In the 1990s New York, the information Superhighway was a deer path through the vast woods. A time when Paparazzi wasn't a bad word, and Agents, Managers and PR people would invite the photographers to their events in hopes that we would photograph their celebrity client to run in the gossip section of New York City's nightlife publications. I was a photographer in search of celebrities and had to speculate, guess, and make judgment calls about where and when they would make an appearance. I networked with Doormen, Groupies, Party Crashers, Chauffeurs, Editors, Writers, Business Owners, and Bartenders, and that was to receive information which was spotty at best. I knew that certain letters (CLS) on the license plate meant a celebrity car service as opposed to a regular black car. I knew the back doors of the Plaza hotel, the escalator in the rear of the Ritz Carlton, where the SNL cast would go for drinks after wrap, or when the guests arrived for the Letterman show, and the side door they would go through. After I captured the image the celebrity portrait was published in my column in Black Book magazine. The negatives, the leftover prints, or the slides went into a shoebox and a cardboard container and was forgotten. Life was good, then Princess Di happened, and we all had to stand behind a barrier and then the iPhone happened and now we are known as the paparazzi. Then the Twin Towers fell, and NYC went through a collective mourning. American Royalty is comprised of the images in the shoebox, all shot on film and with Celebrities who welcomed my lens and the attention.