With The Legal Alien – Monthly Musings from an Englishman in LA
By Darren Darnborough
It all began (as many things do) with a big old Margarita at the Cabo Cantina on Sunset Strip.
Having just picked up another girl from the British-friend conveyor belt at the airport, this local faux-Mexican watering hole, and their 2-for-1 tequila concoctions, was the first stop on the now perfected jet-lag defying activity list.
“So, does everyone in LA have blonde hair and surgical enhancements?” my wide-eyed LA-virgin friend asked. I defended my city’s stereotype, proclaiming negative on all counts. I very rarely see people like that, obviously once in a while, but it certainly isn’t an epidemic.
My integrity and protestation was damned immediately, as on entering the bar through the front door we almost bumped into a girl on the back seat who fit my friend’s clichéd description to the letter, wearing her best red Baywatch lookalike outfit. This was fairly out of the ordinary, but try convincing my friend that, when it’s her first taste of Hollywood.
Predictably the discussion continued from plastic surgery, through modelling, past casting couches, and conveniently ended up with Playboy. My extremely intrigued female friend, whilst affirming her heterosexuality, had a burning desire to hang out at the Playboy Mansion, just for a look, you know.
No chance, I offered. I’ve lived in LA for a year and a half, and have had nothing that resembles an invite from the Hef, without a $15,000 price tag. Yes, it seems that peoplecactually pay that to hang out with girls! One invite I received made a massive deal that there was an open bar, and a four-star hotel room included in the price. For the price of a nice car for one evening’s entertainment, I should hope so!
However, it appears that sexism doesn’t exist in LA… pretty girls can attend for free if selected after submitting their headshot, and agreeing to a dress code that your mother wouldn’t recommend, outside of Sheffield.
I offer this option to my friend but decline to accompany her. There is no way I am paying that price to attend, especially since, being a Brit in LA, I am not short of eye-candy. As it was, the hookup Gods were watching that night, as I awoke to my Blackberry bleeping a fully complimentary invite to the world-renowned Playboy Mansion that coming weekend. I concealed my smirk of excitement as I relayed the details to my friend. I was comped, but couldn’t bring an unpaid guest.
We sprung into action, downloading her headshots, and writing a very sycophantic email to the hosts, explaining my predicament. “I would love to come and cover the event, however I do have a house guest in town, and unfortunately your event falls on her last night. It would be extremely uncouth of me to leave this stunning girl and her equally stunning figure alone on her final evening, and so it is with regret that I must decline your kind invitation. I attach her headshots for your viewing pleasure…”
Result! We arrived at the Playboy Mansion by chauffered shuttle, and were caringly escorted inside, following a stint on the red carpet. The event was a charity benefit for Project Louisiana – an incentive to help mobilise doctors and medical aid to New Orleans to further assist the aftermath of Katrina. Only in LA would you find a situation so serious, and a cause so worthy, generating its vital funds amidst a landscape of stareworthy girls and over-excited guys.
In Britain, the words “charity function” (especially when connected with a political or newsworthy cause) are generally synonymous with a black-tie dinner at The Dorchester,
preceded by yawn-inducing speeches form various boys-done-good, through substandard batch-cooked food, rounded up by anecdote-rallies from former minor TV stars. If you are lucky, you’ll get half a bottle of generic wine, and a goodie bag that resembles a thirdworld Christmas stocking, chock full of flyers, that you’ll never read, probably reiterating the need to recycle.
Here in LA, the sponsored bars are flowing quicker than Kanye West in a rap-off; the dress code is everything from suave to questionable; the music is fun and plentiful; the food is edible; and you are visually entertained by body-painted playboy bunnies, and amateur models, eager to exploit their talent in The Grotto.
Keeping in the theme of animalistic behaviour, there is a Zoo in the grounds housing everything from a fine collection of peacocks, cockatoos to monkeys to iguanas and various
other beasts. A games room brings an element of play to the event, with old-school video arcades, foozball, and other fun.
Hats off to the organisers though. We all had a great time, they raised their funds, they raised awareness, and my friend got the pictures to make her boy mates envious for a lifetime. LA may be seen as fake and shallow, but I find the opposite – they know what works and aren’t afraid to exploit and flaunt it.
And as I’m sipping a Tequila Sunrise, flanked by gorgeous girls, and great music, am I really in a position to argue?
Darren Darnborough is a British expat and journalist living in Los Angeles. www.DarrenD.co.uk
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