For days leading up to Thursday night's affair, I felt excited. I wouldn't play basketball for fear I'd throw out my back or sprain an ankle. Thursday evening I couldn't eat a proper dinner, just a few peanuts and soy milk.
I arrived at 6:25 p.m. and valet parked, something I normally hate to do (both out of concern for what immigrant drivers might do to my van and because I don't like to waste money when I can walk a mile and park for free).
I lug my boxes of books to the rooftop. It's hard to decide how many to bring. It will be embarrassing to lug them back. It will mean that few have sold. (I ended up selling about $500 worth, more than half to manager/producer Jay Bernstein, who also gave Producer books to Jeffrey Wells and Nelson Mandel, and tipped Cecile du Bois $10, who manfully manned my book booth the whole night -- if I ever caught her away from it, I yelled at her). I think a few people may have stolen books.
No colored people were allowed into my party except to serve the white man.
XXX-Communicated: A Rebel Without A Shul
The Producers: Profiles in Frustration
My friend Luke Thompson came and bought a book and drank a lot.
Movie producer Jonathan Todd Harris gave me a great interview a couple of years ago. It's not on my Web site. Only in my Producers book.
He came and grabbed a copy and sat down by the pool. He read it and shook his head. He told me stuff he had never told his wife, such as taking $100,000 from their personal account to fund a movie. He called his wife on his cell. He looked mortified.
I got to introduce many people who wanted to meet each other, including Jay Bernstein to Robert Avrech to writer/producer Adam Gilad.
Raquel Devine. Jessica Jewel (has a law degree, I met her in 1998). Ron Sullivan. Devan Sapphire. Tod Hunter. Adella from Digital P. Dean Sussman. My straight friends worried that my outlaw friends would misbehave. But I know and love my outlaws and they were impeccable in dress and decorum. I could've taken them to shul.
My Orthodox friends Ian, Lisa, Dani, John, Rabbi David, Robert and Karen who I introduced to Moxie. They had a long conversation.
Ilene Proctor. Jill Stewart and her boyfriend Norm Jenssen. David Rensin. Ross Johnson. David Bloom (MGM). Anne Beatts. Tony Pierce and his stunning blonde friend Karisa Allen. Robert Light. He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) but has been my ghost writer and right-hand man for five years.
HWCBN tried to get a latino waitress to serve me pork. He also persuaded various girls to ask me questions about birthrates and the use of a certain consumer product.
Adam Parfrey (Feral House). Sharan Street (LA Weekly managing editor). Mickey Kaus (Slate.com). Heather Mac Donald (everything a female intellectual should be and more, at Manhattan Institute). Michael Finch from the Wednesday Morning Club. Defamer. Dawn A., my copy editor and more. Justin Levine, producer of KFI's Bill Handel Show. Steve Smith. Judd Bernard and his wife. Judd gave me the subtitle for my producers book.
Susan Leibowitz from NBC's Dateline. Novelist Aphrodite Jones. Journalists Richard Rushfield, David Finnigan. Dr. Kate, formerly health reporter for LA Times, laid off in June.
Michael Rainin, director of Waiting for Woody Allen. French beauty and journalist Christelle Laffin, who has a deep interest in Judaism. LAPC party regular Vik Rubenfeld from Forthright Productions.
One producer left upset because my book had been so critical of Michael Ovitz.
In short, anybody who is anybody was at my party, as they should be.
I got a lot of emails and phone calls Friday morning telling me what a wonderful group of friends I have.
A Man Without a Name writes: "This was as good a mix of people as I've ever seen. Torah Jews and goyim; the celibate and the not, all mixing it up on the roof of a fancy hotel with even fancier views. At the rate at which you've been cranking 'em out, you should have one of these every other month. (Next time space the release of your books out a bit! Seriously, doing two at once is like CHOOSING to have your birthday on Christmas, or something like that.)"
A bunch of people at the party got an email warning them not to say anything to me they didn't want to show up on this blog, and that they should not give me their full name. Even after talking to harmless ol' me for 10-15 minutes, several woman stuck by this advice.
Friend: "I was however, very disappointed that there were no wild and crazy chicks there. I was hoping for some loose limbed women to disrobe and dance on the tables then jump in the Jacuzzi. Sigh, Hollywood is never wild when I'm around. The turnout was wonderful and it really shows that you have gained acceptance in the mainstream."
It was a frightening mixture of my opposing worlds. Normally I like to keep things separated. Thursday night, all my friends, outlaws and frumies, mixed together. It was a success, thank God.
The strain made me dizzy. I wanted all my guests to feel welcome. I tried to introduce myself to everyone and make them feel comfortable. I tried to connect people. I tried to remember names and things people might have in common. I tried to express my appreciation to those who have so enriched my life over the past few years.
My Chronic Fatigue Syndrome kicked in around 10 p.m. and I was not fully coherent thereafter. I hung out in the bar till 1:30 a.m. Went to bed before 3 a.m. Fell asleep an hour later. Awoke at 6 a.m. Drank two cups of coffee.
..............
She took one loook at [Hollywood character] and said: "Player."
He's married to that woman, no?
No way.
How do you know?
No married woman flips her hair like that, every twelve seconds, like clockwork. She's working him.
How do you know he's a player?
His eyes.
What about them?
Hungry.
Maybe he's well, hungry.
For someone so smart and sophisticated you really are incredibly naive.
True. So true.
Phil writes Luke: "I was disappointed you didn't seal the deal with that French woman as a means of properly capping off a wonderful Luke-night."
..........
Giving my speech (Photo by Emmanuelle Richard)
Luke, Adella (photo by Dawn A.)
Emmanuelle and her friend Charles (photo by Dawn)
My captive audience
Luke and Cathy
Here are my prepared notes, from which I deviated significantly. I usually find it boring when authors read aloud from their books, or talk for more than five minutes (most writers are not good public speakers), so I just made some off-the-cuff remarks and took questions, chiefly about blogging and sex and the lack of relation between the two (thank God my religious values do not permit me to participate in this degradation):
When I committed to a life of chastity, poverty and humility, I expected that I would be rewarded in the world to come. How was I know that I would also be rewarded on this fallen earth?
One plug for my books. There’s a certain inherent drama in reading the work of a mentally ill man. People expect a high degree of mental instability and needless conflict in any Luke Ford work, and I’ve tried to live up to that. I didn’t have to try very hard.
I checked Amazon.com this morning.
• 1 person recommended Surviving Schizophrenia: A Manual for Families, Consumers, and Providers (4th Edition) in addition to XXX-Communicated : A Rebel Without A Shul
• 1 person recommended Radically Gay : Gay Liberation in the Words of Its Founder instead of XXX-Communicated : A Rebel Without A Shul
• 1 person recommended How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art in addition to The Producers : Profiles in Frustration
One famous movie producer and manager called me this week. He was disturbed by the press release for my party. He had only known me as a nice young man. But all this talk about: “a bottom feeder” (Village Voice), “He has elevated moral and spiritual schizophrenia to surreal proportions” (Salon)…
Why would I talk about myself that way?
Look, I’m only a vessel for my words. I have no choice. I was born this way. God made me the way I am.
Ever since I've been writing in depth on obscure topics on the Net and elsewhere, my subjects have been telling me exactly the same thing: "I don't know who is going to want to read this."
It's interesting that no matter where I go and what I write on, my subjects keep telling me:
* I don't understand what you're doing.
* How are you going to market this?
* Do you make any money doing this?
I’d like to thank Emmanuelle Richard, Amy Alkon and Cathy Seipp for enabling my mental illnesses and moral pathologies for the past few years and promoting them into the august Los Angeles Press Club and this swanky hotel.
...........
Observer:
1. "Why do so many men wear earrings? Do they think women are really attracted to sensitive wimps?"
2. I know all these people came out to honor Luke, but would it hurt for them to have their clothing cleaned and pressed.
3. That woman has the largest breasts I have ever seen ona homo saphien. What shul does she go to?
4. I've seen four noses that are exactly the same. The plastic surgeon should vary his technique.
5. This is better that men's gymnastics...isn't it?
6. Why is everyone crowded over there... oh, it's the bar. Goyim drink instead of eating.
"Most of these people are probably Jewish."
"It's called assimilation."
Friday, a Hollywood player tells me about my party: "The women could've been prettier."
And I'd been in hog heaven in the chick department. I guess we have different expectations.
...........
Tony Pierce writes:
the crowd was diverse educated funny engaging polite. both karisa and i were amazed at how much people wanted to talk to us, when for the first time in a long time i found myself seriously interested in talking to the author about his new book.
the LA Press Club turnout was so good, and karisa and i were so late, that we didnt have a chance to really do much talking with mr ford per se but perhaps since he's now knocked out a few IMs maybe he's ready to get interviewed via it.
.............
Cathy Seipp writes: "I chatted for a minute with Heather Mac Donald of the Manhattan Institute, who protested furiously when I told her she was great on Dennis Miller a couple of weeks ago: "Oh, no no no I was not! Don't even suggest that! I was awful!" But really, she was very impressive, I don't know why she thought she wasn't. When you get Heather on the Patriot Act or immigration or any number of wonky subjects she knows a lot about, it's like watching a Lamborghini accelerate past all the other cars onto the freeway."
Heather Mac Donald shares my disgust for the Dennis Miller show: "Blame Bill Maher for the idiotic idea of blending celebrity "glamour" with "serious" political discussion. Miller is just aping the formula. I can't imagine why anyone would watch it: if you want political debate, go to a cable talk show, if you want celebrities, thar's plenty of them everywhere. Yet [folks] regularly fly out from NY to do it."
Cathy writes: "I found out later, though, that a possible scene was avoided when a friend of mine decided to leave early rather than run into one of the non-porn Hollywood types profiled in Luke's book "The Producers," because they'd had a big falling out a few years ago over some project and (as my friend told me later) "The guy threatened my life! I'd seen him buck-naked! He walked over to me once by the jacuzzi, his Kibbles and Bits just inches from my face!" Well, that's Hollywood for you."
...........
Cecile du Bois writes: I have never been to a party before where I can converse with a Sephardic rabbi, turn around the corner and chat with a '-----grapher' or (really a ---- star) Ron Sullivan. I was surprised to learn that he was, um, in the 'biz' because he appeared so learned and gentle, almost rabbinical. I don't want to say grandfatherly, but Donna Barstow, a cartoonist, and I were impressed by his Jack Bennyish Chicago gang-meets-New York radio impressario accent. He replied, making different accents, that he used to watch a lot of Channel 9 when he was a kid. He's the kind of man I would rather associate as a teacher at school, not you know what, but he was very polite along with his friend Tod Hunter, also in the biz compared to a thirtyish man who was blunt. When Mr. Hunter and Mr. Sullivan heard my age, they politely withdrew their business card from my hand and were a bit embarassed. I felt apologetic.
A woman whose nom de '---- consists of 'Jewel' purchased a book, and I saw her around with her female friend and this blunt character. I heard them talking about her professional name, and I asked conversationally, 'Is that your non de plume', because the name Jewel sounded so interesting, as I wondered how she got it. The blunt man, whom I was tempted to ask in my head, Are you her um, 'Master'?, dove, inches from my face, cackled, and said, 'Its her non de...porn!!!' I thought all ---- people were sleazy, but he was the only one.
I paled, taken aback from his aggressiveness, and was comforted to find Amy Alkon, a few feet behind me. I've never been talked at like that in my life.
Later, producer Jay Bernstein bought eight books of 'The Producers', being very generous to Luke. I helped down as he had a stylish cane with a duck head on it that made it hard for him to carry all the books down. He was very nice, although I was embarassed to mix up Farrah Fawcett with Goldie Hawn, but I did know she was in the Charlies Angels TV Show, but unfortunately, I did not know who Linda Evans was. These were two ladies he managed back in the day. He behaved Hollywoodesquely, generously tipping everyone, including me. I was taken aback, since I was never tipped before, if not from a producer.
............
Luke Y Thompson writes:
...I was planning on doing a snarky write up on last night's Luke Ford book party in the style of classic LF, but I had too good a time and enjoyed everyone's company too much to mock them. His moral leadership must be rubbing off on me.
Luke claims I drank a lot. In my own defense, I actually turned down several offers of drinks from others so that I'd be okay to drive. His book so far is a better read than I expected.
Talking to outlaw publisher Adam Parfrey was a highlight. I had met him briefly once before, but we actually conversed this time. I think we like a lot of the same things. I gave him my card and supposedly will get on his guest list. Adam, if you're reading...don't forget.
And I somehow ended the evening getting shouted down by Andrew Breitbart and Moxie (sporting a fetching sunburn that we both agreed matched half my hair). Not bad people, but they didn't really let me talk, and when they did, it was usually to tell me that I didn't actually believe what I said I believed -- I couldn't possibly, because Hillary Clinton (for example) thinks something different and as a leftist I must obviously agree with her on everything. Tough to have a meaningful debate when someone else is telling you what you believe and then arguing with that instead of figuring out what you actually believe, but it's not like we'd convince each other anyway.
