With The Legal Alien – Monthly Musings from an Englishman in LA
By Darren Darnborough
LA is just like Paris. Not the French Capital, with the Eiffel Tower, frogs’ legs, and stripey sweaters, but the tabloid-fuelled, blonde heiress that we across the world have come to know and love.
The reason for my observation is that in the last year of my new life here in LA, I really feel as though the city has a distinct personality, and the intrinsic characteristics of a real human.
And simply put, LA personified is Paris Hilton. It’s inherently glamorous, but not perfect, and a little rough around the edges. It epitomises celebrity, and attracts inexplicable wealth. It’s one continuous party, interlaced with many, many dramas. Totally in its own bubble, it very rarely responds to the world outside, has no clue what is going on, yet the world looks back on longingly and addictively. It is frequented by many people, nice to visit, but few stay for long. But most importantly of all, not everyone appreciates it.
People here seem to be divided into three camps: they love it; they hate it; or they are
indifferent, but feel they have to be here. I have travelled a lot, but never have I come
across a place so unique that people flock there for a career regardless of their feelings. For instance, you may need to live in a financial district if you want to be an investment banker, but that could be in London, New York, Tokyo or Hong Kong. You may want to be a ski instructor, but you have the choice of the Alps, Colorado, Canada, and more. But if you want to be in the
entertainment business, LA is your place. If you want to be a pilot, don’t have vertigo.
The people that really enjoy it here embrace it. I am one of those people. I really feel like I should have been born here, it suits my personality. Despite still being a junior Hollywooder, I have the feeling I will be here for years to come. Everything from the social aspect, the careers, the ambition, and the scenery all contribute to my daily pleasure.
My best friend recently came to visit for his birthday and to say he had the holiday of his life is an understatement. He now loves the place, wants to move here, and has a definite synergy. To be honest, we didn’t really pull out the stops, just lived our normal lives with him tagging along. However, in the space of two weeks, he filled a suitcase with sponsored freebies; was photographed on the red carpet; ate and drank compliments of exclusive venues; spent his 21st birthday in Vegas, with VIP access to top hotels, strip clubs, gay clubs, straight clubs, after-hours clubs, spas and pool parties; met celebrities including Victoria Beckham and Daryl Hannah; indulged in hikes, beach life, city life; took a trip in the Goodyear Blimp….and got picked up by Paris Hilton.
When I moved to LA, my friends didn’t care where I was living, how I was getting on, or whether I liked it. All they wanted to know was if I had met Paris yet. I am proud to say “mission accomplished” after a mere 11 months. My visiting friend took a whole eight days.
He now has a pub story for life. If he is ever on a game-show he definitely has a quirky anecdote for his claim to fame. His grandchildren will hear this one. Whilst in a hot and happening new Hollywood club, that has had at least six “official launch nights” to date, we bump into Ms. Hilton and entourage and get introduced to her via a friend. She proceeds to tell my friend he’s “hot” (a word I honestly never realized was in her vocabulary) and says they should go for dinner sometime.
She then extends her warm invitation to a party she is throwing that weekend, which we politely accept, along with her number, whilst keeping all necessary grace and decorum as expected of young British socialites. But behind the closed doors of my apartment this soon dissipated into a frenzy of juvenile chanting, reminiscent of a bunch of boy scouts that just clocked a Girl Guide in her underwear.
“We’ve got Paris’ num-BER! We’ve got Paris’ num-BER!”
Quite.
We arrived at the party in Malibu, expecting some Hilton-branded excuse to fill up a nightclub, to promote some obscure product but were shocked to find we’d actually been invited to a fairly intimate garden BBQ party at her personal home. She greeted us at the door and clearly had no idea who I or my friend was, but still proclaimed he was “hot” and proceeded to pick him up all over again.
Poor Adrian Grenier.
Not many guys from suburban London can claim that they’ve been chatted up by Paris Hilton. Twice. But then not many people would believe him either. The one piece of advice that I got from my seasoned Hollywood landlord when I arrived, is to be very careful what you tell people back home.
“They won’t believe you” he exclaimed. “What happens in your day to day life here, will be so way-out back there that people will either think you are full of yourself, full of crap, or both.”
And it’s true. The more I go back to the UK, the less I can talk about incidents here, without meeting looks of contempt or jealousy. So I’ve stopped talking about stuff, and I would never write these things down for a magazine or website.
Oops.
Darren Darnborough is a British expat and journalist living in Los Angeles. www.DarrenD.co.uk
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