On to Velvet and a series of steadily diminishing returns, Seagal, Johnson, Snipes, Arnold, et al., camped out in the back room, vulture models zooming in for the kill and having mixed success. Out till 4:00 a.m. and dragging ass the next day, stupidly obeying the insane pigs-are-good dictates of Planet Hollywood. Stuck behind the barricades with the Day of the Locust masses for an hour, finally comprehending that dangled celebrity access might never be granted. Back around the building, concealing our slave bracelet credentials and slipping in through a side door, desperately climbing over a banquette into the sloppy VIP room. Stallone's beautiful companion from the previous evening having even less luck, forced to claw her way in after one night of glory, Stallone escorting another woman at the opening. The sweat-equity shareholders of Planet Hollywood, celebrities making gladiatorlike appearances for fun and profit, mingling with the low rent. Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver turning out, along with Michael Bolton and Marky Mark, the mother-daughter sex combo winding up in Van Damme's booth, another ballistic star-fucker reluctantly settling for a soap-opera hunk. The party blurring into a nasty swirl, and it's out into the midnight garden of the streets, deserted grandstands, and diehard fans waiting by the limos like sheep. Our companion aghast at the national addiction, the apocalypse of fame: "You know, it doesn't get any uglier than this.

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