O Empty Embrace

I distinctly remember the first time it happened to me.

It was 1974 and I was 19. I’d been in Los Angeles for about a year--doing time in junior college and sniffing around the music business--when a classmate invited me to my first real Hollywood party, in the Hollywood Hills, no less.

I forget exactly what the guy we went with did in “The Business”; he was a few years older. But whatever it was apparently gave us some modicum of juice because when he introduced me to the host, the man ignored my extended hand and, as his wife lovingly looked on, gave someone he didn’t know from Adam this, this . . . hug.

It felt weird. In Oklahoma City, where I’m from, they don’t build million-dollar homes on stilts, and straight men didn’t hug and kiss one another. I thought for a minute that I’d stumbled into one of those fabled free love parties or some kind of a casual self-help cult meeting. For the rest of the evening, I kept an eye on that guy.

I didn’t know it then, but I’d just experienced my first certified Hollywood Hug.

What, you ask, is the Hollywood Hug? A bare-bones explanation: Exaggerated affection for someone you barely know; the physical manifestation of “Love ya, babe” and “You’re beautiful.”

Now, fake hugs are by no means relegated to Hollywood or, for that matter, show business. But in Hollywood, something as simple as a hug, like most everything else in the town, takes on a life of its own. In entertainment circles, the Hollywood moniker underscores this fast-food bonding for what it usually is: Phony. Fake as a pleather jacket. It’s “I’ll call you.” (In Mexico, goodbye is adios; in France, au revoir; in Hollywood, it’s “I’ll call you.”) And just like that well-worn cliche, the stylish Hollywood Hug is often a promise unfulfilled.

It figures then that over lunch, during drinks, after a business meeting, backstage or at one of those fancy private soirees, you’ll see a guy who never really opened up to Dad, who doesn’t adequately communicate with his kids and hasn’t made love to his wife in six months all over a marketing VP like a Jack Russell in heat, embracing the Producer of the Month as if 1-800-U.S. Search had just connected him with a long-lost loved one.

Everybody hugs in Hollywood. For men bold enough to indulge, there’s the Deluxe Version, an added kiss on the cheek, an option made safe by all those “Godfather” movies. On occasion, it takes on a Parisian twist, especially among women, with a cosmo peck on each cheek. The Hug is in top form on any given Monday night at Mortons. Or, witness lunchtime at the Ivy. There wasn’t this much love going on at Woodstock.

The Hollywood Hug originated decades ago, when Jewish immigrants, often banished by prejudice and hatred from other well-to-do occupations, were boldly creating and shaping the business of entertainment, representing fledgling comedians, actors, musicians, singers and songwriters long before it was considered fashionable or honorable to do so. When those immigrant trailblazers hugged, they were simply being themselves, acting in accordance with their culture.

In fact, sincere displays of affection among men and women--kissing, embracing, walking arm in arm--is commonplace in almost every corner of the world outside of America. Hollywood might appear the exception in the United States, but only if you dare forget that the Industry thrives on invented reality.

Now I am not suggesting that anyone who has ever embraced a person north of Wilshire Boulevard is full of it. Many people reach out, driven by sincere fellowship and unabashed joy. It actually happened to me once. In 1978, as a music journalist, I was lucky enough to be in the studio with famed record producer Quincy Jones when singer Chaka Khan walked in and, in just one take, laid the winning vocal on the title track of Jones’ “Sounds . . . And Stuff Like That” LP. The ecstatic Jones, a renowned hugger, spontaneously wrapped himself around me and planted a big wet one on my cheek. It felt weird. But good. Hey, sometimes, depending on the situation, if a Quincy Jones wants to hug, maybe you go with it.

Nevertheless, a lot of this carrying on is suspect. In modern Hollywood, Sammy Davis Jr. was king of the Hollywood Hug, rivaled only by the rest of the Rat Pack. And, of course, Jerry Lewis. Sammy made it look easy to routinely invade the personal space of folks, some of whom, you got the distinct impression, tolerated his affections simply because he was Sammy. Davis took the Hollywood Hug to Washington circles when he embraced President Richard M. Nixon at the Republican National Convention. Look at the two of them in that famous photograph. It is entirely possible that Nixon is enjoying himself. He looks a little uncomfortable, if you ask me.

I have a couple of theories as to why the Hug has endured. One, the ritual is associated with men and women supremely successful in the so-called Biz, and even if you aren’t, at least with the Hug, you certainly can appear to be. Two, and maybe I’m reaching here, the town and its business are brimming with dysfunctional souls who didn’t get much affection as children and maybe still don’t as adults. For them, the Hug supplies a semblance.

May I begrudgingly admit to a bit of this? Though I certainly love my family, I myself didn’t emerge from the most affectionate brood. I vividly recall being next door at the home of Don Minnis, my childhood best friend, and blushing when his parents stood over us and smooched as we played on the floor with our Tonka trucks. I used to tell Donny his folks were “trying to be like people on TV,” shows like “Leave It to Beaver” and “Ozzie and Harriet,” the only place I ever saw that kind of stuff going on.

As a young adult, I remember going back to Oklahoma City to visit after living in Los Angeles awhile. When I got off the plane, I embraced members of my family and felt their bodies go into rigor mortis. Over the years, they went on to become a fairly affectionate bunch. And thanks in some part to--and I hate to admit it--the Hollywood Hug, so did I.

Nevertheless, the Hug isn’t to be unleashed upon just anybody. Do that, and it loses its cachet. And there is nothing more awkward than when someone attempts to administer the Hug to someone who doesn’t want it. You see it coming and strategically extend a hand to be shaken.

What does the Hollywood Hug achieve? That depends on who you are as a person. I like the concept. Sadly, seldom does anyone’s personal or professional integrity ever seem to match the presumed sincerity of that embrace.

Not long ago, as I proceeded to leave a favorite Hollywood haunt, the bartender, a guy I’d come to know over the years, mouthed something I couldn’t understand and motioned for me to come back. Did I leave something? Forget to pay? No, he said as he earnestly made his way from behind his station. “You forgot to give me some sugar.” That said, right there in the middle of the room, we administered the Hollywood Hug. Deluxe Version. I’ve noticed that it all ceased feeling weird a long time ago.

Have I gone Hollywood? Perhaps. More likely, I’m just in dire need of a good therapist. Tell you what, let’s discuss the whole thing over lunch real soon. Seriously. I’ll call you.