I need more than rumors, so I have arranged a rendezvous with a tracker. She’s here, wedged between two frumpy screenwriters and a director with a shaved head. She’s a tall, striking brunette with pouty lips and oil spills for eyes. As I approach, she shakes free and beckons me toward a quiet alcove near the coatroom.

Kent you haven't changed a bit.  Is it just me or does this read like some dime store novel?

Kevin g