I Attend Fancy Hollywood Parties...So YOU Don't Have to!: BAFTA/LA 7th Annual TV Tea

If you ever attend a fancy Hollywood party, like the BAFTA/LA 7th Annual TV Tea that Loren and I went to on Saturday afternoon, there are a couple insider laws you should know about: there's The Law of Diminishing Celebrity Returns and The Law of Declining Celebrity Grades. But I'll cover that a little later on in this post.

First, I want to talk about the TV Tea itself, an event celebrating the Emmy Award nominees who happen to be British—because, you know, regional pride is important when you come from sophisticated lands.

Prior to the party, I expected to simply stumble into the InterContinetal Hotel in Century City, shovel pastries down my gullet, swig a couple Diet Cokes, and smuggle out little jars of honey (little jars of honey, you see, are tea party staples) in a matter of a few minutes.

But before I entered the The Garden area, where the event was being held, I spotted Paul Bettany and immediately thought, "Damn! You fine!" You would think I'd just plain scream it out loud, but I managed to hold back because I was too busy thinking about his scenes of naked self-flagellation in The Da Vinci Code and about how he fucks his way to tennis stardom in Wimbledon (you see, Kirsten Dunst's powerful vagina is the thing that fuels his success on the courts).

After encountering Mr. Bettany, I realized that this tea party was a bigger deal than I had thought and that it was going to be yet another perfect opportunity to do some starfucking stargazing. And I was right indeed because American actors were thrown into the mix as well. (You know, it's kind of like high-society affirmative action.)

I wanted to get a picture of Meredith and Stanley from The Office, drinking and eating, respectively, but I knew picture-taking would be tacky. So I just tried not to stare. I also saw a couple actors from Mad Men, two guys from The Big Bang Theory, the South Asian dude from 30 Rock, and Colonel Dubaku from Season Seven of 24, which made me want to yell, "Terrorist!" I heard Toni Collette showed up to do a round of schmoozing too, but I didn't see her.

I did muster up the gumption to talk to CCH Pounder ("You're fabulous! I heard you on NPR last year!"), Marianne Jean-Baptiste ("You're fabulous! You were great in Secrets & Lies!"), and Lauren VĂ©lez ("You're fabulous! I Like It Like That is one of my favorite movies!"). It's just like to me to inadvertently approach only the black women. (But maybe you expected that because of this and this?) All three of them: nice, gracious, lovely ladies. I wanted to say, "I have one of you trapped inside me!," but that would've come across way too creepy, don't you think?

Oh, I did have a conversation with John Cho, but I already know him (all Asians know each other!), so that doesn't really count as celebrity stalking/starfucking—although I did spend a tad too much time talking about his GQ spread, as if that's not creepy.

Anyway, let me continue your behind-the-scenes Hollywood education (as if I have a right to educate you about such a thing, but, hey, it's my blog and I decide who lives and who dies. [I believe it's Gene Hackman who says that line in different forms in a number of films; see: The Quick and the Dead, Crimson Tide, etc.])

The Law of Diminishing Celebrity Returns. When you're at a fancy Hollywood party, acting all casual and pretending not to care about the overwhelming star power that surrounds you, never remain in one place longer than five minutes at a time. Plant yourself somewhere and celebrity watch, sure, but after five minutes you max out the number of new celebrities that you will see standing in the spot you're standing in. So, you turn to Loren, if you're with Loren, and chant quietly, "The Law of Diminishing Celebrity Returns, The Law of Diminishing Celebrity Returns...." And then you move. In your new spot, a new slew of celebrities will seemingly magically appear before your very eyes.

The Law of Declining Celebrity Grades. Be sure to arrive at fancy Hollywood parties exactly one hour after the event started. This is the peak time for high-quality celebrity sightings, e.g., "Paul Bettany?! Damn! He fine!" Once the party has reached its peak, the overall quality of celebrity sightings begins to decline. (I use the term "quality" rather loosely, of course. I tend to mean celebrities that make my friends go, "YOU SAW HIM?! REALLY?" So it's not necessarily your Tom Cruises and Brad Pitts; it's your "I saw Colonel Dubaku from Season Seven of 24!" [I know, I know. We're odd.]) So, you turn to Loren, if you're with Loren, as the event progresses to give him a running report that will inform him about how close it is to the time that you should be leaving the party: "We're at an "A-" right now.... We've just hit the "B" hour.... Oh, my god, we're entering "C+" territorygo get the car now! Go, go, go!"

On our way out, Loren insisted he get a picture of him and Jay Manuel from America's Next Top Model. What a starfucker.


  1. Next time you see John Cho, tell him to just say no to photoshoots featuring double-breasted suits. Ick.

    And Jay Manuel is scary.

  2. Hey, when GQ tells you to wear something, you wear it!