Streamlined

If Andy Dick lived here, he’d be home by now.

Better still, if you lived here, you’d owe Dick money.

Here is where paradise lies, needless to say. And paradise in Dickland is a big ol’ 1957 El Rey motor home so shiny you could see your face in it. Or more likely Dick’s.

You know Dick’s fun-house face from NBC’s “NewsRadio,” for which he provides a great public service. He plays a reporter who’s so goony he makes the rest of us seem responsible. (OK, so maybe you already thought the media were responsible for everything.)

See Dick frown. The gonzo comedian is imagining himself in the sort of icky Formica-oid trailer indigenous to studio lots that is the visual equivalent of elevator music.

“It is literally toxic. It has carpeting, but it’s real tacky, and the whole place has this design of squiggles of, I think, gray and blue, two-tone everywhere. It’s just gross.”

See Dick run to his new old trailer at Sunset Gower Studios, which cost him more than $24,000 to buy and restore. His trailer scout, Trifon Trifonopoulos, found it in a land far, far away, possibly named Arizona.

Trifonopoulos spent a year lovingly sanding and massaging the trailer back to its earlier incarnation as a haven of funky old appliances (and occasional new ones), blond birch and walls the color of seafoam. He spent hours polishing the exterior’s airplane curves, fashioned by El Monte-based El Rey.

Dick’s taste in trailers puts him in the company of such lifestyle pioneers as Tim Burton, Sean Penn and MTV, which sports a funkified Airstream in its Santa Monica office’s lobby. He hangs in his El Rey when he’s not working, and there he consumes bite-size video chunks of “Annie Hall.” Every day.

“I keep watching a little bit here, a little bit there. It’s taken me about a year. I want to study it. Sometimes I’ll sit and see a half-hour. I have a very bad attention span. Can you tell? What’s it called? Attention deficit . . . whatever.”

It’s called disorder. Hang in there, man.

Dick has found there are limits to what one can do in a classic trailer, including some of the things you might want to do in a classic trailer.

“You can’t do anything lewd or crude because, look--”

Shake, shake, shake.

“It’s moving. You can tell what’s going on.”

A few of us are being shaken around his trailer dining table, and one person is particularly impressed with Dick’s demonstration. That’s his girlfriend, Lina Sved, or Mama, as she likes to refer to herself.

“How did you discover that?” she asks, eyeing Dick with suspicion.

There’s another easy-shake trailer in the driveway of Dick and Sved’s home, which is also being restored, naturellement. Trailer No. 2 is the one he rents to movie companies.

Dick, 32, seems to like things in multiples. Two trailers. Two mamas. Sved is fine with the two trailers. She’s less fine with the two mamas. That’s how many used to live in Dick’s duplex: Mama No. 1, Dick’s ex-wife, Evone Dick, who’s the mother of his 10-year-old son; and Mama No. 2, Sved, who produced their 3-year-old son and 6-month-old daughter.

“Let’s just say Mama cleaned house,” Mama volunteers. “It’s the mom. There are no numbers involved. Just the mom.”

As well as the occasional vagabond friend. In addition to multi-mamas, string-beany Dick has been known to collect Oliver Hardys.

“I have a lot of fat friends. It’s like fatty and skinny. My whole life, I always have at least one really good fat friend. Isn’t that weird?”

The most famous was the late Chris Farley, a longtime pal from their early days performing in Chicago. Dick last saw him a month before Farley died.

Mama sighs. “The last words he said to me when he saw our kids were, ‘Yeah, I want to have kids someday.’ Just makes me bawl.”

Um, let’s change the subject. Refrigerators. What about them?

“Refrigerators aren’t good,” says Dick, eyeing his Marvel refrigerator with suspicion. “Refrigerators are very bad. You know that, right?”

You mean, morally?

“In a lot of ways. Toxicity is what I’m talking about. Fluorocarbons. And so is the air conditioning. Everything is bad. The paint is.”

And forget about the trailer’s aluminum shell.

“Toxic.”

It is?

“Well, if you’re licking it.”

*

Bad News, Good News: Lights are flickering in night-life newsrooms around town. The chatty Buzz Weekly breathed its last last week when mother Buzz magazine laid off 12 people in editorial, advertising and marketing--a quarter of the trendoid glossy’s staff.

The bottom line? Mom ate her 1-year-old to survive.

But let’s look at this in a more complicated way.

“What limited investment dollars we had, we had to put against the core product,” Buzz Inc. President Scott Kramer said. “We don’t have enough to do both.”

The magazine’s best bets, gossip and celeb question-and-answer features move to the monthly starting with the July issue.

As if the loss of the weekly’s tote-able listings weren’t enough to send scenesters into a tizzy, another Los Angeles-based entertainment mag may be under the gun.

A recent item in the New York Post suggested that the year-old monthly Live! would not survive the new regime of parent Ticketmaster now that Barry Diller has taken over the company.

But Live! Editor in Chief Annie Gilbar predicts nothing but smooth sailing.

“We’ve got issues going through September,” she says. “Haven’t heard one word from Mr. Diller about closing the magazine. Not one.”

But hark! Is that the pitter-patter of Live! staffers running to the doors on their way to job interviews anyway? Or could it be the cavalry coming to save the day for the public’s right to know about leisure ops?

Los Angeles may get another player in Time Out, which guides night-lifers and day-lifers in London and New York. Vaughan Tebbe, former publisher of Time Out New York, has been here since January, determining whether it makes sense to launch a Time Out L.A.

“New York is a very crowded market, and I know this is a very different market, but a lot of people want this information in Los Angeles,” says Tebbe, Time Out’s director of strategic planning.

The Santa Barbara native’s strategies seem to be working pretty well so far. She moved here to marry Nick Meyer, who works in international sales for Columbia Tri-Star Home Video.

The magazine has other familial ties to Los Angeles as well. Time Out partner and international businessman William Louis-Dreyfus is the dad of “Seinfeld’s” Julia.

*

A Man of Style: Some people are talking about how little the robust Brenda Vaccaro physically resembles her dramatic quarry, Diana Vreeland, the reed-like late Vogue editor and subject of the play “Full Gallop.” We have this to say about that: There was indeed someone in the audience opening night who appeared much more Diana-like, who could practically be a dead ringer for the craggy-faced taste-meister.

If you gave him a black wig, that is. But, hey, Vreeland’s son, Tim, isn’t available anyway. He’s busy architecting and teaching architecture at UCLA; has been for 30 years.

“I think Brenda has captured the spirit of my mother very much, in her delivery, in the sense of humor, in the bravery too, to always keep a stiff upper lip,” Vreeland says as he and his socialite / fund-raiser wife, Nancy, cruised the after-party at Bloomingdale’s. Other first-nighters included Martin Landau, Cyd Charisse, Laura San Giacomo, Merv Griffin, Paula Prentiss and Melissa Manchester, as well as designers James Galanos, Nolan Miller and Michael Novarese.

Well, tip top. Supah dupah. Vreeland says his mother was too stylish to diss the Conde Nastians who fired her from the fashion bible’s top job in the early ‘70s, shortly before the play takes place.

But apparently, Diana didn’t think he inherited the gene.

“When I came out to California, she said, ‘Timmy, I’m sorry, but I can’t introduce you to all my West Coast friends. They’re all so much younger than you are.’ They were Warren Beatty, Jack Nicholson and Anjelica Huston, Cher. Those were her friends, and they were younger than I was.”

With that, he gives a stylish hoot and plunges into the crowd.

*

Papa Would Be Proud: There are literary folk to the left of us. Literary folk to the right of us. And what are we talking about?

That’s right.

“ ‘Read any good books lately?’ is as dead as a doornail,” says one of my dinner companions. “Nobody asks that question anymore. ‘What did you think of this or that movie?’ That’s the question.”

OK, so we are cruising a specialized neighborhood this evening. We are Robert McKee-adjacent, which puts us within arguing distance of the Confucius of screenwriting. But, hey, even Gore Vidal says he’d blow off novels for films if he were coming up today. Funny thing about writers. They write to be read. Or heard. Or, better yet, paid.

We are praising and trashing “Primary Colors” at the dinner celebrating the 18th anniversary of the International Imitation Hemingway Competition at Harry’s Bar & American Grill in Century City. The event benefits PEN Center USA West, which battles censorship around the world, hosts career-boosting seminars and occasionally treats moochy L.A. writers to a free feed.

The judges--who include authors Ray Bradbury, A. Scott Berg, Barnaby Conrad and Digby Diehl--have just named last year’s winners as this year’s winners in a blind taste test. A Connecticut couple, Liz Otto and Jack Schmidt, have won a trip to that other Harry’s Bar, the one in Florence, Italy, for their oeuvre “The Dow Also Rises”--”You negotiated the acquisition and it was good and it was not a hostile takeover, and we merged and it was good and you truly had aggressive growth and no downsizing. . . .”

Indeed, the air fairly drips with cheerful fraudulence. Conrad takes the podium to talk about Hemingway. Jack Hemingway, that is, the son who rises in “The Moveable Feast” as Bumby. Like Dad, Jack is a sportsman. Trout fishing is his game, and not long ago he was casting for fishing flies at a store in Paris.

“He went to pay for it, and this very charming clerk with a mustache, tall, aristocratic-looking, looked at the check and said, ‘Ha! You are Hemingway? I am Tolstoy!’

“He was Count Leo Tolstoy’s grandson.”