By Besha Rodell
By Patrick Range McDonald
By Michael Goldstein
By Dennis Romero
By Sarah Fenske
By Matthew Mullins
By Patrick Range McDonald
By LA Weekly
It’s Friday night at Les Deux, and for every OCstar with a bottle of Grey Goose on his table, there are at least six floozies flopping around in front of him.
Did I really just use the word floozies? It’s just that I’m not really sure what else to call these girls. They fall into one of two categories: Group One is pale and rail-thin, with knotty hair, chipped nail polish and baby-doll dresses. This group is performing a bizarre, quasihomoerotic routine (presumably for the men seated at the tables), and may or may not be under the impression that they’re at an American Apparel photo shoot. Group Two is composed of curvy Midwestern imports, characterized by too-tan skin, too-blonde hair and too-short shirts. These girls are here to freak the night away, their blinged-out belly rings bouncing as they groove. When Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack”comes through the speakers, they become frenzied.
We’re chilling within high-fiving distance of Jason Schwartzman, so both groups of sloppy chicks are circling around us, trying to get his attention. When an underage twit with a minibackpack starts flirting with my date, I head for the ladies’ room, skimming shoulders with Adam Levine (sporting a fetching new faux hawk) as I go.
I trail behind a pair of tan, brunette, impossibly gazellelike model types. They may be identical twins, or maybe they just have the same plastic surgeon. The line moves forward, and the gazelles are ushered into a room; for some reason, I am ushered in with them. Before I know it, I’m in a tiny room crammed full of cameras.
“Change Heidi’s mike pack,” shrieks a frantic voice to my right. I glance over to see someone fiddling with the mike that’s strapped to a pintsize blonde in a black tube dress. Yup, you guessed it; I’ve stumbled into a taping of MTV’s The Hills. Good ol’ Lauren is there too. Desperate to share the absurd turn of events with somebody, I turn to one of the gazelles and say, “I thought this was the bathroom!”
Her almond-shaped eyes squint back at me as though I’ve just spoken another language. Gazelle No. 2 asks Gazelle No. 1 what I’ve just said.
“She said, ‘I thought this was the bathroom.’ ” Gazelle No. 1 replies before turning toward me and scoffing: “I don’t even know what that means.”
I turn on a dime and bolt back downstairs, thus ensuring that the only part of me that you’ll ever see on The Hills will be my sad ass. I didn’t even know any girls that mean in high school! Finally, I locate the real bathroom and get in line behind Nicky Hilton.
Things are moving slowly, so I decide to strike up a conversation with the uniformed woman passing out hand towels and mints. I ask her about the two school pictures wedged into the mirror, and she proudly explains that the girls are her daughters. She tells me their names, their ages and what grades they’re in. It’s the best conversation I’ve had all night.
When I finally make my way back to my date, I see that the ratty-haired brunette beside him has dropped something. I pick it up and tap her on the shoulder.
“Here,” I smile. “I think you dropped your minibackpack.”