(Hello, this is Ms. DeCarlo’s personal assistant. She sent me this message several days ago, but I didn’t get to it until today. I TRIED to change the date at the top, but it wouldn’t let me. She’s going to kill me when she finds out. And that damn dog of hers snaps at me when it’s time to walk him. What have I done to deserve this job?)
You will scarce credit this, but I am dictating this from fabulous Los Angeles, California. I had not planned to leave New York City.
But then a longtime male friend of some intimacy, who is quite well known in the film industry, BEGGED me to accompany him last night at the Hollywood premiere at the Kodak Theater of “Ocean’s Thirteen,” starring George Clooney (the only man I would kick Chris Noth out of bed for), Brad Pitt, and many other people of far lesser importance. Oh, and Al Pacino, who looks truly frightening in real life.
In reality, I first glimpsed Mr. Pacino a few hours before the premiere, when Hollywood Boulevard was still far from crowded and the sun was still out. He was whisked out of a limousine far from the fans just as my friend and I happened to be passing by...at first I thought it was a little old lady in a tuxedo, but then I realized it was the immortal Scarface himself...you can see for yourself above the wonders of Hollywood makeup artists.
About which more later. I wore a magnificent vintage Travilla, which had to be let out in a few places, but it was well worth it. Particularly when I got a good look at the movie executives’ wives. But George...ah, George! Words fail me. He looks a bit older than I expected, but then, who doesn't? (Except Bernadette Peters.)
We all had to mill about for a very long time...apparently George and his compatriots were putting their handprints in cement in front of Grauman's Chinese. Nice to know some traditions never die, isn't it?
(I wonder, is there is a store-room filled with large cement panels of has-been stars somewhere?)
In any event, did you know, Charlize Theron is utterly unable to change her facial expression? (She must be between pictures--no one could act with that much Botox in their visage). There were any number of beautiful women there, similarly unable to do much but smile, but I am afraid I cannot tell you who they were. Not because I have been sworn to secrecy, but because they had no distinguishing features, other than being beautiful and having oddly stony smiles. It reminded me of the night a male friend took me to a topless club in New York City.
There were women who could move their faces; they were the traffic controllers, as it were, the publicity assistants who ran back and forth in high heels and colorful little dresses with walkie-talkies announcing to their bosses which star was coming in which limousine.
As for the movie itself...but I promised you my interview with Meg Cabot, so the rest of my California adventure will simply have to wait. Bucky had to stay in New York…my gentleman friend is allergic to dogs. I miss my baby!
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog