HOLLYWOOD – The Big Orange. Sunny, gorgeous California? Please! I arrived in pouring rain. And weathercasters re ported: “It’s 60 degrees. We’re in a winter weather watch.” OK?
To get here, I went through a metal detector, removed my shoes, unpinned my silver brooch – solid silver, sterling, Tiffany, yet – relinquished my cell, computer, alligator notepad with the metal corners, compact – solid silver, sterling, Cartier, yet – put my monogrammed pen in the tray, gave up the bottle of antiseptic skin lotion in my carry-on, recouped the spilled contents of my purse, which unfortunately chugged through that MRI machine on its side, and underwent a patting-down because the jacket couldn’t be removed because nothing was underneath it but me.
And all I could think of? How annoying it was in the old days when some geezer behind me kept bumping my seat with his knee.
At JFK’s Admirals Club, Joan Rivers, heading that night to L.A. and dinner with frail Nancy Reagan, said to me: “You’re at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel?” I said yes. She said, “My sister’s initials are B.W., Barbara Waxler. Take the towels.”
Joan made an 11 a.m. flight. I made American’s noon with Ellen Barkin, who travels in four-inch spike heels, Natasha Richardson sitting with Ted Danson, the Regis Philbins. Joan’s plane hit a powerful storm over Chicago. Who knows what. Maybe some 33-degree Mason dropped 10 degrees and now belongs to B’nai Brith. Whatever, our two planes arrived exactly the same time. Mine was a lovely flight, but some airlines are cutting back on everything. I mean, not a good sign when your captain works the aisle and passes the hat for gas money, right? I mean, towing a 747 into a Jiffy Lube?
Anyway, Hollywood. Where carparks have the added feature – valet mugging. Where every woman has a chest so big it has its own ZIP code.
Where the only word heard in any red-carpet interview is “incredible.” As in, “You look incredible . . . your work in [whatever] was incredible . . . your gown is incredible.” Incredible is how nobody knows one other word.
Conversation this weekend was Al Gore: A) He’s here with the wife, daughters, son, plus Melissa Etheridge, who wrote his Oscar-nominated documentary’s song. B) He’ll somehow get some sort of eco-friendly patter palmed off on the telecast. C) He was given a party at Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith‘s home, where Sumner Redstone‘s wife brought a plant as a housewarming gift. When she realized nobody brought presents since the party was for Al and not the house, she left the plant in the car. Presumably it’s still there.
But all is not frivolity. The black bunting of war lies draped over Celluloidville. Local TV actually shrunk their Britney is Bald coverage to only 23 hours. While mentioning the war, one “Entertainment Tonight” anchor was so touched, his hairs almost moved. And Rachael Ray has booked a surprise guest – Ahmadinejad. He’ll demonstrate how to prepare a rack of lamb with oregano, napalm and mustard gas.
Oy, is Hollywood not Bush country! Gossip in L.A. is U.N. Ambassador Angelina Jolie sent in her report on international relations but the president didn’t read it. Why? “No pictures.”
Anyway, I’m now here. And all I know is with so much ice on the East Coast and with the West Coast’s shaking ground from so many Mexican illegals rushing for visas, this isn’t a continent. It’s a giant martini. Nonetheless, I don’t mean to knock California. We need California. Our country has to have something at the other end of it.
Also, a visitor must admire the lifestyles here. Like at the Miramax party for nominees Peter O’Toole, who brought daughter Kate, and Helen Mirren, who brought her sister Kate (Brits are not creative with names), I met a hairdresser married to a makeup artist. He’s gay, she’s bi. In the prenup she gets custody of the blow-dryer. And there was a limo driver fresh from the funeral of Bob Hope’s longtime handyman who had just passed away in his 90s. The handyman had been so close to Bob that the Hopes buried him in their private plot. This handyman’s eternal home is now in the San Fernando Mission. Next to Bob’s.
At his new restaurant, Cut, chef Wolfgang Puck told me this evening’s Governor’s Ball is couches, buffet and small plates instead of sit-down meals at tables because “they hate being stuck with someone they don’t want to sit with.” Also because they just quickly want to stuff their faces so they can rush to Vanity Fair’s party where they all want to be.
Tonight, for all of civilization, the Academy Awards. Tomorrow, for me, New York.