Star Gazing

As the more superficial of us LAers diligently work off our holiday rolls along the muddy trails of Runyon Canon, we are besieged by a new kind of roll. Rather than at our waistlines, however, this roll is red and unrolled to pave the way for a promenade of plastic celluloid stars.

Awards season.

Like a plague of locusts, every lister in the alphabet descends like a dark cloud upon Hollywood to flash mega-twat, well-practiced smiles and politely clap in exchange for alcohol, loot bags and a bid to be best-dressed. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the mortals, awards season means not being able to book a hair appointment until mid-March and facing road blocks on V.V.I.P. streets like Hollywood Boulevard. During our routine wait for our skinny lattes at Starbucks we have to overhear gay stylists talk shit about various celebrities they are styling, proudly and loudly referring to said celebrities by their first names - Hillary, Meryl, Kate, Anne. We get it, you've skipped the 9 degrees are in the pan frying with the Bacon, congrats you are totally cool. Paparazzi hunt in packs for someone to photograph and crowds of European and Asian tourists follow closely, nipping at their heels with camcorders and camera phones frozen at 90* angles. Prepare to elbow your way into Il Fornaio, Paris Hilton is inside. It's a real pain in the ass, I tell you.

To me now in my state of disenchantment, awards season is as glamorous as the red duct tape that holds down the corners of the Ronald McDonald red carpets. But when I first came to Los Angeles, I, like most of the world, was completely celebrity-obsessed to the point of running around the aisle and jumping up and down with glee after Debra Messing barked at me in a costume shop.

My first awards season in Los Angeles was pure magic. While in line at the post office, a 70-something man in a baseball cap asked me if I wanted to party with Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriends. Initially I figured he was just being lecherous, but I did give him my email address. What arrived in my inbox was an invite to his Oscar party, including the instructions to bring a cute girlfriend, emphasis on the girl, underscore the cute. "Do not bring any guys!" As it was being held at a ritzy hotel, I figured the worst thing that could happen couldn't be that bad. Plus I believe one should never say no to an invite that includes an open bar.

My friend and I arrived at the hotel and were whisked into a crystal ballroom where we immediately sidled up to and made friends with the open bar. I was drinking appletinis at the time, thinking they were a sign of sophistication, while my friend ordered vodka double shots straight up. As we looked around, we didn't recognize any celebrities as this was a strictly D-list event. The crowd was congealed into clique formations. Feeling a bit outcast, we treated our awkwardness with a prescription of hard alcohol and soon we were stumbling about collecting business cards from boom operators and millionaire matchmakers.

While ordering my sixth appletini at the bar, I came across a charming gentleman in a tux and bowtie and instantly fell in love. My newfound love, his thuggish buddy, my friend and I then jointly embarked on a photoshoot with our digital cameras, spending the next fifteen minutes capturing the evening from various angles. They then insisted that we take pictures with their buddy "Louey," who the next day we realized was Lou Diamond Phillips, probably the only "real" actor in attendance that evening.

When my betuxed darling suggested my friend and I might wish to accompany him and his friends to the Vanity Fair party, I dove head first into their white limousine dragging my terrified friend with me. After seating ourselves in the back we realized perhaps we (or I) had been a bit rash as we were met with verbal abuse by what we later decided was surely a member of the New Jersey mafia. "FUCK YOU! YOU DISRESPECT ME GETTING IN MY LIMO WITHOUT AKNOWLEDGING ME? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU FUCKING AKNOWLEDGE ME WHEN YOU GET INTO MY LIMO, DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM???" No. But there didn't seem to be much point in saying so. The entire limo was silent.

We rode around in the limo for what seemed like an hour, picking up various happy drunks along the way who each received verbal thrashings from the angry man in the white tuxedo. We were finally dropped off across the street from the Vanity Fair venue and then proceeded to scramble about in our stilettos as the mafia men attempted to ditch us. My friend was resolute in not letting that happened and dragged me behind her as I sobbed over my failed romance. Finally one man turned around and yelled "how much money is it going to take to get rid of you two broads?" Yep, he said broads, how totally mafia, right? I responded by sadly smearing my mascara around my face with the back of my hand and my friend, blinking with annoyance, said, "$50.00!!!" "That's it?" he replied, taking out an impressive roll of money and handing the cash over.

As we rode home in a cab, my friend turned to me and said, "Ugh. I should have asked for $100.00."

I would later come across my elderly host in a law school textbook. Apparently he is a well-known Hollywood crook with ties to the mafia. Lesson learned? Nope.