Confessions of a Tinseltown turncoat

ONE OF THE BIRD STREETS

*Part I of an occasional series from our well-placed spy on the A-list. Note: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the innocent—and guilty.

Hollywood, one of the Bird streets, in Leo and Tobey and Keanu land. En route to a party at a house where nobody will know the owner. Lane's Aston is taking the corners a bit too fast for my liking, an opinion I don't hesitate to offer.

"You'll have to mellow out a bit," he replies. "You're in L.A., and I'm probably the only one in this town who still likes you."

He might have a point. Lane is pretty honest, which has kept him from becoming a more successful producer than he is. But it'll take an awful lot of bad independent films written by authors who turn out not to exist and directed by the offspring of Italian film royalty before he runs through his grandfather's Blue Water money. (He invented that stuff barbers keep combs in at their stations, still a big seller in states where they have lots of mobile homes and tornadoes.)

Patrick Whitesell doesn't have very nice feet but maybe that's because Charlotte Ronson ran them over in MalibuA valet takes the Aston as a thick Blonde with a clipboard plants a wet one on Lane. A butler with a tray asks us to remove our shoes as the wood floors are extremely delicate and shouldn't really be walked on. He hands us some good champagne and points to a shorter version of himself, standing guard before perfectly arranged rows of Manolos and Guccis and Tods and Jimmy Choos and Pradas and sneakers and trainers of all kinds and sizes. He's the Shoe Valet and takes his position quite seriously. Lane slips off his Prada driving shoes as I do my Berluti loafers. We both hand them over to the SV who informs us we don't need a ticket given his photographic memory of all things pertaining to the foot. I start to say that his fetishes are his own business, that my shoes cost nearly $2000 in London, when he cuts me off and points out that two of the biggest partners at Endeavor have the same shoes and he will guard them with his life and the dollar must have been extremely weak that day because Patrick Whitesell said his cost just over $1600 and were the same model, The Warhol, and for such a handsome guy Whitesell doesn't have very nice feet but maybe that's because Charlotte Ronson ran them over in Malibu and that, as an afterthought, most of the William Morris agents have fairly cheap shoes.

We nod our thanks as we back away, Lane colliding with Bijou who promptly calls him a fucktard and then asks him to lend her $300. Sliding our bare feet on the unusually soft wood, we head out to the pool and notice the HBO billboard is awfully big.

POT SHOT Adrian Grenier

"I'm not sure I get Adrian Grenier," I say to Lane, who seems lost in his thoughts, ignoring me.

"Neither do I," says Adrian Grenier as he passes me a joint. I hit it and pass it to Lane who waves it off, saying pot makes him gay so he's trying to stop. Like zombies, the Un-Dead who don't realize they're dead but they are, Lane doesn't realize he's gay but he is. He is the Un-Gay.

"Beautiful night," a new voice says as we stare out over the lights of L.A. "Sorry," he adds to Lane as he retracts his foot that has just brushed over Lane's bare instep. "I have pretty big feet."

Lane's eyes perk up, and then glance down, taking in Kip Pardue's milky white size 12s, maybe 13s.

"Don't worry about it. I thought you were my girlfriend. She brushes up against me like that all the time."

I roll my eyes. "I'm outta here," says Adrian, seeing where this is going. Then, turning to me, "There's a vodka bar down in the Hibernation Chamber."

"I'm there."

CHECK YOUR SHOES AT THE DOOR

Two martini's later—Grey Goose with a slice of cucumber—I am on a glove leather serpentine couch that some designer informs me costs $45,000, net, when Lane rushes over to me in that neurotic way of his, immediately destroying my buzz.

"I need you to chat up Shoe Valet."

"Yeah, that'll happen."

"Just for a minute. I need to check something out."

"I think we should go now."

He grabs my arm and pulls me off the couch.

The only thing more ridiculous than Lane's request is that before you can say "John Lobb" I'm chatting up Shoe Valet as Lane makes his way toward the rows of Pumas. He grabs a pair and slips into the powder room.

Hillary Clinton embraces Oprah, smiling as she silently curses the fact that no matter how many elections she might win, she will never be as powerful as the Big OOn the coasts, powder rooms live up to their name, so there is nothing unusual about several people piling in at once. I follow Lane, who holds up his trophy: black suede Pumas, size 12. "He really wears a 13 but these run big."

I leave Lane to continue his mental collapse on his own.

Outside I ask the thick Blonde with the clipboard to call me a cab.

She smiles, flashing teeth that are far too perfect for her face. "Where're you goin'?"

"The Beverly Hills."

"I'm going by there if you need a lift." I turn to see a barefoot Kip Pardue heading to a sensible BMW.

"Great, Thanks."

"Hop in."

"I know your manager. She's very smart."

"I know, she sent me over to offer you a ride."

"Well, maybe not that smart."

He laughs and flashes a smile that might actually be his.

A Month Later

I look down at the trees in Central Park, so bright and orange and yellow and red they could be on fire. The Nokia dances across the Nakashima table as it beeps and then vibrates. I check the number. Lane.

"So you just pick up and leave without saying goodbye?"

"I had two meetings, fired my agent for being completely ineffective, hit Matsuhisa, and got a ride back."

"You fired Scott? I thought he was like Premiere's fifty most powerful or something."

"All hype. He couldn't get a Jew into Auschwitz."

"So, you feel like some Barbra? That'll cheer you up! Eight o'clock, meet me at Will Call."

He clicks off before I can say no.

I'm late and arrive to Lane pointing to his Bell and Ross Chronometer.

"Have you no respect?" he shouts. "This is Streisand, for Chrissakes! You do not want to miss the overture. You should have seen the audience in Philly. They went fuckin' nuts! Her whole career, flashing before my ears. I was practically spilling, not that there's anything wrong with that!"

Lane bursts into a smile—his one undeniably beautiful feature.

We take our seats on the floor, five rows from the stage. A crowd, flashbulbs, Security and smart suits and earrings that could light the Garden by themselves. Hillary Clinton embraces Oprah, smiling as she silently curses the fact that no matter how many elections she might win, she will never be as popular or as powerful or as rich as the Big O. All smile together in a photo-op as the ex-President checks out the booty that is Gayle.

We slide in past Rosie O'Donnell who announces that she is not speaking to me. The lights dim as the overture begins. Tears start falling down Lane's cheeks.

First act. Barbra, perfect. Il Divo, perfecto. The political stuff, too much, boring, in touch with reality as only a paranoid Superstar who lives behind a wall can be—no matter how much she knows about People.

Second act. Barbra sits, slips off her shoes, the exquisite lighting illuminating her perfect pedicure. Lane turns to me, "She has incredible feet. Look at her arch, the length of her toes..."

I cut him off, "Don't even start. Don't think about going there..."

"The only arch I've seen that's higher is Ashton's, who, by the way, probably has the most perfect feet in the world..."

Fortunately, Rosie leans in. "Would you shut the hell up?" she honks, drowning out Il Divo in the process. Lane lowers his head in shame, as do I. She glances down at his feet, his size 8s swimming in the black suede Pumas that are at least a 12, maybe even a 13.

"Nice shoes," she says, "Nice shoes."

Illustrations: Arthur Mount