Beverly Hills Star Safari: What You See Is What You Can Never Get

90210 is the zip code. 310 is the area code. And 20 is the number of dollars I shelled out to take a tour of this hallowed haven - roughly the same amount Tori Spelling probably spends on a single breath mint.

Mingling with tourists in front of the famous Mann’s Chinese Theatre while waiting for my tour of the stars’ homes to begin, I overheard two women commenting on one of the celebrity hand prints in the sidewalk.

“Oh, look, Peter Sellers. I always liked him,” said one woman carrying her weight in cameras around her neck.

“Who was he?” asked her friend, who wore a hat that could have easily doubled as a bird cage.

“You know, the French detective in that movie with the panther,” the first woman explained.

On board the mini-bus, I sat next to a young Italian businesswoman named Francesca, who confided that she didn’t speak English very well. A woman from Argentina sat across the aisle. She managed to tell me her daughter was practicing medicine in L.A. three times before we started moving. Just behind me was a man from Bombay, India, which, he said, is also known as “Bollywood” because they produce “even more cheap, tasteless movies than Hollywood.”

There was an extra-large German traveler with a Velcro camera case attached to his belt and a few women from Pennsylvania and Texas behind him.

“OK, we’re in Hollywood now,” explained Mark, the young guide and driver, as we pulled away from the curb, “It’s pretty much a gay and lesbian community.” That was all we were told about Hollywood.

Our first “sight” was the exact location where actor Hugh Grant was caught soliciting prostitute Divine Brown, “who made $100,000 from an interview and made a commercial in Brazil,” Mark told us. Next, we looked at Steven Spielberg’s house. Or, rather, we strained to spot it atop a hill half a mile away. Apparently, that was as close as we were going to get.

We sped past the Rainbow Bar and Grill, where Marilyn Monroe met Joe DiMaggio; the Viper Room club, where River Phoenix died; and a huge white house, where John Belushi died of a drug overdose. Then, to lift our spirits, Mark pointed out a restaurant.

“There’s Wolfgang Puck’s Cafe,” he revealed. “He’s famous.”

Francesca was having a hard time understanding Mark’s comments, and I had to painfully repeat everything he said. “That was Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant,” I said slowly. “He’s famous.”

It was time to duck into Beverly Hills for some celebrity-spotting. We drove past William Shatner’s home, Dean Martin’s home, and Max Factor’s guest house, but we didn’t see William Shatner, Dean Martin or any of Max Factor’s guests.

Because we rolled by the stars’ homes so quickly, Mark was forced to shorten the actors’ resumes to one line. Michael Douglas, for example, became “the guy from ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Fatal Attraction.”’ Michael J. Fox was “a Canadian guy who has a house in Canada, as well.”

We drove past Johnny Weissmuller’s old house (“the Olympic swimmer guy who played Tarzan”). Mark pointed out that there was a moat around it, “which is empty because the house caught fire and he committed suicide.” Well, of course! It took several minutes to explain this to Francesca, who found it all quite remarkable.

It surprised me that all these heavy hitters were living in an area about the size of my college campus. Michael J. Fox lives across the street from Sandra Bullock (“whose home was formerly owned by Englebert Humperdink”), and around the bend from Rosemary Clooney (“a singer and the aunt of George Clooney, from ‘ER”’). I wondered what their block party would be like. I guess it’s called the Academy Awards.

Everybody lives in an ostentatious mansion, but forget about golf course-sized lawns; most of these showplaces are crammed onto regular-house-sized lots. The two new homes on the block were owned by Harrison Ford and Shaquille O’Neal (“the basketball guy”.)

We couldn’t see Elvis’ last home because of large shrubs, which were planted by the current owner, Dick Van Patten (“the guy from ‘Eight is Enough”’.)

“And over here is Barbra Streisand’s wall and trees,” Mark joked. We couldn’t see her house at all. We caught a glimpse of Walt Disney’s former home, and stared reverently at the front gate of Hugh Hefner’s house, which was pretty nice, as gates go.

We passed but did not stop at Jimmy Stewart’s house, Paul Newman’s home and Peter Falk’s home (“the ‘Columbo’ guy”). We got a good look at Bugsy Siegal’s home, “where he was gunned down,” and the home Judy Garland rented “until she died from a drug overdose.”

We clamored out of the van to take pictures of Aaron Spelling’s house … or possibly the Louvre. It’s the biggest home in Beverly Hills. I believe “47 million” was the number Mark quoted. I’m not sure if this was the cost, square footage, or the number of people who live there.

We even drove by Cedars-Sinai Hospital, “where Madonna’s baby was born and Liz Taylor had plastic surgery.”

Mark dropped us off on Rodeo Drive for 10 minutes to “mingle with rich folks and buy a pair of Bruno Magli shoes.” Mark had to explain the OJ joke to the foreigners … who still didn’t get it. We strolled down the street for a few blocks like a pack of vagrants, then piled back in the bus.

On the way back, I asked fellow passengers for their impressions. The Argentinian woman said she thought the houses would be much bigger and was upset we never spotted any stars. Francesca was amused but not overly impressed. The German didn’t seem capable of producing either emotion or opinion, and the Indian tourist was quite upset that we didn’t get to see Michael Jackson’s house (which was located about an hour away and never mentioned as part of the tour).

The women from Pennsylvania and Texas were the only ones who seemed to have soaked up their money’s worth.

“I loved it,” said the Texan.

“What an incredible life,” the other commented.

Francesca was visibly confused.

“I loved it,” I repeated slowly for her. “What an incredible life.” xxxx