yes, but I’m not that kind of paparazzi.” I’d give them
a well-rehearsed briefing on my degree in fine art. I’d tell them that I
was really known for my stripped-down black and white portraits, and
that these portraits were praised by my subjects for their beauty, and by
professors for their technique and artistry. At my lowest point, I even
went so far as to recount – word for word – an article in the alumni
mailer about how my fellow classmates had voted me Graduate with the
Most Potential.
rubbed me the wrong way. The same kind of rub as, say, a dislodged
underwire gouging into your skin. While you’re forced to do jumping
jacks. On a trampoline. In those days, when I met someone I would
make excuses, “Yes, but I’m not that kind of paparazzi.” I’d give them
a well-rehearsed briefing on my degree in fine art. I’d tell them that I
was really known for my stripped-down black and white portraits, and
that these portraits were praised by my subjects for their beauty, and by
professors for their technique and artistry. At my lowest point, I even
went so far as to recount – word for word – an article in the alumni
mailer about how my fellow classmates had voted me Graduate with the
Most Potential.
My best friend, Brooke, was the first person I met who
greeted the news of my occupation with anything but
suspicion and ire. Her first words were, “How completely
fascinating! A paparazzi, huh? Give me all the dish.” It was
then that I realized practically everyone in the industrialized
world has an opinion about the paparazzi, and in the eyes of
most people every paparazzi is that kind of paparazzi. These
opinions are so well established that they will prevail no
matter how I might try to explain myself. This realization,
despite the fact that it was an embarrassingly long time
coming, was a pivotal moment in my life . . . and my
popularity at cocktail parties.
greeted the news of my occupation with anything but
suspicion and ire. Her first words were, “How completely
fascinating! A paparazzi, huh? Give me all the dish.” It was
then that I realized practically everyone in the industrialized
world has an opinion about the paparazzi, and in the eyes of
most people every paparazzi is that kind of paparazzi. These
opinions are so well established that they will prevail no
matter how I might try to explain myself. This realization,
despite the fact that it was an embarrassingly long time
coming, was a pivotal moment in my life . . . and my
popularity at cocktail parties.
I now understand that all the people
in the world don’t actually hate me
personally. The more rational part of
me gets that only some people hate
the idea of me – they hate the job,
the institution. Yet, even in the face
of these strides in amateur self-
psychology, the peoplehateme
repeating part of my brain absolutely
refuses to make this distinction. So,
hi. My name is Sadie Price. People
hate me.
in the world don’t actually hate me
personally. The more rational part of
me gets that only some people hate
the idea of me – they hate the job,
the institution. Yet, even in the face
of these strides in amateur self-
psychology, the peoplehateme
repeating part of my brain absolutely
refuses to make this distinction. So,
hi. My name is Sadie Price. People
hate me.
C
E
L
E
B
R
IT
Y
S
U
M
M
E
R
E
L
E
B
R
IT
Y
S
U
M
M
E
R
As temperatures rise across the nation, Hollywood
is preparing for a much needed jolt. Recent
lackluster box office tallies are projected to bounce
back in the next few months as this year’s crop of
larger than life action pix and heart-string-plucking
indies draw moviegoers out of the heat and into
theaters. “This summer looks to be our best in a
couple of years, possibly our best ever,” says
industry analyst Gordan Stern. “We’re anticipating
record numbers.” And the suits aren’t the only
people feeling cheery about the summer’s
prospects.
is preparing for a much needed jolt. Recent
lackluster box office tallies are projected to bounce
back in the next few months as this year’s crop of
larger than life action pix and heart-string-plucking
indies draw moviegoers out of the heat and into
theaters. “This summer looks to be our best in a
couple of years, possibly our best ever,” says
industry analyst Gordan Stern. “We’re anticipating
record numbers.” And the suits aren’t the only
people feeling cheery about the summer’s
prospects.
Several publications have crowned
this the Summer of Celebrity as the
film industry emerges from the
doldrums and money and champagne
once more begin to flow freely. One
well-connected insider declares,
“The party atmosphere is back in
force. People are beginning to feel
that the worst is over. The sweet
smell of change is in the air. It’s all
about L.A., Vegas, Miami, and New
York. We’re back!”
this the Summer of Celebrity as the
film industry emerges from the
doldrums and money and champagne
once more begin to flow freely. One
well-connected insider declares,
“The party atmosphere is back in
force. People are beginning to feel
that the worst is over. The sweet
smell of change is in the air. It’s all
about L.A., Vegas, Miami, and New
York. We’re back!”
Chapter 1
“Do you
think I
have too
much
facial
hair?”
asks Luke
as we
stroll our
way up
Broadway
toward
midtown
Manhattan.
think I
have too
much
facial
hair?”
asks Luke
as we
stroll our
way up
Broadway
toward
midtown
Manhattan.
“It
loo
ks
lik
e
yo
u
jus
t
sha
ve
d.”
I
rep
ly.
loo
ks
lik
e
yo
u
jus
t
sha
ve
d.”
I
rep
ly.
Unable to
resist the
impulse, I
stop, close
my eyes, and
arch my
neck up to
soak in the
warm golden
sunlight
filtering
between the
skyscrapers.
resist the
impulse, I
stop, close
my eyes, and
arch my
neck up to
soak in the
warm golden
sunlight
filtering
between the
skyscrapers.
This spring was frigid, with
bone-chilling rains and blasts of
icy air streaking between the
high-rises. The few warm days in
April felt like fall, not spring. But,
not a moment too soon, the cold
has broken. Today, the sun is
spreading its warmth unimpeded
in a cloudless sky. You can
practically hear the city sigh with
relief. At long last, it is molting
season in Manhattan.
bone-chilling rains and blasts of
icy air streaking between the
high-rises. The few warm days in
April felt like fall, not spring. But,
not a moment too soon, the cold
has broken. Today, the sun is
spreading its warmth unimpeded
in a cloudless sky. You can
practically hear the city sigh with
relief. At long last, it is molting
season in Manhattan.
Businesses and restaurants emerge from
hibernation, their wares creeping out onto the
sidewalks. The people of New York peel off
their protective layers, shedding sweaters and
jackets as the day progresses. Even the most
jaded New Yorkers look skyward, not at the
buildings, but to confirm, “Yep, look at that – the
sun.” In a couple of months the streets will reek
of urine again, and the oppressive heat and
humidity will force us all to cram into any air-
conditioned nook we can find. But, right now,
this city is extraordinary.
hibernation, their wares creeping out onto the
sidewalks. The people of New York peel off
their protective layers, shedding sweaters and
jackets as the day progresses. Even the most
jaded New Yorkers look skyward, not at the
buildings, but to confirm, “Yep, look at that – the
sun.” In a couple of months the streets will reek
of urine again, and the oppressive heat and
humidity will force us all to cram into any air-
conditioned nook we can find. But, right now,
this city is extraordinary.
Luke
tries
again
, “In
gener
al,
do I
have
too
much
facial
hair?
”
tries
again
, “In
gener
al,
do I
have
too
much
facial
hair?
”
Squeezing
my eyes
closed even
tighter, I
enjoy the
sun-induced
tingle on my
cheeks and
draw in a
gulp of the
fresh,
increasingly
humid air.
my eyes
closed even
tighter, I
enjoy the
sun-induced
tingle on my
cheeks and
draw in a
gulp of the
fresh,
increasingly
humid air.
“
S
a
d
ie
,”
h
e
p
r
o
d
s.
S
a
d
ie
,”
h
e
p
r
o
d
s.
“H
old
on,
” I
rep
ly.
“I’
m
ha
vin
g
a
mo
me
nt.
”
old
on,
” I
rep
ly.
“I’
m
ha
vin
g
a
mo
me
nt.
”
Luke
huffs
before
going
silent
–
except
for
the
impati
ent
tappin
g of
his
foot.
huffs
before
going
silent
–
except
for
the
impati
ent
tappin
g of
his
foot.
I take one
more deep
breath, then
open my
eyes.
“Okay, you’
re asking if –
in general –
you have
too much
facial hair?”
I ask
sardonically.
more deep
breath, then
open my
eyes.
“Okay, you’
re asking if –
in general –
you have
too much
facial hair?”
I ask
sardonically.
Though I’m a rather
Amazonian five-foot-ten, I
have to get on my tiptoes to
properly inspect his face. Luke
is built like a tree – strong,
sturdy, and undeniably
vertically oriented. His sinewy
six-foot-six frame always
manages to dwarf everything
around him. Luckily, that
includes me. Next to him even
the tallest, most gawky girl can
feel delicate.
Amazonian five-foot-ten, I
have to get on my tiptoes to
properly inspect his face. Luke
is built like a tree – strong,
sturdy, and undeniably
vertically oriented. His sinewy
six-foot-six frame always
manages to dwarf everything
around him. Luckily, that
includes me. Next to him even
the tallest, most gawky girl can
feel delicate.
“Again, I
say . . .
you just
shaved,”
I quip,
resuming
our
stroll.
“Did
some
mean girl
tell you
that you
were too
hairy?”
say . . .
you just
shaved,”
I quip,
resuming
our
stroll.
“Did
some
mean girl
tell you
that you
were too
hairy?”
“No. It’
s just
that,
like,
Conan
O’Brien
. . . he’s
all pale
and
Irish
like me.
But he
always
looks
so
smooth.”
s just
that,
like,
Conan
O’Brien
. . . he’s
all pale
and
Irish
like me.
But he
always
looks
so
smooth.”
Pale is a bit of an
understatement. Occasionally
Luke’s pasty Irish pallor gives
him the eerie look of
semitransparency. Fortunately for
him, his blazing red hair and deep
green eyes round out sweet,
unassuming good looks. He also
has the kind of smile that sears
itself into your memory, so that
whenever you think of him, you
only remember him smiling.
understatement. Occasionally
Luke’s pasty Irish pallor gives
him the eerie look of
semitransparency. Fortunately for
him, his blazing red hair and deep
green eyes round out sweet,
unassuming good looks. He also
has the kind of smile that sears
itself into your memory, so that
whenever you think of him, you
only remember him smiling.
“What
about um
. . .” I try
to think of
ruddy,
hairy
Irishmen
to
compare
him to.
Not
having
much
luck.
“What
about
Albert
Finney?”
about um
. . .” I try
to think of
ruddy,
hairy
Irishmen
to
compare
him to.
Not
having
much
luck.
“What
about
Albert
Finney?”
“Yo
u
thin
k I
loo
k
like
Alb
ert
Finn
ey?
”
he
ask
s.
u
thin
k I
loo
k
like
Alb
ert
Finn
ey?
”
he
ask
s.
“I
don’t
know,
” I
reply
thoug
htfully
.
“Yell
‘Punj
ab,
bring
me
the
autoc
opter.
’”
don’t
know,
” I
reply
thoug
htfully
.
“Yell
‘Punj
ab,
bring
me
the
autoc
opter.
’”
“I
’
m
se
ri
ou
s,
S
ad
ie,
”
he
re
to
rts
.
’
m
se
ri
ou
s,
S
ad
ie,
”
he
re
to
rts
.
“So am I.”
“
I
s
t
h
a
t
fr
o
m Annie?”
I
s
t
h
a
t
fr
o
m Annie?”
“
Yes. Say it,” I reply.
Yes. Say it,” I reply.
“
N
o,
”
h
e
sn
a
p
s
b
a
c
k.
N
o,
”
h
e
sn
a
p
s
b
a
c
k.
I
shr
ug
my
sh
oul
der
s
at
hi
m.
“O
ka
y .
. .”
shr
ug
my
sh
oul
der
s
at
hi
m.
“O
ka
y .
. .”
“Fine
.”
Luke
rolls
his
eyes.
“Punj
ab,
bring
me
the
autoc
opter
.”
.”
Luke
rolls
his
eyes.
“Punj
ab,
bring
me
the
autoc
opter
.”
“Huh,” I huff.
“
S
o
?
”
L
u
k
e
a
s
k
s.
S
o
?
”
L
u
k
e
a
s
k
s.
“No, you
don’t
look
anything
like
Albert
Finney.
But I just
made
you say
‘Punjab,
bring me
the
autocopte
r.’”
don’t
look
anything
like
Albert
Finney.
But I just
made
you say
‘Punjab,
bring me
the
autocopte
r.’”
“Ni
ce.
Ver
y
nice
,”
he
say
s,
tryi
ng
not
to
smil
e.
ce.
Ver
y
nice
,”
he
say
s,
tryi
ng
not
to
smil
e.
“
Thank you.”
Thank you.”
We turn
the
corner
at
Forty-
fourth
Street,
nearing
our
destinati
on –
one of
New
York’s
finest
hotels.
the
corner
at
Forty-
fourth
Street,
nearing
our
destinati
on –
one of
New
York’s
finest
hotels.
Luke and I met through work. He is one of the many autograph
hounds who wait patiently outside restaurants and hotels for the
celebrities I photograph. I would call his autograph-seeking a
hobby, except that he makes almost as much money hawking
signatures on the internet as he does from his day job waiting
tables. You see, Luke is not your average, run-of-the-mill,
psycho superfan. He takes his collection very seriously and is
extremely well-connected. With a minimum of effort, he can tell
you where to find anyone in Manhattan – provided they are, or
have been, famous. He also helps me sometimes by acting as a
decoy, keeping an eye on the competition.
hounds who wait patiently outside restaurants and hotels for the
celebrities I photograph. I would call his autograph-seeking a
hobby, except that he makes almost as much money hawking
signatures on the internet as he does from his day job waiting
tables. You see, Luke is not your average, run-of-the-mill,
psycho superfan. He takes his collection very seriously and is
extremely well-connected. With a minimum of effort, he can tell
you where to find anyone in Manhattan – provided they are, or
have been, famous. He also helps me sometimes by acting as a
decoy, keeping an eye on the competition.
“Chec
k it
out,” I
say,
discree
tly
pointin
g
ahead
as
Luke
and I
near
the
hotel.
k it
out,” I
say,
discree
tly
pointin
g
ahead
as
Luke
and I
near
the
hotel.
A very large, very militant-looking
individual waddles into view – the evil Phil
Grambs. I cautiously peek over Luke’s
shoulder to see Phil adjust his camera and
dig into the fanny pack that is part of his
uniform. The fanny pack sort of emerges
from his belly like a tumor, as the straps are
wedged somewhere between his belly and
his pants. I think this particular vast, fur-
enshrouded enclave could also be the final
resting place of Jimmy Hoffa – and possibly
Atlantis.
individual waddles into view – the evil Phil
Grambs. I cautiously peek over Luke’s
shoulder to see Phil adjust his camera and
dig into the fanny pack that is part of his
uniform. The fanny pack sort of emerges
from his belly like a tumor, as the straps are
wedged somewhere between his belly and
his pants. I think this particular vast, fur-
enshrouded enclave could also be the final
resting place of Jimmy Hoffa – and possibly
Atlantis.
“Yea
h,
you’
re
going
to
need
back
up.”
Luke
grum
bles.
h,
you’
re
going
to
need
back
up.”
Luke
grum
bles.
Phil
spins
towa
rd
us
with
his
ears
prick
ed
up
like
a
dog.
spins
towa
rd
us
with
his
ears
prick
ed
up
like
a
dog.
My heart
rate
doubles in
an instant.
I grab
Luke by
the arm
and yank
him behind
a
newsstand
before Phil
can spot
us.
rate
doubles in
an instant.
I grab
Luke by
the arm
and yank
him behind
a
newsstand
before Phil
can spot
us.
“All right,” I say,
getting into
commando
mode, “you
position yourself
with Phil, act like
you’re just
waiting for an
autograph and
talking on the
phone to
someone. Just
do what you do
best –”
getting into
commando
mode, “you
position yourself
with Phil, act like
you’re just
waiting for an
autograph and
talking on the
phone to
someone. Just
do what you do
best –”
“Loiter.”
“Exactly,” I reply
with a wink. “I
think the target will
be coming out the
side door and
through the alley; I’
ll wait there. But if
he comes out the
front door you can
tell me. Oh, and
keep an eye on Phil
– tell me if he does
anything strange.”
with a wink. “I
think the target will
be coming out the
side door and
through the alley; I’
ll wait there. But if
he comes out the
front door you can
tell me. Oh, and
keep an eye on Phil
– tell me if he does
anything strange.”
“Okay –”
“No, on
second
thought,
just tell me
if he tries to
go
anywhere.”
Pretty
much
everything
about Phil
could be
perceived
as strange.
second
thought,
just tell me
if he tries to
go
anywhere.”
Pretty
much
everything
about Phil
could be
perceived
as strange.
“Ay
e-
aye
Cap
’n,”
Luk
e
says
,
moc
king
me.
e-
aye
Cap
’n,”
Luk
e
says
,
moc
king
me.
We
plug
in our
cell
phone
earpie
ces,
and I
quickl
y dial
Luke’
s
numbe
r.
plug
in our
cell
phone
earpie
ces,
and I
quickl
y dial
Luke’
s
numbe
r.
“Got
me?”
I
ask
into
the
little
mic
dang
ling
arou
nd
my
chin.
me?”
I
ask
into
the
little
mic
dang
ling
arou
nd
my
chin.
L
u
k
e
re
pli
es
wi
th
a
n
o
d.
u
k
e
re
pli
es
wi
th
a
n
o
d.
“
Okay, you first,” I say.
Okay, you first,” I say.
Luke
skulks
out from
behind
the
newsstand
. I peek
around
and
watch
him walk
casually
over near
Phil.
skulks
out from
behind
the
newsstand
. I peek
around
and
watch
him walk
casually
over near
Phil.
I wait a few
seconds before
sneaking onto
the sidewalk
and darting
quickly around
the corner. I slip
into a back alley
that dumps out
a block or so
from the hotel’s
main entrance.
seconds before
sneaking onto
the sidewalk
and darting
quickly around
the corner. I slip
into a back alley
that dumps out
a block or so
from the hotel’s
main entrance.
For the record, when people say they hate paparazzi, they’re
talking about Phil Grambs. He’s practically a legend in this
business. A legend like Godzilla, or Dracula . . . or that guy with the
hook who terrifies the teenagers at make-out point. He is loud,
vulgar, and cruel to those he photographs. He’s also a scheming,
conniving weirdo. I would say that he was born without a heart, but
I know for a fact that he’s had quadruple bypass surgery–he
showed me the pictures. Call me judgmental, but I can’t stand the
guy. He’s one of those people who deludes himself into believing
that he’s a real part of the film industry, that somehow his physical
proximity to the stars makes him famous, or at the very least,
worthy of fame.
talking about Phil Grambs. He’s practically a legend in this
business. A legend like Godzilla, or Dracula . . . or that guy with the
hook who terrifies the teenagers at make-out point. He is loud,
vulgar, and cruel to those he photographs. He’s also a scheming,
conniving weirdo. I would say that he was born without a heart, but
I know for a fact that he’s had quadruple bypass surgery–he
showed me the pictures. Call me judgmental, but I can’t stand the
guy. He’s one of those people who deludes himself into believing
that he’s a real part of the film industry, that somehow his physical
proximity to the stars makes him famous, or at the very least,
worthy of fame.
Phil is also one of a rare breed, he actually intended to be a
paparazzi. Generally speaking, this is not the kind of career
you spend your life dreaming about and preparing for. It’s the
kind of thing you bump into by accident. You’re not watching
where you’re going and boom–you smack face first into it.
Sometimes you get lucky and it just breaks your nose. Other
times, it flattens you, but good. You come to and find yourself
five years older, eating greasy nachos on the bumper of a Con
Ed truck while your best friend gives a detailed description of
his extensive Wonder Woman action figure collection—
directly into your brain. These things just happen.
paparazzi. Generally speaking, this is not the kind of career
you spend your life dreaming about and preparing for. It’s the
kind of thing you bump into by accident. You’re not watching
where you’re going and boom–you smack face first into it.
Sometimes you get lucky and it just breaks your nose. Other
times, it flattens you, but good. You come to and find yourself
five years older, eating greasy nachos on the bumper of a Con
Ed truck while your best friend gives a detailed description of
his extensive Wonder Woman action figure collection—
directly into your brain. These things just happen.
“. . . the thing
about the so-
called realistic
invisible plane
replica is the
thing’s
supposed to be
invisible, so can
any physical
representation
of it really be
considered
realistic?”
about the so-
called realistic
invisible plane
replica is the
thing’s
supposed to be
invisible, so can
any physical
representation
of it really be
considered
realistic?”
I can’t say that I’ve spent
much time grappling with
this particular philosophical
issue, but if I don’t say
something Luke will surely
segue into his treatise on the
“so-called realistic” Wonder
Woman wristbands. I say,
“Well, since you put me on
the spot . . . if the replica isn’
t actually invisible, the claim
of realistic does seem—”
much time grappling with
this particular philosophical
issue, but if I don’t say
something Luke will surely
segue into his treatise on the
“so-called realistic” Wonder
Woman wristbands. I say,
“Well, since you put me on
the spot . . . if the replica isn’
t actually invisible, the claim
of realistic does seem—”
“Hey,
Sadie?”
Luke
interrupts.
“I think I’
ve got a
visual.
Keep
your eyes
open, but
I think he’
ll be
coming to
my
position—
”
Sadie?”
Luke
interrupts.
“I think I’
ve got a
visual.
Keep
your eyes
open, but
I think he’
ll be
coming to
my
position—
”
“N
o
he
wo
n’
t,”
I
rep
ly.
“H
e’
s
co
min
g
to
me
.”
o
he
wo
n’
t,”
I
rep
ly.
“H
e’
s
co
min
g
to
me
.”
“Yo
u
don’
t
kno
w
that,
”
com
es
Luk
e’s
resp
onse
.
u
don’
t
kno
w
that,
”
com
es
Luk
e’s
resp
onse
.
I
h
a
v
e
a
f
e
e
li
n
g
.
h
a
v
e
a
f
e
e
li
n
g
.
He
conti
nues
,
“Oh,
and
Sadi
e . .
.
Phil'
s
getti
ng
ants
y.”
conti
nues
,
“Oh,
and
Sadi
e . .
.
Phil'
s
getti
ng
ants
y.”
I adjust
the ear
piece
and
bark
back,
“Got it,”
and train
my eyes
on a
rusty
steel
door
twenty
feet
away.
the ear
piece
and
bark
back,
“Got it,”
and train
my eyes
on a
rusty
steel
door
twenty
feet
away.
“You’
re
suppo
sed
to
say
‘roger
,’”
come
s the
voice
in my
head.
re
suppo
sed
to
say
‘roger
,’”
come
s the
voice
in my
head.
“I
’
m
n
o
t
s
a
yi
n
g
‘r
o
g
e
r.
’”
’
m
n
o
t
s
a
yi
n
g
‘r
o
g
e
r.
’”
A shrill,
exasperate
d whine
crackles
through
the
connection
. “Why do
you
always
have to be
such a
buzz kill?”
exasperate
d whine
crackles
through
the
connection
. “Why do
you
always
have to be
such a
buzz kill?”
O
h,
bo
y.
Fi
ne.
“R
og
er.
”
I
sa
y
dr
yly
.
h,
bo
y.
Fi
ne.
“R
og
er.
”
I
sa
y
dr
yly
.
“No, now you
should be
saying ‘over
and out.’” Luke
is one of those
guys whose
dream of
becoming 007
was hampered
by the fact that
he stopped
maturing at 005.
should be
saying ‘over
and out.’” Luke
is one of those
guys whose
dream of
becoming 007
was hampered
by the fact that
he stopped
maturing at 005.
“As much as I’d
love to play
your Ursula
Andress, Mr.
Bond, I’m
grossly
underqualified.”
The brutal truth
is that, even at
the age of
seventy, I’m
pretty sure
Ursula has less
cellulite than I
do.
love to play
your Ursula
Andress, Mr.
Bond, I’m
grossly
underqualified.”
The brutal truth
is that, even at
the age of
seventy, I’m
pretty sure
Ursula has less
cellulite than I
do.
“
S
a
y
it
.
.
.”
p
r
o
d
s
L
u
k
e.
S
a
y
it
.
.
.”
p
r
o
d
s
L
u
k
e.
“
No,” I laugh.
No,” I laugh.
“Sa
y
iiit,
Sadi
e.
You
kno
w
you
wan
t
to,”
he
goa
ds.
y
iiit,
Sadi
e.
You
kno
w
you
wan
t
to,”
he
goa
ds.
“Luke—” I cut
myself off as the steel
door begins to rattle.
I drop my nachos
and shuffle
backward, pinning
myself in a little nook
created by the
convergence of a
brick-lined building
façade and the back
bumper of the Con
Ed truck.
myself off as the steel
door begins to rattle.
I drop my nachos
and shuffle
backward, pinning
myself in a little nook
created by the
convergence of a
brick-lined building
façade and the back
bumper of the Con
Ed truck.
I peer through the
truck’s grimy
windows and spot
thing I’ve been
waiting the last
two hours for—a
shock of caramel
blond hair and the
chiseled,
classically British
features of a very
handsome man.
truck’s grimy
windows and spot
thing I’ve been
waiting the last
two hours for—a
shock of caramel
blond hair and the
chiseled,
classically British
features of a very
handsome man.
“
G
ot
hi
m
,”
I
w
hi
sp
er
to
L
u
k
e.
G
ot
hi
m
,”
I
w
hi
sp
er
to
L
u
k
e.
“
D
a
m
n,
y
o
u’
re
g
o
o
d.
”
D
a
m
n,
y
o
u’
re
g
o
o
d.
”
Th
ank
you
,
tha
nk
you
ver
y
mu
ch.
ank
you
,
tha
nk
you
ver
y
mu
ch.
Luk
e
con
tinu
es,
“Ge
t
him
Kill
er.
Ov
er
and
out.
”
e
con
tinu
es,
“Ge
t
him
Kill
er.
Ov
er
and
out.
”
I
wish
to
God
peo
ple
wou
ld
stop
calli
ng
me
that.
wish
to
God
peo
ple
wou
ld
stop
calli
ng
me
that.
I
rais
e
the
ca
me
ra
to
eye
lev
el
and
wai
t.
rais
e
the
ca
me
ra
to
eye
lev
el
and
wai
t.
A bead of sweat forms on my
forehead and threatens to tumble
down into my eyes. Though the
temperature is pushing 80 degrees, I’
m positive it’s not the heat that’s
making me sweat. It’s only when I’m
forcing myself to be perfectly still and
quiet that the nerves get me. It’s
anticipation, fear of the unknown, my
body steeling itself for the coming rush
of adrenaline. I prepare to be shouted
at, insulted, shoved, ignored.
forehead and threatens to tumble
down into my eyes. Though the
temperature is pushing 80 degrees, I’
m positive it’s not the heat that’s
making me sweat. It’s only when I’m
forcing myself to be perfectly still and
quiet that the nerves get me. It’s
anticipation, fear of the unknown, my
body steeling itself for the coming rush
of adrenaline. I prepare to be shouted
at, insulted, shoved, ignored.
I wait –
wait for
Jude
Law to
pass a
Con Ed
truck in
the dank
alley
behind a
posh
Manhatta
n hotel.
wait for
Jude
Law to
pass a
Con Ed
truck in
the dank
alley
behind a
posh
Manhatta
n hotel.
As my tension peaks, and that little bead of sweat
trickles along the top of my eyebrow and down my
cheek, Jude Law enters my frame. I’ve got a bona
fide movie star in perfect profile. I depress the shutter
button, and the rapid fire click-click-click of the
camera’s motor whirs to a crescendo. Jude’s head
turns and his famously blue eyes lock onto my lens.
He is shocked, surprised. His eyes widen, cheeks
flush. Then, with a flicker of an eyelash, and a
reflexive sigh, his expression suddenly shifts to
exasperation–-and maybe just a touch of real anger.
trickles along the top of my eyebrow and down my
cheek, Jude Law enters my frame. I’ve got a bona
fide movie star in perfect profile. I depress the shutter
button, and the rapid fire click-click-click of the
camera’s motor whirs to a crescendo. Jude’s head
turns and his famously blue eyes lock onto my lens.
He is shocked, surprised. His eyes widen, cheeks
flush. Then, with a flicker of an eyelash, and a
reflexive sigh, his expression suddenly shifts to
exasperation–-and maybe just a touch of real anger.
I scramble out from behind
the Con Ed truck and ahead
of Jude, walking backward
to get a better angle of him
striding, at an increasingly
rapid pace, towards the
sidewalks of Manhattan. I
widen the focus of my lens,
and to my surprise, catch a
glimpse of ruffled golden
blond hair at the bottom of
my viewfinder.
the Con Ed truck and ahead
of Jude, walking backward
to get a better angle of him
striding, at an increasingly
rapid pace, towards the
sidewalks of Manhattan. I
widen the focus of my lens,
and to my surprise, catch a
glimpse of ruffled golden
blond hair at the bottom of
my viewfinder.
He has
the kids
with
him.
My
face
goes
tingly
and
undoubt
edly as
red as
Jude’s
T-shirt.
the kids
with
him.
My
face
goes
tingly
and
undoubt
edly as
red as
Jude’s
T-shirt.
“You’ve got him, don’
t you? Does he have
the kids with him?”
The voice on the line
is not Luke’s. It’s a
deep, husky growl,
the auditory equivalent
of salivation.
“Saaadiiie . . .” The
voice is getting raspier
and out of breath—
and infinitely more
creepy.
t you? Does he have
the kids with him?”
The voice on the line
is not Luke’s. It’s a
deep, husky growl,
the auditory equivalent
of salivation.
“Saaadiiie . . .” The
voice is getting raspier
and out of breath—
and infinitely more
creepy.
“Wh
at
the
hell
was
that?
”
defin
itely
Luk
e
talki
ng
now
.
at
the
hell
was
that?
”
defin
itely
Luk
e
talki
ng
now
.
“
L
u
k
e
?
Where’s Phil?”
L
u
k
e
?
Where’s Phil?”
“
Oh, shit . . . he took off.”
Oh, shit . . . he took off.”
The next thing I
hear is panting,
and the pitter-
pat of feet on
pavement. The
mysterious
voice, which has
to be Phil, says
triumphantly
between
wheezes, “I
knew he’d have
the kids!”
hear is panting,
and the pitter-
pat of feet on
pavement. The
mysterious
voice, which has
to be Phil, says
triumphantly
between
wheezes, “I
knew he’d have
the kids!”
H
o
w
is
h
e
d
oi
n
g
th
at
?
o
w
is
h
e
d
oi
n
g
th
at
?
I
conti
nue
to
take
shot
s of
Jude
—
and
not
the
kids.
conti
nue
to
take
shot
s of
Jude
—
and
not
the
kids.
I move the
camera away
for a second
and make eye
contact with
Jude Law. “You
better get a
move on. Phil
Grambs is
headed this
way,” I say loud
enough for the
mic to pick it up.
camera away
for a second
and make eye
contact with
Jude Law. “You
better get a
move on. Phil
Grambs is
headed this
way,” I say loud
enough for the
mic to pick it up.
Jude Law gives me a brief
furtive grin. It’s a lovely smile
with all the flash and charisma
worthy of a man who once
played a robot-o-love for
Steven Spielberg. With one
simple click, that peculiar,
ephemeral, almost illusory
flicker—that indefinable thing
that makes some men
irresistible to women—has
been captured forever. By me.
furtive grin. It’s a lovely smile
with all the flash and charisma
worthy of a man who once
played a robot-o-love for
Steven Spielberg. With one
simple click, that peculiar,
ephemeral, almost illusory
flicker—that indefinable thing
that makes some men
irresistible to women—has
been captured forever. By me.
You want to know how I can handle people hating me? How I can
do a job that in the eyes of most people lumps me into a category
with the likes of Phil? That’s it, right there. I turn transitory
moments—these blurs of fame and style and perfection—into
immutable objects. I shape ordered little worlds where everything
makes sense. Each photograph is a flawless moment in time,
completely under my control. I can leave out anything I want, focus
only on what’s important, on the thing that tells the story I want to
tell. The photographs are always in focus, always stable, always
blissfully static. From the moment I picked up a camera and aimed
it at a celebrity, I’ve been in complete control—of the pictures, of
my career, of my life.
do a job that in the eyes of most people lumps me into a category
with the likes of Phil? That’s it, right there. I turn transitory
moments—these blurs of fame and style and perfection—into
immutable objects. I shape ordered little worlds where everything
makes sense. Each photograph is a flawless moment in time,
completely under my control. I can leave out anything I want, focus
only on what’s important, on the thing that tells the story I want to
tell. The photographs are always in focus, always stable, always
blissfully static. From the moment I picked up a camera and aimed
it at a celebrity, I’ve been in complete control—of the pictures, of
my career, of my life.
Phil’s voice
gripes in my
head, “Come
on, Sadie!
Work with me
here. Stall him.
Those kids have
been in the
papers before!
When he was
boinking the
nanny they were
in every—”
gripes in my
head, “Come
on, Sadie!
Work with me
here. Stall him.
Those kids have
been in the
papers before!
When he was
boinking the
nanny they were
in every—”
I yank
the
earpiec
e from
my ear
and,
with
my
brain
all to
myself,
get
back
to
shootin
g.
the
earpiec
e from
my ear
and,
with
my
brain
all to
myself,
get
back
to
shootin
g.
Like a streak of
splattered ink, a
black sedan
screeches to a
halt at the curb.
Three little Jude
look-alikes are
swiftly plopped
and cradled into
the backseat by
a stern looking
chauffeur.
splattered ink, a
black sedan
screeches to a
halt at the curb.
Three little Jude
look-alikes are
swiftly plopped
and cradled into
the backseat by
a stern looking
chauffeur.
Jude,
making to
get in the
car, pauses
for a
moment.
“Do you
have what
you need?”
he asks me
politely,
with is
signature
timbre.
making to
get in the
car, pauses
for a
moment.
“Do you
have what
you need?”
he asks me
politely,
with is
signature
timbre.
The
question
sends
an
uncomfo
rtable
shiver
up my
spine, a
knot
forms in
my
stomach
.
question
sends
an
uncomfo
rtable
shiver
up my
spine, a
knot
forms in
my
stomach
.
Oh,
righ
t—
he’
s
talk
ing
abo
ut
the
pict
ure
s.
righ
t—
he’
s
talk
ing
abo
ut
the
pict
ure
s.
Marveling at
how a voice
trained for the
Shakespearean
stage can
make even the
simplest
questions
seem fraught
with
significance, I
reply, “Yeah,
thanks.”
how a voice
trained for the
Shakespearean
stage can
make even the
simplest
questions
seem fraught
with
significance, I
reply, “Yeah,
thanks.”
With that, Jude
Law is gone. The
black sedan has
been swallowed
up by the bustling
avenues of
Manhattan—just
another black
car, just another
set of
impenetrable
tinted windows.
Law is gone. The
black sedan has
been swallowed
up by the bustling
avenues of
Manhattan—just
another black
car, just another
set of
impenetrable
tinted windows.
These frenzied encounters with celebrity often leave me, experienced as I
am, with the feeling of having seen a ghost. When the adrenaline wanes, a
tiny part of me still asks, “Did I just see that? Did that really happen?”
When you think about it, it’s nothing but light, really, trickling into my
camera. Now that I’ve gone digital there isn’t even a physical object being
created. Instead, they’re these shifty little wisps, tightly knit groupings of
electrons cleverly converted to an incomprehensible string of ones and
zeroes. They’re no more real than ghosts. That is, until they’re put into
magazines and newspapers. Until then, though, just like an ancient mystic
or Dan Akroyd in Ghostbusters, the thrill is in chasing and capturing these
elusive things. You have to admit, there is just a little bit of magic in what I
do.
am, with the feeling of having seen a ghost. When the adrenaline wanes, a
tiny part of me still asks, “Did I just see that? Did that really happen?”
When you think about it, it’s nothing but light, really, trickling into my
camera. Now that I’ve gone digital there isn’t even a physical object being
created. Instead, they’re these shifty little wisps, tightly knit groupings of
electrons cleverly converted to an incomprehensible string of ones and
zeroes. They’re no more real than ghosts. That is, until they’re put into
magazines and newspapers. Until then, though, just like an ancient mystic
or Dan Akroyd in Ghostbusters, the thrill is in chasing and capturing these
elusive things. You have to admit, there is just a little bit of magic in what I
do.
Phil, panting and
wearing his Are
You Looking at
My Shamrocks?
T-shirt, screeches
to a halt beside
me. His skin,
normally a grayish
off-white sort of
color, is a
disconcerting
shade of blazing,
oily pink.
wearing his Are
You Looking at
My Shamrocks?
T-shirt, screeches
to a halt beside
me. His skin,
normally a grayish
off-white sort of
color, is a
disconcerting
shade of blazing,
oily pink.
“You
didn’t
shoot
the kids,
did
you?”
he spits,
swatting
at the
damp
brown
hair
sticking
to his
brow.
didn’t
shoot
the kids,
did
you?”
he spits,
swatting
at the
damp
brown
hair
sticking
to his
brow.
I
answ
er
no
by
way
of
yellin
g,
“You
brok
e
into
my
signal
?”
answ
er
no
by
way
of
yellin
g,
“You
brok
e
into
my
signal
?”
“Please, that
piece-of-shit
cell phone you’
re using might
as well be a
baby monitor.
I’m surprised
you don’t pick
up FM radio.”
He adds, “You
didn’t shoot
the kids, did
you?”
piece-of-shit
cell phone you’
re using might
as well be a
baby monitor.
I’m surprised
you don’t pick
up FM radio.”
He adds, “You
didn’t shoot
the kids, did
you?”
“No, I didn’t.
Paparazzi and
mercenary are not
always
synonymous,
Phil,” I say,
infusing his name
with as much
venom as
possible. Some of
us have rules, and
this just happens
to be one of mine.
Paparazzi and
mercenary are not
always
synonymous,
Phil,” I say,
infusing his name
with as much
venom as
possible. Some of
us have rules, and
this just happens
to be one of mine.
“Well, that’s good for me. I’ll get ‘em
later,” he says, showing me his yellow
teeth. Phil takes a step toward me, so
close I can smell the pastrami on rye
that he had for lunch. “I don’t get
how you can be so ruthless, so
goddamn good at the job sometimes,
and then pull shit like this. You’ll
never make it to the top of the game
if you don’t stop being such a pussy.
Just a tip, Price—those little diapers
were filled with money.”
later,” he says, showing me his yellow
teeth. Phil takes a step toward me, so
close I can smell the pastrami on rye
that he had for lunch. “I don’t get
how you can be so ruthless, so
goddamn good at the job sometimes,
and then pull shit like this. You’ll
never make it to the top of the game
if you don’t stop being such a pussy.
Just a tip, Price—those little diapers
were filled with money.”
Um, gross.
Though I have the sudden
and overwhelming urge to
shove Phil’s camera in one
of his orifices, I simply shrug
my shoulders and flash him a
little smile. As intended, this
compounds his aggravation.
Phil’s cheeks become even
pinker and more oily, he
shakes his head at me and
waddles off in a huff.
and overwhelming urge to
shove Phil’s camera in one
of his orifices, I simply shrug
my shoulders and flash him a
little smile. As intended, this
compounds his aggravation.
Phil’s cheeks become even
pinker and more oily, he
shakes his head at me and
waddles off in a huff.
I admit this business is about chasing money.
Like Phil, when I see a celebrity I also see little
dollar signs hovering above their heads. Jude
Law alone—two dollar signs. Jude Law with his
kids—three dollar signs. Jude Law with his kids
and the nanny—five dollar signs. The difference
between Phil and me, apart from the obvious, is
that I weigh those dollar signs against my own
standards. I work in a minefield of moral and
ethical gray areas, but it’s still a business. It’s
not personal. In my book, kids are personal.
Like Phil, when I see a celebrity I also see little
dollar signs hovering above their heads. Jude
Law alone—two dollar signs. Jude Law with his
kids—three dollar signs. Jude Law with his kids
and the nanny—five dollar signs. The difference
between Phil and me, apart from the obvious, is
that I weigh those dollar signs against my own
standards. I work in a minefield of moral and
ethical gray areas, but it’s still a business. It’s
not personal. In my book, kids are personal.
Some of the paparazzi are awful, it’s
true. They invade people’s privacy.
They yell obscenities and insults to the
people they photograph, chase and
intentionally terrorize them. I don’t.
There is a certain, very solid line I will
not cross. I don’t buzz helicopters over
weddings, I don’t dig through trash, I
don’t trick people into getting angry and
violent. I just take pictures. Fluffy, silly,
harmless pictures of famous people
doing everyday things.
true. They invade people’s privacy.
They yell obscenities and insults to the
people they photograph, chase and
intentionally terrorize them. I don’t.
There is a certain, very solid line I will
not cross. I don’t buzz helicopters over
weddings, I don’t dig through trash, I
don’t trick people into getting angry and
violent. I just take pictures. Fluffy, silly,
harmless pictures of famous people
doing everyday things.
As for the kids, I think it’s important to
remember that though the children of
famous parents are born gnawing rather
enormous silver spoons, they still put their
onsies on two legs at a time like the rest of
us. I think they deserve the same
consideration as the children of nonfamous
parents—the ones for whom an
unsolicited snapshot will get you a one-
way ticket to the clink, and a lifetime of
registering your name on a special list. But
hey, that’s just my opinion.
remember that though the children of
famous parents are born gnawing rather
enormous silver spoons, they still put their
onsies on two legs at a time like the rest of
us. I think they deserve the same
consideration as the children of nonfamous
parents—the ones for whom an
unsolicited snapshot will get you a one-
way ticket to the clink, and a lifetime of
registering your name on a special list. But
hey, that’s just my opinion.
I plug the
earpiece
back in
my ear
and
adjust
the mic.
“Hey
there,
Super
Spy.
You
ready to
get out of
here?”
earpiece
back in
my ear
and
adjust
the mic.
“Hey
there,
Super
Spy.
You
ready to
get out of
here?”
“
Y
e
a
h,
”
L
u
k
e
re
pl
ie
s.
Y
e
a
h,
”
L
u
k
e
re
pl
ie
s.
”
Yo
u’
re
su
pp
os
ed
to
say
‘R
og
er.
’”
Yo
u’
re
su
pp
os
ed
to
say
‘R
og
er.
’”
As I
disentangle
myself
from the
maze of
wires
wrapped
around my
middle, I
hear a
shrill,
exasperatin
g wail from
my back
pocket.
disentangle
myself
from the
maze of
wires
wrapped
around my
middle, I
hear a
shrill,
exasperatin
g wail from
my back
pocket.
S
t
u
p
i
d
S
i
d
e
k
ic
k
.
t
u
p
i
d
S
i
d
e
k
ic
k
.
I keep my life
on that thing.
A good
portion of the
time my life is
whining,
vibrating, and
jingling at me,
demanding to
be heard.
Right now it’s
screaming,
“You’re late—
again.”
on that thing.
A good
portion of the
time my life is
whining,
vibrating, and
jingling at me,
demanding to
be heard.
Right now it’s
screaming,
“You’re late—
again.”
Acci
denta
l It
Girl
is
availa
ble
now
in
book
store
s
and
onlin
e.
denta
l It
Girl
is
availa
ble
now
in
book
store
s
and
onlin
e.
H
a
p
p
y
R
e
a
di
n
g
!
a
p
p
y
R
e
a
di
n
g
!
| Cover design and the Libby Street logo by Giuseppe Castellan o. © 2005 Giuseppe Castellan o. |
| W eb sit e de sig n by L Fl o w er. |
