742 N Highland Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90038
So this is what it’s like to live like that 0.1% of LA.
Oh-point-oh-oh-one percent, if you live anywhere else.
When they said they would arrange for a ride, I was horrified at the idea that I may end up carpooling with some psycho they found off the rideshare board on Craig’s List, but they told me they would “send a driver” for me. Send a driver? A driver! People like me don’t get “sent for” by “a driver!” I’m a food blogger. Unless I am horribly misinformed, not even Pulitzer prize-winning Jonathan Gold has "a driver." Even if I were to be collected by a driver, I was certain I’d be having my primpin’ aint’ easy pretty little self “chauffered” around town in oh, I don’t know, a Pink Dot, or if I was lucky enough to be spared the shame, maybe a Yugo.
The “driver” buzzed my apartment at five to seven. It was 6:59 AM when I stumbled in my too-high heels across my building’s lobby yanking, tugging and shifting the half-dozen mismatched bags – laptop bag, totebag trailing the cord of a curling iron, handbag, oh-so-classy Ralphs brown hell-yes-I'm-a plastic bag with nutritive essentials like Diet Coke, bottled water, and an overdose of Emergen-C, miscellaneous bags overflowing with necessities for the day – all the while trying not to smash a half-eaten grocery store blueberry muffin against the stainless steel coffee-to-go mug in my left hand.
I burst through the glass double doors then stopped dead on the sidewalk where I had landed. Had my mouth not already been hanging open from breathlessness because six bags is heavy and awkward for me, I would have sent my lower jaw plunging to the concrete right then. Stretched across half my block was a very black, very shiny... limo.
It was 7 AM. They had sent a limo for me.
What is this? The fucking breakfast prom?!?!
I was at once horrified and excited. It was all I could do to trade my lukewarm coffee for a glass of Champagne with my blueberry muffin.
Without the time luxury to take a shower, we got refreshed and ready in under an hour. Primping here, parading there, every all often we took long, lingering sips from our cocktails – personal poison (vodka is mine, but you knew that) mixed with only enough green tea to keep us out of AA. Somewhere, one of us remembered to call for a car, but in our pre-party antics we missed its coming and going. There were probably a dozen missed calls before we wised up and waited outside to watch for its arrival.
We were fashionably on time for the main event at Ooh La La. As much as I hate to admit it, I love to saunter into a scene. I am never a participant – I never could be – merely an observer. Besides, we weren’t there for anything more than two words: open bar. We were directed toward the party in the pool area, picking our way through pockets of “trendy,” “Hollywood hipster,” and “wannabe fashionistas.” We were about to party like blogstars.
What a scene, if ever there was a scene, though really, it was no different than any other Friday or Saturday, or even Tuesday, night there. The only possible difference might have been that the vibe was downscaled by at least two cup sizes, not because there were scantily clad booth-less “booth babes” wandering the grounds like lost bunnies, but because said babes were flossing full pantyhose under their ‘80s neon green hot pants. If Hooters were to ever go eco-friendly, this would be it. I have no idea what the babes were selling.
The bar was over(free)flowing with p.i.n.k. If you have gone to any sort of “sponsored” function, event, party, gala, whathaven’tyou, you will know of what I speak, because “the world’s perfect party spirit” has spent no penny short of a bazillion dollars on marketing. Though the name, bottle, and branding be pink, the “ultra-premium” vodka doesn’t say it’s targeted at women. Please. I was drawn to the ultra-premium sparkling frosted p.i.n.k. display on the bar stronger than an alcoholic Hello Kitty to a Cosmo-flavored Wet n Wild lip gloss.
We had a few cocktails made with the caffeine- and guarana-infused vodka that, straight up, supposedly has as much energy-inducing power as Red Bull. A single vodka/Red Bull will put me out of commission; though sending me running for the bathroom at top speed and hurling with the gale force of a hurricane into the toilet, it certainly keeps its promise of "energy." Imagine what a p.i.n.k. vodka/red bull does to me. Right. I didn't want to either, so I sipped it with soda. It didn't taste bad. After a while, it didn't taste like anything at all!
The evening, expectedly, gets hazy from there. Somehow we managed to pour ourselves into a cab, but rather than picking up our pumpkins and going home like the smart Cinderellas (ella...ella...) we never are, we headed from hipster Hollywood to The Dive. I was skeptical. Everyone who has ever mentioned The Dive uses the same breath to gush about how much they love it, but I had never had a real desire to go. I can appreciate the novelty of a true dive as much as the next girl (sometimes), but really, a dive is meant to be enjoyed close to home as "my local place," not as a destination.
The Dive's interior, though nowhere near what I consider a "dive," certainly isn't anything special with its four-sided bar up front and non-descript seating on the periphery. The only thing that got my attention was a tacky neon pink projection of the bar's name in lips-printed font on the back curtain that seemed sorely out of place. Having anything projected at all seemed odd enough, but hot pink lips? Having just come from a fashion event in Hollywood, we weren't really any different as we plopped our knit-jersey dressed selves down at the bar. Except for a lone white-haired man on the other side of the bar and a couple at one the tables, we were the only ones in the bar.
We didn't order, but apparently it pays to be pretty. If you're not pretty, it pays to have pretty friends! The bartender had a shameless crush on my friend, though she couldn't seem to see it. We didn't need any more, but the bartender insisted on pouring drinks like they were tap water, and at one point, served us entire pint glasses full of some "special" concoction that he was cocksure (a word I don't use quite enough) we would love. I was deeply offended. Not only was the drink disgustingly pink and girly, but it tasted like it had about 8 ounces too many of sugary fruit juice. Yes, I know that I just said I had been attracted to p.i.n.k. in all its Barbie glory, but I guess when I want to be offended, I want to be offended. Furthermore, I hate when people force sugarlicious supersweet drinks down my throat 1) thinking that I'll like it because I'm a girl, and 2) do they not see this BloggerButt™? Do they not see that the last thing I need is an additional 500 empty calories to accrue on my bottom line?!?!
The worst part was that somehow, the bartender got wind of the fact that we *might* have started feeling the beginnings of the usual late-night post-party, pre-hangover helper and had the kitchen send out some food, "on the house." What? What?! Are we supposed to be impressed by the fact that he could call in a favor, "pull some strings," with the kitchen that was already closed? Should we be appreciative that he got them to heat up frozen Jeno's cheese pizza in the microwave oven and slap the day's leftovers onto an obscenely mountainous pile of tortilla chips as nachos? Again, does he not see the condition commonly referred to as Everspread™ of my BloggerButt? (For the record, Benito's nachos are "light.")
"Pretty" and "pink" will no longer apply if we actually drink and eat the stuff that we earned with it!!!
We polished off the nachos. We walked home.