George Christy Talks About Shera Danese Falk, Harvey Weinstein, Pet Park and more
“Every woman’s dilemma … this one or that one or this other?”
Which happened with me the week before the Last Chance for Animals gala at the Beverly Hilton,” recalled Shera Danese Falk.
“Do I wear the Tom Ford. Or the Gucci. Or maybe the Alexander McQueen. I loved every dress … somehow, the Alexander McQueen whispered the loudest, and so it was.”
The frock, as the Brits would call it, was tailor made for Shera by the designer Sarah Burton, who replaced McQueen after his suicide.
Indeed, she was a shinning star at the annual sell-out event which raised $750,000 for this founded and presided over by Chris DeRose for the animal rights movement.
The evening brought out loyalists Priscilla Presley and Scott Baio, Vito Maria and Lynne Russo dining from a vegetarian menu.
Let us remind that activist Shera is a three-year president of the board at the Los Angeles Memorial Pet Park, Crematorium and Mausoleum in Calabasas.
A 12-acre resting haven for beloved companions.
She informs that the Pet Park, in its 90th year now has a new viewing room, and that it arranges for delivery from residences or veterinarian hospitals.
Her own pet Pekingese, Cornelius Falk, headlines an insider’s column about what goes on there-abouts, and invariably revisits the hundreds of spirits resting throughout the historic estate.
We’ve never forgotten Shera’s grandfather Vicenzo Danese decreeing that when Shera was ready for college, “Trust me, she’ll major in dogs and cats.”
“We’ve buried or cremated horses, a lion, goat, geese, cats, dogs, rabbits, lizards, birds,” says Shea who works at Pet Park week after week. “Did we cremate an elephant? That word persists.”
Pet Park’s phone number is 818-591-7037.
When the U.K. was battered with tumultuous problems some time ago, Queen Elizabeth II, in delivering her annual speech to Parliament, described the grimness as horribilis annis (horrible year).
Which is now our catch-up with the devastating destruction in the U.S.
Hurricanes in Houston, Florida, Puerto Rico, Louisiana.
The 5.1 earthquake in San Jose.
And now the terrifying destruction of the Northern California fires wiping out communities and our prized vineyards.
And gripped we are by the all consuming 24/7 news of Hollywood’s appalling scandal of the decades. Scarred in the memories of those of who are living it since the October 5th article by Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey in The New York Times exposing allegations about the sexual predator that will remain indelibly chronicled in the disgraceful annals of Hollywood horrors.
The shaken women who will never get over it. The family … the children … the wives … the relatives … business colleagues … friends.
Oh, Harvey Weinstein, we hardly knew you.
Admired by the industry for your tough-guy success and for producing The King’s Speech, No Country For Old Men, Pulp Fiction, The English Patient, Shakespeare in Love, plus others rewarded with legendary Oscar lore.
We’re pleased that you insisted we write a book for your Weinstein Books company, but we couldn’t. For obvious reasons.
Shocked we are with the revelations from editor Tina Brown, who founded Talk Magazine with you. She tells Charlie Rose that journalists, surprisingly many, were on his payroll and profited from him. The New York Post, etc.
Mercifully, you’re facing the hope of rehab at the Meadows facility in Wickenberg, Arizona, where Tiger Woods and other addicts wrestled with the demons.
May you as well.
Whatever, Harvey, the party’s over.
May peace await in the years ahead.