WHY I AVOID BED AND BREAKFASTS AT ALL COSTS January 3, 2012
Posted by rickcopp in Uncategorized.Tags: bed and breakfast, deer hoof lamp, Gay, Mary Tyler Moore Show, Mount Rushmore, South Dakota
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Bambi Didn’t Make It After All
Some years ago I had the romantic notion of renting a car and driving across country. I would start by dipping my toes in the Pacific Ocean off Malibu Beach in California and finish up by wading into the Atlantic off the rocky coast of Maine. In between, I would drive a Northern route and hit as many landmarks and interesting things to see and do that were on my Bucket List and needed to be crossed off. Siegfried and Roy’s campy show in Vegas (this was before a tiger redesigned poor Roy’s face). The Tetons in Wyoming. The house used in the Mary Tyler Moore Show in Minneapolis. The Rock and Roll Museum in Cleveland. The Liberty Bell in Philly. Niagara Falls. It was a pretty long list. But the tourist spot I was most excited about was Mount Rushmore. And believe me, it didn’t disappoint. So grand and spectacular. The giant sculpted faces of four of our most enduring Presidents. Very impressive.
Anyway, I wanted to spend as much time there as I possibly could so I decided to stay overnight. I did some research online and stumbled across a charming ad for a bed and breakfast “nestled in the scenic Black Forest Hills of South Dakota.” Charming. The ad also mentioned the B&B was “gay owned.” Perfect! At least it will be nicely decorated and probably be stocked with high end soaps and moisterizers. I shot off an e-mail to the owner, and within minutes, I got a nice reponse saying they were looking forward to my arrival. Well, after a long day exploring Mount Rushmore and snapping hundreds of pictures, I was ready for a good night’s sleep before setting off towards my next destination. I had jotted down the directions (this was before iPads and GPS) and followed them off the main highway onto a dirt road that kept going and going with no end in sight. Deeper and deeper into the woods I went. It was getting dark and I was starting to wonder if this place even existed.
Finally, I turned a corner and came upon a lovely storybook home gorgeously landscaped with a beautiful flower garden out front. I checked the address. Nope. Not it. So I kept going. I was just about to give up and turn around and find other accomodations when off in the distance, I saw a dilapidated farm house that looked as if it was falling to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The house was in desperate need of a paint job. The grass was overgrown. There was a stray rubber tire lying on the ground out front. As I pulled up to it, I thought, “No, this can’t be it!” But then I saw a chalk board propped up on the front porch railing and on it, someone had scribbled “Welcome, Rick!”
Before I could jam the car in reverse, two portly men in checkered shirts and scruffy jeans came bounding out the front door, a barking dog on their heels, waving at me like the Beverly Hillbillies. One went for my suitcase in the backseat while the other welcomed me with open arms (the dog was focused on my crotch). They escorted me inside where I met the only other guest they were hosting that night… a gay toothless truck driver passing through. Suddenly I felt like Ned Beatty in that movie Deliverance. Except some weird gay porn version. Scratch that. The original movie was a weird gay porn version.
Lucky for me, I was just in time for dinner and I was served a stew. Some unappetizing brown slop with mystery meat, which I assumed was a previous guest who got on their bad side. I was not about to insult them so I dutifully choked some down before faking a yawn and saying I was tired and looking forward to getting some sleep. They led me up to my room. The first thing I saw when I entered was a bedside lamp. Its stand was made out of an actual deer hoof. I couldn’t take my eyes off it I was so horrified. Is this what Bambi had to look forward to?
One of the owners said, “What time would you like breakfast tomorrow morning?”
There was no way I was going to eat anything else here after the stew so I smiled and said, “Oh, don’t you worry about breakfast. I have to be up really, really early. I’ll be on my way around five a.m.”
“Perfect! We’re up at four!”
That was settled. I was having breakfast.
He left me alone and I sat down on the bed and went over my options. This cross country drive was supposed to be fun. If I’m not happy, then I should just go. But I didn’t want to be rude or hurt anyone’s feelings. I made a decision. I was going to stay. I would get some shut eye, pop up early, and hit the road and all of this would be just a bad memory. I unzipped my suitcase and began removing some toiletries when there was a knock on the door.
“We’re hot tubbing!”
I couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or an order. I immediately put my toiletries back into the suitcase, zipped it up, and waited until I heard the jets of the jacuzzi come on before racing downstairs, tossing sixty dollars on the kitchen counter, and barreling out the front door to my car. I peeled away in a cloud of dust and didn’t stop until I crossed a time zone.
I finally pulled off the highway hours later when my fear that the B&B owners were not far behind in a pick up truck chasing me down had subsided. I checked into a Comfort Inn, but on that day, it was like a night at the Four Seasons.
THE DAY I MADE THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND’S GRANDDAUGHTER CRY November 29, 2011
Posted by rickcopp in Uncategorized.Tags: Fergie, Fox TV Studios, Joan Collins, Linda Evans, Prince Andrew, Princess Beatrice, Princess Eugenie, Sarah Ferguson
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“He’s desecrated the memory of my grandmother,” Princess Beatrice wailed to her mother Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York. Tears streamed down her face. According to Fergie, it was a horrible moment for her. It was also a horrible moment for me because her daughter was talking about me.
It all began in the summer of 2006 when I made a blind script deal with Fox TV Studios. I had written a spec script called Washington Wives Social Club, sort of a Desperate Housewives set in the Beltway with lots of sex and politics. It didn’t sell to the networks, but it got me some meetings at various studios, and when it landed on one executive’s desk at Fox, he thought I might be right for a project they were considering that would be produced by Sarah Ferguson, Prince Andrew’s ex, based on her own original idea.
After her divorce from Andrew, Fergie found herself wallowing in debt and sharing a house with her ex-husband because she couldn’t afford to make it on her own. She decided she needed cash, lots of it, so she set about finding work. This was before the whole “selling access to royalty” scandal that permanently tarnished her reputation last year. She was still considered a big deal on these shores. In fact, when I was going to meet her for the first time, my friend Mike insisted I buy a new sports coat. “It’s not every day you meet British royalty,” he sniffed, looking down on my simple wardrobe of jeans and a casual button down shirt, not even tucked in.
Fergie did finally find a way to make some serious money by signing a lucrative deal with Weight Watchers, becoming their National Spokesperson, and dropping tens of pounds in the process. She also began writing a series of popular children’s books. And then there was the idea for a prime time soap loosely based on her mother’s story.
That’s where I came in.
The show was to be set in Palm Beach, Florida, the home of the International Polo Club, and was to focus on the lives of the rich and famous jet setters who gather every year for sport, cocktail parties, and of course, an endless array of sexual hook ups. Fergie wanted her mother’s story front and center. Years ago when Fergie was still a child, her mother fell in love with a hot studly Argentinian polo player, and left the family to be with him, thus feuling Fergie’s abandonment issues later in life. Simple enough. I was raised on Dallas and all that “Who Shot JR?” hoopla as well as the knock down drag out catfights between Joan Collins and Linda Evans on Dynasty. So I felt right at home creating enough sexual intrigue and high stakes drama between these Palm Beach one percenters. The trouble is, I had no idea Fergie’s daughters Beatrice and Eugenie would assume I was writing a fact-based account about their maternal grandmother’s life as opposed to a campy soap about filthy rich backstabbers. So when the girls read my preliminary pages, that’s when the tears started flowing back in Merry Ole England.
A meeting was set in Los Angeles when Fergie arrived to do an appearance on the Tyra Banks Show, and we all gathered in a conference room at Tyra’s studio. Luckily I had done some additional work on the premise and story in the meantime (having no idea about the drama my initial effort caused in the UK) so when Fergie announced at the start of the meeting, “Beatrice read Rick’s pages and burst into tears!” I had to do some fast tap dancing. I explained that the mother would, of course, be a sympathetic character, and how we all can understand and appreciate sacrificing for love, and well, you get the picture, I was bullshitting. By the time I was done back tracking, Fergie slapped her hand dramatically on the table and said, “Yes! This is it! This is the show I want to do! I spoke to my psychic and she told me we will DEFINITELY sell it!”
So onto the networks we went. Fox. CBS. ABC. The CW. Fergie didn’t appreciate them offering her Lipton’s instant tea at Fox. She wandered into Business Affairs at the CW, grabbed a fistful of red licorice and told them, “Don’t worry. I’ve been with Weight Watchers ten years. I know exactly how many points these are.” She was a bonafide hoot. When I first met her, she held out her hand stiffly. I didn’t know whether to shake it or bow before her. But by the time we finished, she was giving me warm hugs. I really liked her as a person. A bit loopy but with a good heart.
But it was all for naught. The show didn’t sell.
I’m guessing Fergie might be in the market for a new psychic.
3 REASONS KATHY BATES HATES MY GUTS October 30, 2011
Posted by rickcopp in Uncategorized.Tags: Hollywood Hills, Jon Cryer, Joyce DeWitt, Kathy Bates
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“I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Outta Here!”
First let me be clear. Kathy Bates has absolutely no idea who I am. If you mentioned my name you’d probably get a blank stare followed by a gruff, “Who the hell is that?”
I was just her neighbor for six years.
When I bought my house in the Hollywood Hills I did a title search to find out if anyone famous ever lived there. Nope. Nobody. Nada. Which was shocking given it was one of the first homes built in the original 1920’s Hollywoodland development. A multi-story English Tudor nestled in the hillside. But not ONE famous person previously owned it. I would’ve settled for a 1970’s sitcom actress like Joyce DeWitt of Three’s Company. Anybody!
But when I moved in I did get a famous neighbor. Oscar winner Kathy Bates. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a knock at the door and Kathy standing there with a basket of warm muffins. Didn’t happen.
That didn’t stop me from making Kathy part of the house tour whenever I showed a guest around. The balcony off my living room had a full on view of Kathy’s enormous brick mansion. I would lead my guest to the railing, show off my expansive backyard with the bamboo trees and lush greenery, and then I would point up and say, “And Kathy Bates lives right up there!” Until one day as I was pointing I looked up and saw Kathy in a housecoat bringing out a bag of empty bottles to her recycle bin. She was glaring down at me. I guess my voice carried in the canyon. So I calmly without missing a beat moved my finger away from her and said loudly, “And my backyard goes all the way over here!” I don’t think she bought it. That’s reason Number One.
Number Two. I was out of town and my friend Marilyn was housesitting and looking after my dog Beachwood (named after the canyon where we lived). At two in the morning, Marilyn was aroused from a deep sleep by Beachwood barking wildly. She looked out the window and saw a prowler poking around the back of Kathy’s house. Marilyn immediately dialed 911. The cops were on the scene in seconds, and after Marilyn explained what she saw, the officers marched up to Kathy’s house and had her take them around back for a look. Kathy was once again in a housecoat (I wasn’t there so I can’t verify if it was the same one). Marilyn neglected to mention she has night blindness and has been known to see blue Smurfs in the road when she drives at night. And Beachwoood barked at any random skunk or squirrel that wandered on the property. So you do the math. And to make matters worse, one poor officer had the fright of his life as he was looking up at Kathy’s house from my living room and then turned back around to see an intruder right behind him! He nearly drew his weapon. It turned out to be a life size cardboard cut-out of Barbara Eden in her I Dream of Jeannie get-up inside an old fashioned phone booth I purchased at the Pasadena Flea Market. My house was nice. My taste in decor? Not so much.
Number Three. The final straw. My sister Holly was visiting. We would barbecue in the backyard and my sister would sit outside in the sun downing her usual cocktail of choice, a Jack and Coke. After more than a few, she noticed Kathy’s dining room looked down on my backyard and she spotted Kathy all dressed up and hosting an elegant dinner party. It was a warm summer night so her windows were wide open. My sister sniffed the air, and yelled with a slur, “What is that, Kathy? Pot roast?”
I think the For Sale sign was up within a week.
Jon Cryer, the actor from the hit sitcom Two and a Half Men, bought the house. But that wasn’t half as exciting as the woman who brought life to Annie Wilkes and Delores Clairborne. In 2009, I sold my house to a relatively well known couple of married actors. So in the end I had to vacate the premises in order to finally have a famous person live in my home. And I hear there’s a better class of people overall in the neighborhood these days. Now that I’m gone.
THE DAY I ALMOST SOLD FAYE DUNAWAY’S HAIR ON E-BAY September 29, 2011
Posted by rickcopp in Uncategorized.Tags: Bravo, Faye Dunaway, Johnny Depp
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I had always heard Faye Dunaway had a prickly reputation. But honestly who cares? Faye played the sexy and impressionable Bonnie in the ‘60s crime classic Bonnie and Clyde. The ruthlessly ambitious network executive in the prescient ‘70s classic Network. The wildly erratic Joan Crawford in the ‘80s camp classic Mommie Dearest. So come on! An actress of that caliber deserves to have a royal tantrum or two every once in a while. I just didn’t expect it to happen in my house.
My friend Mike was producing a documentary on Johnny Depp for Bravo. He was interviewing several of Johnny’s co-stars, including Faye, who co-starred with Depp twice, in the hit Don Juan DeMarco and and in the flop Arizona Dream. Mike wanted the interviews to take place in a retro Hollywood setting, and my 1928 English Tudor house was perfect, nestled high in the hills of Beachwood Canyon near the Hollywood sign. The house was inverted so the living room, dining room and kitchen were upstairs and the bedrooms were downstairs. I had to sequester my rambunctious dog and bitchy cat in the guest suite because I didn’t want them disturbing the shoot. Mike, meanwhile, made sure the master suite bathroom was in pristine condition because he had earmarked that for Faye because she insisted on doing her own hair and make up.
I was going to scoot once the interview got under way, but I couldn’t resist hanging around to see Faye in person. She arrived late. The driver sent to pick her up was told to call when he was in front of the house, but Faye angrily told him he would have to wait because she was still getting dressed. Even though he could see her through the window of her house watching television.
As she finally swept through my front door, Mike reached out his hand and said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Dunaway.” She swiped his hand away and said, “I don’t shake hands!” Mike got out of her way. I was struck by how small she was. On screen she looks so much grander and in command. Here she looked tiny and vulnernable. Until she spoke.
She clutched the beige scarf tied around her head and said, “I need a place to put on my make up.” Mike answered, “Yes, I’ve prepared the master bath for you downstairs.” Faye looked at him. “I don’t go downstairs.” Awkward pause. Mike cleared his throat. “There’s a bathroom right here off the foyer, but it’s really small.” “It’ll be fine,” Faye barked and marched inside. She marched right back out. “It’s too small!” She decided to take her chances going downstairs and headed for the staircase. Mike called after her, “It’s the door on the right.” Faye went left into the guest suite. And the next thing we heard was, “Something needs to be done about these animals!” I could only imagine my bitchy cat hissing at her. And I knew my dog’s claim to fame would now be sniffing the crotch of an Academy Award winner.
By this point, I was laughing so hard I had to leave so as not to add more stress to Mike’s already jangled nerves. When I returned hours later, the crew was striking the make shift set. Mike said once Faye was happy with her lighting and the cameras started rolling, that’s when she truly became FAYE DUNAWAY. Totally in control, praising Johnny, smiling and laughing. A total charmer.
After it was over, Mike knew Faye was happy with the way the interview turned out. Probably because on her way out the door she stopped to shake his hand.
Later, when I went downstairs to the master bedroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I noticed clumps of hair all over the basin and in the sink. It was FAYE HAIR! Piles of it. I stared at the fine wispy light brownish strands of Hollywood hair. My mind racing. I could sell it on E-Bay! I wonder how much I could get? I decided against it. After all, don’t stars deserve at least a modicum of privacy? Which leaves the question. Do I still have it pressed in a scrap book somewhere like some deranged, obsessive fan. No, I did the decent thing and flushed it down the toilet. Yeah, that’s my story. And I’m sticking to it.
Fingerprints & Facelifts August 23, 2009
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Working on the teleplay for the Lifetime TV movie adaptation of FINGERPRINTS & FACELIFTS so hopefully the film version will air sometime next year and will lead to more books in the LA Dolls series.
Mexico Melodrama April 27, 2009
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Okay, I just touched down in LA after a few days in Mexico. Just as I arrived, the swine flu scare exploded, and the streets of the Zona Rosa, my home away from home, were deserted. Although I was able to see friends and still have a good time, the eerily quiet city was a bit disconcerting this go around. And after flying home an earthquake hit the city. Wow. Let’s hope this beautiful, cosmopolitan criminally underrated city gets a break!
Really Good Movie… April 18, 2009
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Just saw a Mexican sci fi drama called SLEEP DEALER at the Laemmle Sunset 5. Great cast, interesting story, with a futuristic theme that incorporates the global economy, the future of immigration, our need to publish our thoughts on the internet, all wrapped up in a very touching story about redemption. Very cool. Go see it.
A New Start… April 8, 2009
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2008 post-Writers’ Strike got away from me, and in between traveling to Washington DC for the Democratic National Convention, writing a pilot for Nickelodeon and a graphic novel to be published later this year, and most significantly, the passing of my beloved stepfather, I stopped blogging. Well, now, as spring of 2009 is in bloom, I’m going to try again, and this time keep some consistency. Let’s see how long THAT lasts!
Life in Spain February 23, 2008
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This trip has done nothing to satisfy my need to travel. It has only made me want to see more, do more, meet more people. Although on this journey, I have traveled in only one country, Spain, it has been an experience of a lifetime. This country is like my second home. I feel so alive here, so comfortable, so immersed. Maybe I lived a past life here. Who knows? And the people I have become friends with along the way have been an utter joy. There was the Argentinean former flamenco dancer/special education teacher Gabriel in Sevilla with the bright smile and energetic personality, who has already e-mailed me to return. There was also the art history professor Antonio I met last July in Madrid, who was more than happy to spend the entire day with me after he wrapped up his classes but with one rule—indoors we spoke English, outdoors we spoke only Spanish. I got nervous every time it was time to leave a café, or restaurant, or museum. And then there was the Italian ex-patriot from Sardinia, Andreas, who wined and dined me at his favorite pasta joint in Barcelona. It’s amazing to me how you can go anywhere in the world all by yourself and never feel alone. You just have to be open to it.
Small World February 14, 2008
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So I’m this late night establishment in Madrid aptly named Rick’s Bar, hobnobbing with a few of the locals as well as a foreign office worker from the US State Department, it’s late, going on 3 AM, my eyelids are a bit droopy, and I was just surprised by a Mexican Mariachi guitar player named Mario who I met at this same watering hole two years ago. He’s still wearing his outfit, fresh from work, but I remember it being red. This one is white, so I compliment him on his new suit. I’m in the middle of commenting on what a small world it is when suddenly I hear this booming voice behind me bellow, “You’re from LA!” I turn around, and there standing in front of me is a handsome young blonde man, Spanish, with a big smile on his face and his arms outstretched. I had no idea who it was. “You go to Palermo all the time!” Palermo is an Italian restaurant in Los Feliz, just a quick ten minute drive from my house in Beachwood Canyon, and a staple of my diet. I’m there at least once a week. Still, I was drawing a blank. “I’m Dylan! I used to be a waiter there! I’d see you all the time!” “Dylan! Of course!” I explained as I pumped his hand. I still had no idea who he was. To make this small world story even smaller, he went on to tell me he moved back to Spain a few years ago, but does not live in Madrid. He lives in Barcelona and was just up here on business, and was now out with a few of his colleagues. At that point he introduced me to them all, and they couldn’t have been nicer. I immediately sent a text to my pal Rob and an e-mail to my pal Mike, both of whom I dine with at Palermo frequently to see if either one could remember Dylan. He seemed so pleased to see me, so gracious, I just went along with it. I’m sure I will remember him eventually. It will probably just take a little while to jog my memory since the biggest selling point at Palermo is their cheap wine that always makes my head fuzzy. Could this world be any smaller? I have just arrived in Sevilla, and I’m struck by its beauty, a mix of Middle Eastern and Spanish influence. I’m going to do a complete walking tour tomorrow, but now I am going to have a little siesta before venturing out to check out this vibrant city’s nightlife.
