I have a friend who’s an actor (you might even call him a star), who when he started out, did a lot of house sitting among the hoi polloi of Hollywood. Let me tell you now, hoi polloi doesn’t mean “the swells”, it means the masses. Okay. That settled, once he did a little house sitting for me. Everyone in our household was shooting on location, which meant our Beachwood Canyon home would have stood empty for months, so a reliable guardian was required.
I, in my most angelic manner, left instructions on watering the garden and feeding the cat. I can say when I returned home the cat was still alive… However, the little apricot tree I had been nurturing was a shriveled twig. Furthermore, some of my nicer bits of lingerie were missing from my underwear drawer (gifts? a secret yen for lacy underthings beneath his bluejeans?). But the thing that really puzzled me, the very oddest thing of all were the splashes of barbecue sauce on the beams of our Mid-Century ceiling.
Anyone care to posit a theory?
Oh, and if you’re reading this Mr. Kaplan: thank you for the parody posted earlier… It was—if I don’t say so myself—a hoot! And I can assure you the book is more Hollywood fable than fiction, but as you can glean…it might just be based on fact.