The Hollywood novel is taken to amazing new lows--in a fiction debut by a former columnist for the Hollywood Reporter and ``personal manager or advisor for major stars like Kim Novak, Angie Dickinson, Marlo Thomas, and Joan Rivers.'' It's the story of a Hollywood dynasty, the Kings of King Motion Pictures, hatched by Pinky Cohen (``the only Jew on the University of Southern California football team'') and Honey--a cross between an inflatable plastic sex-doll and the Bride of Frankenstein. Honey starts out sweet and pliant, but becomes maniacally manipulative once Pinky (now Philip King) makes inroads at the studio that he eventually takes over. So Mrs. King spends her long empty days giving parties, collecting gossip, and being mean to her daughter, Powar. Not surprisingly, Powar grows up to love her dad and hate her mom, and then goes on to become a studio big-wig herself. Unfortunately, Honey still owns lots of studio stock, so the two King women fight over such matters as branching out into TV. Meanwhile, Powar has a daughter by married writer Andy Stromberg; little Jourdan grows up in France, but eventually grandma Honey also gets her claws into the girl, turning her away from Powar. In the end, it's Jourdan's bleeding ulcer that brings all the King women together. The sex is about as steamy as a therapy manual, the writing as wooden as an old-growth forest, the plot as riveting as a bus ride. Cameron would have done better to stick with dishing dirt and cutting deals.