Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (20 page)

Roger Waters, Wish You Were Here

I
t was the first night of the L.A. riots; I could hear car horns blare and some far off chanting from the butler pantry of the Sunset Marquis. Every time I turned on the television in the small gym under villa 3A, there were scenes of the city exploding into mayhem.

I was alone up at the hotel’s villas. Every once and a while someone from the front desk or security would call to make sure everything was secure. My answer was always the same, “Why? What are you expecting? What’s happening?” The head of security would answer, “We don’t know… but we want to be prepared for anything,” -- like scaring the shit out of me.

Every room I went to that night, I would find pensive guests, just as anxious as I was. The hotel asked me to warn them not to go off the property tonight since they didn’t know what to expect. “Do you have enough security?” One guest asked, as I set up her dinner. “Do you think there will be rioting up here?” another guest asked.

After delivering another dinner, I passed Roger Waters, the bassist and brains behind Pink Floyd, on the stairs; he was with his girlfriend, Priscilla. “The hotel suggests that you don’t go off the property.” I warned Mr. Waters, “There might be rioting out there.” Roger turned to me and smiled, “Then you better not come into our villa -- I know there’s going to be rioting in there, soon.” It was exactly what I needed at that moment -- a bit of a chuckle.

Mr. Waters is like that, coming up with the best line. One of the first times that I met him, the hotel had allowed Angelyne (if you’re not from Los Angeles it’s hard to explain who she is, but she was the original billboard, pre-Kadashian-type of celebrity) to shoot some pictures at the villa pool.

Angelyne was a very interesting celebrity. She didn’t seem to know who Pink Floyd was (My boss at the hotel, the Head Butler, told her that Mr. Waters was in Pink Floyd, Angelyne wanted to know if he was Pink or Floyd -- Just kidding -- she wasn’t even that astute). She also wasn’t aware who Phil Collins was (Phil’s wife asked her for an autograph for her husband and told her he was a musician -- Angelyne had no clue who Phil was. This was nineteen ninety-two, Phil was more popular than Bill Clinton).

At one point Roger swam over to me and said, “Hey, Bill -- she’s making a movie.” I just smiled, also amused by an Angelyne film, as Roger continued, “If you ask, maybe she’ll let you write it.” I told him that I couldn’t solicit work while working. Mr. Waters smiled at me and said, “She already has a title,
The Bra that Ate Hollywood
.” I asked if he was kidding. “No,” he said, “I heard her talking about it over there. If I was you, I’d jump on the job -- it’s going to be big.” He laughed and swam away.

One night I was in the butler’s pantry, it was pretty slow and I didn’t have much to do. These times were the worst, especially after they took the television out our pantry. So I was just hanging out when the phone rang. It was Mr. Waters; he asked if I could come up to his villa. I said sure and made my way up (his villa was 2C, which was actually directly above the butler’s pantry).

When I entered the villa, I expected him to ask me to throw out some trash or some minor task that he couldn’t do (he was always someone who did for himself. He would never ask you to pack his suitcases, draw a bath or iron his underwear). Priscilla met me at the door and led me in. Mr. Waters was in the living room, setting up some equipment. He had an acoustic guitar, a Stratocaster and an electric bass, set out, with a couple of small amps.

Mr. Waters looked up and said, “I am doing this Walden Woods Benefit tomorrow night and do you mind sitting down and listening to a few songs. I need a little feedback and Priscilla just says everything is great.” I was kind of stunned, did he really want me to sit on his couch and listen to him play? I mean, everyone who has ever listened to
The Wall
or
The Dark Side of the Moon
would dream of sitting down to listen to Roger Waters play just for them (yes, his girlfriend was there, too. I know that -- but let me dream).

I quickly took a seat on the couch beside Priscilla, as Roger picked up the acoustic guitar and played
Wish You Were Here
. Other highlights were
Mother, Brick in the Wall, Comfortably Numb
and others. I wish I could remember more songs that he played but I spent most the time saying to myself, “I can’t believe I’m doing this! I’m at a private concert put on by Roger Waters.” Mr. Waters would banter between songs; Priscilla would give a note… I just sat there smiling, dumbly.

After awhile, Roger put the guitar down and looked at me, “Well, what do you think?” A million things ran through my mind, but I blurted out the only thing I could say. “This is soooo cool.” Mr. Waters smiled and said, “Anything else I can use?” All I could say, “It was great -- awesome.” I felt that being totally useless; it was time for me to leave. I told him I had to get back to the butler’s pantry to check for messages from other guests. I thanked him profusely and left. Days later, Priscilla told me the Walden Woods Show went well and Roger felt good about it. I was so excited; I had to tell my friend Joe, another butler. Of course, Joe got the personal performance the night before -- that Joe can’t let me have anything.

As much as I liked Mr. Waters, there was a line -- my boss, the Head Butler, we’ll call him Duckie for this piece (because he was exactly what you would picture an English butler to look like, straight out of Masterpiece Theatre… and because he called everyone Ducks, “Hey Ducks, take that teapot and follow me”) thought that Roger was such a good guest; we should get him a gift at the end of a long stay. I said, fine with me. And that’s the last I heard until…

Duckie informed me that he had bought Roger Waters a lovely set of a handkerchief and braces (men’s suspenders -- I told you he was British). Okay, Roger didn’t look like a suspender type of guy, but whatever. Then Duckie dropped the hammer, “It will be forty dollars each.” “Forty dollars,” I exclaimed. “How many of us are putting in?” “Six Said Duckie, surprised by my reaction. “They are very smart,” added Duckie. “I don’t care,” I answered. “I can’t afford forty dollars… let alone forty dollars for a gift for a millionaire.” Duckie, just toshed me (you know how those Brits do it -- “Oh, tosh.” I told you, it was like working at Downton Abbey). I told him I couldn’t afford that… if I had the forty dollars, I would’ve gone to the Walden Woods benefit to see Roger Waters. Five bucks, sure -- ten dollars, maybe, but forty bucks was my phone bill. I refused to pay it.

I complained to Joe about it and he agreed with me. He also told me that Duckie only wanted to give the gift in the hope that Mr. Waters would hire him as his personal butler and take Duckie back to London, with him. First, I don’t think rock stars should have butlers, they should have groupies, hangers-on, drug dealers, hotties and “people,” they don’t need a butler. Second, if you are a rock star with a butler, how about someone like me or Joe, who actually like rock music. Three, if you do hire a butler, hire the guy who buys you a Nehru Jacket, a bandana, a fringe vest or a water bong -- not the guy that gave you a hanky and suspenders (even if you do call them braces).

Los Angeles burned for three days. The hotel’s occupancy went from ninety percent on the first night, down to less than twenty percent the rest of the month -- but Roger and Priscilla stayed. We never chipped in for Duckie’s gift -- he gave it to Waters on his own dime. Duckie never became Mr. Waters’ personal butler. I never got the nerve up to ask Mr. Waters who was Pink and Angelyne’s movie,
The Bra That Ate Hollywood
…. never did.
All and all, it’s just another brick in the wall
.

David E. Kelley and the Power of a Gift Bag

I
am always amazed by people. More than half of the American electorate will vote for a candidate who will openly admit that he would like to cut
their
city services, opportunities to higher education, their social safety net and limiting their representation in general, for the lame promise of cutting taxes for the rich, because one day, sure enough, one day, they will be rich, too, and they don’t want to be paying extra taxes to help other people -- I’m amazed that more people in this country don’t just lop of their own limbs to lose weight. But if you really want to be disappointed in people, work with volunteers.

I was the Volunteer Coordinator for two Writer Guild Foundation’s seminars, called
Words into Pictures
. Words into Pictures held over sixty panels of writers and showrunners talking about their processes and the craft of writing. To run this large venture, The Writers Guild Foundation needed more than a hundred volunteers… and I was the coordinator who would be responsible for them.

Two problems with volunteers; first, you can’t reject a volunteer, no matter how useless they are. Second, because you are not paying them, you cannot yell at a volunteer (where, if you are paying them, I think you are allowed to yell at them -- but no hitting). When we first met with all our new volunteers, it looked to be a bright group of young professionals who only wanted learn from seasoned pros and make business contacts… and then the event started.

Most of my job was just wrangling people, sending them to do various tasks, assigning them to rooms and room captains and making sure every volunteer got lunch. As the day went on, I made mental notes on who was responsible, who I could trust to finish a task, who I had to watch. Some people could take great responsibility and multi-task… others couldn’t clearly answer the question, “Have you had lunch yet?” “I’ve had something to eat,” they would answer. “But did you sit down and have lunch?” “I’ve sat down… and I’ve had something to eat.” Okay, I thought it was a pretty easy question -- I was mistaken.

As the event started to wind down for the first day, we had a gala planned for all panelists and attendees. The hotel that held the event supplied a large buffet in the center of its lobby for our guests. I pulled a few volunteers from the seminar rooms and placed them like pickets, surrounding the tables full of food, with the instructions to; “Keep an eye on the buffet -- it’s for our guests only.” I went on and prepared for the herding of our guests from the rooms to the grand foyer of the hotel. Ten minutes later, I get a desperate call from the director of Words into Pictures, there’s hotel guests eating from our buffet.

I shoot to the lobby, and sure enough, there are over a dozen people, dressed for the beach, grazing on our shrimp and goat cheese. I immediately approach the hotel guests and informed them that this was our buffet. All the beach bums tell me that they are staying at the hotel and thought it was for them (yes, that’s how hotels work -- they put out huge buffets for the guests to snack on -- for free -- I’ve been to those hotels, when I’m asleep and dreaming). I direct the free-loaders to a Korean wedding reception going on down the hall, informing them that they have an open bar. The thing that has really bugged me was that my volunteers didn’t do anything to stop them -- not even try to call me. My boss had to do it. They just stood there and watched these people feed on about a hundred dollars worth of shrimp.

As the day ended, many of the volunteers asked me if they could have the gift bag that we promised, before they left. I told them that I would give them the gift bags at the end of the last day, Sunday. Some volunteers seemed to be disappointed and I got the feeling that it would be the last I saw of many of them. Besides, why would they come back if they didn’t enjoy themselves? The gift bags were filled with crap donated to the Foundation for the event. Strange things like rubber balls, with a logo, magazines, strange-smelling body lotion. It wasn’t like it was a secret what was in the bag because most of the volunteers had put the bags together. They knew what swag was in them… and couldn’t be impressed…. but most came back the next two days.

The seminar went on. We had many famous writers, directors and actors of film and television sit and talk about what they do. One of the most popular writers who sat for questions was David E. Kelley, the writer/showrunner for television shows
Ally McBeal
,
The Practice, Boston Legal, Boston Public
and other programs.

Besides being one of the most respected showrunners in Hollywood, Mr. Kelley was also married to, the actress, Michelle Pfeiffer… another reason to respect the man. I was told that Mr. Kelley had just arrived. Most of the other panelists were just directed where to go, but for some, like Mr. Kelley, I would assign a few volunteers to escort the writer to the green room, in hopes that he wouldn’t be mobbed by the seminar’s guests.

I had a volunteer, let’s call him Kenny (because I sub-consciously blacked out his actual name). Kenny has done a good job all weekend. He was able to do everything I asked of him and he wasn’t part of the buffet-fiasco. I asked Kenny to take another volunteer and escort Mr. Kelley to the green room. Kenny was excited -- I think he was a young writer, what a great opportunity to meet one of the industry’s real movers and shakers. Who knows what he could get out of this (Jeez, I’m a helluva a good guy to do this for him)?

As Kenny starts to make his way to the valet parking, he says to me, off-handedly, “I’m going to ask him if Michelle wears that cat-suit to bed.” I laughed; I hope he uses this opportunity for something worthwhile. Even if Mr. Kelley just learns your name, if you can one day send in a spec script to him, maybe it will come to something. Kenny and the other volunteer left to escort Mr. Kelley.

I once had volunteer hijack a whole panel of A-list screenwriters at one of these events. I was checking the full rooms of seminar guests, when I realize that this one panel, with the screenwriters, wasn’t in the room. Strange -- I called the green room and ask them if there is a problem. The volunteer in the green room informs me that the panel left a while ago. My God, they’re lost in the Bermuda-Triangle-Now-In-Santa-Monica!

I re-traced the path from stage to the green room, in hopes that it isn’t a paranormal event (it’s supposed to be a writer’s event). Half way, I noticed a door to an empty room is open. I could hear people talking inside. I entered to find the volunteer who was supposed to be escorting them to stage, is in fact, pitching her screenplay to them. I walked up behind them and told the writers that the room was ready and waiting for them. The writers left, as the volunteer continued to pitch her script. We finally got the panel going… and the volunteer got to the important job of bathroom monitor for the remainder of the seminar.

Dom, a production assistant, called me. “Bill, Mr. Kelley is on his way to the green room.” I thanked him, as Dom continued, “Bill, you may not want to use Kenny as an escort again.” I stopped short, it all coming back to me. “He didn’t say anything about a cat-woman suit, did he?” I asked, into the radio, half as a joke. “You’ve already heard? I happened to be in the elevator with them and I couldn’t believe he said it,” Dom radio-ed. Meet Kenny, this year’s bathroom monitor.

As Sunday started to wind down, more and volunteers asked if they could leave early. I can’t make anyone who isn’t being paid to stay and work, but I can refuse to give them a gift bag of crap until we were all done. It’s hard to believe but it does work. Almost everyone stayed till the very end. After we finished packing and cleaning, I personally handed out the gift bags to my valiant volunteers. One attractive young lady told me that a very important, high-profile (and possibly married) writer/producer of a well-known television show (I won’t name him -- please send the check to my house) had asked her to drinks after his panel but she stayed to get her gift bag. Like I said; people amaze me.