The lobby of the Chateau Marmont, a venerable Hollywood hotel located on the grungy end of the Sunset Strip, is one of Los Angeles' prime celebrity loci. It's a place where young male movie stars skulk about on bright, hot days in dark leather jackets and knit O.J. caps, as if they were second-story men in an old Dick Tracy comic. And here too, representing the not so tormented, not so still-living-in-James-Dean's-shadow side of stardom, we find Tori Spelling. She bounces in on top of a pair of bright-orange platform flip-flops, plastic daisies affixed to their toe straps. Clutching a baby-blue...
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