Red Carpet Wannabes
I love when friends come to visit from out of town-- like pee your pants excited love it. It's fun to catch up on all the latest happs with my people back home and whatever debauchery we get into usually involves brining together old friends and new. I'm also proud to toot my horn on having such a rad crew of socially comfortable people that blending AZ with LA never seems to be a problem. Friday was one such night, and the delivery of Emily and her Hubster to the City of Angels was grounds for celebration.
Assembled for dinner were Emily and CCB, one of my favorite friends, George, one of Emily's favs, Brian and Kelly and I. We went to a trendy little spot in Los Feliz praiseworthy more for its dimly lit ambience and good for groups set-up, than for its actual cuisine. It was lovely just the same. Their 'bring your own beer and wine' policy meant the generous pouring of spirits and festive conversation flowed. Emily regaled us with stories about her kids and the potentially irreversible psychological damage she's doing by forcing her son to retract his statement about her being fat-- scarcity of humor at the table, there was not.
After dinner Brian suggested we go downtown to a party for LA Fashion Week and although I mostly avoid these kinds of things because crowds and pretension make me want to puke, I'm a bandwagon bitch and agreed to go. We caravanned into the city and parked the car. Our motley crew met at the entrance and I knew pretty quickly the crowd we were in for. The cloud of smoke hanging in the air in front of the building signaled an uber hip group of elitists too young and hot to care about cancer. Cocaine and anorexia seemed to be the hobbies of choice for the well-dressed waifs huddled in groups around us. We approached the velvet rope and were deemed worthy of entrance by the beefcake manning the red-carpet.
Once inside the party, the venue revealed itself to be truly magnificent. This year Fashion Week is being held at the historic Los Angeles Theater which later through my spastic Googling efforts came to learn was built in 1931. This is the shit I love about LA. On a Friday night, seventy years after the opening of this palace, Kelly and I stood in the lobby and gazed up at the splendor before us. The theater emanates opulence from the golden columns to the rich velvet curtains, the grandiose staircase leading to a crystal chandelier adorned fountain-- I was having a joygasm.
Growing up in a city with the toddler equivalent of history means I cream my pants when I find myself in a place like the Los Angeles Theater. While Emily and CCB posed on the red carpet and forced Brian and George to act as their paparazzi, Kelly and I poked around the palace. It was a mind fuck being in a place that long ago served as one of the most posh theaters in town, now being used as the backdrop for the sweating, thumping techno soundtrack of the runway show inside.
The main floor contained the theater with the runway erected for the walking hangers to strut down. The red velvet seats held an eclectic crowd of hipsters and trendsetters. A Marilyn Manson look-alike behind me, a plastic surgery addict in front of me and my favorite social commentary critic beside me-- Kelly and I were in heaven.
In between designers, our crew walked down, down, down to the basement of the theater. Bars lined the walls and the space seemed to be having an identity crisis with the pleather sofas and shag carpets set amongst the ornate ceilings and light fixtures. I had to use the ladies room and followed the throng of skinnies further downstairs. The entrance of the bathroom led into a large circular room, arch shaped mirrors lining the wall. The mirrors were adorned with lights and little countertops and the scene brought to mind two words: powder room. A wave of nostalgia washed over me for a time I'd never known except through books and movies and I felt a bit saddened that a night out now didn't seem to carry the grandiose meaning it had almost a century ago.
As the clock crept closer to midnight another designer sent her gazelles down the runway and our group assembled in the seats near the stage. With George on my left and Kelly on my right, I quickly realized I was the cream in a chauvinist cookie.
As the girls sauntered towards us George and Kelly start whisper yelling things like, "Ooh! Nipple! I see nipple!" and "Oh yeah, come to papa! Walk this way!"
I am filled with shame and giggles.
One very pretty brunette prances down the runway and George exclaims, "Look at those breasts! They are perfect! She is perfect!" He deems her "Teardrop" seemingly for the shape of her boobies and each time she returns to the runway he yells out, "I love you Teardrop!"
When the show ends we decide we've had enough fun and exit the theater to say our goodbyes. Hugs and kisses are shared before parting ways. I'm left with a happy feeling in my heart for the random evening and the wonderful company.
Assembled for dinner were Emily and CCB, one of my favorite friends, George, one of Emily's favs, Brian and Kelly and I. We went to a trendy little spot in Los Feliz praiseworthy more for its dimly lit ambience and good for groups set-up, than for its actual cuisine. It was lovely just the same. Their 'bring your own beer and wine' policy meant the generous pouring of spirits and festive conversation flowed. Emily regaled us with stories about her kids and the potentially irreversible psychological damage she's doing by forcing her son to retract his statement about her being fat-- scarcity of humor at the table, there was not.
After dinner Brian suggested we go downtown to a party for LA Fashion Week and although I mostly avoid these kinds of things because crowds and pretension make me want to puke, I'm a bandwagon bitch and agreed to go. We caravanned into the city and parked the car. Our motley crew met at the entrance and I knew pretty quickly the crowd we were in for. The cloud of smoke hanging in the air in front of the building signaled an uber hip group of elitists too young and hot to care about cancer. Cocaine and anorexia seemed to be the hobbies of choice for the well-dressed waifs huddled in groups around us. We approached the velvet rope and were deemed worthy of entrance by the beefcake manning the red-carpet.
Once inside the party, the venue revealed itself to be truly magnificent. This year Fashion Week is being held at the historic Los Angeles Theater which later through my spastic Googling efforts came to learn was built in 1931. This is the shit I love about LA. On a Friday night, seventy years after the opening of this palace, Kelly and I stood in the lobby and gazed up at the splendor before us. The theater emanates opulence from the golden columns to the rich velvet curtains, the grandiose staircase leading to a crystal chandelier adorned fountain-- I was having a joygasm.
Growing up in a city with the toddler equivalent of history means I cream my pants when I find myself in a place like the Los Angeles Theater. While Emily and CCB posed on the red carpet and forced Brian and George to act as their paparazzi, Kelly and I poked around the palace. It was a mind fuck being in a place that long ago served as one of the most posh theaters in town, now being used as the backdrop for the sweating, thumping techno soundtrack of the runway show inside.
The main floor contained the theater with the runway erected for the walking hangers to strut down. The red velvet seats held an eclectic crowd of hipsters and trendsetters. A Marilyn Manson look-alike behind me, a plastic surgery addict in front of me and my favorite social commentary critic beside me-- Kelly and I were in heaven.
In between designers, our crew walked down, down, down to the basement of the theater. Bars lined the walls and the space seemed to be having an identity crisis with the pleather sofas and shag carpets set amongst the ornate ceilings and light fixtures. I had to use the ladies room and followed the throng of skinnies further downstairs. The entrance of the bathroom led into a large circular room, arch shaped mirrors lining the wall. The mirrors were adorned with lights and little countertops and the scene brought to mind two words: powder room. A wave of nostalgia washed over me for a time I'd never known except through books and movies and I felt a bit saddened that a night out now didn't seem to carry the grandiose meaning it had almost a century ago.
As the clock crept closer to midnight another designer sent her gazelles down the runway and our group assembled in the seats near the stage. With George on my left and Kelly on my right, I quickly realized I was the cream in a chauvinist cookie.
As the girls sauntered towards us George and Kelly start whisper yelling things like, "Ooh! Nipple! I see nipple!" and "Oh yeah, come to papa! Walk this way!"
I am filled with shame and giggles.
One very pretty brunette prances down the runway and George exclaims, "Look at those breasts! They are perfect! She is perfect!" He deems her "Teardrop" seemingly for the shape of her boobies and each time she returns to the runway he yells out, "I love you Teardrop!"
When the show ends we decide we've had enough fun and exit the theater to say our goodbyes. Hugs and kisses are shared before parting ways. I'm left with a happy feeling in my heart for the random evening and the wonderful company.
Hey, man! Glad to find your blog and hope all is well. I'll keep an eye out for new advantures :)- Jack
ReplyDeleteAnother great blog...and another great night! I will always have a special place in my heart for "Teardrop"..haha
ReplyDeleteI'd have creamed my pants to be there too. As it is, I'm just moist.
ReplyDeleteEw?