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If you want to be in Hollywood for any reason other than getting a job as a waiter or waitress, oh, wait a minute, excuse me, “waitstaff,” which means you work in a restaurant waiting to be discovered by a producer, or to hang on Rod©o (which is in Beverly Hills, not Hollywood) and hope to ogle a celeb, then save yourself the fare or the thumb twitching accompanied by a sandwich board reading “Going to Hollywood,” and stay right where you are.

Some people think it’s glamorous to live in Hollywood among the movie stars. That’s what I thought until I rented a house in the Hollywood Hills, recently vacated by the former tenant, Carol Burnett’s daughter, Erin.

One steamy night shortly after I moved in, the temperature rose to 100-plus degrees. The first thing to learn is that although everyone in Hollywood has air conditioning, there are frequent power outages generally based on your political affiliation. The outages never affect liberals and, if they did, California’s Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals would swiftly reverse it.

Based on what I’ve seen contestants do to stay cool on jungle survival shows, I stripped down to my undies. Then I turned on one of the stimulating sitcoms I ghostwrite for, and fell asleep. My dog, Jack, was peacefully napping nearby.

Suddenly I was jolted awake by frenzied barking and a blazing light in my eyes. About 15 feet away outside the rear French doors, I spotted hulking silhouettes of what appeared, through the lights’ brightness, to be three armed men “taking the stance,” and watching me watching them. Not only did they have Big Flashlights, they also had Big Guns, and the Big Guns were pointed right at me.

One of them yelled, “We seen ya on the security tape. Open the door ‘n identify yaself!”

Fearing my life would end like Bonnie’s, but without Clyde, I grabbed a down pillow and held it over my chest for protection against bullet riddling. Well, yeah, I know down feathers wouldn’t stop a bullet, but my pillow says “Jack Bauer” on it and I thought that name would deflect incoming ammo.

I shouted back, “You first! Who are you??”

“Bel Air Patrol!” one said angrily. That’s filmspeak for Beverly Hills Green Berets. The middle guy snarled, “We know Carol Burnett’s daughter and you ain’t her!!”

If there’s one thing I do know, it’s who I am not.

I grabbed the nearest phone and punched 911.

“I’m calling the Police” I shrieked at the French doors.

“We ARE the police! We’re private heat!” the doors yelled back, “Open up ‘n identify yaself.”

Over the incessant barking, I screamed the situation into the phone. The 911 guy said Erin probably forgot to cancel her home security when she moved out, and the uncanceled cameras had recorded the presence of a stranger.

I said, “I know my rights. These guys can’t point their big guns at me …. right?”

“Why not?” said 911 gruffly, “you could be Jeffrey Dahmer.”

Well now, that was reassuring. I don’t eat meat.

I said, “I’ll only identify myself to a real policeman. I know the difference. I go to the movies.”

Houses where movie stars or their children live get attention fast so within minutes, two real cops arrived, faces scowling above the badges they held up to the front door’s peephole. They seemed irritated that I wasn’t a celebrity. Writers don’t count.

As soon as I opened the door, two things happened: the Bel Air Patrol hurled curses at me over their shoulders as they followed orders from the real cops and left the property, and my dog Jack got out. Small wonder, since the Patrol cops left the gate open in apparent revenge. I wasn’t a celeb.

I panicked and pushed past the real cops in a vain attempt to catch Jack. I was now running half naked and barefoot in the middle of Woodrow Wilson Drive screaming “Jack! Jack!” as the cops jumped into their squad car and followed me. Even on full-throttle hysteria, I was still aware of how very Keystone this was. I streaked by a young woman (I believe it was Rebecca DeMornay) leaning over her picket gate to see what the commotion was. Although she must have heard plenty of heavy breathing in her life, I was panting so hard I could barely gasp, “Have … you … seen … Jack?”

She pointed a blonde finger westward and said, “Turn left on Mulholland. He lives next to Brando.”

Ah yes, Hollywood, where a streaking woman gasping “Jack” can only mean one thing: She wants directions to Nicholson’s house.

When all was resolved with the cops, and my exhausted dog Jack dragged himself home, I couldn’t help but paraphrase the late Fred Allen: I’ve recently returned from Hollywood. It’s the only thing to do if you find yourself out there.

And that’s not all. Thanks to the internet, I don’t have to live in the Hollywood Hills any more. I can do my work via email and only drive in to take a meeting. (That’s Hollywoodspeak for “going to” a meeting.) Now I live two hours northwest of Hollywood, but you can never escape movies no matter where you live.

Yesterday I was stopped on our one lane mountain road because a movie was shooting further down the hill. That’s another thing about Hollywood and environs — movies come first no matter what. You could be expiring in an ambulance and the paramedics will still stop to watch Eastwood stroll from behind the camera to the front. Streets are closed all the time for location shoots, but I never expected it way up here. Wrong.

They were shooting “Montana,” which, believe it or not, is a Russian film being shot on HiDef video, transferred to film for release in Russian theaters during the Christmas holidays and released on DVD in the U.S. soon after. My area looks like Montana; we have sky, too. I’m glad to hear that since I no longer long to live in the actual state of Montana as it’s owned now by Jane Fonda. There goes the neighborhood. I used to want to live in Wyoming but that’s owned by Harrison Ford who was once a roadie for The Doors.

Speaking of Harrison Ford, Oleg Taktarov, the leading actor in “Montana,” has been in Air Force One, Rollerball, Alias, JAG, and a total of two dozen films and TV shows.

I don’t know why anybody would want to be in the movies anyway. About 99 per cent of the time on set is waiting. And you can get drugs anywhere.

So, if you insist on going west, young man, be sure you bring a batch of patience with you, some for the waiting, and some for the ambulance.

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