In college, I worked in the campus library. I joke that my heart worked in Circulation. Directly adjacent to our half-wall cubicles abutting the front desk was Tech Support, and this is where I developed an ironclad friendship with a girl named Liz.
A bit about Liz: she is a charisma bomb, deeply hilarious, quite subversive–and, in recent years, an award-winning music producer. She is also the only child of a rockstar whose name I will not write here. Rest assured, you have heard his work in commercials, movies, television, memes, and from your dad's car stereo.
While her presence in my life has always felt somewhat inexplicable, Liz is like a soulmate to me. Some people you just know. Now that she's back in LA, we make time to see each other as often as life permits.
I went down to Los Angeles to visit Liz for St. Patrick's Day last year. The visit was long overdue, much anticipated, and happily accommodated by her family, whose sprawling, Mediterranean-style property includes a pool house larger than many single family homes in the United States. This is where I stayed in sunny, sinister Calabasas–an enclave of the ultrawhite and ultrawealthy.
Of all the many neighborhoods I've ambled through on a breezy evening, Calabasas and nearby Woodland Hills are two where I distinctly remember feeling I wouldn't want to be caught there at night. They are spooky in the extreme, the way only pristine, uncracked sidewalks can be. They are full of eerie things, like talk show hosts wearing slippers in the grocery, and $15 deli pasta.
But I would be posturing if I said I didn't enjoy the easy glamor of Liz's world. Even if, she confided to me, this was not always an easy fit for her. Liz is a fabulous weirdo, and smarter than most anyone I've ever met. In the gated communities off of Mulholland, artifice is rewarded long before authenticity–unless your idea of authenticity is a size two with a personality disorder.
Vaping our way down the I-5 and back to her family manse, Liz and I get to planning our long weekend. There's a Flogging Molly show at the Palladium that seems seasonal and goofy. She's got a recent boyfriend who can hook us up with cool spots in West Hollywood, should we desire. There's also the matter of her new friend, the pornstar, who might be in town.
Point of fact, I had actually known about the star in question before Liz brought her up. Let us not dwell on this.
We end up going to Flogging Molly, who start an hour late. By the time they appear on stage, the crowd at the Palladium–which in a bygone era hosted the Oscars, and now hosts ceiling paint peeling back to reveal green mold and dinge–have all been drinking profusely in honor of the holiday. When Liz's boyfriend returns from the restroom, he cheerfully informs us he's just witnessed a man get his head bashed into the sink. It's around this time we decide to leave. I erroneously pay $5 for a can of still water, and off we jaunt.
West Hollywood is what you'd expect from LA's gay district. Rainbow neon and svelte boy-men moving like panthers through each other in clubs various, cliques indiscernible to an outsider but clearly present. Many parts of Los Angeles are liable to give a person an eating disorder, but there's a certain joy to being a woman, and not a size two, and thus quietly invisible to the throngs of young gay men, and able therefore to simply observe what amounts to ritualistic behavior.
At our first stop, Liz's boyfriend spots some influencer posing, dead-eyed, by a bar that is attempting to shut down for the night, and goes into paroxysms of joy. He insists on photos with her. I sip my whiskey and keep my opinion to myself–who am I to judge? This isn't my world, I'm here on a tourist visa. He points out each individual property owned by the Vanderpump's, who I always assumed were a fictional clan made up for the purpose of satire, like the Kardashians or the Beverly Hillbillies. The Abbey is next and is admittedly pretty bitchin', as gay clubs go. As the name implies, there is a sort of stained glass Roman Catholic vibe to the whole affair.
At one point the boyfriend steps on Lucy Liu's foot.
She grunts "Yow!"
That is the whole of our interaction with Lucy Liu.
If my narrative hasn't implied this heavily enough, I want to underscore the fact that Liz's boyfriend at this time is not on her level. He is perfectly charming, and when we talk I can see the sincerity desperate to break through–he's an Arizona boy, at heart, with large aspirations and a good dose of luck on his side. LA claims many such victims. When you find yourself in the "who do you know and how can you help me" mindset, you've already lost something vital. In growing claws to scrabble to the top of the Los Angeles hierarchy, you will lose equivalent mass in your spine.
Liz, who was born directly into Elysium (her words), is inoculated against such grasping desperation, and bridles hard against two things: incompetence and lack of grace. Our next stop is Sunset Marquis, a pseudo-speakeasy with a recording studio in the basement. When we walk in, the owner sees my friend and begins playing one of her dad's hits. We all smile, laugh, nod. It's a bar where, a couple weeks after, Hayden Pannettiere will have a blowout fight with her boyfriend. Which is funny. Because guess what Liz and her boyfriend do.
I trail after them like a balloon as they scream back and forth and we circle around the garden of the hotel Marquis is housed in. When I excuse myself to the restroom, I'm amused when one girl washing her hands mentions to another that she's a producer, only to be swarmed by a group of hungry young women with bodies like elm saplings. I wiggle past their frenzied figures back to my friends, who finally exhaust themselves. Liz apologizes to me when we get home, but what's there to apologize for? That's showbiz, baby.
One benefit of a post-pandemic world is that Liz does her work from home. The next afternoon I'm lounging by the pool, reading a book on the invention of the cultured pearl, while Liz takes videos of herself swimming with a mermaid tail on.
"Aren't you supposed to be working?" I ask.
"I am working," Liz says brightly. "Working the camera."
Suddenly a call comes through on her cell. It's the pornstar, who, I was told, would be in Las Vegas all week.
She's not in Vegas. She's in town and will be at a sushi bar in Beverly Hills tonight–do Liz and her man want to come?
"He can't make it…" Liz trails in. Throws me a look. Cheshire cat grin. "But my friend is here. I could bring her."
There's the cultural idea of hanging out on Rodeo Drive, and then there's the stark reality of what that means. Seeing as neither of us can will ourselves skinnier, blonder, or less inhibited in the six hours we have, we settle for emergency manicures. My hair is already torched from whatever I did to it the night before, my nails are bitten to the quick, I am, per usual, painfully pale, and my nose is, horror of horrors, my original nose, but I am also never one to turn down an experience. When we set off down Topanga Canyon for Beverly Hills, we look more or less the part.
I ask if Liz has done stuff like this a lot. Her grandparents were from Beverly Hills–her grandfather, whose ring she wears every day, was also a lauded musician and producer.
She admits that, no, this has never been her thing. She says she's glad we can have these experiences together. So am I. Even back at school, in deeply unglamorous northwestern winters, Liz has always made me feel like a rockstar. Simply unstoppable. I couldn't ask for better company, whatever comes next.
We park several blocks away and totter on our heels down to Rodeo.
The place we're headed is called Paris, Tokyo. By the end of the night, we’re referring to it as Berlin, Tacoma.
P, T has styled itself as an east-meets-west-meets-Party-America, cheap fake sakura branches festooning the patio and the ceiling of the interior. One thing I’ve come to loathe about LA is the consistently low production values, despite all appearances to the contrary. A town made of plastic and cardboard, proving once and for all money can’t buy taste or substance.
Perhaps this sounds bitter. In truth there’s a lot about LA to enjoy–you could pick a different neighborhood to explore every day for a year and still have more left to see. The people are routinely sunny, albeit disconnected. The food is exceptional.
At the door of the sushi bar, two extremely glossy, opposite-gender children stand on haughty guard. Liz, ever the blunt force, asks, “Where is Paris, Tokyo?”
The girlchild, lips overfilled and aggressively glossed, replies that this is the place. In a few days’ time, Liz and I will stand in front of the docent at the Getty Villa and she will ask, “So…where’s the villa?” in such a manner as to imply that what we’ve seen so far does not impress her overly much. Many such cases. Always funny.
“Do you have a reservation?” one or both of the doorpeople simper, certain that we don’t.
“Hold on,” says Liz, reaching for her cell.
“You can just tell me the name–” says the doorgirl.
“Hold on,” Liz insists, loving this part. Another major aspect of connection between Liz and I is the lack of giving a fuck. We both routinely do things our way, happy when it causes either a splash or all-out fireworks. People, we agree, are too scared most of the time.
The pornstar picks up on the second ring. Liz asks if she will come escort us from the front, and she obliges.
If you are reading this, you are likely a person who grew up with a consistent internet connection, so I won’t belabor the point: there are a few different kinds of pornstar. The actress in question–and I would certainly credit her as being an actor, she is rather renowned among perverts for handling her roles well–squarely represents, perhaps even embodies the ideal of, the bimbo. A hot word in recent years, but in this case I mean it in the classic sense: bleach blonde, powdery voice, and a history of augmentative procedures longer than my arm. For what it’s worth, cameras flatten curves. So curves must be greatly exaggerated to show up on camera. And so the real world effect of such a surgical design, breasts larger than one’s head, ass like a fleshy shelf, is rather alarming, borderline grotesque. But really, it’s all about how you carry yourself.
She’s completely nice, albeit unimpressed with me, giving me a hug with one arm and a once-over with her eyes that results in a little aw puffed out from between her lips that seems to indicate some central lack on my part. Crushing in the moment, no denying that. But again, this isn’t my world. I wouldn’t expect a seven foot tall alien arachnid to find me very appealing, either.
The group awaiting us inside is largely male, and largely working in fintech. They make mediocre conversation while Liz and I realize we are the only two actually touching the sushi in front of us. After smoking an aggressive amount of marijuana on the patio (people in LA love to vape their weed, I don’t fully understand this), my bid to chill out has taken a full 180 and I am now anxious, paranoid, and a little dehydrated.
When I walk back inside, I ask the girl behind the bar if I can have a glass of water. The bar girl–clad in a satin mini-kimono, cleavage proffered invitingly, smirks and tells me that there’s a water fountain in the hall out back.
Harsh. I confide to Liz when I return to our little corner that, all told, I am not having the hottest time. I’m wearing the scorpion anklet I’d gifted her for her birthday as a choker. I’m dressed in what will, later and in a very different context, be referred to by my friend as “my slinkiest sexdoll outfit.” And I am comfortably strapped into my very favorite Via Spiga snakeskin stilettos. But I am too high, not drunk enough, and feeling increasingly as though I am in a den of vipers. I tell her I’m running to the restroom.
I huff a laugh in the back hall when I see the water fountain, then turn to the Hispanic gentleman positioned in front of the bathrooms. He’s selling a variety of wares for the privileged partygoers: cigarettes, condoms, gum. Several kinds of cologne, priced per spray.
“No perfume for women?” I ask, curious.
“Women are too picky,” he tells me. “You all like different things.”
“That’s true,” I admit, warming to the first semi-normal conversation I’ve had with a real human all night. “You must see all sorts of stuff here.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says, and we chat for a while about that, about our families, about how I’m not used to environments like this, how I’ve been out of my element all weekend with no end in sight.
“Don’t pressure yourself so much. You’re young. Remember to have fun, mama.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and finally enter the bathroom, where a duo of leggy blondes speak rapid Russian at the sink.
When I come back, we have new joiners. There is a young man who looks to be clad in clothing from whatever the high-end version of Hot Topic is (Chrome Hearts, I guess?), and who has the tragic bearing of a wet kitten. I forget his name. Let’s call him Poor Little Meow-Meow, as Liz and I did between ourselves that night and forever after.
The other newcomer is a woman I will refer to as Big Mama Cokefiend. This is clearly her brand, as they say, because, in the tradition of people who do and sell a lot of cocaine, she is wearing head-to-toe, blazing white. White ripped skinnies. White mesh Chanel top over a white bra. Hot pink heels, but a white visor. She has been facially reformed to resemble no one so much as Handsome Squidward. She is very aggressive in her insistence that she’ll “take care of us tonight.” Anything we want.
What we want–what Liz wants, really–is a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Anecdotally, I know she was raised in a Dom Perignon household, but champagne is champagne. In a series of events I can’t recall but remember as a spiral, I’m suddenly in the center of a nautilus of people, the catty, kimono-clad waitress brandishing two bottles of Veuve. One is pink and one is gold.
“Which would you like?” asks the waitress, turning to Big Mama Cokefiend. But Big Mama turns to Liz. And Liz turns to me. “Marielle, you decide.”
I pick pink. Always pink. You’d think that’d be the end of it.
But no. In such locales, buying top shelf anything garners a response. Two of the bar girls come to parade around us with a bubble gun, sparklers, and a little dance that includes clapping. Rich man, rich man! is all I can think. They perform admirably, though there is an underpinning joylessness. Suddenly I understand their attitude.
But, well, they were rude to me. My laughter is not completely kind. I was sure to take photos, certain no one would ever believe me otherwise. You know, back in the real world.
It’s funny the first time. But when we order our second bottle and the dance, the sparklers, the bubbles all appear, it’s hilarious. By the fourth bottle, they’re simply interrupting our conversation.
Our pornstar friend had cleared out around the time Big Mama showed up–perhaps she owed her money–and the cavalcade of young men is now swirling aimlessly about, sort of gravitating to what has finally become properly drunk, joyous conversation between Liz and I. We really do shine hard together. Meow-Meow pours my sake for me; good manners, as it’s bad luck to pour your own. I can only imagine I violated a billion social rules that night, but if so, he is discreet in not mentioning them. At one point I ask his age and am horrified when he says 25. It’s clear that involvement with his mom’s business is killing him, not even slowly. I feel like I’m talking to a premature ghost.
Another character who has joined the scene is a weasley, stage-named Only Fans performer and “aspiring rapper.” She is attached somehow to Meow-Meow and rocks an authentic Prada bag, but has stuffed herself into a dress from Zara (which is shrewd, all told). When she hears Liz produces, she says that she should hook her up. I intervene, really putting the screws to her about her lyrics. Show me some. She fiddles with her phone uselessly for a minute or so and then makes an excuse to be elsewhere. Liz says thanks, asks if I want to take a walk.
We are well and truly trashed, stumbling down the streets of Beverly Hills. We pass by other bars, other haughty doorchildren, a single toy shop with a lifesize unicorn plushie in its window. We pass by Paris Hilton’s sunglass collab release party. We take the piss, laugh about the people we’ve met, are meeting, new faces at our table every time we turn around. And my heels, semi-enchanted, offer me zero blisters in return, better than any glass slipper. When we make it back to the bar, this time they open the door without question. And I observe, vaguely, quite amused with myself, Hey, these ropes are velvet.
A bill slipped to the doorman at the bathroom, who I give a sheepish grin, and we’re huddling in a stall with Big Mama, Meow-Meow, and the rest. Glass slippers, fairytales. Snow White.
One thing about growing up closer to Canada than Mexico is that I have more experience with weed than coke. Raised by people who lived through the ‘80’s, I’ve never felt a particularly strong yen for a drug that seems half as effective as an adderall and also like it makes you twice as annoying. But, well, when in Rome.
Coke does make you annoying. It makes people very annoying. Big Mama starts bragging about Liz’s dad’s credentials, but gets the band wrong. She manages to successfully separate us from each other as we’re transported to a second location, which in retrospect was dicey and could have gone a million different ways, and fast. I’m in the back of what might be the Only Fans girl’s Honda, while she and Meow-Meow have some quiet conversation up front. I wonder in my drug-addled brain if they’re in love, or if this lifestyle precludes real attachment. I ask them what they think of me (coke makes people annoying), which they do not even dignify with a response. Which is a response, sort of: I’m below their notice. Even high on party drugs, I can absorb that.
The second location turns out to be a Cryptocurrency Clubhouse. Remember NFT’s? This is in the brief span of time where serious money is being made off of glorified jpegs. There is a not-so-serious conversation happening regarding such matters at a long table, here in the dead of night, that half our party becomes involved in. I note the whiteboard, where someone has scribbled in a corner, Crypto for women?
I make a crack at some point in this conversation that, gee, it sounds like what these people are trying to invent is some sort of standard-backed, fungible currency. An Austrian gentleman, the proprietor of the clubhouse, says to me, “You’re sort of a smart person, aren’t you?”
If I have a rejoinder, Big Mama has other plans. She grabs Liz and I and tells us to go entertain her friend–he is currently grieving a serious loss. He owns the rights to Donnie Darko, among other things. And he is on the back patio.
So to the concrete patio we go, giggly and high and easily moved around by this forceful woman who is used to getting her way. We’re both spoiled only daughters, pliant as long as we’re having fun. We meet Big Mama’s tragic friend, whose night does not appear to be as high-spirited as our own. He does indeed look sad.
“My daughter,” he tells us. His adult daughter has recently passed away from an aggressive cancer. Millions, he tells us, a little drunk, millions he spent to save her. Couldn’t. He and his wife are divorcing in the aftermath.
A horrible blow. We simply talk, combing back over threads he doesn’t want to lose. He loved her, he loved her. His little girl. We reassure him of his goodness, the world’s goodness, despite the pain. We do our best. It’s a maudlin turn for a night so artificial, but it’s also beautiful, and bizarre. We are all holding hands, tears streaming from our eyes, when one of Big Mama’s burly men comes out to, I guess, exert a presence on the situation.
The three of us whip our heads around in unison and glare. Do you mind? We are clearly having a moment, us and this grieving, middle-aged millionaire. The guy cows at our collective ire, disappears again.
Our new friend, perhaps a little more aware of himself now, turns to me and says, accusingly, “And you? How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven,” I reply, candid. If I’m supposed to lie, deflate the number, it doesn’t occur to me.
“Why aren’t you married? You have no children?”
LA is full of women without children, or whose children are mere accessories to a lifestyle, as with Meow-Meow. Perhaps it’s my relatively wholesome demeanor, my fecund-slash-hourglass-slash-womanly shape highlighted in my dress, or something else altogether that has convinced this man I in particular have some explaining to do for being childless. Mostly I think he is lashing out.
I give him the truth.
“Honestly?” I choose my next words carefully, deliver them as levelly as possible. I watch his eyes. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive the loss, if something happened to them.”
Instantly, no hesitation, he spits back at me, “Well, it’s still worth it.”
I am watching his eyes. And so I see him realize what he has said. And I see him realize what it means for him.
Another round of white, a 4am brunch order, a golf cart on fire in the street. Dizzy, unfocused moments, and then an Uber back to Calabasas as the sun begins to kiss the mountains of Santa Monica.
I fling myself into the bed of the poolhouse, ready to come down, ready to sleep for the next week. I’m awoken thirty-six minutes later by Liz, herself bedraggled and with partygirl makeup smeared fetchingly across her face, as she glowers down at me, poking my shoulder.
“Mom got us hot-stone massages. They’re in twenty minutes. We gotta go.”
“Fuck.” But the massages are great. We return from them to a caviar and prosecco brunch on the veranda, also procured by Liz’s mother, who cackles and editorializes as we tell her this exact tale. Later, we’ll go to Chinatown, her dad’s old stomping grounds. We’ll get good food, including some truly excellent chicken feet, and tarot readings. The psychic will accuse me of seeming sad, and I will not be able to articulate that I am simply at the tail end of a weeklong, old-school LA bender. I also won’t mention that, as a tarot practitioner myself, I think her spread is bullshit. We strut down the deserted Hollywood Walk of Fame at three in the morning. I take a photo with the stars dedicated to Johnny Cash, and to Bela Lugosi.
“If you hang out with those sushi NFT people again,” says Liz’s dad to his 30-something daughter, later, not entirely joking, “you’re grounded.” But he tells me as I leave for the airport that I, at least, am welcome back anytime.
This is a true story.