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."