Party in LaLa land

COURTNEY GOES LOOKING FOR TROUBLE IN THE LAND OF ACTORS AND KARAOKE AND COMES HOME SINGING A DIFFERENT TUNE.

What is it about Los Angeles that lulls one into the mistaken belief that events don't "count" as they would in real life? I'd come to Westwood for the weekend to attend a book festival but my real agenda was trouble.

On Saturday night around 11, Ray and I were zooming down Sunset Boulevard in his boyfriend's original '60s convertible Beetle. "People are throwing money at Jack for this car," he was yelling to me over the roar of the engine. "The new ones are so trendy that it made the originals hip again."

"I love Los Angeles," I said, gazing up at a billboard featuring a three-story Warren Beatty. "Nothing seems real. And I am going to say this here and now: I am looking for trouble tonight. Trouble will be my middle name. Just you wait."

Ray glanced at me. "Statements like that are frightening, coming from you. What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know," I said airily. "Danger. Intrigue. Sexual trouble. You know. Nothing serious." I glanced at him. "Oh, come on. What happens to you people when you get in these serious relationships? We used to go looking for trouble all the time, remember?"

"Ye-es," he said doubtfully. "But we're in our 30s now. Besides, aren't you seeing someone up there?"

"Pah," I waved a hand. "Anyway, not really bad, bad trouble. Just mini-trouble. Like -- you know, flirting. Maybe kissing. Possibly a grope. That's all. Nothing controversial."

"It's your party, baby." Ray braked suddenly at a red light. "Speaking of which, this party that we're going to? Lot of actors -- tiresome, I know, but it could be funny. I think there's a karaoke machine. Aren't you my friend who has a sad relationship to karaoke?"

"I'd rather you not bring that up," I said. "Karaoke, vodka and I do not mix. The problem is, like most people, I secretly harbor the belief that I'm a good singer just waiting to be discovered."

Ray snorted. We swung down a hill and he careened into a long, heavily wooded driveway. Crowds were spilling out of a low, ranch-style house, and I could hear a woman wailing "Der Kommissar" already. "Oh, boy," I said as we threaded our way toward the cocktail table, brandishing our bottle of wine as if it were a shield.

I poured myself a little dollop of vodka into a plastic cup as Ray looked around for a bottle opener. "Here," a slightly tan man said to Ray, holding out his Swiss Army knife. "Hey, didn't we work together last week? On 'One Life to Live'?"

Ray squinted. "Were you the extra in the loud pants? Man, I'm sorry about that wardrobe. What were they thinking?"

"I know," the guy said cheerfully, but his current wardrobe didn't seem to be much of an improvement. He was wearing a maroon velvet shirt and big shiny Doc Martens. "Tim," he said, extending his hand.

"Ray," said Ray. "And this is Courtney. Please keep her away from the karaoke."

I shook Tim's hand and finished my vodka. What would possess a man to wear such a brave shirt? But in spite of myself, I said, "That's a nice shirt you're wearing." He looked somewhat familiar to me, and I continued: "Are you an actor?"

He looked at me closely to see if I was joking. "No, really," I said. "You look like I've seen you before." Good God, what a line, I thought.

"I was in this soap," Tim said, pouring me some more vodka, "and three months ago I was in this off, off, off, off-Broadway play, except it wasn't anywhere near Broadway, it was in West Hollywood for quite a while, that I'm sure you didn't see --"

"Genet's 'The Balcony'?" I interrupted. "In that tiny theater with 25 seats?" I surprised even myself. It had been a supremely boring play and I'd spent most of the evening watching this Tim because of his huge nostrils that flared in a simian fashion every time he said a line.

"My God, you saw that?" Tim was incredulous.

"I did," I said, somewhat proudly. "You were the, um, um, the envoy."

"The Second Photographer," he corrected me, but happily. "I can't believe it. This is wonderful. May I get you another drink? How could you remember me?"

"Well, it's complicated." The vodka zoomed into my limbs and I realized I hadn't eaten much that day. "Um, I remember your um -- your nose. To be honest. It's very distinctive." Behind Tim, Ray shook his head in amusement and trotted away.

But instead of being piqued that I hadn't mentioned a subtle acting style or a touching inflection, Tim was entirely flattered. We chatted over the next hour, over "We Got the Beat" and "Go Your Own Way" and "The Immigrant Song" (excruciatingly enough, it was a '70s/'80s party), moving from room to room, talking with others and then reconnoitering. After two hours, and two more vodka splashes with cranberry, the floor began to dip and sway. The karaoke machine began to look more appealing. And so did Tim.

N E X T+P A G E +| Vodka + velvet = "Let's kiss."