Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (23 page)

Soon, Blake Edwards got his award and was given a standing ovation. What a great guy, I thought. I wish I got to meet his wife, Julie Andrews. I did find out who was supplying drinks for the third-rate comedian. At one point, I was determined to turn him into the MRC committee… if he didn’t show up with the triple Jack Daniels on the rocks, I had ordered. Finally the show ran down. It was one for the books -- a show I’ll never forget. Never again in my experience with the WGA Awards would a member’s committee produce the show… learning our lesson, we got professionals to do it.

The final award of every Writers Guild Award Show is for best original screenplay, this year there would an upset. Most people thought that it would be
Gangs of New York
, or the sentimental favorite,
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
but it turned out to be My Big Fat, War-Dissenter, Michael Moore, for
Bowling for Columbine
. I think it was the first time a documentary ever won. The audience erupted into applause and stood applauding as Moore went into his acceptance speech that ended with the now famous, “Shame on you, Mr. Bush, shame on you. And any time you’ve got the Pope and the Dixie Chicks against you, your time is up.” I rushed out into the audience in hopes of seeing the MRC member’s head explode (Unfortunately, his head was empty, except for two beautiful butterflies, that were quickly snatched up by Patrick Verrone’s large lizard tongue and swallowed down). Bill Maher was going to drag this show down, really? Then I realized I had finished my Jack Daniels, I would need to get to the bar before they closed (I begged them, saying I worked for the show and needed a drink. Funny, the bartender poured me a tall one).

Years later, I would work as a production assistant on a television pilot that Dixie Carter (Hal Holbrook’s wife) was on. One night I had to deliver a script to the house at four in the morning (writers again). As I pulled up in the driveway; I saw a light go on in one of the bedrooms. I figured that Mr. Holbrook had moved on -- it was only a stupid Hollywood award show. I got out of the car and walked to the door, to leave the script, when suddenly a window opened and Hal Holbrook stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Ryan! You ass-less ass.” Shaking his fist at me -- all right, I made that last sentence up but I’m sure he would have if I hadn’t thrown the script through his back window and drove off like it was a screenplay drive by. Everyone loves an award show -- except for Hal Holbrook… with good reason.

Larry David and The Prop-up

I
was a big fan of the television show, “
Seinfeld
” -- I’m sure I’ve seen every episode… I can repeat most of their bits. But still, it’s pretty obvious that there is no way in the world that there are any real people like Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer. No one is that self-involved and insensitive -- I mean, really, who would put up with these people. But when I spotted Larry David standing alone at one of the WGA’s Words into Pictures seminars, I had to go and say something.

I strolled over to him, trying not to look too impressed. I was wearing a radio and had on a small headset. I was the Volunteer Coordinator for this event, so I didn’t have a lot of time. One of the problems working these shows was that it was inevitable any time I started talking to someone interesting, I would be interrupted by some call on the radio. Even so, I wanted to talk to Mr. David.

I “sidled” up to Larry (remember that episode with the “Sidler?”) who was still standing, holding a gift bag. I think he was waiting for his car to be brought around by the valet. “I really love your show,” I said. “Thanks,” Larry replied as he shook my hand. “That’s about all I have,” he added. “No,” I said, “I’m sure you will come up with something.” Larry shook his head sadly and went on, “Nope. That’s it -- I don’t have anything else.” “You’ll think of something,” I coaxed. “I got lucky,” he said. “If it wasn’t for Seinfeld, I would still be introducing strippers.”

“No, no.” I protested, now taking the pro position. “You’ll come up with something else. I’m sure of it.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Probably not. I hate all that writing; it’s like homework and you never really finish it.” I was surprised that he felt that way, usually most writers at these things are feeling good about themselves. Why not? You’re sitting on a panel in front of two hundred people who would love to be you for ten minutes, if they could; of course you’re feeling it. Besides, he’s Larry Fricking David -- everyone knows him, everyone will read whatever he writes, a script, a television show… I’m sure his suicide note would get a big play on the Huffington Post. If anyone could get something done, it’s Larry David.

Why so down, Larr? “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” I said, desperately, hoping to save his already shattered confidence. Larry just shook his head and groaned, “That’s all -- its best that I realize that.” It was a curious change of circumstances; usually I’m begging a recent college grad to read one of my precious screenplays, while the guy tries to wiggle his way out, like one of my cats getting out of the doll house my daughter is trying to stuff him in, not reassuring a successful writer. I reached around Larry, and gave his shoulders a re-assuring squeeze. “You’ll find something,” I said. Larry looked sad and unsure, replying, “I don’t know…” Isn’t it up to us 99 percent to make sure that one percent feel good about themselves (I know
Fox News
feels that way).

Yes, this is my life. I’m having no success in what I want to do but I am pretty good in re-assuring those who are living the dream. You have probably noticed by now, this was before “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Larry did get come up with something… and I like to think that it was my “Prop-up” that did it.

“Wait, wait,” my friend Eileen, interrupted. “Your Prop-up?” “Yeah,” I explained to her, “When you help someone who is down or feeling bad. You prop them up.” “Yeah, sure you support them,” added my friend, Geri. “Sure -- you support them -- with a prop-up,” I confirmed. “And Larry didn’t take the prop-up?” asked Eileen, still watching the high-speed chase on television. “I think he did, he just didn’t really acknowledge it.” “You’ve got to acknowledge the prop-up!” our friend, Creamer, tossed in. Creamer stared over the hedge, looking for dogs. “I hate it when people don’t acknowledge the prop-up,” Eileen protested, anxiously watching the car chase, like it was her car -- actually, it was her car, “Whoa, look out for that spike strip -- I just bought those tires.”

Suddenly, a dog bounded over the hedge and started to sniff Creamer’s leg. “I once propped up Bette Midler. I told her, age is just a number,” said Creamer, while he kicked at the nosey dog. “Do you think they’ll get here before the party’s over?” asked Geri. She was throwing an engagement party for two friends of ours, Bea and the Colonel, who, after getting lost on the way to the party, incidentally, we’re now being chased by the California CHPS (I always thought there was an “I” in that). “It doesn’t look good,” I answered, “They’re on the 405. I doubt they can get back here before sundown.” Another dog had joined in sniffing Creamer’s pant-leg. The personalized scent he had developed was drawing the dogs -- I told him that a “steak-based” cologne wouldn’t draw women. He said that all women like steak. I couldn’t argue -- every woman I’ve taken to dinner either had steak or lobster…even the vegans (“I’ll just take this home for my puppy.” “But it’s a forty-four ounce porterhouse!!!”). I suggested that Creamer should add a lobster scent then go all the way and call it Surf & Turf. “Get out of here, you mutts.” exclaimed Creamer, pushing the dogs away.

“I once tried to give a prop-up to Jerry Seinfeld.” I added. “What are they doing now?” asked Geri, still watching the high speed chase on television. “I set up the “Newman” bit for him. Ya know…”
hello, Jerry
,” I continued on with my Seinfeld story, even though no one else was listening. “What’s that that they are pushing out the window?” Geri asked Eileen. “It’s that box that Raging Bill wanted me to bring over.” “Uh, oh…” I gulped. “What is it?” asked Creamer, fighting off some more neighborhood dogs. “I don’t think Bea and the Colonel want the police to look in there.” “That isn’t that stupid blow-up doll of yours?” asked Eileen, who was always very condescending towards Justine. “No,” I corrected her, “It’s the guns for the WGA Board.” “It looks like they’re not coming -- I went through with this whole cook-out and now the guests of honor are on the run -- just great,” said Geri, always a biggest the victim… unless of course, the Colonel and Bea start waving one of those AKs in front of the police.

“So, was Jerry nice?” asked Eileen, still a bit concerned about her car and the shoot-out that had just erupted on the television. “He wouldn’t play along,” I answered. “I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Eileen, “You give him the “Newman” set up and he won’t even go with it.” “Not even an acknowledgement.” We were all pretty disgusted -- also Bea and the Colonel looked pinned down. “He wouldn’t give you an acknowledgement, either?” hissed Geri, “What’s wrong with these people?” “Rabid mongrels!!!” yelled Creamer, running down the street, chased by a large pack of dogs, trying to lick him. “I didn’t want money or anything. Maybe just a small credit on Curb… I think that’s fair.” Everyone agreed with me. “A prop-up credit -- that’s fair,” added Eileen. “You have to acknowledge the prop-up,” said Geri, as Bea took one to the head. “You have to acknowledge the prop-up,” we all agreed and went back to our cook-out.

Winona Ryder’s Underpants

I
’m standing awkwardly in front of my new gym class. The gym teacher yells at the class of boys to “huddle up.” Most of the guys are screwing around with a football, left behind by the previous class. My new gym teacher is holding a whiffle ball and bat, ready to start a game indoors, since it’s raining outside. “Huddle up,” yells the coach. My new classmates keep screwing around, I continue to stand, like a moron, waiting to be introduced. “This is Bill Ryan -- he’s going be in this class…” shouts the teacher. Still, no one is paying attention. Frustrated, he tosses the ball into the air, as only a man who plays games all day can do, swings mightily at the whiffle ball with the bat. He probably figures that smashing the ball will get the little asshole’s attention. Of course, he misses the ball and the bat flies out of his hands, hitting me squarely in the face. Blood gushes from my mouth because I’ve got braces and every time I’m hit in the mouth I bleed all over. This is my only gift -- to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s also how I got the nickname “Whiffle Bill.” My family had to quickly move again for me to lose it.

I had been working at the Sunset Marquis for a short time. The big news was that we had a new general manager. The previous general manager had been there for so many years, he hardly came out of his office. Once and a while you would see him eating in the restaurant -- that’s about it. In the butler’s pantry, up in the villas, is where the butlers spend most of their time. We had a cappuccino maker, coffee brewer, microwave oven, dishes, trays, table clothes and most of things we needed to serve the villa guests. We also had our own television that Yves had brought in from home… and on the back of a cabinet door; we had a pair Winona Ryder’s panties -- tacked up.

I don’t know where they came from, I was told when I first started working there that Winona and Johnny Depp had been staying in one of the villas and a long gone butler found them and pinned them to the cabinet door. They were not uncommon panties. White, cotton, with a small fringe around the waist and the legs, they didn’t have a day of the week on them, not even the words “Johnny Forever” embroidered on the butt-cheek. I would say they were just common women’s underpants.

But they had become tourist attraction. It seemed like everyone visiting had to see Winona’s knickers. An assistant manager, bartender, room service waiter, Mexican gardener, even the security guards, would slip into the pantry with a guest (usually a male) and want to show their friend Winona’s bloomers. Myself, always the contrarian, I felt that this was just some hoax dreamed up by an ex-employee, sort of an urban legend. But still people would arrive to view Winona’s unmentionables (I once met Winona through Tim Hutton. I soooo wanted to take her up to the cabinet and verify her underwear…. but I also needed to keep my job very badly). I didn’t mind the visiting but the guys who would sniff the crotch always made me regret letting them in. Can we at least have some decency while you paw, what may or may not, be an actress’s used underpants -- Is that too much to ask?

I’m up in the butler’s pantry one night, shining the silver and watching the Celtics get older and older (This was the season that the league let Parrish, McHale and Bird use their rascals to get up and down the court, until Michael Jordan could get his game together). When suddenly the new general manager of the hotel bounces into the pantry and smiles at me. “So this is the butler’s pantry?” he asks. I can tell he’s here for no good, the assistant manager, following him in, gives me a look of “Warning, warning, Will Robinson, danger.” “Yep,” I say, trying to be cool. Mohammad, the assistant manager, is sweating. Mohammad is from Qatar -- he never sweats.

The new general manager looks around the small room. “Do you have liquor up here?” he asks. I point to a locked cabinet, “We have mostly well liquors, some mixes for margaritas and bloody-marys and some high end scotch. It’s locked in there.” The general manager walks over to the cabinet and takes hold of the lock, “Where are the keys?” “Duckie (my boss -- the Head Butler) has one and the other is on the butler keys.” I answer. “Do you have beer and wine?” He asked, glancing around… Suddenly, I realized that I’ve left the cabinet, with the rags, that I’ve been using to polish the silver with, open… and that is the door that Winona’s undies are pinned on.

I lead the new GM away from the rag cabinet, to the refrigerator. Opening it, I show him our cold beer and wine (the red wine is a box in the corner). “We keep it in here,” I say, displaying a frat boy’s dream; a refrigerator filled with only beer and white wine (any frat boy knows you need white wine in case some woman gets disoriented and ends up in your kitchen). The new general manager looked inside, “You keep this inventoried?” “Duckie counts it every morning,” I answer, “…then he subtracts what he drinks through the rest of the day.” (Alright, I didn’t say the last part).

The new general manager turns and surveys the butler’s pantry, finally stopping at the television (where Larry has just hit a three pointer from the stretcher they were carrying him out on -- great shot). “Is that the hotel’s?” Crap, now I’m going to be the new guy who lost the T.V. “No, it belongs to Yves,” I answer. “Have him take it back home.” I nod my head, preparing myself to be called “Television Bill” by the other butlers. But the good news is that it seems like the new head guy hasn’t noticed Winona’s no-nos. The new general manager turned and exited out the door. I turned to Mohammad, who looked as if he’s just made it through a TSA check point. We both exhaled… he gives me a look of, “close that cabinet.” I smile, to reassure him I will. “What are those?” a voice rang from the doorway.