-- Friday, February 18, 2000 --

2:47 a.m. Tonight is a night of guys, fabulous guys. I can never get enough of guys, glorious guys. I like guys in ties. I like 'em all cleaned up and splashed with after shave. I like my guys.

Better even than a night of guys -- get this: tonight was a night of Igors. True, true, true! You can't make this stuff up. (Well, you can, but I don't.)

We were invited to the premier screening of a film at the DGA, which is not a bad way to spend Friday night. We got cleaned up and left in enough time to duel with LA traffic, and barely got there in time, as usual.

I didn't know what to expect. I used hair spray and hoped for the best. We found a parking space and raced through the underground garage as the couple ahead of us did the same, holding the elevator doors for us.

Once we slid in and the doors closed and hello's were exchanged, I about died with excitement because the guy in the elevator with us was Stacy Keach, star of stage and screen and most notably, star of a string of Cheech and Chong movies in which he had a lizard tongue and ate insects. I was too ... abashed to say "wowser!" But I was thinking it.

Ok. So we go in and sit down and the movie starts up and there on the huge screen is my own beloved Igor -- holding forth as an expert. I have to laugh: HA! But this is Hollywood and I am out in public and I must behave like the blond on Tony Curtis' arm at all times. I am a short, squat version of a big tall buxom model trophy.

I would be a bowling-trophy wife.

Lots of Igor and Stacy in the movie and it was a lovely movie, indeed. A documentary called Alien Technology, it was produced and directed by Scott McClintock and partially based on The Day After Roswell, which Igor co-wrote. When the docudrama comes to a video store near you, be sure to grab a copy and enjoy. It was actually quite good. One of the best I've seen.

And then, because I'd taken a rain check on my birthday dinner and we were already all dressed up, I got to choose the restaurant of my dreams for a quick meal. I'm no fool -- I picked Orsini's, on Pico near the Fox Studio.

We used to live right down the street from this restaurant, which is the only authentic brownstone below-street-level Italian boite in the whole entire city. We are always homesick for Manhattan and it's one of our favorite places.

Well, we ate and drank and hatched more world-domination schemes and tried to figure out what to do for our big wedding anniversary, which is coming up. We really should test our marriage and our humanhood by trying to sail our leaky little boat to Catalina Island, and with half a bottle of wine in me, I thought it was a grand idea.

Just before we left, I got a chance to thank the owner, Sr. Orsini, for another wonderful bowl of pappardelli and fungilli and guess what?! We said hello again to a guy we always used to see at the restaurant (is he a waiter, a host, an owner? I don't know.) He's just a really friendly guy and every time we eat there, we feel happy and welcome and cared for.

But here's the cool part! His real name is Igor! Yes! Isn't that neat? A perfect, well-rounded evening. Igors to the left of me; Igors to the right. I really must have these birthday moments more often.