Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  And just so you know, Britney could do this—sneak out—any day. Instead, she usually comes out in her convertible with the top down or in one of her other well-known cars. If her security comes out in a car without her—to get gas, clean the car, etc.—the security will roll down all four windows as they pass us, letting us know that we do not need to follow. Make no mistake: Britney and company are in full control. OK, perhaps not of the starlet herself, but definitely of us. And as I’m learning, there’s no question that paparazzi, security, and celebs—at least in Britney’s camp—are all on the same team.8

  When Aaron and I finally get to Chateau Marmont, a boutique hotel and restaurant in the center of Hollywood, Britney’s already gone. I’m sure Toby’s on the follow. After my fifth chirp, he picks up his Nextel, shouts out a Beverly Hills address, and hangs up. It’s like I’m dealing with a twelve-year-old boy. I find the game exasperating, but Toby is my only non-CXN pap “friend” and I need him. He gives me lots of gangbang tips; in exchange, I listen to an hour each day of his personal Jerry Springer-ish relationship stories. We do this either in person, outside Britney’s subdivision (where we first met—Toby never works anyone else), or if I’m working elsewhere, he calls (my preference so I can multi-task). I’m fascinated to discover people like him exist: Toby is a chubby American guy with a red face and a big heart who dates and desperately wants to marry his girlfriend, a professional phone-sex operator. (“I’m not jealous of her job,” he notes. “I just get upset when she sees her kid’s father.”) People in this town never cease to amaze me.

  Aaron and I arrive at the address Toby gives us, an apartment complex. Britney’s just shaved her head, so she’s even more tabloid-hot than usual, and a dozen paps are already here. Another fifteen roll in over the next few minutes, and we presume Toby tipped off half of those. Tipping off the competition seems counterintuitive, but Toby’s motivation is that he’ll get tipped back by any or all of us at some point. Besides, he shoots video and only calls in still photographers, so none of us are his direct competition. He just dilutes the pot for the rest of us.

  Whenever you’re working a gangbang, which I quickly discovered after my first ride-along months ago is always the case with Britney, you wait outside your car. There is no reason to hide—everyone, including the celeb, knows you’re there—and you never know if the celeb will walk down the street, pop out on the balcony, or do somersaults on the lawn. You must be prepared for anything.

  It’s this day, standing outside the Beverly Hills apartment complex, that I meet Adnan Ghalib, a Brit of Arab descent, whose name (not changed) you may recognize: Adnan becomes slightly famous a year from now when he dates Miss Spears herself, then decidedly infamous when she dumps him and he ends up with a forty-five day jail sentence for a hit-and-run.

  Adnan gets out of a gold convertible Mercedes—a $100,000 car according to Aaron—and runs back and forth across the lawn shouting, “Fuck you, Fuck you, Fuck you,” to no one in particular. (Aaron says, “That’s just Adnan. Gotta love him.” My thoughts are not so kind. I think he looks like an idiot.) Adnan’s dressed in True Religion jeans, which for some reason are a favorite with the paps, a tight white T-shirt, and lots of rings and gold necklaces. He has a thin line of facial hair that extends from his bottom lip to his chin. Adnan’s super cheesy, no doubt, but not bad-looking if you, like me (and apparently Britney), go for the Middle Eastern look. When Adnan sees Aaron, they both cry, “Mate!” and come together with a strong handshake. I stand by while they talk about which celebs are and are not giving it up these days, and eventually Aaron introduces me. Adnan nods vaguely in my direction.

  We don’t have to wait long. Britney leaves the building a half hour later, exiting from the underground parking lot. Britney is covering her head with a sweater, and a friend is driving her car. There is no shot. Like birds of flight, we scurry across the lawn to our vehicles to take off.

  A few cops showed up at the apartment complex location to keep tabs on us, and they escort us all to Britney’s next milieu. It’s a questionable use of taxpayer money, but in this instance agreeable to me since it keeps the chase calm and the driving sensible. (Note: While you usually follow a celebrity, with Britney, it’s always a chase.) But obviously, you can’t bump lights when the cops are around, so it’s easy to lose Brit. Which I do right away. Toby is first in line—he always is—so I figure he’ll get me to the next destination, probably after the entry shots, but eventually.

  This time, though, it’s Aaron who catches me up. During the drive, we stay in constant contact over the Nextel. From Beverly Hills, we move east to West Hollywood (fifteen minutes), then without stopping anywhere, turn back west and head to Malibu (forty-five minutes). Once Britney gets to the Country Mart, a shopping center off the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway), she turns around again and heads back to Hollywood (one hour fifteen; traffic’s building). She never gets out of her car.

  Sound strange? It’s not. Not for Britney. Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie do this too—drive around aimlessly as we follow. (Though to be fair, the latter two not as frequently; and soon Nicole will get married to singer Joel Madden, have babies, and quit the nonsense altogether. Lindsay, to my knowledge, is still participating today.) I guess if you have nothing better to do, it could be kind of cool to shepherd thirty cars all over town. Maybe. I can tell some of the paparazzi enjoy it as well—they have expressions like little boys on go-kart tracks. Personally, I find it dangerous and exhausting driving.

  Finally, Britney stops. She uses the valet at a Hollywood apartment complex. There are no entry shots, but over the next few minutes thirty-something paps roll up with hopes of getting something on the exit. The stress level is high from over two hours of driving, and there’s a lot of bullying and shoving. Everyone stands around waiting, hoping Britney will come out before the cops come to ticket our illegally parked cars.

  But the cops have less to do than she does, and they get there first. Aaron has to go move his car. I was lucky and found a legal park, i.e. parking space (British), so am still in place when Britney comes out. She’s wearing dreadful sunglasses with gold Chanel bling, a grey hoodie, a pearl necklace, and a short, blond old-lady wig, slightly lopsided on her head. She has a destructive expression on her face, like a smiling goblin, and I shoot from the street, fifty feet away. With few exceptions, mags love pretty, happy shots of celebrities, but Britney is currently a “train wreck” exception. With her, they’ll take anything. I get some salable frames.

  And just when I think I’m starting to get the hang of this paparazzi thing…

  * * *

  I meet Dean McDermott. Dean’s ultra-famous wife, Tori Spelling, was the afternoon gangbang a few weeks ago. Everyone but Donna and I had left at dark; the other paps had their shots. I, however, was still chopping off those ever-important body parts (feet and forehead) and was short the desirable “full-length.” I had only “pieces” of her.

  Since there was no need to hide after the gangbang, Donna and I sat outside the offices of Tori’s reality show, cameras in hand. (Donna was now equipped with a CXN video camera.) Tori and Dean were inside, and the show’s van was parked in the lot. A few hours passed and a guy came out and got into the van. Twenty minutes later, he returned carrying two bags of In-N-Out burgers and struck up a conversation.

  “Hi, I’m Rob,” he said. Then he asked how “the whole paparazzi thing” worked, which we explained as best we knew. Before he went inside, he asked for my number, saying nebulously he could help me out. He wasn’t trying to pick me up; Rob was pretty obviously another of the thousands of hot, gay guys in Hollywood. Rather, in exchange for information on Tori’s whereabouts, he asked only for “some photos.” At this point, I wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

  Since that day, two weeks ago, Rob has given me three tips. Turns out, he’s a PA (production assistant) on Tori’s reality show Inn Love. (I still haven’t figured out why he’s tipping me off, but I’m happy to take the tips anyway.) Today he c
alls with another: the show is filming next week at the “inn,” a B&B near San Diego. Rob gives me the address, the layout, and everything else he can think of. I know about the back porch where Tori chats and gets makeup. I know about the dirt road where I can get a clear shot. And I know about Dean’s three-foot-long monocular, used precisely to smoke out people like us.

  J.R. partners me with Bradley, a good-looking Brit with a rare set of straight teeth. Bradley’s only twenty-three, but he’s one of the best paparazzi in the business—a spot-on shooter with “balls of steel,” he proudly claims.

  I arrive first, in my new (used) bright red pickup truck, which a friend gave to me because he didn’t need it anymore. (Yes, really gave out of the goodness of his heart because he knew I needed a better vehicle and couldn’t afford one. I am awed and will pay it forward as soon as I’m able to.) The truck was a definite upgrade from the ’87 Mazda, but not exactly camouflage material. I park on the dirt road, per Rob’s suggestion, and observe Dean through my long lens. He’s milling around the back porch of the inn, the one where Tori gets makeup. I hope she might join him.

  About five minutes into my observation, Dean picks up his monocular and promptly eye-fucks me. Then he grabs a video-camera-wielding crew-member and the pair scamper through the tree-spotted brush to my perch on the road. Confident as a drunk at a bar, Dean confronts me, “Excuse me, young lady. What are you doing?” He is a major tool, I think.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” I respond with an eye roll.

  Quite theatrically, Dean admonishes me and threatens to call the police if I don’t “leave the private property immediately,” which I can’t do right then because he and his cohort are in front of my vehicle, filming me. I cover my face; having seen this done quite a few times, I’ve got it down.

  He also suggests that I get a more discrete vehicle. Thanks, Dean. If I make some money off your wife, I’m on it.

  I leave to reassess. I drive around but ultimately determine that the dirt road where I got busted is the only shootable angle. Somehow I need to get back there. I decide to wait for Bradley.

  He finally arrives at two, and we rendezvous at the McDonald’s down the street from the inn. He is not at all bothered that I’ve already been busted. “It’s Tori. I’m not worried,” he says, implying that Tori pictures are not hard to get.

  In the McDonald’s parking lot, Bradley opens his SUV hatchback and presents an artillery of lenses. He puts a 500mm on my camera. The “five hundred” is one of the longest lenses in use and can get shots from a quarter mile away.

  Wow. The thing is huge—two feet long. And heavy—over ten pounds when attached to the camera body. “Be sure to hold the lens and not the camera or they’ll snap apart,” Bradley instructs. “And try not to use it as a weapon.”

  My eyes widen and my mouth turns up. This is what I needed all along: Bring it on, Dean!

  I describe the lay of the land to Bradley, and he decides we’ll go in on foot. He says we need camo (obviously)—Sir, yes, sir! Hup!—but since we don’t have any, we put black sweatpants over our lenses, and earth-toned jackets and hats on ourselves. He pulls these from a basket full of “things paps should always keep in their car.” (I make a mental note to pick up these things later for myself.) We leave my red truck in the McDonald’s parking lot and drive Bradley’s more subdued SUV to the street adjacent to the dirt road. Our plan is to sneak in through the dry riverbed and the sparse woods until we get a view.

  Staying a few paces behind Bradley, I watch as he dances lithely from trunk to trunk and slides perfectly into position behind the largest tree. He motions for me to do the same, so on cue, I run straight across a wide-open gap in the trees, pause there with my twenty-four-inch camera lens in hand, and search for the next best trunk. When I can’t locate one large enough, I dart back to my original position. Meanwhile, everyone from the film crew—and Tori and Dean—watch. If I were a deer being tracked by a hunter, I would have been shot with an arrow through the heart.

  As I crouch behind a young tree, legs and arms dangling out on either side, I look over at Bradley for a signal of what to do next. He is laughing hysterically. I cover my eyes like peek-a-boo. Maybe they didn’t see me?

  Thirty seconds later, Dean, two cameramen, two boom operators, and the reality show’s director are running toward me. They see me.

  And they are coming at me fast. I panic. Then, I run. I run as fast as I can run—Run, Forrest, run! Still carrying the humongous lens, I run over the river and through the woods, past grandmother’s house, down the road, and across the street. I haul my arse up and over a fence, and keep on going. I hear footsteps behind me. I sprint farther. For, like, ten minutes, I run.

  Finally, I can’t run anymore, and collapse in the leaves, my oxygen-deprived chest heaving as I look up at the clear California sky above me, praying all the while Dean won’t find me. I try to quiet my breathing. Are they anywhere near?

  After a several-minute recovery, I slide on my hands and knees back toward the crime scene. I tread softly so as not to crunch the leaves under me. It feels like I crawl for a half hour until I see the street, but just as I near it and peer through a hole in the brush, I see Dean. He is crouched behind the tire of Bradley’s car, attempting to hide, and of course bust me when I make my getaway attempt.

  I lie flat, trying again to breathe quietly. I am shaking with fear. Oh, this is ludicrous, I think. I am not a criminal. My phone vibrates. (Thankfully it was on vibrate.) It’s a text from Rob asking if I’m OK. He’s at the inn and knows Dean is hot on my trail. Apparently the entire production is “on hold” looking for me.

  Still flat to the ground, I hear the director walk up and say, “Don’t worry, Dean. This is great stuff. It’ll make for great TV.”

  What happens next, I find out later: Tori and Dean re-enact the entire paparazzi chase three times for their reality show with Tori doing a big “Oh no!—the paparazzi!” look each take. And for thirty full minutes, Bradley sits clicking away from his perfect vantage behind the large-trunked tree. He says he doesn’t believe they didn’t see him. In fact, he’s pretty sure that Tori spotted him but didn’t say anything. “She loves it,” he tells me.

  It’s the makeup girl who finally busts Bradley. When she points him out, he tears to his car in an effort to escape, but it’s blocked by a cameraman. As the cameraman radios the crew, he apologizes to Bradley for having to do so. “Sorry, man. It’s my job.”

  “I get it,” Bradley says. “That’s what I say about mine.”

  Dean and the rest of the crew arrive a few seconds later, and Bradley is reprimanded in a heated discussion caught—you guessed it—on tape.

  Then the cops come. Somebody—we presume Dean—called them. But Dean whispers to the cops, “Be soft on him [Bradley].” And they are. (If only the LAPD treated us so well.) The San Diego cops write down Bradley’s details, tell him not to trespass again, shake his hand, and leave. In exchange for the easy off, Bradley has to show Dean his pictures and Dean has “edit power.” (Though, of hundreds, he only deletes two.)

  Meanwhile, when I saw the cops arrive, I tore away again, making my way two miles up the road from the B&B. Now, traipsing through an avocado farm, I suddenly become acutely aware that I need to get off this private property lest I get shot. I am, after all, in the country, and country people often have guns. I dart toward the main road where I know the land is public, but where I will also be a walking target for the cops. There is no cell reception, so I can’t call for help.

  Think militarily, Jennifer: can’t walk back because what if cops are waiting for you? Must pass B&B incognito. Best plan: hitch. (Note: I said “best” plan, not “safest.”) The hitch takes a while—only two cars pass in ten minutes—and with my camera looking jarringly like an M16, I wouldn’t pick me up either. Finally, another “bird photographer” stops. “Yes, the robins are beautiful, so much so that I lost my way,” I concur.

  My driver passes the B&B on the way to my tr
uck at McDonald’s, and when I see Dean and Bradley happily chatting it up on the side of the road, I decide it’s safe to get dropped off there. As I walk toward the two, Dean spies me first and fires the same evil eye I recognize from the monocular. She’s back again.

  “Come on, Dean,” I say. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  But Dean presses his “panic-paparazzi!” button, and the crew comes running. Then, it turns into Good Pap Bradley/Bad Pap Jen as they seem to have made a plot decision while I was hurdling through the avocado farm that I “lied to Dean.” (Which I didn’t. I never agreed to leave.)

  Bradley smirks at me the whole time. I cover my face—I don’t want to be on TV!—till I get bored of it, then, like Paris, give it up.

  Finally, everyone shakes hands, and the crew and even Dean tell us that it is the most exciting shooting day they’ve ever had. Three of the cameramen personally give me kudos for my sprinting abilities.

  In the end, Rob calls to say, “Sorry Dean is such a dick to paparazzi. And it’s BS, because he loves it.” He also tells me that he is thrilled that no one will know it was him who made this segment of the show a reality. That is, if he can keep his own little secret.

  8. During my years in this business, I came to learn that many celebrities, not just Britney, work extensively with the paparazzi. Celebrities call many of us, or our agents, and together we stage shoots. “Set-ups” are usually done at tabloid-interesting locations like the beach, a pumpkin patch, the grocery store, or even a tropical island getaway. These same celebrities will also call us on their way out to a restaurant or a shopping center if they want their picture taken, particularly if they’re dressed up and looking good. Their shots are then sold to the tabloids and—this was the shocker to me—the celebrity often gets paid a percentage of the sales. As a freelancer, I didn’t do a lot of these set-ups during my career (they were usually given to staffers), but it is a pretty widespread practice.