By Scott McLeod
“We need to be at Roy Thomson Hall ASAP!” I yelled at the cabbie.
He looks back with a blank stare.
“Sure,” he replied. “Where’s Roy Thomson Hall?”
What kind of taxi driver doesn’t know where Roy Thomson Hall is? I suppose the same kind that won’t make an illegal right turn off of Yonge St. to get us there on time.
We arrived with zero time to spare, and with the crowd packed tight and the stars already on the carpet, we were definitely behind the ball. I whisked Amanda-Marie through the security gate, flashing my pass.
Together, we steam-rolled our way through the screaming fans to get to the south press pit, already a blur of camera flashes and cries of “Christian! Christian! Right here please!”
Then out came my camera, with the longest lens and biggest flash, the showing that I meant business.
I found myself sharing a stool with Enza Supermodel from Metro News – though this was only pointed out to me later by my faithful reporter who had just gotten kicked out of the press pit after trying to share a pass with me.
After the red carpet cleared, we were all herded inside for the introductions.
That night, I came to a few realizations. Ashton Kutcher is an asshole; he came out for less than five minutes on the carpet, then went inside without Demi. She, on the other hand, seemed a little worn out, but was willing to stand the crowd at a distance for a while. Emilio Estevez; a total crowd whore. Christian Slater can’t stop posing. That guy from Dawson’s Creek was there too, but the photographers were spending more time trying to identify him than actually taking his picture.
Paparazzi photography is totally for me. Click!
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