Pamela Anderson Can't Drive!

"But what she CAN do is a Sci-Fi scandal!" says the doorman who hails her cabs!!

A JOLLA, California. Tony town of seaside lunches and a pair of implants every other chick. Not really my speed. I'm more of an au natural dame myself, but I go where the story takes me, even if it's the Silicon Valley of the Babes.

Speaking of implants, I got a tip the other day that Pamela Lee-Kid Rock-Salomon Anderson might be taking a little break between marriages at a hotel down the main drag. So I'm in Starbucks, see, cause it's going to be long night in La Hoity-Toity. I'm throwing down the high-octane java. Hot scoops don't come easy, but I was born with that news flash in my mouth.

I wait until dark, like the movie title says, and sashay on over to the swanky hotel that's supposed to be the bucks-up bunkhouse for one Ms. Pamela Anderson. Money may not buy happiness, but four stars and a red carpet to the open door of a big black limo is close enough, if you ask me.

Hanging out by the curb is one hunky young doorman. I can see by the shiny bar on his velvet lapel that he goes by the name of Joe. Nice name, Joe. Tough and simple, the way I like 'em.

Now I don't claim to be in the same babe league as Ms. Pammy Lee, but I've turned a head or two in my time, so I figure it's time to turn on the charm. I'd show a little ankle, but I'm wearing boots. Damn! No sweat, readers, I'm quick on the draw. I just pull up one leg of my slinky black jeans and purr, "Like my new boots, Mr. Doorman? Oh, I mean Joe. I like the name Joe. It's a nice name. Tough and simple, the way—"

"Uh, ma'am is there something I can do for you? I'm kind of on duty here."

"Sure, Joe, there's something you can do for me all right." Then I just smile a little. That gets 'em every time.

"Ma'am?"

"Uh, yeah, Joe. You can give me all you've got on one Pammy Anderson. I know she's shacking up here for the night. Don't tell me she's not, cause I've got my sources."

"Well, actually ma'am—"

"Say, Joe, could you do a girl a favor and stop saying 'ma'am'? It's kinda getting on my nerves."

"Sorry, uh, Miss? Do you really want me to call you 'Miss,' ma'am?"

"YEAH!! I mean, yeah, Joe, just call me 'Miss.' Or 'Sugar,' for short, honey."

"OK, well, MISS. A Pam Anderson was here last week, but she's gone now."

"Cute, Joe, calling her 'Pam' like you know her."

"Well, no I just—"

"But, you can't mean she's blown the town, Joe! I've got readers—you're killing me here!"

"Gosh, I'm awful sorry, ma'am. Miss. But I can tell you she was nice. Kind of sweet, even."

"Oh, I'll just bet she was sweet as pie, to you Joe." Yep, Joe had an aw-shucks way that could melt the platinum off any blondie—even 'Pam.'

"Well, I mean, like, she didn't drive in the city, so I always hailed her a cab, and she always said thanks. They don't always thank a doorman, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, Joe. Are you telling me your sweet little Pammy can't drive? That's pathetic, Joe! But good stuff, good stuff."

"Uh, no, not that she CAN'T drive, it's just the city traffic—"

"Joe! You don't need to cover up for her. No tip is worth it, sugar, not even from Miss Pamela Lee."

"What? Oh, you meant THE Pamela LEE Anderson? That lady from the old Bay Watch show? I was just talking about a nice lady named Pam Anderson we had here last week."

"Joe! You're telling me there's more than one Pamela Anderson prowling La Jolla! Holy cow, Joe, this is the hottest scoop ever!!"

"Well, there's probably several. 'Anderson' isn't exactly an unusual name, lady. Miss."

I knew Joe was keeping it cool for the clientele. Good ol' Pam has gotten herself cloned: Stop the presses!! Who thought I could top even myself?!!!

I pulled Joe down by his velvet lapels and landed a well-earned smack on that baby kisser of his.

"Joe, you're swell. Thanks for the scoop of a lifetime."

"Uh, sure. I guess." As Joe walked back into the hotel, I saw him pull out a handkerchief to rub off my "Sexy Satin" lip gloss. Nice try, Joe, but forgetting a dame like me ain't that easy.

It's been one helluva night. Little Miss Pammy Lee, walking the streets like a you-know-what, cloning herself so she can marry the next three or four bums all at the same time. It doesn't get much more sci-fi sleazoid than that.

But I'm not here to dumb down the dish, just serve it up hot. Because I'm an ace reporter and, dammit, that's my job.