Putting the "Ho" in Hollywood

Since my husband recently took on a job in Beverly Hills ( a staggering 70 mile one-way commute), the family and I often find ourselves staying in hotels up there. This past weekend I decided to mix things up and instead of staying in Beverly Hills, I booked us a room at the Roosevelt Hotel smack in the middle of Hollywood. Thinking that I was still 'hip enough' to fit in with the young crowd that frequents this hotel, I was excited as my kids and I made our way up the 405, bound for Hollywood.

We arrived at the hotel and the moment I walked in I knew I'd made a mistake. This was clearly not the Beverly Wilshire. As I entered the lobby I was met head on with a swarm of young men in Ed Hardy tees with mirrored aviators and  anorexic 20-year olds drinking mojitos in mini- dresses and Prada glasses.  These girls definitely put the "Ho" in "Hollywood". The staff at the front desk looked just out of high school and when I tried to confirm our double room, the Lolita-clerk looked at me with a blank stare and told me I had a room with one King sized bed. I explained that one bed was not ideal for a family of four, and was told not-so-apologetically  there was nothing else available - not even a rollaway bed. I bet they'd find a rollaway if I was Samantha Ronson. I should have turned and headed immediately to the nearest Four Seasons, but figured that (in the words of Tim Gunn) we could "make it work." If need be, my son could curl up in the fetal position and sleep in the closet. 

The room was great - if you are 25 and have been taking Ecstasy all day. It was the size of a shoe box and cool in a modern way, but I was immediately taken back by the giant sized photo of an albino, red-headed dude in a black turtle neck looking down on the bed. Within seconds I became claustrophobic and the red-headed dude, who my kids named "Gary" was freaking me out.  Since my husband was at work and would meet up with us later that night, the kids and I decided to take a walk down Hollywood Blvd. As we exited the hotel we were practically trampled by 4000 tourists and meandering out-of-work-actors dressed like Spiderman. Although street crowds send me into an immediate state of anxiety, at least on Hollywood Blvd. (unlike the hotel lobby)  I wouldn't feel like the fattest, oldest, non-hip person on the planet. Hollywood Blvd. should really be re-named "Clusterf**k Ave." or "Get the Hell outta My Way Lane," as it is a mecca for slow walking people with cameras. We were also solicited approx 40 different times by an array of not-so attractive and mostly toothless fellows selling Star Maps and Bus tours of Hollywood. Listen up,  Homeless Harry, I don't want to know where Miley Cyrus lives, but when I do you and your street urchin cronies will be the first to know. And as for you "Squatter Stan," I'd rather have a colonoscopy  preformed on me with a PVC pipe than take a tour on your double decker germy-bus.

I soon became way too annoyed to continue our jaunt down Hollywood and knew it was time to go back and hang with the Ho's and Bro's  at the hotel. When we arrived in our room, we were pleased to find that turndown service had been there and rather than leaving a mint on our pillow, we were greeted with a prescription bottle filled with M&M's.  Hmmm, classy idea and not at all inappropriate.  I could only imagine what other tricks they had up their sleeve? Will they present my children with a bouquet of clean syringes and condoms at checkout? 

We had a restless night listening to countless groups of party-goers headed back to their room to continue their drinking binges. I didn't need a wake up call, as I was pleasantly awoken by an English bird repeatedly screaming at someone to leave her the "Fuck alone".  Just another pleasant Sunday in Hollywood.

Val

Best of First Class to Hell: SPAGO REVISITED

Today, I have come down with a small case of writer's block and between Parker's busy schedule and horrible case of "Rhino Virus" we just don't have much to write about. So today we will revisit an old story about drinking Apple Martinis with celebrities once upon a time in Hollywood:

It's never a good idea to invite two 30-somethings with lifelong subscriptions to STAR and US magazines to a Hollywood party. Unfortunately, Parker's network executive sister learned this lesson the hard way.

It all started innocently enough - the night before the Emmy Awards, which is a big night of parties in Hollywood. After a day of shopping at Barney's and dining at the Ivy and Koi, we felt like Paris and Nicole. Only not as thin. Or young. Minus the Paparazzi. Also, I was in my Toyota SUV instead of a Bentley, but you get the picture. The party was at Spago, smack in the middle of Beverly Hills. As we entered, we were overcome with a plethora of Hollywood television and movie stars. The wine was flowing and we pleasantly strolled through the glamorous soiree. The second glass of wine (a.k.a. liquid courage) had surely gone to my head when I approached comedian Ant and spurted out "You new rug looks great!" (FYI - it didn't look great but more like a sick raccoon had found a place to die smack on Ant's head). Some people might have taken offense, but Ant was a trooper and we chatted about Celebrity Fit Club for a good 45 minutes. My new found friendship with Ant and a chat with another sitcom star - who would go on the next day to win an Emmy -  gave me the confidence of Janice Dickinson on speed.

The good news is that we actually were on the guest list and didn't look entirely out of place. It's not as if we showed up with mullets wearing and "I'm With Stupid" shirt or "Knott's Berry Farm" tank tops with acid-washed jean shorts. Unfortunately, at some point during the night, all composure went out the door. (To be fair, it's not like we stood on the bar and waved our tatas, so things could have been much worse.)

Blinded by the celebrity, we were unaware of the sprawling buffet of food including fresh shrimp, crab legs and caviar, not to mention a "Chocolate Bar" with Austrian chocolate flown in from Europe that morning. The alcohol bar, sadly, was not overlooked. Within 45 minutes, we had exchanged our wine for Apple Martinis served in glasses the size of a small toilet. Shortly thereafter, we became convinced that everyone was our best friend.

Donald Trump? Well, since the Donald and I did have a mutual acquaintance, it made it perfectly reasonable for me to go up to him and start a conversation while his wife Melania (who we might have called "Melanoma") stood there with "freeze face" pretending to be interested. Our chat was cut short when Parker butted in and told  him that all the contestants on "The Apprentice" were losers and if she were on the show she would "Kick Ass". 

When we were introduced to the cast of The Office, we soon became their "Soul Sistahs". As for the actors from Fox's "24"? I'm pretty sure we made lunch dates with them all. 

Other "Highlights" of the night included:

• Seeing Glen Close and making the rational and mature decision to yell "GLENN CLOSE" in her ear as she passed me by. It came out sounding like Steve Carrell screaming "Noooo Kelly Clarkson" during the waxing scene in the 40-Year Old Virgin.
• Swishing my giant martini onto Marlon Wayan's purple suede suit. But not before we asked him exactly which Wayan brother he was. (I don't think he was amused).
• Parker telling Carson Daly that I thought he was "hot" (for the record, I am happily married and do not, nor ever have thought Carson Daly "hot"). She then proceed to tell (scream at) him  a deafening tone "Eat a Sandwich, Fattie"! 
• Making fun of fashion designer Jay Carroll's homemade red poncho to has face. (Jay Carroll was the first season winner of Project Runway and was still enjoying his 15-minutes of fame). Clearly Jay had spent countless hours handcrafting his Poncho into a meticulous replica of a Mexican Serape that could have been purchased across the border for approximately nine American dollars. Jay retorted by looking at Parker's $125 Joie "Dragon Tee" with a look of disgust, telling her that "Dragon's are sooo out." Whatever Jay! Clearly his fantasy of making the Poncho the next best thing never panned out.
• Ending the night at a popular West Hollywood bar where Parker immediately ordered a "2-in-the-morning" burger and fries. She protected that burger like a wolf protects her young.  No one was getting a bite of that delectable beer-soaked burger. Good thing she downed that burger because why would she have bothered to enjoy the Spago complimentary seafood and chocolate buffets, when a greasy, $10 Ebola burger was in her future?

We returned to Parker's sister's condo late that night, giddy like 1990's schoolgirls who had just met Donny Wahlberg from NKOTB. I put on a Doors tee and passed out on the couch in full makeup. Parker walked teeth-first into the sliding glass door - leaving a small chip and a whistle-like lisp, which would be a fabulous attribute at the next day's Emmy Awards that she'd be attending with her sister.

Serendipitously, I would not be attending the Emmys. Thank God, as I'm pretty sure that Ellen DeGeneres wouldn't want her  monolouge to be interrupted by the sound of my dry heaving. As I drove back to Orange County that morning I contemplated the night before, over a McDonald's Hash Brown and Coke  - because really, why would I have partaked in the Crab Leg and Caviar buffet when a hash-brown-in-a-box was in my future?

Stay tuned for Parker's account of the Emmy Awards!

-VAL