The BlackBook edit staff decamped to the West Coast this week for our upcoming special Hollywood issue, embarking on a non-stop star-packed marathon of splashy (literally!) fashion shoots and do-tell-all interviews. We danced with Paparazzi (the 23-year-old next superstar deejay, that is) and tried not to gawk or stalk the many other awesome stars who crossed our paths. Hardest of all to resist: Morrissey, whose new album, due out early next year, we anxiously await. Several Morrissey sightings have left a resounding echo in our heads: the orchestral strains of "Everyday Is Like Sunday." Silent and grey, however, not so much.

I've been to many red carpet events. I've participated in many a tragic photo op. I've also seen my share of reality TV crews, who trail their subjects, hoping for something "real" (in under five takes). But last night, while sitting outside the Waverly Inn, I witnessed my first ever paparazzi maelstrom. It wasn't gradual as one might expect. Salman Rushdie strolled out with friends, relatively unbothered by the four or five photographers straddling the periphery of the restaurant. Stylist Rachel Zoe stepped out for some air, and a few pictures were taken—nothing big. Upon leaving, Charlie Rose smiled at the invasive camera guys, who almost seemed to bow down in deference. One of the more plucky members of the group asked him to pose for a picture. He did. All was well as I sipped on a glass of white wine, happy with the warm spring breeze. And then Fergie walked out.