But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn Read Free Book Online

“lay out” for eight hours, cultivating our melanomas in the broiling, polluted Jersey sun. I was the “edgy” one of my friends, because I wore Ton Sur Ton clothes and knew as much music trivia as the guys.
    Jersey! I loved the bored, slutty girls who worked at the delis that their families owned, oblivious of the leers of all the men in line as they silently, sullenly handed you your change with your Taylor ham and cheese on a hard roll (“Taylor,” as far as I could tell, meant salty, dark, and leathery). I loved going to Bruce Springsteen concerts at the Meadowlands Arena and yelling “Brooooce!” When I barreled down the New Jersey Turnpike with my car radio blaring, no seat belt, I was at my most ragingly alive.

The Paparazzi: Welcome, Friends
    Celebrities may loathe the paparazzi, but not I. It’s never a bad idea to involve them in your story. The presence of a gang of sweaty, shouting photographers can add a frisson of excitement and an action-movie element to an otherwise conventional profile. Although if the two of you are being chased, it might mean that they are mistaking you for a “galpal,” which is incredibly insulting to your celebrity. They are used to scoring models and hot bartenders, not pale, spongy journalists, so do not be insulted if they make an extra, even frantic, effort to evade pursuers.
    In one case, when I was in Los Angeles with Ben Affleck, this did not happen. During our meeting, he was fragile and uncharacteristically moody, having recently broken up with Jennifer Lopez. Usually press people adore him because he’s bright and quippy and delivers just the right funny, original quotes that add sparkle to a piece. On this day, however, he declined to perform and I faced my usual dilemma: While I understood completely that he didn’t feel like being a dancing monkey, I needed to secure a decent interview. My patter flopped (Courtney Love had given a particularly unhinged radio interview that morning and I relayed some of the gruesome tidbits, but he didn’t bite), so I asked eight questions in a row about the movie he was promoting. Nice, safe ground, and I saw his tensed shoulders relax a little.
    Soon, however, I had to ask him about Jennifer, and I began to sweat. Apparently they had made a pact not to talk about the relationship. “You’re not going to get anything,” his rep said. My editors wanted something, anything. You can squeeze a lot of publicity out of even one sentence.
    I tried the “let’s work together” approach. “You know I have to ask you about Jennifer,” I began as my neck started to itch. He stared at me, his mouth forming a small, ironic smile. Uh-oh. Hives were starting to erupt. This always happened when things got awkward. Why, why didn’t I wear a turtleneck?
    â€œAsk away,” he said with a sharp laugh. “You can always try.”
    We began a long dance. He claimed that the media turned the two of them into a spectacle; I gently countered by saying that they helped the media along. He argued that they didn’t court the paparazzi. They didn’t pose for any magazine covers and only did one or two major interviews. They were just living their lives, he said, but the paparazzi captured their every waking moment. My hives, at this point, were in full effect. It’s never pleasant to confront people, but when the person is a film star, it adds a surreal element that throws you completely off balance. I prayed he couldn’t see that my neck looked like a plate of ziti. Chin down. Chin. Down.
    After some tensely polite back-and-forth, he decided to prove his point to me. He grabbed his keys and suggested we go get a taco at Poquito Mas, one of his favorite Mexican joints. “Just watch,” he said, smoothly piloting his black Beemer into the parking lot. “This will take three minutes. Maybe four.”
    Sure enough, just as I was placing my order