Felix da Housecat’s “Madame Hollywood” has inspired me to write a little something regarding the lyrics. So, I’m splitting it into parts.

Enjoy.

<3 b

“You say I’m not underground.

I’m rich, I’m famous, I vanish, I’m glitz

I am the story; I am the star,

you know, like the Big Dipper.”

The first time I saw him he was leaning on a stone bar at the Playboy Mansion. His eyes were a cocktail mixture of shock and bliss as he nervously washed down his drink. He scanned the premises and when his black, wavy hair fell into his face, he seemed to gratefully welcome the little wall of protection between him and this strange place…

 by  Ruven Afanador

The first time I saw her, I realized how easy it was to illegally slip into Hollywood clubs. I knew for a fact, courtesy of IMDB.com that she was only 16. Although she was only known for one film that seemed to hit the screens ages ago, she was surrounded by the likes of Ashton Kutcher, Giovanna Ribisi, and other name actors and actresses. Her teenage figure hugged the wall, shoulders slumped, as if praying she could only disappear. She nervously, and dubiously, sipped her mixed drink…

 by Terry Richardson

My first encounter with him was on this first evening. I recognized him from that one flick a while back and, with hopes of not sounding conceited, he was impressed with me and made that clear. He hid behind a friend who kindly introduced us: “This is my boy [so and so]. And you are?”

“Brenda,” I smiled.

The actor shyly nodded with his dimples in full effect. Court pulled me away for more food, but I continued to be rattled by my attraction. Has-been, never-was, who cares? This guy was adorable, and interested. Unfortunately, I’m as shy as he was and the most we both mustered was a sad wave goodbye. “He’ll be back,” I reasoned.

My first encounter with her was a mere catch of each other’s eyes. “Brenda! I did a line in the bathroom with [a famous actor]! [So and so], man!” my friend clamored over to announce. The actress broke her glimpse with me quickly and shyly took another sip from her straw.

Please do, fast forward months and months.

My second run-in with my infatuation beheld a brand new man. Looking back, he had attended the last party with the cast of what would become a hit HBO show. Suddenly the girls knew the boy’s name and, standing at the same stone bar, he, this time, was engulfed in blondes with inflated assets…

Regardless, I was hardly deterred. We had a “moment” and all I recalled was his puppy dog eyes on me.

They still were.

Except, there was no “puppy dog” left.

Over sushi and cocktails, Courtney and I stood in clear view of the bar. My eyes steadied onto his and his onto mine. He grabbed the nearest bunny and drew her closer into himself, licking his lips, eyes focused on me.

Just to be clear: “Court, he is looking at me. Isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, flustered.

His hand reached into the back of the bunny’s lingerie, as he kissed her neck, eyes on me. “He can have anyone he wants now,” I whispered, sadly.

Suddenly, I didn’t want him anymore.

As for the actress, her slumped shoulders traveled back and her bosom is now held high. Second encounter: She banged ferociously on a VIP only door screaming, “I’m mother f*ckin’ [so and so], let me in NOW!” When the ironically invincible-looking bouncer cowered at this little girl’s demand, he swung open the door to reveal Paris Hilton and her standing proudly on the other side.

I rolled my eyes.

Third encounter: Formentioned party where the young starlet responds to autograph requests with “f*ck you”; yeah, this’d be the starlet.

Congratulations you two. You’re the Big Dipper.

 from Postsecret

Felix da Housecat’s “Madame Hollywood” has inspired me to write a little something regarding the lyrics. So, I’m splitting it into parts.

Enjoy.

<3 b

“Just imagine my face in the magazines.

People analyzing my look, my body, or any plastic surgery,

you know, like the Big Dipper.

And maybe one day you can shake my hand, on the Planet Hollywood.”

Daria in French Vogue

As I sorted through her walk-in closet, I heard her say the most cliché thing. The one thing you suspect they all think, but only say on the harshest of days; the days when there’s simply nothing left to be said.

With tears screaming down her face: America expects me to be this happy, perfect person all the time…and I just can’t be! I just can’t!

I rolled my eyes at the rolling racks of designer clothes and sighed to myself. Could it be that the supposed plight of the rich and famous is indeed true? Has one lost herself and her identity to the machine of Hollywood? Has one woman dug herself so deeply in it that she begins to believe that without perfection she isn’t worthy of the spotlight?

All eyes on her. E! Channel speculating on a “drinking problem” that I knew to be untrue. Soppy tissues lining her bedroom floor with her reputation on the line. No husband or lover to scoop her into his arms. And certainly no higher being to cry out to. Just a pint-size woman verses the world of entertainment…

 by Juergen Teller

Meanwhile, I stood in one of her closets with my current biggest concern. “Hmm, which hot Gucci tank goes best with this bomb L.A.M.B jacket?”

Suddenly, the notion of a celebrity having a stylist made more sense than ever. The question on my mind was so petty compared to this single woman’s world falling to pieces. And yet, sadly, my job was completely relevant. Because, the lady is right: America expects her to be happy, perfect, and most certainly stylish. No matter what.

Madame Hollywood pt. 1

Felix da Housecat’s “Madame Hollywood” has inspired me to write a little something regarding the lyrics. So, I’m splitting it into parts.

Enjoy.

<3 b

Everybody wants to be Hollywood

The fame, the vanity the glitz, the stories.

One day I become a great big star,

you know, like the Big Dipper.

And maybe one day you can visit my condo on a big hill,

you know, like 9-0-2-1-0…

Numero 75 Place de la Conconrd Caroline Trentini par Mongiello et Sanchez 7

Well, I’ve been in a mansion, on a hill, you know, in 9-0-2-1-0. To the two early 20-something residents of this house, “Hollywood” was indeed an adjective instead of a town. To many people it is. Tourists are surprised to visit that infamous Walk of Fame along the Kodak theater; all the “glitz & glamour” they once imagined has now become a haven for failed actors who dress in decrepit costumes hoping you’ll offer a few bucks to take a picture with them.

But that “Hollywood” is not what we’re talking about here. I’m talking about these two boys who invited Courtney and I to their private party after having danced the night away at some Hollywood nightclub.

It was early morning now and I held in my hand a Mapquest printout on how to arrive at this soiree. It felt safe enough as a slew of people hopped into an array of SUVs and sports cars all agreeing to follow each other there. Too embarrassed by my beaten car, I dared not call for anyone to wait on us; I would rely on the paper to point me there.

Court masterfully pointed us through the winding, narrow-road hills to this fortress. It was a pale yellow stucco castle that had a pool so huge, it actually wrapped around from the backyard, looking like a chlorinated moat. The stairs’ pillars were not inviting, but daunting.

Regardless, we were invited.

I valeted my beauty and we entered the tall white doors. The marble floors led to a game room to the right, dance floor ahead, and kitchen to the left. Wide marble stairs in the foyer were blocked by a man that looked more like someone’s prison friend then a hired bouncer. I smiled at him shyly.

I passed on the “Cristal? Hypnotic?”

“Nah, we’re cool.”

I went to where I was more at home: the game room. Pinball machines, shooting range games, Pac Man = heaven. This glorious room ran its course though, so Court and I moved to the kitchen.

On the way, the halls were covered in giant, framed movie posters, each signed by every big actor in them from the A’s of Tom Cruise to the B’s of Tara Reid. Court and I gathered the boys’ parents were producers of some sort. After all, we’d been researching and observing enough to discover they didn’t work, nor did their parents live there.

In the kitchen, the younger son placed an arm around me and led us around introducing us to Dennis Rodman, Leonardo DiCaprio & his small entourage, and other friends. When I got chilly, he placed a Gucci jacket over my shoulders and disappeared to mingle, “Don’t run away with that coat!”

“I’ll try,” I joked.

He didn’t smile.

My towering friend and I found ourselves very quiet so we chose a plush couch with a clear view of several rooms. We spent a good 15 minutes watching a stickly, trashed-outta-her-mind almond skinned beauty dancing. A crystal chandelier hung a mere inch from her head and with every move she missed it only narrowly. “Err-e-body in the club gettin’ tipsy!” she yelled while a shady crowd of boys increased around her, almost drooling over her hopelessly, disadvantaged state.

As Court and I stood, applause erupted over the entrance of the older brother, Lindsay Lohan, and a few others. He shined as an outgoing, partier as he danced around, hugging and kissing everyone. Soon, glass bowls of weed were spread on each table in the same manner trail mix would be at the ordinary suburban party.

The boy went to each of us announcing, “All the coke you need, UPSTAIRS!”

He helped himself up the staircase, but the “bouncer” was still strict to others, “Friends and girls only up there.”

We remained observant on the couch until we got bored of people watching. (This wait for boredom was, naturally, taking longer than usual, haha.)

Finally, however, word spread that cops were outside so Court and I were down to leave. By this time the garage was wide open displaying a Ferrari and Lamborghini (one for each son, we assumed).

As we waited for my car a certain young starlet was departing in the backseat of a Navigator. Two guys from the party asked for her autograph to which she responded, “F*ck you, guys.”

“F*ck you, very much!” they replied.

Courtney and I sunk into my car’s tan seats: “Hollywood” we agreed.

 by Zerocomplex

I am kinda speechless right now, I suppose.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with time, and other moments pass by so ferociously I barely remember the outcome.

Grounding. Grounding is what I am in constant need of. I spent the day walking around the 7^th floor of a Beverly Hills hotel skimming through high-end designer dresses and shoes worth more than my entire wardrobe. Certain celebrities and high-powered men’s wives and fiancés came to choose their ideal Oscar dress. The designers’ employees offered us all champagne, expensive chocolates, and cocktails as our eyes shared in the feast of fabrics.

Can they tell my car is a dented, mangled Honda? Can they tell that underneath it all my bra is Target and my heart is pounding?…

I laughed. “Well, any of them. But I have no place to go.”

“Certainly that’s not true,” he mused.

But it is. I may or may not find some strange Oscar parties to attend, but without grounding it’s all in vain. And without a dress, it’s all an embarrassment.

A Maserati pulled into another hotel to drop off a movie star while a broken-hearted homeless man shielded himself from the rain with a plastic Barnes & Noble bag. Meanwhile, yours truly gently stuffed the last of the borrowed Stuart Weitzman shoes into my trunk and shut it with a sigh.

At the end of the day, I wonder who really believes in glamour. I have been hired to deceive you all. I hate to disappoint but glamour doesn’t exist. At this point I’ve seen enough coke smeared noses due to broken hearts, heard enough sexual exploits due to lying promises, and smelled enough celebrity body odor due to nervous sweat.

I am not ungrateful. I am not disenchanted. I am seeing the truth.

 from Her Famed Good Looks