HOLLYWOOD HAM AND EGGS : Breakfast at This Eatery Is One Scene After Another

I love Hollywood as much as the next fellow, but not over breakfast.

For the past couple of years, I’ve been meeting my cronies at a pleasant little West Hollywood eatery. We’d have melon, scrambled eggs and a pot of coffee, talk baseball and hatch schemes. The joint was quiet, the hash browns were crisp and none of the waiters had a copy of Daily Variety in his back pocket. Life was good.

Then came the first danger signal: One day I found myself seated next to two talkative guys pawing a huge sheaf of papers.

A screenplay.

“I really like the scene where the kids come back from vacation and, right away, they abduct and torture the transfer student from Argentina,” a bespectacled, low-rung studio exec said. “The pacing is perfect. But the class-room scenes are a little dull. What if that beautiful history teacher was having an affair with the star of the football team?”

The writer frowned, then ran his hands through his hair. He seemed deep in thought. “I’ve got it,” he finally said. “Instead of having the heavy-metalers set fire to the punk club, why don’t I move that scene to science class?

The studio exec gingerly rubbed his fingers over his three-day stubble. “Great!” he exclaimed. “And then we cut--boom!--right to the history teacher, in the locker room with the entire offensive line. And as she takes off her bra she says, ‘I just hope you’re in better shape than the tennis team.’ ”

Suddenly I noticed my eggs were cold.

A few weeks later I spotted another bad sign: actors. At first, it was just the unknowns. Then recognizable faces started showing up. Sally Kellerman. Sandra Bernhardt. James Woods. JoBeth Williams.

One morning, two pretty young women were at the next table, both in sweat shirts and tights, with pink headbands. “Acting class was really super last night,” the blonde said, nibbling on a fruit plate. “I think I really had a breakthrough.

“I did this amazing scene where I walk into the room, lay down on the floor and just start crying. It’s as if I can’t stand the pain anymore. I writhe on the ground, in agony, but then suddenly I sat up, shook my head and just glared.

“And all I said was, ‘Don’t get mad. Get even. ‘ It wasn’t even in the script. It all came from inside me. It was scary, like I’d looked into a mirror and saw someone else’s face. The class really loved it. One guy--the cute one I told you about--said, ‘It was beautiful. Your compassion level was awesome!’ ”

Her companion sighed. “That’s incredible. Listen, someday they’re going to come to you for all those Farrah Fawcett parts.”

I told the waiter to cancel my cinnamon muffin.

The worst was yet to come.

The parking lot out back started filling up with black Porsches. Record industry A&R; execs congregated in the back of the room. You could see the pink stamps on their hands, a tell-tale reminder of their visits to rock clubs the night before. I noticed the sweet smell of success in the air--the balmy aroma of hair gel.

Finally, as I was pouring over Bob Horner’s batting average one morning, I looked up from my newspaper and saw Michael Mann ordering breakfast. His pants were gun-metal gray. His hair was perfect. He spent so much time studying the menu you could’ve sworn it was really a “Crime Story” script in disguise.

The waitress took his order and dreamily glided by my table. I tried to catch her attention. But she was gone, her eyes glazed by the enchanting fantasy of her upcoming role as a gun-toting moll, spraying a hail of bullets across the South Side of Chicago.

I gazed across the room, listening to the confident buzz of show-business endearments. This cozy little breakfast deli had become a bustling, Hollywood hangout.

I picked at my sausages and began to wonder what the pig’s last words were.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain. After all, there’s something peculiarly seductive about this close proximity to the Hollywood scene. As a writer, I’m an inveterate eavesdropper, and being around Hollywood insiders is a great--if not perfect--way to overhear hot gossip.

Best of all, you can sometimes even get candid reviews of your own work. Months after I did a story that included an ill-fated encounter with a cranky Brat Packer, I found myself seated at a table behind the young actor. It was the perfect vantage point from which to hear him discuss the story with a friend, blasting it as “a bunch of lies.”

And just the other morning I heard a great piece of gossip about a certain flamboyant Hollywood director and his post-production adventures with one of his leading ladies.

Ah, Hollywood. But when I’m at breakfast, no thanks. I’d rather keep my distance. Now my buddies and I have a new morning haunt. It’s quiet. The bacon is crisp. The talk is about substitute teacher positions, department store sales and how to find a good parking space in Venice on a Saturday afternoon.

Suddenly, I’m hungry again.