Spend a few hours with George Hamilton?Don't Mind If I DoDon't let that tanned, handsome, charming surface fool you. Beneath the bronzed facade is a mischievous mind with a wicked wit. George Hamilton doesn't miss a thing. With a front row seat for classic Hollywood's biggest secrets and scandals, George has the intelligence, heart, and unflappable spirit to tell his story, and the story of Tinseltown's heyday, with great good humor and delicious candor -- as only he can. FromWhere the Boys AretoDancing with the Stars; from Mary Pickford to Elizabeth Taylor; from smalltown Arkansas to the capitals of Europe -- it's all here, and George has lived to tell and to laugh about it.As the child of a Dartmouth-educated bandleader father and a glamorous Southern debutante mother whose marriage crumbled early on, George had a childhood filled with misadventures and challenges that his mother always seemed able to turn from tragedy to comedy. Her idea of changing the family's fortunes involved a trip cross-country with three sons and a poodle in a Lincoln Continental, making stops along the way to search for husband/father number three. And she was quick to recognize that George's potential success lay in Hollywood.George starved nobly for his art in the late 1950s, but was soon starring in major motion pictures directed by the likes of Vincente Minnelli and Louis Malle. He has forgotten more about Hollywood than most movie experts will ever know and shares intimate and hugely entertaining stories of his friendships with Cary Grant; Brigitte Bardot; Robert Mitchum; Merle Oberon; Mae West; Sammy Davis, Jr.; and Judy Garland -- not to mention Lyndon B. Johnson and Elvis's Colonel Tom Parker as well as the King himself -- among others. The world is Hamilton's oyster, and this ultimate insider is ready to share it with us. So fasten your seat belt. We'll tell you when it's safe to move about the cabin again.

CHAPTER ONEDesperate Times Demand Desperate MeasuresMy life was a train wreck.I had torn the rotator cuffs in my shoulders. This was a result of years of rehearsing for movies likeZorro, the Gay Blade, where twelve hours of fencing lessons one day, followed by twelve hours of bullwhip practice the next, had caused my shoulders to be stuck in the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions, in a sort of hideous, contorted version of Al Jolson inMammy.To make matters worse, I had blown out my knee in the Broadway musicalChicagowhen the young actress playing the dummy to my ventriloquist became too energetic and bounced so hard on my knee that I felt my right joint explode on the spot. The doctor later confirmed that part of the cartilage had shredded, making it temporarily impossible for me to walk. So much for the old razzle-dazzle. Even worse, not long afterward, in a bad parody of Errol Flynn inCaptain Blood, I had broken four ribs jumping aboard a friend's yacht. Plus, there was the little matter of my balance problem...And that was the good news.In the midst of my assorted agonies, my agent called me up. He seemed to call me only when three little old ladies in a nursing home needed entertainment. But this time, opportunity, big-time, he said, was pounding at my hospital door. My agent's chance of a lifetime was for me to be a contestant onDancing with the Stars, the reality dance-off show pairing celebrities with professional dancers, recently imported from England by ABC. In its first season, in the summer of 2005,Dancinghad been the number one show in the country, with more than fifteen million viewers.My first response at hearing the offer was to laugh so hard that I nearly broke another rib. Well...well? the agent pressed me. Wasn't I thrilled? Wasn't I interested?Sure, I thought. If we can find a dance where seizing up, screaming in pain, and dropping to my one decent knee was part of the routine."It's a great career move," the agent said, falling back on the ultimate showbiz cliche."The Bataan Death March had a better chance of having a happy outcome," I replied."Millions of people will be watching," he said, giving me the hard sell."That could be a problem," I replied.The agent sold and sold, puffing about how big the show had been in the UK and now here. What stars had been on the first season? I asked. He hemmed and hawed. Evander Holyfield, he said. The boxer. The champ. The guy whose ear Mike Tyson bit off. Trista Sutter. Who was that? I asked. Big star ofThe Bachelorreality show. Huge, he said. A star? Stars were different when I first started in the game. Who else? Kelly Monaco, the season's winner. Major soap opera star, majorPlayboymodel. Who else? Rachel Hunter.Rachel Hunter? Now, he was talking. Rachel, the supermodel, had been married to Rod Stewart, just like my ex, Alana, the supermodel. Rod and I, who on the surface seemed to have nothing in common, did share a seemingly identical taste in women. Before Alana, we had both been involved with Swedish bombshell Britt Ekland, and after Alana, we both dated the beauty Liz Treadwell. At least I always came first. In any event, in my Six Degrees of Rod Stewart game, the mention of Rachel Hunter made me feel that perhaps destiny was at work here."Good career move?" I sought the agent's assurance. It would be huge exposure, I mused. It was better than having folks continue to confuse me with Warren Beatty or, worse, forget me altogether. I had begun to get those people coming up to me and saying, "I know you. I know you."And I would prod, "George Hamilton?""No, no, not him," they would reply. "What show'd you play on?" they would continue.After I had rolled off half a dozen titles or so, they still had a blank look. Somehow the excitement disappeared when I had to give them clues.At this p