Monday, December 3, 2012

No Hors D'Oeuvres in Hollywood

And it's been nearly four months since I've written in my blog. But you'll forgive me, right? I wrote this a few months ago by hand (that's right, people still do that) and had yet to make time to type it up. Until now. Thank you, wet weather, for forcing me inside to reluctantly face my growing to-do list.

--

I don't belong in Hollywood. Yes, I live in Los Angeles. I've lived in the great county for the past six, sunny years, but let's be clear -- I've lived in Long Beach and Venice, both far cries from the home of The Strip, the hustle, the industry, the tinseled town that beckoned me into a BA in filmmaking and a brief stint as a PA on several sunken indie films. I rarely make the 15-mile haul at will. I'm either forced for a professional engagement, desperate to see a friend or simply unwilling to miss an event.

In late August, I accepted a press invite to attend a swanky Hollywood bar, one which I'd never experienced but had been on my list for years (and will go unnamed), for a French-themed evening of wine, hors d'oeuvres and crepes. For Free. Even the valet was free. I RSVPed and invited one of my favorites to accompany me. As I don't wish to offend the lovely PR girl who extended the invitation or anyone else involved in the soiree, I will be intentionally obscure and have cleverly renamed the celebrities for whom I ate and drank that night.

On the day of the event, among the hundreds of other emails flooding my inbox, I opened and hastily closed several email updates bold-facing which celebrities would be in attendance that night (because I cared). Brandi Door, Jackie Bing, Geneva Ocurry and Betsy Downs are all going to make appearances! They'll be dressed in their press photo best, clad in big names and coveted labels, and huddle together in a small, exclusive, awkward group, careful not to touch the commoners, the peasants actually sampling the goods for which the entire fete was thrown. They'll later be ushered to the edge of the bar next to a prop, them acting as a props, then planted at various other planned photo op spots throughout the evening (which for them lasted only about 30 minutes).

I felt bad for them as I indulged, paying no mind to my waistline. As my sidekick and I stood in the romantic lighting, sipping and accepting and tasting, carefully plucking works of food porn from silver trays and ordering the greasiest, cheesiest of crepes, they politely (and swiftly) declined. Would you like to try...? No, thank you. Would you care for...? Elegant wave of hand. My wheels turned as I witnessed the underindulgence, the restriction, the wall built by the very town in which they stood and patronized: I'll eat for them, I thought. And I did.

My dress, shockingly a size or two too big, welcomed the extra calories. I delighted in knowing that while they were getting paid to appear, then just as quickly disappear, I was getting to eat and drink whatever the fuck I wanted. And that, my friends, is why I don't belong in Hollywood.

The next day I opened yet another email from the PR company noting gossip shared between the leading ladies, entertaining bits they'd delivered the previous night, along with the photos I'd watched being taken. The email asked if I planned on covering the event for LAist. I replied that I couldn't quite find the angle.

No comments:

Post a Comment