I CRASHED BARBRA’S BIG BASH

As a high school student in 1965, the writer trekked to New York City by bus to see Barbra Streisand on stage in “Funny Girl.” Twenty-one years later, Danahy is still a Streisand fan. Dressed in borrowed tuxedo pants, bow tie and black shoes, Danahy found himself as a busboy at a very private, very posh party at Streisand’s Malibu home last weekend. Unbeknown to the restaurant that hired him for the night, his chief purpose was to find a way to watch the concert that Streisand gave for the guests who had paid $2,500 a ticket to raise money for Democratic candidates:

Following the map issued back at the restaurant, I arrive about 3 p.m. at a B of A parking lot in Malibu.

“Who are you with and for what party?” a woman blocking the road asks.

“Spago. I’m working the Streisand party,” I respond. About a month ago, I heard about this invitation-only backyard concert and had no intention of missing it. Five years in the restaurant world begets certain connections: I’ve finagled a position as a busboy for $50 in wages.

“Park over there,” motions the guard. “Check in with Security.”

Security is a mountain of a man, very beefy. He wears reflective sunglasses, a dark three-piece suit, black leather driving gloves and a cool attitude. He barks, “Name!”

I point to my name on a list of about 100 catering personnel. Security checks it off, recording the hour and minute of arrival. He tosses me a numbered button. “Don’t lose it.”

We’re stuffed into vans and the door is locked from the outside.

Several miles and two security checkpoints later, we arrive at “The Ranch.” We sign in. “Oh, isn’t that nice,” jokes a smart-alecky waiter. “Barbra’s going to send us thank-you notes.” Even one of the 12 guards smiles. Or it might be a snarl.

There are posted warnings: NO SMOKING. NO RECORDING EQUIPMENT. NO CAMERAS. I’m clean, so I’m passed through a gate, up a service road to a makeshift kitchen squeezed in the opening of a tennis court, large enough to seat 500 almost comfortably. Time for us to set up.

A table set by a Spago representative to Miss Manners perfection is our guide and 40 people rush about flipping floral tablecloths, folding napkins to look like sea shells and emptying boxes of plates, silverware, candles and three different glasses.

The guests begin to arrive, also by vans (I suppose they were locked in too), and we assemble in the “Rose Garden Area,” grabbing trays of Spago-styled appetizers. (I know it’s called the “Rose Garden Area” because security guards keep squawking into their walkie-talkies, “Clyde here. In the Rose Garden Area.”)

The Rose Garden is a sprawling lawn between two of the five houses, all in different styles on 40 acres, nestled in a valley of Malibu Canyon. Although the entire spread is called “The Ranch,” it doesn’t look like a ranch. More like the fanciest neighborhood in the town you grew up in. Except this all belongs to one person.

The lawn is perfect for star grazing and star gazing. I’m moving through the crowd carrying a small puffy tomato-and-basil pizza. My one little pizza is shared by Bette Midler, dressed in sneakers and a paisley sweatsuit, patting her close-to-labor-looking stomach; Jane Fonda, elegantly dressed and remarkably beautiful; Jack Nicholson drinking Perrier (and not wearing his shades!); Emmanuel Lewis (“Webster”) wearing a leather outfit; and Hugh Hefner’s date wearing essentially nothing at all.

There are also lots of no-no’s here. Guards are posted at entrances and exits to discourage wandering. The houses are off limits and there are no bathrooms . . . just a half dozen port-a-potties and a guarded Winnebago for special people. The Federal Aviation Administration has restricted the air space above the ranch to avoid a repeat of the Madonna/Penn nuptial travesty.

And where’s Streisand? She’s hiding out in the Victorian house. Following the rehearsal earlier, she scurried in through a back entrance. At the same time, six security guards joined the two already stationed on the front steps.

The dinner on the tennis court is a blur of insanity that only a waiter could understand. Celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck has donated the food service and is really putting his rep on the line. He is providing meals for 500 heavy-duty customers--but he doesn’t have a kitchen, running water, counter space and a zillion other necessities. Where will he put the dirty dishes? I can’t figure it out--and I’m a busboy!

I’m moving across a jammed section balancing a huge tray. Bruce Willis unintentionally bumps me, my tray tottering above Eva Gabor’s coiffed head. Somehow I avoid the tragedy. Whew.

Following the meal of tomato and goat cheese salad, sliced veal chop with grilled veggies, raspberries, cake, ice cream and coffee, are speeches by Sen. Alan Cranston and the eloquent Barbara Jordan. It’s the first time I can stop since I arrived. I sneak some food (against Spago policy) and start thinking about escape routes. It’s going to be tough.

After the guests head up to the specially built amphitheater for the concert, we are left with tons of debris. A supervisor announces, “The quicker we break this down and reset the Rose Garden Area for coffee and cookies, the more of the concert we’ll be able to hear.”

Hear? Hear! Not this busboy, babycakes. I move at the speed of sound, busing my section. Then I slip up a deserted winding staircase that leads to a maze of walkways and come face to face with an armed security guard in full uniform. Because of my uniform and the Spago apron, he just nods, continuing his rounds. I go the opposite direction ending up at this all black-tiled swimming pool and patio right out of a magazine.

A screen door slides open and a thin voice asks, “Are you here for the dishes?” I stare at him, nodding. He motions me inside. I gawk at the living room as he points to the dining room table. “She didn’t eat a bite,” he complains. “The food went to the wrong house and by the time it got here it was cold.”

I assume the “she” is Streisand and I lift her untouched plate like a chalice.

Two minutes later, I’m back on the patio with a tray of dirty dishes, so it’s back to the tennis court telling anybody who’s interested, “Here’s her plate. It was cold. Didn’t eat a bite.”

I slip out through the back leaving my tray alongside dozens of others, out the kitchen and back behind a shack. I tear off the bow tie and Spago apron. On tip-toe, it’s down the service road, around a hedge, then up a hill to a high road. It comes from somewhere and ends right at the only entrance to the stage. It’s clogged with guards.

Robin Williams is on stage as I make my way down the road to within feet of two guards. He says something that tears the guards up and, zip, like a shadow I’m behind a light pole, unnoticed. Facing me is a hill, behind me the stage. I start up the hill, over bundles of firewood, a foundation wall, more hill--and a perfect vantage point for the concert.

A guard who’s patrolling decides I’m OK and says, “Excuse me” every time he crosses in front of me. I respond, “No problem.”

Now, the stage goes dark. The only sounds are an army of crickets and the opening chords to “Somewhere.” Billowing smoke covers the stage, sliced by shaft of light.

She appears, through the orchestra. The crowd, like so many groupies, goes wild. She sounds tight and her voice not up to full power. She talks about it and asks the sound engineers to give her “more echoes or something.”

She welcomes everyone to her home and gags about the price tag. The concert is titled “One Voice,” and what a voice. Once she warms up, there’s no stopping her.

She does “People” and “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Her encore, “America the Beautiful,” is the perfect tone for the evening and her delivery is shattering. People are singing along and swaying in the aisles--and crying.

Struggling with the bow tie, I make my way down a hill and back to my co-workers, gathered outside the theater listening to the concert from across a road. I’m just about to cross it when a guard yells, “Hey, you. Don’t move. Freeze.”

I slide to a stop, almost smashing into this golf cart contraption directly in front of me. Suddenly, a spotlight hits my eyes and people start running toward me from three directions. I figure I’m dead.

The light flashes off and Streisand, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by guards, is rushing towards me. In the mass of confusion I say something stupid, but flattering. She looks right at me, smiles and thanks me.

As she instructs her driver, the cart putters away. The guards chase after it and I’m left breathless and still on the loose.

I approach the caretaker’s cottage where the privileged are admitted to congratulate Streisand.

“Hey, you, where do you think you’re going?”

I hold up my empty coffee pot. “I’m serving coffee,” I smile very matter of fact.

“No one has cups. They’re not allowed inside.” He does not smile.

“Then maybe I should gather dirty plates?”

“Maybe you should make a U-turn, buster.”

I don’t know what time the servers were finally returned to the parking lot, and I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. Once again, off comes the bow tie, the apron and I’m on one of the first guest vans off the property. Whoopi Goldberg, who appears to be sleeping, is in the front seat and I’m crammed in the back. This van is going to the Malibu Community Club and I figure how far can it be from the B of A. About 15 miles, it turns out. No problem. Someone offers a lift down PCH in his mint condition ’62 Rolls.

“Wonderful concert, don’t you agree?” says the driver. “Well worth the price, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, indeed,” say I. “A bargain at twice the price.”