Diary: A Jaded New Yorker in LA: James Franco, No Show at his Own Party!
James Franco… what’s behind that grin? An empty LA promise?
You’ve heard the old joke about Los Angelinos. “Let’s do lunch.” With a wink, the knowing recipient of “Let’s do lunch” understands it really means the subtext. The extender wants to appear interested to preserve a public image, but he or she (excuse this) `is just not that into you.’ Wait for lunch, or anything else for that matter, and you could STARVE.
I did not think, however, that Oscar host James Franco was not just that into me or the almost two hundred nominees he invited to his post Oscar party at the Supper Club last night. His grandma, “Mitz,” presumably short for Mitzi, showed up. She even wore an elegant fitted black and white dress. She sat on one of the big white sofas, waiting patiently. But, her grandson stood her up. He was already on a plane back to NYC, where a pal of mine spotted him a couple hours ago at the Bowery Hotel.
Pink balloons stuck to the white ceiling. Trays of salami, ham, cheese, and crackers, lined the two long back tables. The booze flowed freely. Girls dressed like Barbie gone wrong arrived in insecure groups, trailing each other around the white washed mega club. Some donned hems, often sequined, just past the panty line. A few wore lace bottoms that resembled upside down tulips. Taffetta! Cheap lace! Big boobs. “I’m getting really horny.” My friend Anthony said as some of the waitresses slid by in butt cheek hugging tap pants that looked more like fat thongs.
Actor Kevin Spacey showed up and chatted with some CAA agents. Lindsay Lohan, in an olive green Zac Posen dress, sufficiently long (not whorish) with a skirt of horizontal lines like fish scales. Her yellow blonde hair was neatly pulled into a bun and she seemed to make the rounds chatting with salivating young CAA boys. Again my male mate piped in. “She needs to do this. She needs a job.” Party boy Brandon “Greasy Bear” Davis arrived, slimmed down, tanned, his face chiseled like Elvis and he boogied on the snowy sofas to Eighties tunes with his date, a comely brunette in a long black Spanish style gown. (Think Catherine Zeta Jones at twenty.)
I sparked up when I saw Florence Welch of Florence and the Machine. Alas, she lasted a mere ten minutes. Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” played. I used to love that song, but all I could see was a sea of hair gel and bad frocks.
All the good frocks likely went to Madge’s own party at Guy Oseary’s house, in Cold Water Canyon. Seems like in LA, there’s A list and there’s D list, nothing in between. The star of the evening was clearly Gran Mitz, Oscar’s one true V.I.P.