Oscars...dazzling Governor's Ball! Chic after-party gate-crasher's dream...

Chic Governor's Ball tough to crash, Mr. President!

The red carpets will be ceremoniously rolled out, dazzling celebrities will trip-the-light-fantastic as swarms of paparazzi and gushing fans gaze on from the sidelines, little Gold Statuettes will be touted and bestowed on worthy (!) recipients -  then - it's off to the Cinderella Ball!

Well, not exactly, but the the Oscar afer-party is the biggest soiree to attend on March 7th, when the curtain for the televised Academy of Motion Pictures Arts & Sciences shutters down and the brilliant kleig lights are packed away 'til next year.

1500 winners will trot a few steps from the Kodak Theatre to the Grand Ballroom next door to toast each other with a little bubbly (and in some instances, heal each other's open wounds).

This year, the par-tay hearty - and the chic elite of Tinsel Town - will eat, drink, and be merry amidst a stunning decor lifted from the divine Art Deco era.

Event producer Cheryl Cecchetto glowed with pride recently when she boasted to the media that everything from the lighting design to the servers' outfits was carefully chosen to evoke the feel (and dramatic flair) of the period.

"The Governor's Ball will fuse eclectic and innovative design elements of the era and style," she beamed.

"The overall look will marry artistic originality with the Academy's own tradition of class and elegance."

Think Chrysler building, in New York City, folks!

On the festive occasion, guests will be impressed by the table dressings, charcoal grey tablecloths fashioned with a subtle understated sheen, exquisitely crafted arrangements in purple, and Calla lilies designed by Mark Held of Mark's Garden.

A heavenly touch has been accomplished by virtue of a tasteful interplay of hydranges air-transported in from New Zealand, Rothchild Vanda orchids shipped first class from Thailand, and organically grown roses from Ecuador.

The menu sounds scrumptuous with main entrees such as wild salmon, Taylor Bay scallops, and lusty chicken pot pie.

Before the sit-down supper, well-mannered servers will tour the ballroom with hors d'oeuvres sure to be party-pleasers - black truffle and ricota cheese mini-pizzas, mini kobe burgers, and smoked salmon pizzas with caviar and dill cream - for starters (literally).

Desserts sound YUMMY, too.

Guests will nibble on baked alaska with espresso glace, chocolate sorbet, and toasted meringue.

Following tradition, Wolfgang Puck has created mini-Oscars in delicious chocolate with a fine spray of edible gold dust that will be inclined to wink at guests as the dazzling facets catch the light.



Golly, my invite hasn't arrived yet!

Has yours?

Gremlins at the U.S. Postal Service must have snatched them up, eh?

Wink! Wink!

Hollywood...my first job in show biz!

In the old days, if you wanted to make it in show biz, you had to strike out for Tinsel town.

Invariably, when all the young hopefuls from the Midwest (and beyond) arrived in town, they would hot-foot it up to Hollywood & Vine, which was the legendary hub of the industry.

The Brown Derby - constructed in the shape of a hat - was situated on the corner.

The upscale eatery was frequented by the upper echelon of the entertainment industry and a surefire place to catch a glimpse of a celebrity.

Of course, if you really wanted to get noticed, it would have been smarter to wile away an hour or two at Schwab's Restaurant (while sipping on a soda at the counter) down on Sunset and Crescent Heights a mile or so to the West.





As legend goes, that is where "sweater girl" - Lana Turner - was discovered.

When I first trekked into town many moons ago (gosh, that sure is an outdated expression) the grapevine wised me up to the fact that I would need an agent if I wanted to rustle up a job.

So, I zipped off a few of my head shots to a handful of reps I located on a list, provided by the accommodating Screen Actors Guild.

Because my feet were firmly grounded in reality, I didn't expect to land a top agent right away.

But, this was the place where dreams came true, right?

One day, out-of-the-blue, I got a call from a pleasant lady at Playboy Models inviting me in for an interview.

Although Playboy is famous today for erotic displays of nubile flesh in mens upscale magazines - at that time - the company also ran a legitimate modelling concern separate from Heff's nefarious late night activities.

Some of the locals may recall that Playboy used to have offices up on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood.

In fact, a large Playboy logo screamed out from the top of a skyscraper for all the civilized world to see, before Hugh moved on to spanking new facilities.

Because I was a fashion model in Canada before I arrived in California, my publicity stills reflected a flair for posing, I guess.

So, I was signed on a - "let's see how it goes" - basis.

The phone rang one day, and my agent - gee, I luv saying that - asked me how my hands looked.

Huh?

I glanced down at my grubby limbs - and like a true actor in desperate need of a job - responded without hesitation.

"Oh, they're great hands. Trust me."

At this point, the booker noted that a photographer was shooting a product shot for a wrist-watch and that he was in need of a male model.

Within minutes I was trundling off down the street on my way to the assignment!

As it turned out, the shutterbug was fairly successful in the advertising business, which was reflected in his extravagant well-equipped studio.

Within minutes after I arrived, a shapely blond model in a skimpy negligee, strode out of the dressing room and literally took my breath away.

As this juncture, the photographer began to set up the shot.

The watch was a novelty item.

When the wearer hit a button on the side of the timepiece, the word - "Hi" - appeared on the face.

If the party clicked a second time, the digital message read: "I love you".

A third click, throbbed in passionate red lettering: "Let's Fu**".

A new twist on the old pick-up line!

The makers figured that if a guy noticed a sexy babe in a bustling nightclub, he might be able to break the ice with the earthy gag.

Sounds like something a lounge lizard would wear, eh?

The photographer directed me to stand next to the model and place the tips of my fingers into her "panties" in such a way that the watch faced the camera and was easy to "read" on-camera.

Unfortunately, when I first slipped my fingers into her silky undergarments, they tended to poke out at the side and cause unsightly wrinkles to erupt in the silky material.

Ah, this was a "look" that didn't sit well with the photographer.

"Can't you put your fingers straight down into the crotch area," he asked in the most indelicate fashion.

Okey-dokey.

As I started to follow his directions, I suddenly found my fingertips on the lip of her pu**y!

I got flustered and started to apologize profusely, but the model calmed me.

"It's okay. I'm used to this."

Ah, a seasoned pro!

Now, everything went like - um - clockwork.

The photographer was inclined to take a few more shots so there would be a variety of stills for the client to choose from.

So, we moved on to another set-up.

Now, I was instructed to squat behind the model - slip my hand between her legs - and pull the panties down a tad, with the watch facing forward to the lens.

Although it was awkward, and a bit erotic in nature, I carried out his detailed instructions to the "T".

Mission accomplished!

I signed off on the billing invoice and headed out the door elated.

When people ask me what my first job was in Hollywood, I respond without batting an eye.

"I got twenty-five bucks for a hand job."