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Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner?
Hollywood Milieu ©2002
By Denny Dormody
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| Sidney Poitier is getting out of the limousine. I'm
hoping to shake his hand. Now his three lovely daughters leave the
limo. This is the Vanity Fair and Guess Jeans party at the Ebell Theatre
on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. The beautiful people are as
thick as flies. What am I, a perspiring screenwriter doing, rubbing
bare shoulders with those famous Guess Jeans models? You know, the
ones with those killer bodies. |
| Let's pretend a lady I know, well her actor friend,
is giving us his tickets. At least that's what I'm told. And when
the paparazzi push comes to shove, that's my story. Dusk is dusking
as I roll the dice and assume the position in the valet parking line
just behind 3 limousines, 2 Porches and 1 just-washed Saturn. My Saturn. |
| Maybe I drive a Saturn because I like to keep in touch
with the common folk. Maybe it's because I ain't sold my first screenplay
yet. And maybe it's because pigs can fly. Assuming I'm some kind of
pseudo-celebrity, with my "SCRNWTR" vanity license plate, a guy with
a nametag reading "Carlos" opens my door and I hand him my car keys.
The Day for Night of the Locusts begins. |
| My date and I join the neo-glitterati ushering along
the red carpet as an amiable Mr. Sidney Poitier and his lovely daughters
step from a black limousine. Another two feet and I'll be able to
shake his hand. As I maneuver for my handshake, a frumpy matron pushes
her way across the frame and accosts Mr.Poitier, asking him if she
can join his party. He graciously nods a 'no I'm sorry Ma'am' to the
rude lady. He has a lovely smile. He shakes someone else's hand. |
| We can hear the raunchy new-age music thumping and pumping.
A video wide-screen now shares the celeb-interview spotlight with
Mr. Poitier while crosscutting glimpses of the fashion debauchery
going on inside the theatre. |
| I'm like Pavlov's dog as I realize I'm standing in line
with about 200 fashion models. As I search for Miss Right or better
still, Miss Right Now, a muscular guy with a square jaw brushes against
me. You've seen him before in one of those Vanity Fair arty Euro-trash
black and white photo spreads. Hey I can look arty. Hey I can look
angry. What's he got that I ain't got. Okay, a square jaw. Okay, movie
star teeth. Okay, an Extreme Fit body. Okay, Okay. |
| It's going to be an easy gig. First, a labyrinth of
alphabetized name stations where your name is checked off by some
almost-models. Second, a glistening white ID band is wrapped around
your wrist. Then, an optional chat to the little people watching the
News-at-Eleven cameras and then on inside to Party Nirvana. |
| We approach a seated smiling gatekeeper. She's poised
with a clipboard. We announce our actor host's name. She's smiling.
Now she's frowning. We're not on the list. She calls a fellow goddess-in-training
with her walkie-talkie. We're not on the beautiful goddess's list.
Not on the list. Not on the list! Things start to get ugly. |
| We're ushered to the frayed guide rope on the edge of
the Red Carpet. More clipboard gatekeepers. Our name is not on their
lists. It's getting cold. My date tries to read upside down off the
Promised Land guest list, hoping to name-drop another guest's name.
Suddenly, we've gone from fans to felons. She announces the new name
to the new goddess. You guessed it. That name's not on the list. A
simple Hollywood lesson is learned: Never bring K-Mart bi-focals to
a Vanity Fair/Guess Jeans fashion event. |
| We make small talk as we slowly evaporate, shuffling
around the building, hoping for an open door. The open doors are all
locked. Near a dumpster some kitchen coolies are grilling some Spago
delectables. Wolfgang must be inside. If only he could see us. We
head back to valet parking and present our ticket. I mumble something
about "getting back to the set." Yeah, maybe back to my "set" of tacky
cardboard underwear drawers. |
| Embarrassed minutes pass. Then a guy who looks like
Carlos drives up in my car. I hand him a tip which looks like $4 but
is really only $2, a dollar-folding ploy I picked up driving an LA
cab for three harrowing months, back before Bubba's White House. I
should be up to at least 2nd gear by the time he discovers the deception.
I swear to God, I sell that screenplay and give it up Holmes, er Carlos,
we're gonna party like it's 1999. Going be looking after my homies
big time. |
| Back at Vanity Fair, Wolfgang Puck and one thousand
of his closest friends are dining. The anorexic Guess Jeans models
are dancing. Drew Barrymore and Anna Nicole Smith are smiling. Mr.
Poitier is graciously shaking hands. Still, it's been a night of hope.
It's been a night of hope that could only happen in LA. God is good;
She's always good. Especially here in fashion friendly Hollywood.
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