I don't get LA.
I finished up my work type stuff early today, so I decided to drive up to Beverly Hills and see what all the fuss was about.
TMZ tells me on a daily basis that the best (non Rodeo Drive) shopping in the LA area is on Robertson Avenue, and I figured that if it was good enough for Lindsey, it was good enough for me, so I fired up the GPS and headed out for alien territory.
And alien indeed.
I parked in a garage on Roberston and headed out into the daylight...and almost crashed headfirst into an Olsen twin. I don't know which one, but I saw her and she saw me and gave me a look as if to say "how dare you venture into this territory without permission or a Black American Express Card and why aren't you wearing anything from my clothing line, you bitch", but whatever.
I headed down the street in pursuit of good shopping.
Some places were great. Some places treated me like I should forfeit my financial and any potential trust fund records before they would hand over a $58 dollar belt.
And then I got to the Ivy.
For those of you who aren't familiar, the Ivy is the famed LA hotspot....THE place to see and be seen. And any celebrity who shows up there and claims that they don't want publicity is LYING through their shiny white veneers.
I approached the Ivy with curiosity. It was, after all, the Ivy. It was then that I deduced the challenge of being a mere pedestrian on this most famous of blocks. In front of me, blocking my path, were at least 5 valet parking guys, 4 paparazzi, 3 people who were waiting for their car, and 4-5 random people milling about.
I had a choice. Turn around and go back, or venture forward to the crosswalk and promises of Intermix and Vince.
I glanced up at the patio in front of the Ivy and happened to notice that the people in these privileged spots were mostly interested in what was happening on the sidewalk. Who was arriving...who was leaving...who was getting their picture taken.
It was through all of this that I needed to pass.
So I squared my shoulders, angled my head down, positioned my shopping bags in front of me...and charged.
In the process, I'm pretty sure that I sliced up a paparazzi with my shopping bag. I also have a very clear recollection of an SUV pulling up to the valet, containing people who were clearly "somebody", and saw the self-imposed look of distaste on their faces at being forced to expose themselves to the waiting cameras. Even though NOBODY goes to the Ivy unless THEY WANT TO BE SEEN and PHOTOGRAPHED. The food can't be that fucking magical, people.
Regardless, I made it through the gauntlet and survived.
(Note: turns out nobody took a picture of the people in the SUV...they looked disappointed.)
Interesting place, Robertson Avenue, but I won't be going back.
I made some friends at Splendid, LF and Surly Girl. The attitudes that I encountered at the rest of the boutiques on that street (with the exception of Lisa Kline) left me with a bad taste in my mouth.
This is definitely not a confidence issue. I can walk into Prada or Sears with the same level of attitude. I can only guess that business is off the charts for these places, right? If they can afford to drive away paying customers with disinterest and attitude.
And the famed Kitson? Ugh. Like Claire's Boutique on steroids.
I went to Beverly Hills out of curiosity and a need for cute pants.
I found cute pants, but I feel like I kind of surrendered a piece of my soul in exchange.
And if you see a cameraman on TMZ with a gigantic paper cut? All me!