I’ve always been fascinated by what I call the celebrity-bubble.
Famous folks walk the streets, eat dinner, record music, slap the paparazzi, have babies, fall in love and buy stuff, just like us. (Except maybe the slap-the-paparazzi stuff). And they do it all in a bubble of sorts. They are surrounded by layers of security. Not just bodyguards. But publicists and other record label executives, personal assistants, managers and various hangers-on.
When I’m assigned a story on a celebrity, the journey from my living room sofa to the celebrity’s orbit is always strange and spooky.
A random person can’t wake up one morning and say “I think I’ll go see what Mary J. Blige is up to.” Even if you know she’s in New York, shooting a television show or performing, it’s close to impossible to end the day sitting next to her.
But occasionally, I do have these days. Where a normal morning becomes something else.