The write stuff

If it is possible for two words to exist at opposite ends of the Hollywood lexicon, those words would be "glamour" and "writer."

Since the silent films first required a handful of scribes to jot down what was going to happen onscreen, writers have served a hallowed place in the industry's pantheon — the underdressed, unappreciated schlubs in the back room whose sad-sack demeanors make even executives feel, by comparison, posh and debonair.

Despite the dangers inherent in a massed gathering of these characters, the Writers Guild annually tosses its moth-eaten baseball cap into the ring with a black-tie gala to honor the favored scribes of film and television. This year's event was at the storied Hollywood Palladium, dance hall of the swing era, looking for the writers to restore its lost luster.

Cocktail hour of the penguins
Throughout my awards season travels, I have seen the different strata of Hollywood society attempt to re-carve that most rigid sartorial standby — the tux — in their own image.

Actors turn theirs into showcases for flashy vests and ties, making the black-tie look like nightclub wear. Journalists compliment them with tennis shoes, transforming tuxes into wrinkled pajamas. Producers manage to make their tuxes look like business suits.

Entering the Palladium, I expect that if there is one guild likely to slouch on the invitation's "Black Tie Preferred" request, it is the writers.

Instead, in the crowded lobby where pre-show cocktails are served I find ... nothing but tuxes. A sea of tuxes. The highest percentage of black-tie observance I've seen to date. And not just tuxes, but stodgy formal, pleated-shirt, cummerbund and clip-on-tie tuxes.

Some would suggest the influence of the Rat Pack and poker-and-martini chic on this crowd. Nicholas Stoller, writer of "Fun with Dick and Jane" tells me he bought his gold-studded Brooks Brothers tux recently, "For a wedding, and I'm relieved I've got an event to wear it to."

Says "Everybody Hates Chris" Ali LeRoi, "Ninety percent of the time we're in sweats. Once in a while, you have to dress up."

Dinnerdance
As the overstuffed lobby is about to burst at its seams, the doors open to the main room and we are beckoned inside for dinner. I find my table surprisingly close to the stage. Two couples are standing at it. Both, I learn, are "West Wing" writers. As they seem to know each other and are having a private chat, I take a seat and start work on the rather sparse green salad.

Another couple arrives, also "Wing" writers, and then another couple, whom it turns out are with the "Wing." A theme has emerged as clearly as a though a cruise ship just docked on my left ankle: I, a reporter, have been seated at the "West Wing" table, a fact that makes my tablemates emit a measurable frost.

Shortly, the farce turns to tragedy as another couple arrives and finds there are no seats left at the table. All eyes turn upon me, and my devoured salad. Amid apologies, bowing and scraping, I back away from the table before the Guild police are summoned.

Before I am shown the door, the nearby "Six Feet Under" table notices my predicament and kindly offers me one of their empty seats. Writer and author Jill Soloway tells me the night is a reunion for the staff, who ended their five-year HBO run in 2005 and are nominated for best dramatic series tonight.