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.