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I
breezed past hotspot lines in saucy outfits. Maitre'Ds slid me vials with thousand
dollar bill 'straws'. I air-kissed on both cheeks. I went to premieres. I saw
movie stars passed out and/or schtupping in toilet stalls. Once, I saw Ronald
Reagan's daughter's chacha when she bent over in Yoga class.
I
share this nauseating information only to assert my flawless credentials as your
guide to the fabled, glittering L.A. — not just its fringe crannies. Ah,
L.A. the pith of glamour, media darling, that Paris Hilton of towns. I
am, praise be, no longer in it, but I'm of it. I know the drill. I know from money.
Fuck, I wish I had some now. CUT
TO: Hollywood. Its Saturday night. Parrr-tay time! The Very Cool stay home on
Saturday night, of course, but who doesn't hate the Very Cool? I'm
with Aap in his apartment. We hear the sounds of urban bus stop revelry through
an open terrace door. He slams it with the face of a Prisoner Of War. "If
you're going to make me go out into…THAT," he says, grabbing the vodka,
"I need to brace myself." He pours an AA wet dream size tumbler and
bottoms up. The alien robot tattoo on his tricep is actually upside down. CUT
TO: Inside my car. We're cruising down world-famous Melrose Avenue. Melrose Avenue!
Subject of 'special' Vogue magazine sections and prime-time shows, dream street
of avant-garde, kicky boutiques, designer stores, herbal emporiums, world-class
antiques, offbeat theatres, fabulous restaurants… Well,
we're not exactly 'cruising.' Traffic ain't moving much. Surly parvenues, like
so much bad cholesterol, clog the road. Beside us is a white, black windowed thirty-foot
Hummer limo. Maybe
its Hef, who keeps such a jitney on call. Behind us, a Porsche Boxster twitches
left-right-left-right with palpable anguish. Boxter drivers are all balding with
hairy backs, baseball hats and shoulder chips because they can't afford Carreras.
Everyone that I could see was on a cell phone. "This
place is the pit of hell," snapped Aap. "Looks like a theatre of war
with nuclear fallout." Indeed
the sky was a toxic tint, large moon straining through smog. Handbills of band
gigs tumbleweed-rolled past trash bins bursting with crumpled Yank magazines (free),
Red Bull cans, rancid lattes, condom wrappers, burger wrappers, the odd syringe.
Storefronts look pretty much like the Rocky Horror version of Shantytown until
the street's west end, which is where we were headed, to Monroe's. Monroe's
is this Month's Flavor poppin' hot hangout for up-and-coming Winners. Brittany
and Brandon, Tod and Everardo, Mel(anie) and Chris(tine) all swing over after
Pilates and tapas to unwind from their sexy jobs' searing demands. "Monroe's
blends '40s retro kitch with New York decadence" touts one city guide, "What
really sets Monroe's apart is the fun, ambisexual artsy/industry crowd despite
(or because of) the club's no-guest-list tendencies. See someone you like? The
all-are-welcome vibe continues right on into the unisex bathrooms." Sounds
okay by me.
CUT TO: Monroe's. The ten minute drive took forty-five. There's
no parking and no valet. One of the Dolce and Gabbana'd smoking outside has enough
fellow-feeling to jab a thumb in the direction we came from. "Valet's
that way," she said, puffing perfect little rings. By
the time we backtrack two effing blocks to the valet, another quarter hour has
passed. We have to wait in line to get a ticket. "Perhaps I'm not cut out
for all this glamour," Aap sneers. At
long last, we're at the door. A 'roid monster goon bouncer blocks us as we try
to enter. He growls, accusatory, "Who's list you on?" Not
even Schindler's, evidently. "Monroe's
doesn't have guest lists," I say, maybe hostile. "You have an 'all are
welcome vibe.'" "If
you ain't on a guest list, honey, forget it." CUT
TO: Back in my car. Aap drives, yelling, "Los Angeles is the only place I've
ever been where you pay through the nose to be treated like shit! And the L.A.
asswipes with their stupid fake tans, fake teeth, stupid fake boobs, child labor
Nikes and Gucci crap go back for more!"
I might have to find someone
else to join me on these anthropological excursions. I fear they might give Aap
a heart attack. "The
'Doorman' is the downfall of nightlife in L.A.!" he continues, "The
reason people work out so much here and eat health food is that they're all genetically
inferior! In the real world they'd be killed like THAT!" He snaps his fingers. Hmm,
I think he's on to something. We proceed to that center of the Universe, the Sky
Bar. The
Sky Bar is "one of the most famous bars in the world, and certainly world
class," says a guide. This elite celebrity haunt, teeming with models, is
housed in the to-die-for fabulous Ian Schrager owned Mondrian Hotel on the legendary
Sunset Strip! The
truth is that the Mondrian Hotel looks like a Brooklyn projects building whored
up with bad sculpture. The coolest thing about it is that it's near the Sunset
Hyatt, where rock stars of yore threw TVs into the street. I hung out at the Sky
Bar back when. There are more 'models' there than could fill the pages of all
nations' publications through the year 2012. "All
must pass muster with the bouncer, who has been called the most powerful man in
LA." I guess the Mayor licks his boots. "The open air facility boasts
spectaular city views while its large pool surrounded by trees and lit candles
still provide a magical, romantic quality." If
that's true, friends, I'm the Queen of Siam. It's usually freezing out there.
The 'city view' is only 'spectacular' if you arrive after rain and high winds.
There are mattresses to lounge on, but if you manage to score one, beware of fleas.
CUT
TO: Sunset Strip, approaching the Sky Bar. There are police in the middle of the
street, like in Baghdad, enforcing the 'no cruise' law. This means that if they
notice you driving back and forth you are stopped and yes, pulled from your car.
I've seen it. There's
a long, static line for the Sky Bar valet. We hear the bouncer yell at a couple,
"We're just admitting girls now, there are too many men." Aap
glares at me. We squeeze out of the line, and go home. We've been out for three
hours. Remember
when you were small and saw bewitching commercials for toys you wanted so badly
it hurt and then you got one and it was… nothing? Nothing at all? Welcome
back. * You
can view an archive of Xero's columns here. You
can also discuss this column in the forums. I know there is a large Xanadu
fan club, and though she's on vacation this week, she'll be sure to answer your
questions in the forums when she gets back. So feel free to post questions or
comments here. Registering
for the forums is free and easy.
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