To have a successful night out in LA, you hoped to bump into the biggest celebrity you could find. That said, my biggest night must have been two years ago.
An old, dusty caravan reincarnated into a sexy, retro nightclub began the night. Weekly Friday event aptly named P.Y.T. Fridays (Yes, that’s an acronym for Pretty Young Things, not Prioritize Your Time, as some might misinterpret). Friend’s boyfriend DJ’d. He played a mixture of classic 80′s pop and lounge dance music mixed with the best old school rap you could imagine. Newly single and especially feisty, I was snapped by the resident photographer in a very short, bright blue dress/jumpsuit.
My pose?
To be fair, I just sat there, and I didn’t move. I was already sat there when he approached me, leaning back on the armoire, fishtank in the background, cigarette poised in hand across my stomach, doing my best “I don’t give a shit cause I live in Hollywood, but I’ll smile with mouth closed” look – but, at that particular moment, I didn’t care…about living in Hollywood, not because I lived in Hollywood. He got the moment.
I danced a bit – more like, flitted about – keeping my stomach sucked in, sucking down vodka and sodas, constantly tugging at the bottom of my dress, trying to determine if I was at least half as good looking as the rest of the girls there. I was satisfied that I was, so I went to the bathroom and applied more eye liner.
Problem was, I could never pretend to be as cool as they were – the other PYT’s. I may have been a pretty young thing, but I lacked many “cool” characteristics. For example, I lacked that ability to keep a straight face whilst telling a joke. I would try really hard, but the harder I tried to stop myself from laughing at my own jokes, the more I laughed. The moment a joke entered my mind, I was already on the floor, embarrassing those around me and making a situation more awkward than it should have to be.
Straightaway, that single trait of mine put me in the slightly nerdier camp. And, that’s just the tip of the thawing iceberg. I honestly don’t know how I survived in Hollywood for eight years as a SJL (Self – Joke Laugher. Keep up!).
Anyway, back on the dance floor, my friend, Kaitlin and I alternated taking polaroid snapshots of the other. Five vodka and sodas later, we got in the back of Kaitlin’s boyfriend’s white pick up truck, and we drove to Teddy’s at the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard.
Schmoozer that he was, Kaitlin’s boyfriend got us in. 
There was a private party happening, but the girl bouncer was sure they wouldn’t notice three more people. Of course they wouldn’t mind…we were buying two bottles of their champagne at $300 a pop (when I say “we,” I mean, “he”).
Passing the massive, hanging glass chandeliers, the elegant leather booths, and making our way to the tiny dance floor, I noticed a tiny girl being dragged off by a butch, short haired, muscle-bound woman. Oh, look, it’s an Olsen Twin, I thought to myself. Oh boy, she’s had way too much to drink. The Olsen twin fought back against the hard-ass lard-ass, and collapsed in the middle of the floor. Luckily, since no one actually dances in LA and the dance floor was clear, she didn’t hurt anyone else….not that she could with that tiny body.
I loved Teddy’s because it was the one club that felt private, that felt unpretentious despite the big names that frequented it, that played fun music and you could smoke. Smoking was illegal in every other club in LA, but somehow Teddy’s got away with it.
This was a rare night – the dance floor was becoming fuller. I normally kept my head down whilst dancing. It wasn’t just a dance technique, it was self preservation. I needed to avoid eye contact with the soul suckers – these were the people who had desperation oozing from
every pore. I hated that LA desperate look – desperate to be validated as a human, desperate to be noticed (and get famous), desperate to get laid, desperate for some food.
I bumped into a long, flowing dress on a stick figure by accident, held my hand up and murmured an “Oh, sorry,” and glanced up to see that I didn’t cause any permanent damage. Hey, that’s Drew Barrymore, I thought, she’s a lot skinnier in real life. I continued dancing and looked around for my friends. Ack, who is that man-woman thinking she can dance? I thought, my eyes pointed towards a tall, brunette. Who invited the drag queen with bad skin? I mused. Upon further inspection, I realized it was Cameron Diaz. Seriously. Not cute.
My friend and I laughed at the amount of celebs in the club. “What a great Hollywood night,” we said through semi-glazed eyes. “Couldn’t get any better than this.”
That’s when one very short man in heels headed for the dance floor. The crowd parted, as you do. After all, this was no normal man, this was royalty. Motherfucking Prince – as in the man who was formerly known as Prince, than became formerly known as the man formerly known as Prince – Yes. He was less than two feet away from me, on the dance floor. And, may I just say that his model girlfriend towered over him, but he still worked it in his heels. Eve, the rapper, took them on for a full-on dance competition.
It was brilliant, and the club was closing. We got kicked out. The celebrities stayed.
Another LA Night
My friend and I still laugh about this night to this day.
And yes, it was amazing. It’s one of those stories I will probably tell for years, and I’ll make it out to be like I was some really cool chick who just happened to bump into stars around town, and the story will become more grandiose than it ever was in the first place. Actually, it was pretty grandiose in the first place. I don’t have to beef it up much. And, there were other nights, and I feel privileged to have been a small, minor part of this celeb scene – because at least I experienced it.
But, the truth is, those nights out were never really about being with my friends. They were more about trying to see how cool we could come across, seeing if we could get in the hot nightclubs, what celebrities we could spot or possibly hang out with, and how much alcohol we could consume without being sick or appearing drunk. It was always about topping our last night out.
Last Saturday night was different, fantastic, and maybe even more fun than any of those LA nights. It was about being with the girls, and no one else – even if many tried to interfere with that along the way.
Stay tuned for what happened last Saturday….
