Thursday, October 20, 2005

24 Hours in Hollywood

tmobile party, originally uploaded by camille94019.

A real photographer took this of the Wob and myself on tuesday night. Wob told the photographer he wanted to "drip sex" then he changed his mind and said that "goofy" would be the operative word. I had been in a crummy mood that evening. We arrived at the Roosevelt around 6 PM on tuesday. We checked into our hip room (with the view of Grauman's Chinese Theater) and I started to change thinking that Wob knew where we were going. To make a long story short... he didn't... and it wasn't until we had interrogated every doorman and security guard in a 2 block radius, given up and sat down at an Italian restaurant to salve our disappointment in mounds of pasta that his brother called with the necessary deets (all the way from his pad in pacific heights--yay technology!). I was very grateful. We ditched the restaurant, grabbed a taxi and took it 5 blocks to the place only to find out it didn't start for another half-an-hour. We ducked into a local middle eastern fast food joint to while away the time over baba ganoush and baklavah. We had thought we were going to be fashionably late.

When we arrived at the place (a club was rented for the evening), it was a total zoo. A mob of highschoolers (I mentioned this phenomenon to one of the TM marketing dudes later, and he said "botox") and frat boys crushed around the entrance. We doublechecked the instructions. Surely this wasn't the place. We waited in line for what seemed forever.. we watched hummers coming into the parking lot and disgorge their human cargo. I tried not to be completely disappointed. Finally after a friendly bouncer let us past the velvet rope (for reals!) and a clerk checked the guest list, we were allowed in. The bouncer asked me if I was going to write a song about waiting in line for the party... I smiled and said yes. Quel Psychic! He nodded and said, "I can recognize you song-writing types a mile away." At that moment, I realized the help would prolly be the coolest people at the party.

The next gauntlet... the Red Carpet, lined with a dozen scary looking photags with big canon lenses. We weren't celebrities (oddly, the woman directing traffic didn't know-- I nearly lied, but the thought of being found out was too scary) so we ducked into the dark, normal people's entrance.

I wrote that blog entry from tuesday before I started having any fun. They had a free bar, but all I was in the mood for was water. A tattoo artist was plying his trade in a temporary parlor while the drummer and dj I mentioned earlier did their thing. Enthroned in the opposite corner, a dropped cadillac-- with every chrome pimp detail basked in the glow of spot lights. Flashing on the screens... a series of pictures of tatt'ed inner city latino men and their hydraulic cars, rough, black and white shots of the Sidekick, gritty images of shopping blonde women, barbie dolls and graffiti. I watched the entire cycle repeat a couple of times. I actually got to meet the Seattle TMobile team who put the party on. They wanted a "hollywood" party. Sitting there in this whole weird scene and to realize that it was the brain child of a committee of Seattleilian cell-phone workers was the acme of surrealness. The really funny thing was... that there were a ton of authentic-looking tatt'ed pimp-types (of all colors, yo!) who seemed to be having a great time. Of course, I couldn't check their street credentials, for all I know, they were hired, or they have day jobs.

Chemical Joy Goes a Long Way in Attitude Adjustment

This is pathetic, but after my first (and only alcoholic beverage serving for the night) little glass of champagne things improved noticeably. I was able to look benignly at the droves of little starlets with perfect perky boobs and skin-tight dresses without having irritating flashbacks to the moronistas I went to highschool with. I ceased being intimidated by the scary street-types. I started dancing with wobbly's fellow co-workers and the Seattelian organizers. The mojo was high. I hung out in the smoking pit with the Floridinian rockers (met all the members of "Intention" the next up and coming big thing-- incidentally, they got to come cuz the moved all the big furniture) and the Irish card trick wack-os.

Do you Love Wobbly's Hat!

Speaking of white suburbanites trying to acquire street-cool. Tho' I shouldn't speak for the Wob, he actually lives in a ghetto. We bought it tuesday morning at Spiegels on Mission street... literally wading through piles of zoot and pimp suits, til we found the perfect short-hat-for-tall-man hat. A "diamond top" our epically unhelpful salesman said. It was, by far, the best hat in the entire crowd. I was wearing a green velvet dress my uncle bought me at the bargain barn for 50 cents and the goggles I lifted from Wobbly's bookcase. I was shooting for a more junior-league-meets-underground-comic-book-hero look. I got quite a few compliments from other Bay Areaites. They all thought we looked so "LA."

Semiotic Crises
After spending six hours in a completely fake/real stage I am realizing I have no idea what "street" or "pimp" or "white" or "suburbanite" or "LA" means. Where are you, Umberto?

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I blog about life and soup, but mostly soup.