How I failed my paparazzi entrance exam

This is a completely true story: As was previously noted, my parents flew first class to and from Australia, which gave all four of us (them, me, my girlfriend) admission to the exclusive airport "Qantas Club." It's a series of rooms with plush seats, Internet access, magazines, free snacks and booze. Being there feels very secretive and pompous, because we have to enter a semi-hidden door in the airport and gain admission from snippy women at desks. It's a lot like what I imagine joining the Masons is like.

As we sat out our layover in LA on our way from Sydney to Boston, we spotted Julia Louis-Dreyfus in a chair no more than 20 feet away. She was with a young boy -- her son? -- and some large man who functioned as some kind of tour manager/bodyguard. As we all strained to listen, she chatted idlly on the phone, complaining about what sounded like home decoration. I tried taking a picture, but because she was in front of a window, it was backlit and nothing recognizable came out.

Then the tour manager came over and signaled that it was time to go. She and the boy got up and prepared to walk, and I knew I had one chance to take a good picture. But I didn't want to be too obvious, because we were in an exclusive spot where celebrities are probably routine, and it seemed improper to act like a fan. I didn't want to be that guy.

So I cradled the camera in my lap, barely visible to the average passer-by. When she walked past, I took the photo, then waited for her to leave before looking at my prize. Here it is...

Yes, that's her in the brown jacket. Yes, that's my arm covering her head. And yes, there goes my chances of ever being hired by US Weekly.

Posted by Jason Feifer at May 24, 2005 12:41 AM