Months of persistence pays off! Today I had my first of two paparazzi interviews - along with a little inside information as to why so many of the others I approached didn't want to talk. And let me tell ya, when somebody finally took the time to explain it all to me, so much fell into place. I get it now. It's so obvious. Why didn't I pick up on this before?

Want to know why? Do ya? Do ya? Huh? Huh?

'Cause I want to tell you! I do. I really do.

But I can't.

Sorry. I know. It's torturous. But I've got to keep some stuff for the book. Just a little bit.

Although for the record, their aversion wasn't personal. It's not like I smell or have a habit of breaking into the chicken dance at inappropriate moments. (Okay, one time! But it was just that once. Seriously, how long are you people going to hold that over my head? Like you've never done it...)

I can tell you we met at paparazzi ground zero, otherwise known as Robertson Blvd. in West Hollywood at a restaurant called The Newsroom, frequented by many celebs, all of whom apparently have no taste buds.

Watching me stare down with dismay at the pile of wilted lettuce - I could swear it was iceberg - the restaurant was trying to pass off as a Caesar salad, my photographer sympathized. All the hotspots, he said, are mediocre. It's not the food you're really paying for. (Halfway through lunch, he was spotted by an acquaintance who quickly hurried over to ask under his breath who he was there shooting. I was a big disappointment to the poor guy.)

Personally, I think this food problem goes a long way in explaining why women in Hollywood are so thin and why Britney Spears keeps getting photographed at Carl's Jr. I would've stopped on the way home for a burger if I didn't want to type up my notes so darn bad. I'm not proud. I would've eaten a whole bushel of wilted lettuce to keep talking to him.

And speaking of him, we really can't go any further without saying how very nice he is. Emily Post could take lessons on phone etiquette from this guy. He even drove me back to my car, which, due to inadequate first hand knowledge of the available street parking, I had left five blocks away...right in front of Brad Pitt's office, it turned out.

He had to point this out. It's not as though there's a flashing neon sign saying "Brad Pitt works here!" In fact, I didn't see any sign at all. It's a dumpty little stucco building with a dry cleaner on the first floor. Who would've guessed?

Not that this guy misses anything. In five blocks of heavy traffic, he was still spotting celebs...in their cars...behind windows...with a glare. Me? I saw cars. Just cars. I saw a blue car and a white car and a black car. I obviously have no future in the celebrity photography business.

He spotted actors at a glance that I have never heard of. His knowledge of who these people are is encyclopedic, and his eyesight is not normal. I'm convinced of it. Clearly he has some sort of government-issue, black-ops, x-ray vision.

He's a super hero. He's Paparazzi Man!

(Of course this and much, much more on the inner workings of celebrity photography will be featured in my new book, Suzy Q. Paparazzi. Updates on the editing and agent shopping as they become available.)