My conscience compels me to break my silence. Yesterday, I shot Jesse McCartney. I shot Jesse several times at close range, in public, and no one in the Big Easy made a move to stop me. The newspapers have been keeping the story hushed to avoid mass hysteria. Right now, teenage girls around the globe are breaking down in front of their comp screens and causing their keyboards to become waterlogged. Relax. Jesse is alive and well. I shot Jesse with my Canon, and the end result was hundreds of outrageously high quality photos.

I feel like I’m sitting on a goldmine, and I don’t know what to do. Jesse is probably the #1 teen idol in the entire world, and there don’t seem to be a plethora of photographs featuring him, at least not in comparison to his ubiquitous competitors. Do I give in to my generous impulses and post them online, then watch eager young entrepreneurs peddle CD’s of them on eBay? Or do I act uncharacteristically and become a capitalist myself, burning my own CD’s and actually profiting from my own work? I’ll think about that tomorrow, but right now I have to tell you about my impressions from less than 24 hours ago.

As you may know, I’ve photographed Stevie and Aaron (twice) and I needed Jesse to complete the triumvirate. I checked Jesse’s official site to confirm rumors that he’d be joining Ashlee Simpson during the second half of her tour (including a stop in New Orleans during April), but I got nada on that. However, when I clicked on “Calendar,” I saw the baffling blurb, “1/29/05 New Orleans/ Check back for more info.” How could this be? January 29 was only a week away and there had been no publicity concerning a New Orleans concert. I did a Google search for “Jesse McCartney New Orleans” and found only an MSN newsgroup which claimed that a local radio station, B-97, was sponsoring the appearance. I turned on my radio and, sure enough, the station was already heavy into hype for the event, which turned out to be Jesse riding on the B-97 float during the Krewe of Aladdin Mardi Gras parade (yes, it’s already carnival time down here). The station was offering hourly chances to host a King Cake party at your house with Jesse as guest of honor (no, I never got through the busy phone lines), but aside from the high profile advertising on B-97, there was absolutely no mention of Jesse’s impending arrival in any of the media. (To this day, http://hollywoodrecords.go.com/jessemccartney/ is still telling us to “check back for more info.”)

Obviously, Jesse’s handlers were trying to avoid a chaotic mob scene, but they needn’t have worried. I won’t say that New Orleaneans are jaded about celebs; we’re more oblivious. As a bartender friend of mine once said, “New Orleans is a city that exists below sea level, so we can’t bury our dead. They walk around and I serve them drinks.” Besides the boozy environment, we can’t really be considered a city even remotely connected to 21st century America, so pop culture sails over our heads. David Bowie, who once maintained a house on Bourbon and Governor Nicholls, said he enjoyed living here because New Orleans was the only metropolis on earth where he could wander the streets and not be recognized...but that’s another story.

Yesterday, I found the parade route in the local newspaper and I utilized a Yahoo! map to arrive at the Krewe of Aladdin’s starting point. I took a circuitous route through a quiet residential neighborhood and parked a block and a half away from the spot where high school marching bands were already starting to line up. I rounded a corner and ran into a young man who reeked of L.A., so I started taking pics. It turned out that this 21-year-old was Tyler Hilton, who I knew would be riding on the B-97 float with Jesse. No, Tyler isn’t related to Paris; he gets asked this question so much that he frequently wears an “I’m Not Related” t-shirt which a fan made for him (in fact, he’s wearing it on the homepage at http://www.tylerhilton.com/ ). Tyler looks more like James Dean than Elvis, but he had an ugly bruise on his lower lip where some lout probably belted him for being too charismatic. I shot three excellent close-ups of Tyler meticulously applying lip balm to his single flaw. Oh yes, my photos also reveal areas Tyler missed while shaving that morning, hinting, of course, at a dissipated Hollywood lifestyle.

Midway through the shoot, an incident occurred that triggered the following thought process in my brain: “Tyler turned away from the camera! What’s he doing? He’s hugging somebody. It’s a guy! Oh, it’s some kid.” Then Tyler says, “Here’s my friend,” and a teenaged girl screams. I barely notice the quiet, unassuming blond boy in the gray jacket standing to Tyler’s left, but I snap a photo of him as an afterthought, then refocus on Tyler. This turns out to be my first ever photograph of Jesse McCartney.

Now, before you assume that I’m prematurely senile or am as big a drunkard as my place of residence indicates, please understand that I have tunnel vision when I’m in the presence of a celeb. I was intent on seizing the photo opportunity Tyler was providing, and if my own mother (or, God help me, even Jesse, before I knew who he was) had gotten in the way of a shot, I’d be ready to unleash a profane litany that would curl your hair. Now, even as I type this, I’m mentally kicking myself because Jesse McCartney and Tyler Hilton embraced a few feet from me while I was holding a camera and I didn’t even bother to take the shot of a lifetime because I was too busy glowering at Tyler for turning his head at the wrong moment. It’s that sort of impatience and irrational intensity which have made me a pariah and an aberration in laid back New Orleans.

Anyway, I scurried after Tyler, who was the epitome of west coast nonchalance, fielding questions in an unflappable manner, seeming to enjoy the attention. Someone asked Tyler how he was enjoying our city, and he said, “Well, I had breakfast at the hotel. That was fun.” Then Tyler seemed to be silently chastising himself for being flippant and he continued charmingly, “It’s like a European city. It’s great.”

Tyler ducked away for a second and I roamed around to the other side of the float, where I saw the blond boy signing autographs and it dawned on me, “My God, that’s Jesse McCartney.” I starting firing off shots like a madman as I heard remarks like, “He’s a babe in person. I didn’t think he looked that good on TV.” Some big guy with a deep voice bellowed, “Look over here and give me a pretty smile.” It took Jesse a nanosecond to retort, “No, I don’t have a pretty smile.” Jesse managed to keep the anger out of his voice, but you could tell that the man’s condescending tone genuinely irked him because he never once glanced in the wannabe photographer’s direction. A female admirer asked Jesse, “Oh, how could you even say that?” and there was a faint tug at the corners of Jesse’s mouth. It was the beginning of a genuinely warm smile given out of appreciation for a sincere compliment delivered at just the right moment.

While Aaron and Stevie compete for the title of most gregarious extrovert in pop music, Jesse is, personality wise, their polar opposite. Jesse is obviously perceptive, is acutely aware of disrespect, and keeps his defenses way up. During the parade, Tyler hung out the widow of the streetcar style Mardi Gras float, interacting with all manner of humanity, while Jesse found ways to busy himself inside, frequently out of view. A few of my photos seem to show Jesse noticing me with amusement as I followed the B-97 float for miles along the parade route, trying to take shots whenever Jesse was visible. Pumped up on adrenaline by the proximity of these celebs, I didn’t even realize how far I had traveled until it was time for me to walk back to my car.

I did, however, notice a transformation in Jesse’s personality when the B-97 float started pumping out Jesse’s music. Jesse’s eyes lit up, he started moving to the rhythm, and he began to mug for the onlookers, biting his lower lip and employing all those studied facial expressions that endear him to an audience. I was halfway surprised that Jesse’s own music would have such a profound effect on him, knowing he’s probably heard those songs a million times. Then again, I spend hours upon hours staring at my own photographs, and I never get tired of them. Furthermore, whenever I used to pass by David Bowie’s house as I walked home from work, I found him listening to his latest release. “Let’s Dance” was a very popular album back then...but that’s another story.