Publicists are accustomed to spinning clients' abysmal behavior, so
it will be interesting to see how Lizzie Grubman handles her own
I think the first step should be having Daddy take her out for a driving
lesson and reacquainting her with the concept of gears. Namely: forward
What the hell is going on back East anyway? Is it too hot this
You're asked to move your car and you freak? Geez. In LA we would just
quietly threaten to spread nasty rumors. Or maybe call a certain agent,
to make sure the offending doorman/valet/bartender's script never
reaches the eyes of a studio reader. But we do not plow our vehicles
into a crowd.
Grubman's tantrum - and I can only assume she angrily and accidentally
lost control - left me wondering about the worst sins Tinseltown
publicists have committed. Can we hold our own with Lizzie Borden? I
took a quick survey. It was not impressive.
One publicist admitted placing an anonymous phone call to a nasty
reporter, threatening to rat about his affair. "My wife already knows,"
"We live in Brentwood."
My friend "Al," admits to giving a few magazines an unflattering photo
of a rude celebrity who insists all his pics be touched up. "I felt bad
about it later," Al confesses, "but the picture wasn't even used. I've
never really done anything else bad before. I keep things inside."
Great. The Hamptons Hellfire is grabbing headlines; we're
Based on my completely unscientific canvassing, I surmise Left Coast
flacks can't compete with the New York crowd. We're too soft, too
relaxed, too tanned. A waiter seats us at a lousy table, we merely
mutter, "Obviously you don't know who I am." Then obediently sit down.
Lizzie, I suspect, would throw an Etruscan vase through the window,
avowing, "Madonna shan't brunch here again."
Told our dry cleaning isn't ready, Angelinos simply threaten a lawsuit
and mutter, "Obviously you don't know who I am," and return later. You
think Tizzy Lizzie would accept that? I dare say not. Pity the hapless
Starbucks soul informing her the "double decaf cap with a raspberry
twist and whiff of mocha" is unavailable. He'll wear a coffee pot on his
head the rest of the day.
I spent a little time in the Hamptons a few years ago and was impressed
with the infrequency with which I encountered the sort of tattoo parlors
and psychics that litter Venice Beach. Had a great time. But then, I
wasn't dodging expensive cars while waiting in line for a frozen yogurt.
Now I'm afraid to go back. In Santa Monica, my only worry is whether the
chicken is free range. I can't possibly keep one eye on the kitchen and
another on the parking lot.
Do you see an MTV Celebrity Death-match in the making? First, we'll need
a Hollywood publicist tough enough to take on "Leadfoot Liz." I suggest
Terry Press, the shoot-from-the-lip badass at DreamWorks. Wouldn't mind
seeing those two pull each other's hair in a "whiner-take-all" fight to
We'll hold the match at the defunct Forum. Valet parking mandatory.
Lawrence Mitchell Garrison is an LA-based freelance publicist and