Clutch your rosaries and blankies,, children, because the impossible has happened: Gregoire, a seemingly immovable staple of New York nightlife, has gone to Los Angeles and returned with a shameful smile on his face. Freshly burnt and bedazzled by the city's slick neon glamour and oily yet seductive personality, I can say with conviction that New York may be my woman, but La-La Land certainly, well, "my bitch."

The stars come out ... or not

I was in Pasadena last week for a press junket on all of network television's newest shows, held at the beautiful Ritz-Carlton nestled in smog-encased mountains and the posh houses of rich people. Was I there to interview the stars and learn about the new programs? God, no! I was there simply to snoop and nestle up to celebrities! Between presentations I snubbed and cocktail parties that snubbed me (of course I still went), I (and some well-placed spies) noticed the ever-so-small-'n'-lovely Heather Locklear with Michael J. Fox, Debra Messing (whose hair deserves its own spinoff), Jane Leeves, Julianna Margolies, Noah Wyle (whom I almost attacked out of sheer wild instinct), David Duchovny (but only from afar, I'm afraid, BG), Gina Gershon, Rob Lowe (who was mauled by some unprofessional journalists; "unprofessional" mainly in the sense that they considered him interesting), Roma Downey (whose hotel room was a few doors down from mine), and scads of potential new stars (come to Gregoire for your starter buzz, mes petits choux!)

The most exciting moment for me was the aftermath of the final presentation down in the Ritz-Carlton bar, where all the celebs let their hair down for some serious drinking. Cast members from Saturday Night Live -- including, from my vantage, Chris Cattan and Colin Quinn -- were scattered throughout the lush room. I, in fact, eventually found a table of journalists who were willing to pay for my martinis, as well as those cocktails of a couple television writers from "Jesse" and the new "Mike O'Malley Show." As drunk writers are wont to do, we were getting a tad rowdy (but no less articulate), when we noticed new "Law And Order" star Jesse Martin -- with an attractive blonde woman -- at the next table. (Martin was Ally McBeal's doctor boyfriend and, for you stage souls, Tom Collins from Broadway's "Rent.") The woman was so enamored of Martin that she began to playfully put her bare feet up on the handsome actor's shoulders to his noticable chagrin. Well, one of the drunk reporters at my table took note and said a little bit too loudly, "Oh, he's soooo gay! What's he trying to pull?" To which Martin and vixen promptly left the bar in disgust! (For the record, Martin is absolutely ungay.) Hopefully, this reporter has been fired from whatever wire service or midwestern newspaper he was working for.

I spent my next afternoon in the swimming pool with companions and many cast members from the upcoming NBC series "Third Watch," who were there frolicking with their children and partners. I can tell you that from seeing these actors and actresses in wet, skimpy bathing suits, I hope this show is a big hit!

Caucasian chalk outline

Having exhausted (a) the star potential of the Ritz-Carlton, and (b) other people's room service charges, I spent the rest of my stay at the Wyndam Bel Age in West Hollywood, minutes from the hottest sites on Sunset Strip. Indeed, had I chosen to leap from my balcony to my death, I would have splattered approximately five to ten feet away from the very spot where River Phoenix left our mortal soil, outside the infamous (and still glamorous) Viper Room. I was disturbed to find that the area was not marked with flowers or a memorial of some kind. How soon we forget! Well, I did not. I posed for a picture on that very sidewalk, lying on the very slab of cold cement that greeted the final breath of our beautiful, young River! Unlike the dead "Sneakers" star, however, I chose life over drugs and went straight into the Viper for a cocktail.

Hubba Hubbard!

The rest of my "investigative" vacation was relatively celebrity-free. I did cruise (geddit?) by the Scientology Celebrity Centre, where I found myself trapped behind miles of limousines entering some star-studded spiritual happening. (In fact, according to spies, some of the new television stars for the fall have already fallen in with Old Father Hubbard.) I wanted to tell my driver to stop the car so I could steal a peek into the well-guarded complex, but was hindered by my fear of being brainwashed. My indecision caused a mild accident in front of the building; later, when I got home, I saw on the news that Monica Lewinsky had in fact been in a car accident very close by. If I had anything to do with that, Monica, I'm terribly sorry! Scientologists make me batty!

It's a hard knock life

I had a wonderful brunch at a restaurant on the Warner Brothers lot, which is frequently the lunch counter of choice for many celebrities hard at work on their sitcoms and dramatic programs. Alas, hiatus time resulted in not a single sighting -- not even a friendly waiter -- though I did closely inspect the sets of "ER" and the upcoming television musical remake of "Annie" (which, mark my words, will be ten times better than the original.) I also spent quite a bit of time at the Chateau Marmont, best known for its exquisite interiors and its distinction as the death place of John Belushi. (Sunset Strip is a quite a celebrity mortuary!)

Crème de la crème brulee

On the final night of my visit, the chef in my hotel made the Guinness Book of World Records as he unveiled his master creation, the World's Largest Crème Brulee. This curious dessert was praised and applauded by a hungry crowd and a group of Guiness Book judges (who have one of the world's weirdest jobs). So, in a sense, I was not only privy to Los Angeles' biggest star of the week, I actually consumed some of this very tasty celebrity! Nobody's EVER been able to say that about Winona Ryder.

I'm still jet lagged, lambs, but next week I'll be aggressively New York.

Until someone makes a crème brulee bigger than Grace's hair,
Gregoire

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