Ihave called this press conference to go on the record as being in complete support of this nation's outstanding paparazzi. Desperately seeking
paparazziIt is unfathomable to me that some of the biggest stars in America are biting the lens that fed them so well all these years.
I admit, that I, too, have dreams of being a multimillionaire celebrity one day. And I know that it cannot be achieved simply on my vast acting and writing talent. No, I understand that I can only be a success if my mug is plastered all over creation and snatches of video of me appear on fine shows like "Geraldo," "E.T." and "America's Most Wanted."
I know you are just doing your jobs, chronicling the private lives of society's most famous people. Why, I was just telling my wife at our house at 44-221 Kanaka Road (the one with the yellow mailbox) that one day even we might have photographers sitting outside hoping to get a picture of us in our skivvies picking the newspaper off the lawn, (7:35 a.m, daily).
I don't understand how people like Sly Stallone and George Clooney can criticize you hard-working photo journalists for ambushing them in bars, yet demand that you be there when they open their own restaurants, like Planet Hollyweird. But they only want you standing along the red carpet, firing off flash bulbs like extras in their life movie. They use you shamelessly.
I wouldn't care if you showed up at a restaurant where I was eating, say, like the Waikiki Sizzler on Oct. 3 at 6:30 p.m. and then sold pictures of me eating a big old steak to the tabloids.
See, I'm a bigger person than they are. I made the decision to become a larger-than-life personality. I knew that when I launched a career as one of the country's top newspaper columnists and a future movie star I would be giving up my personal privacy for a certain span of time. And during that time, I hope to become filthy rich. So, if the paparazzi catches me coming out of an adult theater, like the Foreplay Fourplex (Thursday nights at 11), well, I will just have to handle the heat.
Or, if some of you followed me from that adult movie theater to Club Hoochie Koochie shortly after midnight, I wouldn't race away in my pickup truck. I would go the speed limit, particularly on Kona Street, which is a nice wide street that allows plenty of room for photogs on mopeds to get alongside a pickup and take photos of the driver. (Use flash. Shutter speed: 250th of a second.)
And if you managed to slip into the strip club with a video camera (and night scope) and caught me slipping a dollar bill into the garter of a particular scantily clad dancer who wasn't my wife, I guess I'd just have to live with the resulting publicity, even if such coverage branded me as something of a colorful rogue and rakish character.
That kind of thing goes with the territory of being an up-and-coming celebrity. And I can't believe that all these "made" stars have the temerity to accuse you of being nothing more than a pack of money-grubbing weasels. They don't deserve your talent and dedication. You are the star-makers. You put the eye in public eye. And if I were you, I wouldn't even deal with these ingrate so-called celebs any more.
I would concentrate instead on people who appreciate your professionalism and perseverance. People like me, for instance, who will be down at Kuhio Beach (Saturday, 1 p.m., near the burger stand) surrounded by large-breasted women of questionable character.
I know, Hawaii's a long way from Hollywood. But I believe you deserve a break from all of the criticism you've been getting. Madonna and Sting don't love you. But I feel your pain, pookie. Contact my publicist for your airline ticket.