2100 Hot Dogs

Daddy Warbucks and I love to eat at the country's best restaurants whether it be in Dallas or when we travel. We are big "foodies" and have the red "loss of circulation" marks from our clothes to prove it.

Knowing this, a few years ago Daddy Warbuck's brother and sister-in-law generously gave us a Christmas gift of a $500 gift certificate to Thomas Keller's highly touted New York restaurant, Per Se.

We go to NY twice a year however getting reservations at Per Se is like getting backstage passes at a Miley Cyrus concert, competing in and winning "The Amazing Race" or getting a seat in the audience for Oprah's "Favorite Things" show. You need to call two months in advance during a window that they are actually taking reservations (like between 1:00 and 1:08). Ok, maybe not the last part but even so it still sent my dyslexia and annoyance level into overdrive so D.W. had to handle it. Being the Daddy Warbucks that he is, he called the Platinum American Express services and they got us in.

We met our very close and ultra-cool friends Evan and Jade who live in TriBeCa at the Stone Rose bar for a drink beforehand. It was extremely fabulous and made us further excited for our dinner later that evening. As expected, the menu at Per Se is a Chef's Tasting with wine pairings. I noticed our sommelier was not wearing a stitch of makeup - perhaps some Chanel lip gloss would get in the way of her sense of smell? They first offered us a piece of bread but I took just a tiny amount as I had done many tastings before and it is always a rookie mistake to eat too much bread. 

Next was the "Peach Melba" including foie gras. For a $30 per person up charge I figured it would be sublime and worth it - I also thought the foie gras would be seared since Peach Melba is a piping hot dish. Instead it was a rather large slab of a room-temperature terrine, a quarter of the way through it I became somewhat sick at the sheer thought that I was eating a thick portion of pure duck fat. This portion size would unfortunately not be the continuing trend of the meal. 

I have never had a Chef's Tasting where by the 7th course I haven't wanted to take my pants off at the table, so the tiny portions were somewhat shocking. Daddy Warbucks opted for the pasta dish instead of beef - which turned out to be 4 tiny Gnocchi pieces of pasta with a drizzle of sauce. Looking at my 'powerfully built' sexy husband, I thought they must be kidding - even doubling it they would have to be kidding. Evan and I momentarily lost our common sense and ordered the beef for a measly $75 upcharge each (on top of our $275 per person for food and $160 per person for wine). Granted, I wasn't expecting the "eat this steak and get it free" size of beef, however nor was I expecting a paltry 2 ounces of beef either. Many things were truly delicious such as the oysters and pearls (oysters, tapioca and caviar), macaroni and cheese (butter poached lobster with a cheese risotto) - I would have easily traded my duck fat slab for another spoonful of that risotto. Sadly, the portions were like a tease and could be eaten in literally two bites.

The $2100 (!) check came and plopping down our $500 gift certificate felt like a "Get One Appetizer Free" coupon. We actually asked them to wrap up all the after dinner chocolates to go, not wanting to leave a crumb behind at this point. I couldn't help but think, "Do I at least get a free tee shirt?" I also thought, "Did I go to the Bahamas for a weekend getaway or eat at Per Se for 3 hours?" 

We then tried to go to the Mandarin hotel for a drink and despite 40 open bar tables they told us we would need to wait 20 minutes. They officially take the cake for the "asshole award" (suck it Mandarin Oriental). 

We ended up at Donald Trump's hotel where, amazingly, everyone was very pleasant and more than happy to over-serve us. We said goodnight to Evan and Jade and as we headed back to the Waldorf Astoria (where the lobby was unexpectedly full of tourists in fanny packs and "I Love NY" tee-shirts) I made Daddy Warbucks walk with me an extra block as a NY street hot dog was calling my name. As I shoveled the nitrate-filled wiener with extra relish down my throat, Daddy Warbucks looked at me in amazement and lovingly said, "You know honey, you could have had 2100 of those."

-Parker

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

The Swarm: Confessions of a Child "Star"

Encino, CA. 1978:

I was in fourth grade, maybe 3rd since my parents held be back because I couldn't learn my vowels and needed "help" as they put it. In other words, I had dyslexia, however back then learning disabilities were not accepted and you were on your own to deal with it - no special schools, or extra help from an  understanding teacher or loving parents. My father used to tell me with all seriousness that there had been some blood cut off to my head when I was born, which resulted in my arrested development. Thanks for the medical diagnosis Dad. 

Before my last name became "Warbucks" it was Cassidy and I would tell my classmates endless stories of the things my cousin Shaun Cassidy (who at the time was a major star and "Hardy Boys" hunk) had done that weekend. I was in the  middle of telling my friends (who's ass i had just kicked in tether ball because I was 8 feet taller than anyone) that Shaun and I had just had the most fun riding horses at his ranch that weekend when my brother (5 grades my senior) walked up to the group and told everyone that I was lying and that Shaun Cassidy was not our cousin. As the blood rushed to my head, I pretended not to know him as I flipped him the bird. Incidentally, my brother had a huge bright orange Afro complimented by a ton of freckles and I pretended not to know him on a regular basis despite him wanting to be the Barrack Obama of our school. 

Later that day I ignored suspicious looks from my friends and hopped into my mom's burnt-orange Datsun with partially missing floor board. While my parents lived in an amazing home in Encino, cars were apparently not a priority. She had two pieces of news for me that day: First, she was pregnant at the age of 40 with my sister. Holy Shit, I thought she had a tumor all this time. You can't be pregnant at 40! And P.S. I am NOT sharing my shit with this new baby, in particular my Bionic Woman Record Player and Farrah Barbie Head. Mom also told me that I had just got a part as a school kid in a killer bee movie called "The Swarm". She then handed me some stale Oreos and a non-refrigerated 7 Up (giving us non-refrigerated sodas was a specialty of hers). Despite my new-found stardom, this had not been a good day and I just needed to get home, steal a Heineken from the fridge (a cold one!) smoke a stolen Marlboro from my friend's sister in my tree house and think. 

The next day Mom and I headed to Burbank Studios. Since I was 10, pushing 11 I only remember only the following

• Director Irwin Allen (a Big Wig at the time) screamed constantly at the cast. I was scared shitless of the old guy.
• Star Michael Caine was the Tom Cruise of the 70's. Everyone in the set was in awe of him (and frankly who could resist that sexy hair and brown polyester leisure suit?)
• Where the figizz was female lead Katherine Ross hiding? She must have been doing blow in her trailer as I never saw her in person the entire 4 months of filming. 
• I actually thought the bees were cool (they pulled the stingers out of them but of course many were missed and people were constantly being stung, which I also thought was cool).
• On set school rocked because it was only 2 hours everyday and super easy. Hmmm, and we wonder why child stars and celebrities are less than bright.
• The piece de resistance was roaming off set one day to explore, and wandering onto the set of "Wonder Woman." Linda Carter was in full costume: leotard, bullet-proof cuffs, the works. She was on a pay phone and she smiled and winked at me. I seriously almost went lesbo right then and there in my rainbow suspenders and Laura Ingalls pigtails. I couldn't stop smiling that day even when my face was covered in bees lying on a hopscotch court.

Side note: my sister, the television executive/Harvard grad/miss perfect told me that she has recently worked with Shaun Cassidy on some projects and he actually does own a ranch. Who knew?

Below, for your consideration, please watch a clip from The Swarm. I am the girl in red who slowly gets eaten alive by bees. While my acting was fantastic, I must say that nothing compares to the acting chops of Miss Shuster (Olivia DeHavilland). She should have won an Oscar that year.

-Parker

Reunited...and it feels so 80's.

When you get your 20th reunion invitation, it might as well be addressed to "Old Wrinkled Saggy Hag" because nothing makes you feel quite so old as knowing that it's been two decades since your Senior year in High School. Parker and I like to think we have aged well and done great in life, so we were excited to return to the scene of the crime in our botoxed glory.

We weren't the most popular students but we certainly weren't uber-nerds. Our idea of a good time was drinking Tanqueray followed by shots of lime juice in the back seat of my 1975 army-green Cutlass Supreme and then recreating the Don Johnson "Heartbreak" video in the parking lot after basketball games. Since my eyebrows were bushier, I took on the role of guitarist Dweezil Zappa while Parker did her best Don Johnson imitation. We thought we were hilarious, while passerbyers thought we were insane and quite possibly retarded. We also did a mean rendition of the video from Cyndi Lauper's hit "True Colors", which was as ridiculous as the 80's itself. In spite of this, we somehow managed to befriend all types: the popular kids, stoners and even a few band kids (not really). 

As the reunion approached, Parker and I made plans to leave Daddy Warbucks and Tom (our respective husbands) behind and make it a girls-only weekend. We agreed to meet at the airport, rent a car and head on down to the Marriott. Unfortunately, my 2 hour flight from Orange County turned into an 8-hour nightmare in which I was literally forced to hitch a ride from Phoenix, Arizona to Tucson with a friendly stranger in a Halloween-themed cardigan. It didn't make me feel any safer when Parker told me via cell phone that serial killers are prone to holiday sweaters. I arrived looking and smelling like I'd run the Boston Marathon with less than an hour to spare before the Friday night "cocktail party" which was being held at a bar next to our hotel. Or so we thought. At the hotel, Parker and I changed into our best "40-going-on-24" outfits. We arrived at the bar fashionably late to find that no one from our High School was there. An hour later, we were still alone and despite a few margaritas, we were two pissed off bitches. Not wanting to waste our good outfits, we walked across the street to a more "happening" college bar. The bouncer was checking ID's until he saw us and mumbled, "You ladies can go ahead." Ouch. Apparently the sparkly silver top with my Hudson jeans and high black wedges did NOT make me look 20 again.

We spent the next day much like we spent our High School days - lounging in bed eating hoagies and watching movies. After a nap and a belly-full of nitrate-filled lunch meat we prepared for the big night. Hoping we would not arrive to an empty party (again) we dressed in our finest - Parker in a blue satin David Meister dress and I in a black sleeveless Nicole Miller sheath.

The reunion was held at a crappy hotel in the shittiest part of downtown Tucson. We stumbled over no less than two homeless hobos  as we made our way to the entrance.  Considering the tuition our parents forked out for our education you'd think they could have spruced it up a notch or two. At least a Fairfield Inn or a Super 8 would have better lighting and and most likely would be free of heroin peddlers roaming the parking lot.  

We arrived to the sound of techno blasting from the bar area as our aging classmates welcomed us. Much to everyones dismay, we were provided with 5x7-sized laminated name tags with our Senior Class Picture proudly on display. The word on the street was that the Friday night cocktail party had been moved at the last minute to a mansion in the foothills owned by one of our former classmates (who happens to be my brother in law once removed) and world-class a-hole who wanted everyone to know how successful he'd become. Somehow Parker and I hadn't gotten the email, so while our classmates drank champagne in the hills the night before, we had been cruising college bars trying to turn heads with our muffin tops.  Regardless of being snubbed the night before, we ordered a glass of wine and began to mingle. Surprisingly, everyone looked pretty much the same. Days of Aqua-netted stiff bangs and eyebrows the size of caterpillars on steroids were long gone. Some of the guys had lost hair and gained love handles, but aside from that, not much had changed. 

Ironically, as the night progressed, we stayed sober while those around us became quickly inebriated. The once straight-laced Valedictorian was wasted, dancing like he was the lead in the Chippendale's Revue. The geeky yearbook editor fell smack on her ass, spread eagle while making an announcement. It was as if we'd entered "Bizarro World" where everything was reversed. The nerds were the party animals and we were the tame ones. Maybe we'd just finally matured? At the end of the night we left sober and with our dignity, realizing that there is a time and place for everything. The days of drinking until we are blind and puking behind the bleachers just wasn't as appealing as it once was. That night, on the way back to the hotel, we made a midnight detour at the Taco Bell drive-thru for a Mexican Pizza and Nachos Supreme. Because somethings never change.

Sorry About the Poverty

I am currently on "vacation" visiting my dad in Utah while Parker is on her way back from a week at Fire Island. Obviously there are a few differences between the two places. For example, in Utah, it's next to impossible to find a bottle of Absolut let alone a Coors light. Luckily dear ol' dad has stocked up spirits the way most of us stocked up on batteries during Y2K - so I'm covered in case a I need a cocktail. I've also seen more than my fair share of Polygamist wives in "Little House on the Prairie" dresses towing seven ginger kids in their shopping cart at Costco.

I usually don't blog while on vacation, but I just read (on the not-so-reliable Worldwide Web) that Brad and Angelina are being paid approx $14 million dollars for the right to publish pictures of their messiah-like twins. I know, I know Brad and Angie will most certainly donate their motherload to "charity" and feed a multitude of villages with all that cash. Despite all the good it will do, the sheer dollar amount  sickens me; I mean they are ordinary babies. I could understand the $14 million price-tag if it were a picture of Bigfoot (or Bigfoot's bastard twins!), Amy Winehouse at a Health Food store or Clay Aiken dry humping a Sports Illustrated model, but this is morbidly insane. To be fair, it's not Brad and Angelina's fault (we all know they are incapable of doing wrong). It's losers like me that are obsessed with celebrity non-stories (like giving birth) who have perpetuated this new trend. Even more amazing is the fact that Brad and Angie are so rich that they can actually give away $14 million without blinking an eye. Sorry about the poverty Brad and Angie. To make matters worse (or better) Brad and Angie have supposedly named Bono as the twins' godfather. You poor little twins - your life is totally going to suck. Mom and dad squandered away your first modeling gig paycheck to feed some hungry villagers in a hut and your godfather is that unscrupulous n'er do well singer "Bono". Can you say "charmed life"?