lies of the beautiful people

“I am a gate crasher at the party of beautiful people,” announced D., a successful dot.com guy turned film producer. We were at the Roosevelt on Friday night. Kid Rock and David Spade were holding court a few tables over. D. mentioned that GQ is doing some kind of article on him: “it has a ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ kind of angle.” I first met D. when my then-boyfriend (now my husband) and I were living in Silicon Valley — Mountain View, followed by a handful of years in Palo Alto. D. is intense, tends to hunch up in the shoulders, makes a quick and fleeting kind of eye contact as if he’s afraid of being pinned down in conversation. Friday night, though, he was the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. The fast life in LA has opened him up a bit, I think, loosened the set of his shoulders a little, and might end up being good for him if it doesn’t kill him first. “There are three lies that girls in the LA scene — the ‘scene’ scene,” he said, simultaneously making quote marks in the air and gesturing to the people around us, “will tell you. One is: ‘I don’t go out that much.’ The next is: ‘I don’t do coke.'” This made the guy next to D. erupt into laughter. “And the third is: ‘I don’t have casual sex.'”

When the bars on the hotel patio closed down the action moved inside the hotel, where people wandered the hallways looking for a party. I hung out with D. and the others in D.’s room until I couldn’t take it anymore and left around 4 am. Half an hour later someone smashed through the stylish paper partition dividing D.’s balcony from his neighbor’s — it was Kid Rock and his entourage, who made D.’s room one of their own, apparently, and kept the party going well into sunrise. Huh. The one chance I had to party like a rock star with, or at least alongside, an actual rock star, and I missed it by thirty minutes. Not that D. was much better; he was more of a silent witness from his zonked-out position on the bed.

Bill the Hotel Guy was also at the Roosevelt — dropping by LA between stints of European travel. Bill’s an easy-going, laid-back, fashionably tousled thirtysomething who could pass for a college student, and because I see a particular side of him — the side that goes to Ibiza and parties for days — it startles me a little when, for example, a buzz interrupts some fun but idiotic and slightly drunken conversation we were having and Bill takes out his Sidekick and turns sheepish: “Sorry,” scanning the text on the screen, “I just bought some condos in Bulgaria.”

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