Ah, Rodeo Drive. Playground of the privileged and rich; where the movie starts and the heiresses do their shopping (and heirs too, it’s just that nobody seems as interested in the antics of those guys). So, we hadn’t showered or shaved in a few days, and dressed in our finest (dirty shorts and smelly t’s), we headed to Beverly Hills.
Funny story – and true – is that driving around looking for parking, we passed a blonde in a cocktial dress and fuck-me pumps. “Was that..?” said Stig. “…Pia Haraldsen?” I replied. And indeed it was. So within five minutes of arriving, we had already spotted our first vapid and overprivileged pseudo-celeb (for those of you not Norwegian, she’s basically the local Paris Hilton – famous for nothing beyond being born with right name, connections and dearth of talent).
I’m not going to elaborate on the stores – they’re just fancier versions of what you find elsewhere in malls and such. Besides, we had bigger fish to fry.
Hollywood Boulevard is a nightmare, but we knew that. Grauman’s Chinese Theater is a glorified mall and I find myself almost freaking out what with all the people milling about. I thought there’d be more had- and footprints than there are, but maybe they move some elsewhere after a while? Not that I really counted, and you can’t when you have to part a sea of people in order to get a look at it all. We had important business to attend to, though: we needed to find a certain star on the Boulevard, and this pilgrimage was part of what LA is about to us. So off we went. I’d found an address on Wikipedia before we left, but hadn’t written it down, nor had I remembered to check it on my laptop, but that was also partly because the Internet connection at the Carmel totally blew. I mean, goddammit!
So we headed to where I think it was. It wasn’t there, nor does the block even go that far (well, the part with stars on it, that is), so we crossed the street and headed down the other way. After many blocks of names known and unknown, we decided we’d missed it. At this point, we were down to the late 30s, so it made sense. And back up we went. When back at the corner by the parking garage, Stig decided to go back to the car. “We can’t find it,” he said. So I replied “Well, let’s get a photo of the Hasslehoff one, just so it’s not a total bust”.
Stig posed over the star, but his heart wasn’t really in it. The VIF scarf was placed next to it unenthusiastically. A family of five walked by and we heard that father say “Heh, Hasslehoff,” in a knowing voice. I said “Come on, one last try” Stig concurred and less than half a block further up, we found it: Chuck Norris. Joyous times. Photos were shot, and the day was saved and as we headed back to the car, we heard the family father belt out “Chuck Norris. NICE!”
At this point, we headed back to the hotel. We had dinner and then hit a bar for a few drinks; sitting outside watching people and traffic, I saw a big car with an open window, and who was in it? Larry “Seinfeld/Curb Your Enthusiasm” David. Granted, I was a few beers in, but it couldn’t have been anyone but him. That was my first celebrity spotting. (And last – Pia Haraldsen doesn’t count)
We ended up in bar with a smoking hot bartender, and what was supposed to be just a stop in the barhopping became the final destination. Everyone were looking at her, and she knew too. After many beers and some whisky, we stumbled home. The next morning wasn’t something I looked forward to.