Monday, August 17, 1998
Hollywood schmooze-fest food for thought for intern
COLUMN: ‘Gift bag girl’ gets inside information from Beverly
Hills party
I am standing in front of Indochine restaurant in Beverly Hills
wondering the following: How do you pronounce Indochine? Who is
that guy with the black eyeliner and retro cowboy shirt whom
everyone keeps soliciting autographs from? Would I rather snitch a
watermelon or a green apple Chupa Chup from the gift bags I’m
supposed to be handing out?
These immediate concerns mingle with slightly more abstract and
(I promise) more intelligent pondering on the night of My Very
First Hollywood Party. I don’t feel like I particularly belong
here, largely because I’m only a lowly intern at Detour magazine,
which is teaming up with Ralph Lauren and a couple of other groups
to blur the boundaries of journalistic integrity via a stylish,
star-studded bash.
I scold myself for thinking I’m unworthy to hang with the likes
of Tyson Beckford, Rosie Perez and someone who might be Kobe
Bryant, though no one around is sports-savvy enough to know for
sure. They’re just people too, right? Why should I let the The
Media convince me otherwise? Technically, I guess I’m gearing up
for a career of deifying various "artists," but as a
behind-the-scenes-er, I should be wary of the monsters we’ve
created.
And by monster, I don’t mean Mike Tyson. Co-intern Nerissa
informs me that he stood in line for the bathroom very
patiently.
No, the creatures of the night are standing to my left, a horde
of shabbily clad, camera-toting paparazzi who are competing with
the slick, sassy, Dolce & Gabana-clad publicists manning the
door for the title of Most Obnoxious.
It’s a tough race. The publicists have an arsenal of weapons:
the velvet rope, The List (which is actually divided into A and B
sections – I thought that was just a phrase). The paparazzi,
though, have a deadly blend of brutal honesty and rapid-fire,
name-dropping capabilities. (The camcorder man next to me brags
that his hair stylist is Giuseppe Gucci or Bernardo Bertolucci –
someone high on a fashion ladder I haven’t even begun to
scale).
"Giuseppe/Bernardo rides a motorcycle," the aforementioned
paparazzo boasts. "Does your hair stylist ride a motorcycle?"
"My mom’s not the biker type. My dad used to ride a little Honda
during the gas crisis of the ’70s, though."
I sense that he’s not impressed, but I remind myself that I’m on
the right side of the rope and indulge in a little glance down my
nose. His haircut is getting a tad shaggy, and I’ve already
received several compliments on my funky, if self-styled,
cornrows.
A shout from head publicist Reese (clad in skin-tight black, he
looks as if he stepped out of the ensemble of "Chicago") quickly
puts me in my place.
"Gift bag girl! Gift bag girl!" He snaps his fingers in glorious
impatience. Apparently, some somebody escaped without the prized
package of Polo T-shirt, CD, July issue of Detour and handful of
Chupa Chup lollipops.
I rush over with the goodies (retail value ridiculously upwards
of $30) and retreat to fume at the indignity. My summer plan was to
play budding journalist, combing the glossy pages of a very hip
magazine and the alternately glossy and gritty streets of Los
Angeles. Somewhere along the way, I became a Bruin Belle.
As it turns out, one of the most intriguing occupations of the
evening is standing outside, people-watching and complaining. Soon,
Nerissa and I have a co-conspirator in our frustration with Reese.
He is a raven-haired, cigarette-wielding, sometime Detour employee
named Mitchell. Reese has none too delicately requested that
Mitchell smoke elsewhere, giving the reason, "It’s my party."
"’It’s my party,’?" Mitchell imitates in dramatic falsetto. "I
don’t think so. ‘It’s my party.’ Bitch. I’ll show him whose party
it is." He exhales a curl of gray and waves his glowing cigarette
butt menacingly. Nerissa and I lament that a cat fight doesn’t
materialize.
Instead, we content ourselves with wise observations on the
sociology of the event such as, "This is so L.A.," "Why are the
richest people always the most hungry for free stuff?" and "I think
all the waiters are models."
The latter conclusion is that, statistically, it is very
unlikely for any given group of people to be so collectively
beautiful at random. The men flash pearly grins as they extend
trays of wine. (One can see how such balance and grace could later
be applied on the runway.) The women swish their size 2 gowns
elegantly.
Looking around, I’m disturbed to discover that I’m easily the
fattest one in the room, unless you count the 300-pound drag queen
who takes up a good portion of the hallway in her faux-fur Chanel
jacket and gargantuan blonde wig. If you factor in the height of
her hair and the 6-inch heels on her vinyl boots, she towers over
the guy who might be Kobe Bryant.
Maybe it is this character who makes me realize just how
larger-than-life the whole thing is, how surreal. Maybe it is the
intoxicated man who plucks a huge tropical flower from a nearby
bush and sticks it in my hair, departing with an oh-so-Hollywood
hug. Maybe it’s that, even though we’re at a restaurant, the only
food to be found comes on a toothpick.
As I contemplate eating the lime perched on the edge of my
drink, I find myself longing for a more Cheryl-style party. Keep in
mind that that’s almost an oxymoron. I’ve always suspected I’m
missing the gene that makes strangers like standing shoulder to
shoulder, yelling small talk over the power-tripping DJ’s choice of
tunes.
But now, I’m feeling very nostalgic toward a particular dinner
party where the spaghetti flows freely. Even a family gathering
sounds vaguely comforting as I envision one relative’s annual story
about the time my dad substituted powdered sugar for granulated in
a cookie recipe. (It’s not really funny enough to stand the test of
time, but it seems to be the Mick Jagger of pointless tales.)
I spend much of my time at such family gatherings shamelessly
trying to impress the grown-ups with my own little UCLA anecdotes.
So don’t doubt for a minute that this soiree will come up – names
will be dropped, bounced and hurled if need be.
And don’t doubt that one of the toothpick girls is inside the
restaurant now, telling one of the "Chicago" boys about the time
Giuseppe/Bernardo accidentally substituted red highlights for
blonde ones. Her companion pretends to listen, but he’s heard the
story before, if perhaps from a different person, with different
details.
Take away the valet-clogged locale and the gowns that glitter
like midnight, and it’s just people standing in a room, trying to
impress each other. And while that in itself is nothing rare, I
have learned enough tonight to call myself a journalist.
For example: It’s Indo-sheen, as in Charlie; the eyeliner guy is
a Marilyn Manson band member; and green apple beats watermelon
Chupa Chup hands down.
Klein is a fourth-year American literature student.