By J.B. Nicholas
Frequently, I tell people that my life is crazy, just freaking crazy. If you ask me why I say that, typically, I’ll spit out some gibberish about finding myself engaged in some kind of debauchery on the margins of society and the city, then standing next to some celebrity or king, with me reeking — of one thing or another — from the night before. Basically, living the high and low life, one subway or bike ride at a time. Often, I fear, it doesn’t make sense. But for this installment of Paparazzo Diary, I’m going to let the photos do the talking. Here, a sample of pictures from the last 10 days of my life.
Psychedelic Tea Party
It was supposed to be a simple night out. A friend’s birthday in his DUMBO loft. But then I got there early and discovered that another friend, who lives in the same building, a building in which some barefoot girl I met on the train years before once lived, was having a mushroom tea party. I go there and people are upside down doing yoga. Then they brought out coolers of the stuff, and shamans who blessed the tea as they handed out brimming cups of the holy concoction.
Charlie Sheen’s hooker
Capri Anderson is her porn name. Last Monday she charged about the city trying to get the 12K that Sheen apparently promised her for her companionship a few weeks back, first telling her tale on “Good Morning America,” then to N.Y.P.D. detectives whom she met at her lawyer’s office. The highlight of my day was getting “parked-in” by an S.U.V. driver in front of Trump International Tower just as Miss Anderson took off up Central Park West with my competition in tow. After I banged on the S.U.V.’s back windshield to get him to move, the driver — fresh from the Jersey Shore — hopped out, pulled a badge and said, in no uncertain terms, “I’m a cop! I’ll f—— kill you!”
“Yeah, whatever man. Can you just move your truck? I’m trying to work here.”
Body-slammed by Bieber
Tween pop sensation Justin Bieber was in town last week to sell his new book — this is his second — “First Step 2 Forever.” I caught up with him outside his Midtown hotel where, as he walked past his fans to his waiting S.U.V., one of his bodyguards grabbed me by the shoulders and body-slammed me into the side of the vehicle. My reaction? I kept shooting. Isn’t this the same kid that just did an anti-bullying P.S.A.? The cops took a report.
S.J.P. flashpoint
J.B.’s people weren’t the only ones throwing ’bows at the paparazzi last week. So, too, were Sarah Jessica Parker’s. As she exited the preview premiere of the new “Spider-Man” show on 42d St., her bodyguard panicked in the face of scores of theatergoers and two paparazzi, knocking down an old lady and ripping the flash off of my camera. The cops wouldn’t do anything. I hope they cut me as much slack if I’m ever accused of breaking somebody’s something. I doubt it, though.
Suddenly — Gwyneth
On Monday, I was outside the Ace Hotel, at 29th St. and Broadway, staking out a French film producer with an alleged newly acquired taste for drugs and hookers. Suddenly, out came Gwyneth Paltrow, walking with her younger brother, Jake. Sheer beauty and no drama — nothing more to say.
