LA Douchebag Project

One of my best friends from college, Tiffany, had a visit to Los Angeles that coincided with this blog-adventure.  Tiffany is a VP over at the LA Douchebag Project’s New York City office. You can thank her for the headshots. Needless to say, all of us over at west coast headquarters were thrilled to have her.

Per the usual, I surveyed my pool of friends to gauge interest:

“[Friend who is exhausted by my antics], would you want to smoke a ton and eat at some asshole restaurant with me? Take pictures? It’s for my blog.”

Living 3000 miles away most of the time, Tiffany was by far the most enthusiastic. The girl is always down.  Once she found out we had our sights set on the Chateau Marmont, our friend, Erin (http://larosaknows.com/), not only cared to join, but was also willing to drive and let us use her apartment to, uh, medicate beforehand.

We did. And things worked out  p e r f e c t l y.

From the backseat of Erin’s car, on Sunset Boulevard, I saw a hazy Chateau Marmont materialize behind the palm trees; nestled into the side of the West Hollywood Hills…like some gay, French castle. A gay, French castle…full of secrets.

Parking is an issue all over Los Angeles. It’s absolutely horrible. Everywhere.  All the time. Anyone who tells you otherwise lives here and is lying to try and get you to visit—don’t do it. It’s a trap!  Knowing this, we still took our chances and attempted to park on the narrow, winding backstreet that wraps behind the building. We succeeded. Oh, the Chateau had valet. Of course it did, even IHOP does, but I ain’t even ‘bout that.

In a never-ending attempt to call attention to my awkward self, I led the three of us in a sweaty march uphill to the Chateau, past the valet booth, and up the hidden driveway to the entrance. Once inside, I gulped rich-people air and let myself appreciate the decor while we approached the restaurant’s host stand. The Chateau had a detailed, Golden-Age-of-Hollywood interior that accented my significantly tackier Modern-Day-Hollywood exterior…in my own mind, at least.

“Table for three. Outside.”

I’m tempted to say that everyone in the courtyard restaurant noticed I was dressed like a complete douchebag, but it’s actually funnier to admit the truth: that my appearance didn’t raise a single eyebrow.  People looked up when we first entered, as is the standard procedure in Los Angeles, but only for a quick moment. Once my fedora, blazer, and sunglasses assured them I was one of their own, they went back to their tiny salads and expensive glasses of wine. I was left to strut to my seat undisturbed.

Erin, Tiffany, and I settled in at our table while the sun descended behind the garden walls of the enclosed outdoor space. Facing out, we perused the limited menu and surveyed the crowd to make sure things were as they should be:

Everyone’s wearing sunglasses?  Good. Heating lamps are on because it dipped below 75 degrees? OK. Botoxed faces staring vacantly across from one another? Check. LeBron James sipping champagne in a track suit?  Perfect!

Finally, we could order. Knowing that I wasn’t the most famous person in the room allowed me to relax, but at the same time, had my insecurities flaring up. I harnessed these emotions and used them to push my LA Douchebag transformation forward.

“I’ll have a glass of the Riesling, the chicken sandwich, and why is our table the only one without a heating lamp? Thanks.”

If I didn’t have my giant, dark sunglasses on, he might have read my eyes and known how sorry I was to have to do that to him. Instead, he was faced with his own reflection, wheeling an enormous, inconvenient, weighty heat lamp over to our table. This type of behavior is to be expected from an LA Douchebag restaurant patron, I comforted myself, especially when he’s stoned and pressed for good writing material.

Don’t worry. If I ever see the server again, I’ll give him a headshot.  He’s earned it.

—Part 3 coming soon!