Being a Celebrity, for Dummies
Part 2: Driving, Following, and Covering
Dear Celebrities,
Following the Shakira incident, for everyone’s safety, I feel it necessary to offer more advice. Many of you stars do not have this down.
To avoid paps around the city, take note of these points:
Chauffeuring. Take cabs. We never notice cabs ’cause you never take them. They’ll get you to your destination as expeditiously as a limo and much less pretentiously.
Your personal vehicle. To anti-pap your ride:
1. Heavily tint your windows. Often we don’t know your car but see your face through the windows.
2. Keep your dealer plates on, or no plates, or better yet change them up all the time like we do. If you haven’t figured it out by now, we memorize your plate numbers.
3. Own and use several vehicles. Draw some lessons from Ms. Barrymore. My favorite in her fleet is the Crown Victoria, the ancient cop-car variety.
4. Ensure your car is black, white, or silver. No strange colors. Have no bumper stickers, colored rims, or other distinguishable features on your car. Christina Applegate has an old “WTF Bush” sticker on hers, particularly unnecessary since we know her politics already. One of the Olsen twins (I can’t tell them apart) has a black Mercedes G-wagon with red brakes, which show through the rims. She might as well spray-paint “Olsen Twins” on the side of the car.
5. Buy something other than a $100,000 sports car, a Range Rover, or a Toyota Prius. As of this writing, most celebs drive these cars, and every time I pass one, I look inside. It’s a habit. If you don’t want to be seen on the road, buy a silver or black Accord or Camry like the rest of America. Jake Gyllenhaal drives a Camry. We never see him.
The follow. If you are followed from your house, do not drive like a maniac trying to lose us. (Or allow your limo driver to, as per previous section.) So often you do this. Why? You endanger your life just to show us how fast you can drive? We usually catch you anyway. Besides being stupid, it’s absolutely unnecessary. As I will now describe below, there are more sophisticated ways to hinder our shots.
When you are followed, allow the follow. Repeat, allow the follow. Do not get fussy about “power” on the follow. When you arrive somewhere, power shifts—always and automatically—into your hands. (Female celebs take note: Though you may feel powerless, if you own it, you actually retain power. A pap will never physically touch you; thus if you can overcome the feeling of being the weaker sex, you can still win.) If you’d like to prevent a photograph, do it not while in the car but at your destination. You can utilize one of the following in-control, yet safe options:
1. Be thoroughly infuriated. This might not work the first time, but with repetition you will triumph. Cuss us out, hammer us to the ground, perform a good ole American shock-and-awe campaign—How COULD we? We’re people too. We hurt too. And sometimes paps need a butt-red belting and this course may be in order. I must admit, however, it isn’t my favorite option. I think it’s…mean. People shouldn’t talk to other people this way in general, pap or no pap. (Peninsula bellmen, I apologize again.) And besides coming across as a complete a-hole (not to mention ruining your day with all that bad energy), you must be extremely careful of video. You don’t want your rant ending up on TMZ that night.
2. Go somewhere we can’t follow. For instance: a studio, a private residence or hotel, or the Scientology building. I realize this isn’t always possible, but it’ll make us think twice the next time we’re trailing you in the same direction.
3. Don’t give it up. Cover! Or just look down. (Way down. Chin to neck.) This is the simplest, kindest, and most effective option. You can use a hat, jacket, hand, or book; in fact, most any object will work. Gwyneth Paltrow used a pillowcase once. (Though I don’t recommend that. She looked so ridiculous the shot published.) Plenty of big-time celebrities use this tactic: Jennifer Lopez, Natalie Portman, Orlando Bloom, Jessica Simpson, Mila Kunis, Halle Berry, Jessica Biel, and on and on.
Critcally, by covering you control the situation. For it to be permanently successful, though, consistency is necessary. Cover each and every time. If you only cover sometimes, we’ll keep working you. (Which may be your goal. You may only want to cover when you don’t look good.) But to effectively rid yourselves of paps—if that’s your objective—you need to not give it up at least 90 percent of the time. People like Drew and Cameron give it up 20, maybe 25, percent of the time. What this does is make them “sometimes getable,” and since they’re “rare,” worth a decent mint. So, even though Drew and Cam are toilsome targets, if we’re in the mood for a challenge, we’ll work them. On the other hand, unless Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher are embroiled in a lusty story (as in their later divorce, for instance), a pap will never be waiting on them because they’ll never give it up.
Bottom line: celebrities, if you make it too arduous for us, if we waste days tracking you and never get a shot, we will give up. Time is money. You’re either money or not money.
Note: Reverse tactics if you want to be photographed.
Good luck!
Jennifer
P.S. How to Lose a Pap from Your Vehicle
Though I never recommend endangering your life by trying to lose a pap from your vehicle, if you insist, don’t drive fast; try these tactics instead:
• “Force” the red-light ticket for the pap by driving through a yellow-turning-red light at a camera intersection. Most of the time, you aren’t worth a ticket. (In L.A., the punishment does not fit the crime and we’re looking at about $400 and a point on our license. Though we may have the skill to run the light and possibly get your photograph, rarely will the sale of your photo make up for the cost of the ticket and the increase in our car insurance.) The Mercedes-G-wagoned Olsen twin did this to me, and I got a picture in the mail from the DMV with the back of her vehicle flippin’ me off.
• Drive in and out of manned parking decks. Cameron Diaz’s trick. The technique: Once she knows you’re in, she heads out. While you wait to pay the attendant, she’s blown you. Or a studio. George Clooney and Teri Hatcher do this. No one can get into a studio lot without a pass, and once you are in, there are too many exits for a single pap to cover, so you’re free. Or as aforementioned, head to the Scientology building. Katie Holmes, Kirstie Alley, and Penélope Cruz use it. I don’t know one pap in L.A. who will follow their prey into that abyss.
• Become a world-class driver. This can’t be emphasized enough. If you aren’t an exceptional driver (Hilary Duff), you will never lose us, you will frustrate yourself, and you may kill someone. We who are following you are exceptional drivers (from lots of practice). Stars like Dempsey, Diaz, Nick Lachey, and Bosworth, who fall into the “outstanding driver” category and drive like badasses even when they don’t know they’re being followed, are the only ones who should ever attempt to lose us.
• Lastly, if you’re trying to lose a pap, man up and do it yourself. Don’t call the cops; that’s just plain sissy.
12. Bunny boiler is a reference to Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction. The British guys use it a lot to describe “psycho girls” who won’t leave them alone.
Chapter 13
I stop work at four to meet Aaron at his house. I’ve dropped by under the ruse of returning his camera chip, but we both know that’s not the reason I’m here.
Sexual tension, he keeps saying, is why we bicker so much. Unclear diction is what I think. But when he says, “We need a good romp to sort us out,” I actually listen and wonder if it’s possible.
I know he’s not the way to go—it’s obvious Aaron fancies Claudia—but considering I haven’t slept with anyone in a long, long time, I need to take advantage of opportunity when it presents itself—even if it means being second choice. And of course there’s always that possibility that he’ll kiss me and suddenly realize I’m the one he really wants. Right? I know it sounds desperate, but somehow I can’t help myself.
S
o here I am. I ring the buzzer outside his Hollywood high-rise.
“Hello, Jennifer.” His voice is deep and flat, serious through the intercom. “Be right down.”
Aaron is never serious with me.
He holds the door open, doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t touch me. Only stares. For a long time, he holds my eyes.
We ride the elevator up in silence. Is this really gonna happen? In truth, I’ve lusted after Aaron for months, but nothing’s ever happened. I’m doubtful.
Once inside his apartment, he strides away and paces the living room. I babble nervously about the pictures on the wall and the heat.
“Here’s your camera ch—.”
He cuts me off. “I feel like I’m at the prom.”
“Is there prom in Scotland?”
“No.”
“It’s not the prom, by the way. It’s just prom.”
I walk to him, face him, and gently place my fingers in his hands. He squeezes them tight. His eyes become fervent and he pulls me to the sofa. I sit on his legs and cup his chest with my hands. Aaron always tells me how women hit on him, and how much he loves that. I never hit on guys. Can’t handle the rejection. But I badly want him now.
“Let’s forget it. Wait till we’re drunk,” he says, his eyes darting everywhere but not meeting mine.
Seriously?
My upraised brows relay my disbelief and more emotion than I’d prefer he see. I need to save face. I get up and move toward the door.
“I’ll walk myself out.”
As I reach for the doorknob, I feel his hands grab my shoulders. He turns me around. Again, intention is in his eyes, and there are no words. He picks me up off the ground, sets me on the sofa, straddles me, and, finally, kisses me.
It’s a tender, passionate, exceptional kiss. His lips fit perfectly over mine and his tongue makes love to my mouth. Nerve endings spread the sensation throughout my core. His hand hangs loosely around my neck and with the palm resting on my breastbone drives me back against the couch, pinning me. Our breathing is choppy and heavy. My body becomes limp. I am unable to move anything but my mouth.
When we break the kiss, I look into his eyes. They are no longer serious. They tease and flirt like they normally do.
Awkwardness replaces titillation on my part.
“I gotta go,” I say, wanting to be the first to initiate departure. I can tell we’re not going “to romp.” At least, not now.
“I’ll walk you out.”
On the way down, he pushes me to the back of the lift and kisses me again, rougher this time. The elevator stops, and I pull away and turn to leave.
When I look back one last time, it’s at his eyes. Lust and desire.
The Battle of Bosworth, Round 2
Cumulative score: Kate: 1; Simon and Jen: 1
Nine days later, Aaron invites me to meet him and the Commonwealth paps at happy hour. They do this a couple times a week at their local, and though I never go (I see enough of them during the day—I prefer my girlfriends and Figaro for my evenings), I can’t stop myself this time. I haven’t seen him since The Kiss. I want to see him.
Meanwhile, with only one set in two weeks (the celebs have been winning a lot recently), I’m demoralized. Kate Bosworth came back from Mexico, her boyfriend James is still here, and Simon and I spend a third day trying to get a shot of them. We’re giving it a third day because we’re stubborn, not because it’s smart. Our only hope is that we’ll wear them down.
Bartlet, always pragmatic, won’t speak to us today. He says we’re making it personal with Kate and James and that’s gonna get us into trouble.
After eight hours outside her house, we admit defeat. She never leaves. I rip out a page from a tabloid that’s in my car—a page with her picture on it—and write a note.
Dear Kate,
(Copy James)
What do you think about stopping this nonsense and working together?
Lots of advantages:
• We will not sit outside your house all the time and agitate you.
• We will not give your address to the five hundred other paparazzi who work in L.A.
• If you let James be photographed with you from time to time, you may actually help your boyfriend with his career.
• You will get publicity shots once a month, which as we all know are an important part of a healthy, long-term Hollywood career.
Here is what we suggest:
We take some unobtrusive, controlled photos approx 1x a month. You have our word that only the two of us will “work on you” from our agency. We will not tell anyone else where you live and do our best to have no one find out. We will discourage other paparazzi from “working on you.”
If this sounds reasonable, next time we are “on you,” let us follow you (safely). Give us a few shots at the first place you go. We will leave and you will be on your way.
No crazy dangerous driving (which we hate). No nuisance photographers. Only pretty shots of you. Think about it. We are reasonable. Hope this works for you.
P. S. We won’t bother you the rest of the week. Enjoy!
We don’t sign it but leave the note in her mailbox. She’ll know it’s from Red Truck and Silver 4Runner.
When I get to happy hour, Aaron pulls me into his arms with one of his six-second hugs. After an hour and lots of rounds for the Brits, he wraps his arms around Claudia, and in front of everyone, kisses her. Just like he kissed me.
In that instant, I realize Claudia is dating a quack, a quack who kissed me nine days ago. And yet…I still envy her. Nothing short of imbeciles we women are.
* * *
People have always told me that I look like Kirsten Dunst, so how could I not like her? Plus, she just seems cool. Somebody I’d want to be friends with.
But I don’t think she likes me.
I’m waiting for her at the bottom of Nicholas Canyon Road, same place Kate Bosworth (if she’s not being paranoid) comes out. Kirsten lives a bit higher up the canyon from Kate. Simon and I can’t figure out why so many twenty-something actors choose to live there. It’s stunning real estate, no question, but it’s not hip in any way. The neighbors are sixty-something, and you can’t walk to anything. I’d hate it.
Kirsten’s an easy spot in a black Prius with a dented fender and TOY on her plates. It’s actually TQY but it looks like TOY, so that’s what we all say. Every pap knows the car. She comes down around twelve-thirty and smokes me out immediately. Kirsten’s tactic is to weave in and out of side streets, then abruptly stop in the middle of the road and wait to see if anyone’s following. She sticks her hand out the window and motions for me to pull up. I’ve heard she does this—always wants “to talk.”
“Hey, Kirsten,” I say, window to window.
She blurts out the automatic question all celebrities ask, though of course they know the answer. “Why are you following me?”
“Don’t you think we look alike?”
Just kidding, I don’t say that. Her skin is so much better. It’s like creamy mayonnaise. Mine’s more like tartar sauce.
I actually say, “You must be so over us right now—I get it—but you’ve been gone all summer and now that you’re home, people wanna see you. It’ll only last a week or two, then we’ll be gone.”
Kirsten has been in the United Kingdom following around a new boyfriend and being photographed mostly in little villages outside quintessential British pubs with five-hundred-year-old brick facades.
She doesn’t have to give me anything—she can cover—but I honestly don’t think she cares enough to bother. She never covered in England.
“Well, I’m not gonna pose for you.”
“Of course. Don’t pose. Just go wherever you’re going. I’ll take some shots, then leave.”
“I feel sorry for you guys,” she says and seems to mean it.
We continue. She drives slowly now, not trying to lose me.
Had the stars been aligned, I do think Kirsten would have given me a few shots
today, but as it happens, around the next corner sits a cop. Kirsten pulls up beside his car, chats for a second, and then drives on. The cop falls in behind her Prius and then stops in the middle of the road, blocking it both ways. Trapped, I watch Kirsten escape.
After a minute, the cop moves out of my way and lets me pass.
I yell out my window, “What’s your problem? How’d you like it if we messed with your job?”
Lucky for me, he doesn’t respond.
Regardless, I hope the cops aren’t stupid enough to think the celebrities like them. Nobody in L.A. likes the cops. They’re as reviled as the paparazzi. They gotta know that.
* * *
After Kirsten goes bust, trolling is my option. I circle the city and then stop by a boutique gym, a small house in Hollywood where celebs like Jessica Simpson and Eva Mendez get personally trained. John Mayer’s distinct New York-plated Porsche Cayenne is parked outside.
Three hours later, J.R. calls. “Mayer’s in New York,” he says. “Musta left his car there while he’s traveling.”
Awesome. My frustration as a pap no longer comes mainly from nasty paps, tainted cops, and nosy neighbors. It now lies in the repetitiveness of my daily routine and the boredom of waiting for, but not necessarily getting, the frame. Today, as on many others, I’ve spent hours squeezed in a hot front seat watching the California sun move from one side of the sky to the other.
The only thing that seems to stimulate me these days is the thought of having a baby. It’s honestly like there is an unborn child inside of me who’s been there since I was a child. I crave its life as much as I crave the preservation of my own. He, or she, or both is not just something I want; it’s a true need of mine. In Maslow’s hierarchy, it comes at the bottom as the biggest priority: there is baby, then there is food, shelter, and clothing. And I know celebrities have babies well into their forties, but I can’t guarantee my eggs are golden, and I definitely don’t have thousands to spend on IVF. I gotta get going. Now, I’m starting to not even care so much about the guy; with my biological clock clamoring, I just want the kid.
Shooting Stars Page 17