The first paparazzo who agreed to meet and spill the beans for my soon-to-be-completed-this-very-week book, Suzy Q. Paparazzi, wanted to grab a sandwich at The Newsroom, a deli on Robertson Blvd. frequented by celebrities. There I got some fabulous information and ate what was conceivably the worst Caesar salad in history, and I’m including airplane food here.

The second paparazzo who agreed to meet with me canceled four times because The Today Show and some French television crews kept wanting to interview him. When I finally wrestled him to the ground and threatened him with a series of wet willies, he set his time and place at the lobby bar in the Regent Beverly Wilshire.

Very chichi. Very classy. Very L.A.

You may remember large portions of Pretty Woman were set at the Reg-Bev-Wil, which up until then was my only up-close-and-personal experience with it. So first thing, I had to change my clothes three times. What does one wear to set her butt cheeks in Julia Roberts’s former chair? After several failed attempts and one disastrous run-in with a bottle of air freshener that I thought was wrinkle-releaser, I settled on a black satin blouse and white trousers, which, given my track record, was a gamble. It was really only a matter of time before I sat in ketchup.

It was also important to wear reasonably comfortable shoes, which ruled out my cutest black strappy stilettos. I have no idea what it costs to valet your car at the Reg-Bev-Wil, but whatever it is, it probably would’ve made paying the rent later that month challenging. So I parked a half-mile away in the public lot next to Crate & Barrel. (Admit it, you would have too.)

Shoe choice would later become even more important because when I’m nervous, I leave very, very early. So I stood in the lobby for half an hour next to a giant arrangement of orchids that must’ve cost more than my car. The good news was there was some fine people watching to be had under the umbrella o’ orchids. The bad news was that said people were starting to wonder if I was the doorman.

First of all, the hotel is smaller than it looks in the movie. But, then again, everything is. And the staff-to-guest-ratio appears to be about 12 to 1 in favor of the staff. You can’t even pick lint off your own sweater in that place, which for a girl from Missouri is about fourteen kinds of weird.

When my paparazzo arrived, we were escorted to our own seating area in the bar. Not a table, not bar stools, but a couch that could’ve set four, a coffee table and two club chairs. It was more furniture than is currently in my living room. At first I took the couch on one side of the coffee table and he took a chair, but – and I am absolutely not making this up – we had so much room, we couldn’t hear each other over the vast expanse and had to move.

He ordered a glass of white wine and I an iced tea. They asked us if we’d like something to eat, which we ultimately declined, but – again not making this up – there was never at any point a menu. It’s possible that each of the seven waiters assigned to our personal seating area ALL forgot to bring one, but I think the actual concept is that they can do anything. Like it’s some sort of challenge. “Go ahead, baby, make my day.” Really, when Richard Gere ordered strawberries and champagne for his hooker, did he look at a menu? No, he did not.

And I have to admit, it was the best glass of iced tea that has ever been in the history of the world. It had probably been picked by blind peasants on a mountain in Tibet and steeped for three hours in a vat of hundred dollar bills, and it was fantastic. It also came with a tray of tea additives that included every possible sweetener known to man. And when my paparazzo asked if they had any bar nuts, the seven waiters scurried off like mice and returned with a silver tray of spiced almonds and cashews and at least three kinds of the fanciest olives you’ve ever seen. It took us two hours to eat it all. But hey, I like a challenge.

During the great olive feast of ’07, he kept up a running commentary of all the celebrities that walked in and sat down near us, which included the following sentence, “Oh look, it’s Pia Zadora. Her husband bought her a Golden Globe.”*

It’s not every day a Midwestern girl like myself ends up sitting in a bar with Pia Zadora discussing entertainment industry awards practices, which in this town are rumored to be as rigged as a Cuban presidential election. It’s particularly odd as I wouldn’t have recognized Pia Zadora if she slapped me, but like the first paparazzo I interviewed, this guy had radar that could be patented for use by the military. I’m pretty sure he smells them.

Pia was followed by several NFL players and a coach, whose names flew over my head the minute they were out of his mouth, despite my being armed with a notepad on which I was writing his every word. Some of that stuff is going to be very useful for Book 2. And who knows, maybe Suzy Q. will have tea at the Beverly Wilshire.


Next time: How I kicked Scott Bakula’s butt. Really.


*In case Pia Zadora’s legal team is reading this, I have no knowledge express or implied as to any events that may or may not have occurred surrounding any awards she may or may not have deserved or any husbands she may or may not have had. In case the Golden Globe legal team is reading this, Sacha Cohen for best actor? Are you kidding me?