2002-08-27 - 3:36 p.m.
My work needed to send me to Los Angeles for high-profile negotiations and I told them I would only oblige if they set me up in the Beverly Hills Hotel, preferably a bungalow once inhabited by an amphedamined Liz Taylor. Naturally the Managementmogulmongrels caved in and I jetted off to the Pink Palace.
The Beverly Hills Hotel is like no other place in the world. When you drive through the gates, the ghost of Bette Davis throws her Highball at your white limo. As the doorman opened the door for me, he said, "Welcome, Moviestar." I'm just a bit character actor in some hypothetical films so imagine what he says to Monty Clift.
After I was enamoured by the front desk for over four minutes, I surveyed the palatial grounds in search of my accomodations, Bungalow 8. The lush palm trees block most of the light from reaching the sacred ground of the BHH which prevents sunbleaching of any of Joan Crawford's base make-up stains left on the hallway walls but also makes for difficult bungalow number reading. Finally I just picked a random bungalow and opened the door. I was in no way prepared for what I saw inside that spacious and well-euipped room. It seemed to be some sort of Oscar winners' orgy. Jane Fonda was standing on the bed naked while Jodie Foster licked her go-go boots. Michael Douglas kept trying to lick Jodie's upturned bottom but she just swatted him away without removing her concentration from Jane's patent leather. Gweneth Paltrow and Julia Roberts sat at the foot of the bed s ueezing each others' nipples and giggling. Marlon Brando sprawled his body out on the bathroom floor and begged Sissy Spacek to shit on his tummy but shejust looked him in the eyes, confused. Faye Dunaway circled the room humiliating all of the other participants, saying Dustin Hoffman's penis "looks more retarded than Rainman" and telling Meryl Streep that "it looks like a dingo ate your titties!" as she impersonated her accent from "A Cry in the Dark." Warren Beatty sat in a chair looking frenzied, too overwhelmed by the display of famous flesh. A nude Liza Minelli showed interest in joining in the action but she was too busy rubbing a bruise on her hip. Judi Dench crawled around the room with a towel, mopping up the body fluids, mumbling about the room deposit. I closed the door, found my room, and went to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum on Hollywood Boulevard.
