Of course, at the beginning of the day yesterday, I still felt like a somebody. I was invited to the annual publicist’s gala luncheon at the Beverly Hilton, where I sat at the Warner Bros. table next to my NEWSWEEK colleague John Horn. This event was so swank, even my validated parking cost $8. The awards for the year’s best PR were given out by a bevy of industry bigwigs, including Brad Pitt (with Grizzly Adams-style beard), Matt Damon, Warren Beatty (who acknowledged his history of not being “cooperative” with Hollywood’s PR machinery), Edward James Olmos and “The West Wing” creator Aaron Sorkin (who’s had his share of bad PR lately). The comic actor Sinbad made for a hysterical host. “I was supposed to be in ‘Ocean’s Eleven’,” he said. “It was gonna be ‘Ocean’s Twelve’ and then one day, my chair was gone.” Speeches were made, tears were shed, chicken was chomped and air was kissed. And overall, I had a damned good time–despite never being escorted into the event’s VIP room. It didn’t matter, though, because in the lobby at the end of the event, Sinbad asked if he could borrow my pen. I don’t need to be in any silly room to be treated like a VIP!
Last night, that acronym stood for Very Impressive Party. Gucci’s event at their glossy, glamorous store on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills was partly to celebrate the Oscars, partly to fete Ron Galella’s new book of paparazzi shots–which is perfect for Hollywood since it’s mostly pictures. The affair was a melding of celebrities and style, a bunch of beautiful, young showbiz folks meandering through a minimalist, two-level showroom of expensive ties, shoes and sunglasses. A gorgeous wait staff–dressed in all black, natch–circulated, offering drinks and nibbles. In true showbiz form, it was very crowded, yet there were whole rooms that were virtually empty. (Who wants to stand where there’s actually room to stand?) The celebs did their thing. Kyle MacLachlan chatted on his cell. Gina Gershon made the rounds. Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter was there–and when the host of Oscar night’s biggest party is at the same party as you, you know you’re at celebrity ground zero. Tobey Maguire was supposedly on the floor, too, though I didn’t see him. Same with Joaquin Phoenix. And toward the night’s end, I realized why I might not have spotted them. There was a third floor of the party–not just a “VIP room,” but an entire VIP level!–accessed only by elevator. So I swallowed my pride, approached security, and flashed my NEWSWEEK badge and a smile. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “No press at all upstairs.”
As they say, it was an honor just being, er, notified of the party.
