THOU SHALT NOT NAME NAMES

Halfway up Nichols Canyon, at the base of long curved driveway, the house was not visible to the street—that was probably best—but afforded a tunnel-like view to the Miracle Mile section of Hollywood and millions of lights twinkling in between. Guests were greeted at the base of the drive by security and a 300-pound man with a clipboard. Not on the list, no entry. And oh, by the way, did I mention once located on the list and okayed to enter, guests were greeted with perfunctory “drop ‘em”. That’s right, the party was underwear only and the aforementioned 300-pound man strictly enforced the dress code. But the loss of humility along with your designer duds was a small price to pay to be on the inside of one of Mark’s infamous parties.

Mark is the stuff of social and urban legend. He, somewhat unwittingly and by necessity, became one of the most important people in the world of the super rich, those famous for being famous, and the simply fabulous. He was the original rope man at the infamous Studio 54 disco. His job by definition was crowd control, only allowing in the number of people the club could hold—and then just enough more to create a steamy undulation. The club was so popular so fast, it became easy to simply pick the ‘right people’ to let in; Liza, Liz, Halston, Bianca, Cher, Calvin, Warhol and throngs of the pretty club set. 54th street was literally shut down due to the thousands clamoring for a chance to catch Mark’s attention and be deigned to be let it. It became necessary to know Mark and court Mark. Mark was king.

But nothing lasts forever. The doors were shut and Mark, perhaps subliminally influenced by too much of The Village People and one song in particular “Go West”, himself headed west to woo that other smart set—movie and TV folk. He partnered with a man named Andrew, who would go on to be a force in my life akin to the brother I never had, and together they created a number of clubs so hot that if you couldn’t get in you were the social equivalent of burnt toast. It was as if P.T. Barnum had partnered with the Pied Piper, Mark’s legend and Andrew’s business savvy were a winning combination. Clubs named Bar One, Trinity and Mars were all the rage in a town clamoring for the outrageous. And if the clubs were hot, the parties were infernos, or so rumor had it.

Do you really think they threw underwear parties at Pickfair back in its day or that Desi and Lucy greeted you at the door on Roxbury Dr. with a “Lovely to see you, now show us your tits”? Perhaps not. But still, there is nothing more memorable than the sight of super models stripping down to their skivvies on the street corner just to get into a party no one was sure they would enjoy once inside. For to borrow a concept from “Bright Lights, Big City”, L.A. is a town in which people are plagued by the belief that wherever they’re not has to be better than where they are. Still there we were, ‘dropping trou’ for a moment in history. Thank God for a balmy evening, $80 Italian boxers and a recognition factor so low as to not draw a second glance at my under-developed pectoral region. It is amazing the level playing field and almost anonymity being nearly naked provides. Famous faces in bras & panties or hunks in trunks; it didn’t matter. Let the games begin.

Inside proved not to disappoint. The house, a low slug 70’s ranch of undistinguished architecture, was decorated with all things ‘Mark’. The walls were covered with reminders of past successes: 8x10’s of Mark with everyone, newspaper clippings—everything that had ever been written with the name Benneke in context—mounted and framed and the miscellaneous memorabilia know best to Mark but on display for the world. The centerpiece of the living room was a nine-foot, fuchsia-pink, claw foot couch—so kitsch and distasteful it was actually chic. It had once been owned by Eartha Kitt and that provenance in and of itself was enough to make just about everyone covet that velveteen Winnebego.

Drinks were flowing and substances were plentiful. Mingling—better yet co-mingling—was not only encouraged and expected, the gracious host provided a ‘no-tell zone’ for amorous coupling. Appropriately named “dark rooms” on the international club circuit, one room of the house was completely blackened—devoid of any artificial light source, even the windows had studio-quality blackout draping to ensure ultimate privacy. What went on in that room was anyone’s choice: man & woman, man & man, woman & woman, combinations of such. I didn’t dare a clumsy whip-round that room, even though the lighting was perfect for my outfit. I envisioned rather embarrassing bumpings into and my peppering inappropriate fumbling with “Ooh excuse me…pardon me!” But worse yet, I feared that someone would inevitably see me enter alone, leave alone and rightfully label me party-wide as the interloper groper.

The party ebbed and flowed with the comings and goings of some familiar faces and those prettier than thou. There was far less turnover than the usual drop by affair as it was an effort to get in and out of clothes for a simple few minutes of air-kissing and ‘scanning for a bigger name’. Folks here were in for the long haul besides, despite the cautionary “Bright Lights…” neurosis, there was no where else worth being at.

By the time the entertainment began, events had taken on an air of spoiled rock stars trashing some hotel room. Drinks were spilled, refilled and spilled again. The munchies caused a bacchanalian attack on anything edible with a few bites taken and the remnants left scattered on the lawn, the furniture and the floor. Small pieces of furniture, lawn chairs and even the lawn fountain found its way to the bottom of the pool. And the occasional guest got tossed too, just for having walked past the delinquent clan positioned around the patio circumference. The pool had reached capacity and then some, overflowing and turning what little spit of grass Mark called a lawn into a marsh. Then, and only then, did the band begin to play.

Dogstar, headed by the then little known but attention getting Keanu Reeves, cranked across the canyon. Listening was downright painful. (And at this writing, I’m not sure they have gotten any better. Fortunately, Keanu’s star has risen and he seems to have a lucrative day job. Note to Keanu: keep your day job.) Still, the band mesmerized me—by no means by their talents, but by the fact they were standing in about five inches of overflowing pool water. Electrical cords from instruments and amplifiers snaked through the puddles and mud as the band screeched and twanged through song after song. I was sure at any given moment an electrical surge would blow Keanu’s head off like a Roman candle. You couldn’t tear me from the pool’s edge.

Days went by before I saw Mark again. He had, in fact, missed the entire party, having been sequestered away in his bedroom with a number of people, feeling ‘under the weather’—the result of some pre-party recreation. He never mentioned remorse or regret or even disappointment about any of the out of hand behavior that left his place in ruin. It was just another party for him, but the stuff of legend to me.

You will by now have noted I didn’t mention any familiar names from the guest list. Because I believed in the code—the very code the three famous monkeys put best: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. The more decadent the experience the more ‘inside baseball’ the moment becomes. It is the law of the land and has been since this was known as HOLLYWOODLAND.

I say all this because I am well aware that the rule of thumb—the eleventh commandment—Thou Shalt Not Name Names. And I am about to break that commandment. Not to get anyone into trouble but to give a rather colorful example of how Hollywood operates, even benignly, behind the closed door. The event was a birthday party for an intimate of the old guard in Beverly Hills. It’s the kind of evening that used to make gossip column fodder, back before new Hollywood became so messy in public.

Someone said the birthday girl should write a column.

“Never,” she snapped. “It is hard enough keeping all this up. The minute you write a column you are off everyone’s list.”

A reminder or a warning, I took that as neither, more like missed opportunity. She was, after all, one of the great hangers-on—famous for absolutely nothing except befriending the truly famous. All big haired and incandescent, she squeezed her sample sale size fours in to gravity defying heels and power pumped her way past many a canapé on both coasts—wherever the effete meet to bleat. Being on everyone’s list is more nourishing than bread and water, more necessary than the air she breathes. This party was by no means about the birthday girl, it was all about them—an eclectic mix of legendary if not slightly dimming stars and notable names gathered as it was back in the days of the great salons of cocktail conversation. Surely there’s a book in that. The perception of this cackling coven, hair down, claws bared, bejeweled to hide their thin skin; is that they’re rarified—coifed and polished and pressed and coutured in the hautest of haute. But the truth is, they’re just people—granted, people who have lead rather interesting lives and lives we know all about—but people just the same with like interests and shared experiences who hungrily seek out a fresh face in the crowd, a new audience for old material, as I found out within moments.

We were greeted at the door with air kisses all around by the birthday girl and were immediately instructed by the house host to sign the guest book. And before the formalities of a decent “hello” were over we were whisked into a cluster for a group picture: a five shot consisting of me, my cohort in this caper Richard—a gregarious and charmingly disarming perfect party partner—the birthday girl and Mr. & Mrs. George Schlatter.

Schlatter is the comic genius producer who brought the world “Laugh In” and has kept us laughing with numerous series and specials ever since. Meeting him, although I had, along with the entire guest list at one professional function or another, was again an honor. Mrs. Schlatter was quippy and chatty, very much one of ‘the ladies who lunch’.

Having Richard and I foisted upon them, they began, innocently enough, talking about the neighborhood we were in—Beverly Hills, just on the ascent up from the flats but devoid of a view, at least at this address. But that innocuous chatter transitioned quickly into a dishy little yap about their own pesky former neighbors—a well known husband and wife comic duo—with their live-in psychologist for the kid and the propensity for loud verbal exchanges, the details of which waft over the wall for God, the world and the Schlatters to hear. Damage done, Mrs. S. stopped just long enough to point out that both Richard and I were in the media and wondered aloud if perhaps she may have been indiscreet. “Friend or foe?” I assured her, with two fingers crossed, that such party chitchat was sacrosanct.

I realized right away that the members of this rarified club simply couldn’t wait to dish. And it’s open season on each other. Dinner theater isn’t dead…just aging gracefully in the hills of Beverly. Let the show begin, I thought. A thought interrupted the obvious arrival of Lorna Luft.

You can’t blame a woman who lived in the shadow of her mother, Judy Garland, and sister, Liza Minnelli, for trying to grab some attention. She made her way to center of the room, declaring to anyone who would listen, how off-put she was by the snatching away of the birthday gift by one of the help and the now systematic instruction to sign the guest book. She punctuated this with a deep sign and a roll of the eyes as if to say, “how pretentious”. Nevertheless, you’ll note, the ritual was not offensive enough to force her to turn on her heels and head back out the door, foregoing the free meal. I paid attention to what she was saying simply for the amusement of it all, presuming normal conversation would follow the ranting. But our eye contact was nothing more than a grazing as she surveyed the room for bigger names.

By then, Richard and I were making our way to the bar—desperate, as I was not to experience this night without a cocktail permanently in hand. I learned long ago, you can always excuse yourself from a conversation you don’t want to be having by simply saying, “Excuse me, I must refresh (or conversely: put down) my drink.” It works every time.

And along the way to the bar we had a gracious moment with Michael Viner—of Dove Books fame—and his actress wife, Deborah Raffin, and segued nicely into a conversation with Fred Hayman, the retail legend who created Giorgio of Beverly Hills. And I noted the presence of Suzanne de Passe—the former protegee of Motown’s Berry Gordy who, long before there was a conglomerate known as Oprah Winfrey, was considered the most influential African American woman in the entertainment business. And as we talked I confess to glancing over his shoulder to hear the baritone thundering of the rotund Brenda Vaccaro spouting something to Lorna about the joys of sex over forty. I stifled my want to shout, “yeah but what about sex at your real age?”

Conversation was again, disrupted by the introduction of Nancy Davis. She is the daughter of the late billionaire oil tycoon and former 20th Century Fox owner Marvin Davis and his charity doyen wife Barbara. Nancy clearly inherited her mother’s charitable penchant and big hair but, and I hope solely on her own, cultivated a lack of social skills when it came to meeting people like, say Richard and I, who clearly didn’t serve an immediate or potential purpose. She moved on quickly which gave us a clear run at the bar.

At the bar we came across the most unique of creatures: ‘The Player’—a smooth talker and devilishly handsome. He’s intelligent, polished and sophisticated. Any woman, or man for that matter, would be happy to have him. And that’s the goal. He is the male equivalent to the “professional wife” made famous by the likes of Barbara Sinatra, Pamela Harriman, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, and Raine, Countess Spencer.

He can with a glance sense your body space and then steps, teasingly and ever so gingerly over the line. He keeps constant eye contact and for a brief few minutes of conversation lets you believe you are the most important person in the room. He exudes sensuality without ever exposing his sexuality. For he isn’t gay or straight, but rather opportunistic and dangerously available. He is a worldly out-of-towner, who knows the arts but coyly confesses to a fish-out-of-water discomfort with the crowd, almost begging you to take him under your wing and show him your world. He glided from one to the next, instinctually targeting the lonely hearted divorcee or career advancing gentlemen. His syrupy charms were not lost on either Richard or I, but his cautious presumption that we were a couple kept him safely at a distance. We had been told by the birthday girl of a previous affair with ‘The Player’ and his repeated confessions to her that he “may have made a mistake in leaving.” Richard and I both nodded understandingly when she told us his clear want for her, but said nothing. It was, after all, her birthday.

As the player politely excused himself to work the room—and for ‘The Player’, nights like these passed for everyone else’s 9 to 5—we engaged the charming couple of a by-gone television host and his former Miss America wife. Mutual friends, common interests, conversation was buzzing until the thud. A body, belonging to a local society columnist, had collapsed at my feet just behind me. There was an immediate flurry of activity with Jacqueline Bisset seemingly the most concerned. Clearly this was shaping up to be a party not for the faint of heart. But with the exception of the home host, who propped his head up with a pillow, very little was being done for the victim of God only knows what ailment. I half expected someone to suggest we poke him with a stick to see if he was still alive. But instead someone shouted, “Call 9-1-1!”

“For God’s sake don’t call 9-1-1,” my chat-mate TV host stage mumbled from over my right shoulder which seemed to be almost a consensus among everyone in ear shot. You’ve got to love a town where it is actually debatable as to whether it’s better to let someone die on the floor of a party rather than to associate those left standing with the whiff of scandal.

Fear not, the paramedics did come. But by then, he had rebounded to a conscious state and had been sequestered off in the den—not for his own safety but rather to prevent further embarrassment. The paramedics were quietly led to the den, and then one invitee was dispatched to delicately ask everyone who saw the fall to tell what they had seen. Just forty of us in the room, mostly friends, and not one could make a simple announcement. No, such probing had to be handled with ‘discretion’ and ‘propriety’. The fact was, we had all seen what happened. It was hard to miss. I stepped forward dutifully but before I could speak, Lorna Luft had assessed the situation as only she could.

“He’s a fucking light weight,” she barked at the paramedic. “Two valiums and three vodkas and he fucking passes out. Light weight!”

“In my day,” she continued to those of us, the ready audience, “I simply sat down on the couch and passed out discreetly.” Now that is Hollywood. Some women learn the generations old recipe for turkey stuffing or corn bread from their moms, Lorna, it seems, had gleaned the proper etiquette for passing out. Wow!

The paramedics were then offered a cocktail, which they rightfully turned down. “We’re on duty.”

“One for the road then?” Again they declined, much to the bewilderment of the guest who made the offer.

Somewhere during the course of dinner—a buffet of brisket, breaded chicken and carrot soufflé made famous at Chasen’s restaurant which, like many of the guests, is now a part of Hollywood history—a second wave of guests arrived.

We ate, engaged the nobodies sitting next to us in gracious conversation, sat through the toast—which was given ‘lovingly’ by ‘The Player’—and excused ourselves accordingly. “I must freshen my drink.” And with that Richard and I moved toward the bar. See, I told you it worked. Emily Post would have approved.

At the bar, freshened and fortified with another vodka, we met an interesting woman from the second wave. She had arrived without fanfare and blended quickly into the crowd. She was part of the contingency that included one of the foremost American artists of our time. I am a big fan of his style but not the subject matter but nonetheless, he is someone I was more than enthusiastic to meet.

“That’s not his wife,” we were told, apropos of nothing.

“It’s not?”

“No, he has a wife of 50 years or so but that’s his mistress,” she continued. “His wife and he have an arrangement. It’s no big secret.”

Well, not anymore. She knew the artist well and with little provocation told Richard and I she actually worked for and traveled with the artist. And with no…and I do mean, NO…provocation whatsoever, proceeded to tell us in great detail the predilections of the artist’s sexual appetite—acts that would make a gay man flinch and should not even be in the psyche of the straight world. I wasn’t sure why she was telling us this story but it was the verbal equivalent of a car wreck—something you simply couldn’t turn away from. But I was determined to meet the artist but these stories were destroying my idolized image of a fabled painter. I needed to walk away or I would not be able to look the man in the eye.

He was charming, acerbic and, all reference to the previous paragraph aside, gave as good as he got in the witticism department. Likewise as charming was his lovely mistress. He was tired though from a book tour and gallery opening which preceded his arrival. But just before he could beg off nicely, the cake arrive. An embarrassing slab adorned with the replication of a charcoal the artist had doodled some time back of the birthday girl. Not missing an opportunity, I nudged the master and said, “If this art thing doesn’t work out for you, you could go into the cake business.”

Over the course of some time to follow several people couldn’t wait to surreptitiously whisper to Richard and I that the artist was parading a mistress. By the third mention, we simply winked the wink of those already in the know. We were well past that now and deep into a conversation with the slimmed down super model Beverly Johnson who, according to her own admission, was currently dating several men: two billionaires and a couple of millionaires. As if having to apologize for their success, she was quick to point out “They’re very smart men.” Not half as smart as she, I thought. I made a mental note to make my way to Cheryl Tiegs who had been in the back of the room for some time to see if one former super model stacked up to another on the billionaire boyfriend tote board.

We bounced from Robert Forrester to Lanie Kazan and then, with a vodka or two under my belt, I found myself standing right in front of the now much calmer Jacqueline Bisset—her passed out pal now dutifully taken care of.

Of course there is nothing like a little vodka (a.k.a. The Truth Serum) to nearly get you into trouble. Case in point is Jacqueline Bisset to whom I had decided it was time to share a confession.

“Some years back,” I began, “I was having dinner with my agent at Drai’s on La Cienega. My agent was in town from London and I was concerned that the restaurant being such a hotspot, they would either not honor my reservation in lieu of a bigger name or at the very least keep me waiting. So I told my agent that in the right dim light, with the length and cut of her hair, and if, for the most part, had she kept her back to the maitre d’, she could pass for Jacqueline Bisset. And if we have trouble, I was fully prepared to say that my agent was in fact Ms. Bisset.”

At that point Jacqueline nearly cut me off. You’re never quite sure if you are about to piss someone off but as I hadn’t reached the punch line yet, I was determined to continue.

“There was no problem with the table but I was mortified when about 15 minutes later who should sit right next to our table but YOU! Jacqueline Bisset. Can you imagine if I had actually gone ahead with my harmless little ruse?”

Fortunately, not only did she find some humor in the story, but added one more ironic twist. “What you probably didn’t know was that I lived with Victor Drai (the owner) for seven years. And he probably would have known the difference.” We both chuckled that polite cocktail chatter chuckle and I wasn’t quite sure if I had in fact opened some sort of old wound. I thought it best to refrain from continuing my Jacqueline Bisset repertoire and confessing how I had told the world—at least, several million viewers—that Ms. Bisset had worn her Oscar night dress to two other events previous. A mortal sin in Hollywood. I caught myself at precisely the moment I noted, coincidentally, that I had seen her before in the same smart pantsuit she was wearing this evening as well. Gets her money’s worth, does our Jackie!

Richard had no problem gushing, but in his own charming way made his appreciation seem so much more honorable. When Phyllis Diller was making her move to the door, he was determined to meet the great comedian. Fortunately, I had an anecdotal remembrance of a passed meeting with Phyllis, at her house, to recount in order to keep the conversation alive. She cackled her signature laugh when I concluded by pointing out that her diamond necklace, enough carat weight to rival her body weight, looked remarkably like a chandelier that I have my dining room. We posed for a picture as she edged ever so closer to door and bid us all goodnight.

Richard was impressed, he later told me, that I was able to make the comedian laugh. I pointed out that Phyllis is one of the great collectors of fine and important jewelry in town and that I had gotten a similar cackle back at her house when I pointed out that the Ice Capades skated on smaller surfaces than the surface of the diamond on her finger. You can say almost anything to a lady if it is cushioned a compliment about clothes or jewelry.

The afterglow of the Phyllis moment kept us from sidling up to Red Buttons—still in that signature, albeit thinning, flaming orange colored hair. He had spent earlier part of the night at another engagement telling ‘dick’ jokes about Milton Berle, who reputedly had and was the biggest ‘dick’ in show business. I instinctually knew that one “Hello, Mr. Buttons…,” would lead to 20 minutes of dick shtick. After the revelations about the artist, just thinking about Milton Berle’s penis was making me queasy. Besides the photographer was leaving—a party’s death knell if there ever was one.

We took his cue and decided to circulate our farewell tour—and in keeping with the careers in the room, this could easily be the longest good-bye in show business history. But there’s nothing good about being the last to leave and the room was getting the vibe of a mass exodus. Starting with Mrs. Schlatter who had never left her dinner seat and, from what I could tell had remained entertainingly talkative throughout, pausing only to chew. I stood there waiting to get a word in edgewise when Connie Stevens looked up from the neighboring seat.

“Connie Stevens,” I bellowed, “you’ve been ignoring me all night and I am hurt.” Despite her giggle, I had clearly blindsided dear Connie who has long since traded in her sex kitten, ingenue career for the gazillions of dollars she earns hawking skin care on one of those Home Shopping channels. And despite her beauty maven status, I was taken aback by the clear “fuck you” she had given to Hollywood and the Kabuki faced, thin-at-all-costs regime of say a Joan Collins or the better-living-through-embalming approach to self preservation of say an Ann Jeffries (who replaces the late Ann Miller for whom comedian Bruce Villanch affectionately and rightfully referred to as “Our oldest living monument.”) And why should she care, she’s made her millions. And unlike most of the names in the room, she didn’t need to beg Aaron Spelling for a guest spot on a “Love Boat Reunion”.

To save face, mine not hers, I quickly reverted back to the old standby of compliments. “This whispers subtlety,” I muttered as I pointed out the diamond and turquoise bauble, clearly scarfed from a Gabor yard sale and now sitting proudly on her left ring finger.

“It matches the beads,” she pointed out in the affectation of a mock-diva moment. “We’ve met before…”

We talked about moments past and my want for a rub down at the ‘Connie Stevens’ Sanctuary’ day spa she then owned on Robertson Blvd. “But only if you’ll be there, elbow deep in some body scrub…if you know what I mean.”

“That ain’t ever gonna happen,” she rasped and then proceeded to tell me that two employees were fired for providing ‘special’ rubdowns.

“How would you know if that was going on?”

“I know my product. No one leaves THAT happy!”

Connie Stevens is a broad, in the best possible definition. If the tide had shifted and the ebb and flow of the party had been different, it would have been a great treat to spend some length of time with Connie. But just at that moment, a merciful pause from the Schlatter side gave me the opportunity I’d been waiting for.

Air kisses began the evening, air kisses to end. Richard had already corralled the birthday girl by the door so the process of extrication would be smooth and effortless. Air kisses all around and I was dubbed ‘a new best friend.’

That is until now. I have broken the 11th commandment. And what I have really exposed—a little bitching and claws scratching. So what? I have not embarrassed anyone, never went as far as I could have and even omitted names to protect the guilty. Besides, most of these people will be thrilled to simply have their names in print.

Still, I could tell the tales of other such events. From the Hollywood Hills to Beverly Hills the truth is there is very little difference between the inner sanctum of new Hollywood and that of the old guard. Today’s Hollywood favors parties that turn trashy and those of a by-gone era favor talking trash. And let’s face it, you can’t have a good party without ending up with a big pile of trash. Okay, I broke the 11th commandment. Even though I am now quite famous enough, let’s hope I’m not “off everyone’s list!” Because then what? It’s the social equivalent of being put out with the trash.