RagHag Diva

Dissecting all the weekly trash celebrity magazines so YOU don't have to!

Monday, July 17, 2006

RagHag Goes to Hollywood


On Friday, the entire Diva family decided it would be fun to go to the source of my rants - Hollywood, C.A.

If we were thinking clearly, we probably wouldn't have chosen Friday to go. Why? Well, traffic is as bad as everyone says it is in and around L.A. and on a Friday, it's particularily shitty. In theory, it should have taken us 90 minutes to get there. it took 2 hours and 15 minutes. Not bad, considering it took 3+ hours to get home. Also, there's this heatwave thing happening all over the country (except, as our weatherperson keeps reminding us, in our former hometown of Seattle, where it's a perfect 71 degrees) so it was 95 degrees. Yep, only 3 degrees more and we would have been a walking Nick Lachey band.

My above complaints should be a tipoff to you readers that, although I love reading about Hollywood and making fun of Hollywood, I am so not Hollywood. Hollywood hipsters would not complain about old-lady topics such as traffic and weather. I'm much better suited in a surburban Starbucks sippin down Frappachinos before heading of to Target.

So we first go to Rodeo Drive and I tell Mr. Diva to not even park, because a. it's torture to go into stores with beautiful clothes that I could never afford; and b. the only people walking around there were tourists in capri pants and flip flops taking pictures of themselves under the Rodeo Dr. street sign.

So we instead went to Robertson Blvd, where all the shops that are written up in the rags are located - Kitson, Lisa Kline, Ghost and of course, paparazzi-central: The Ivy.

After figuring out we were on the wrong side of Robertson (we were south of Wilshire - which really has just a bunch of antique shops and nail salons) we made it to our destination - Hollywood Heaven. We found a spot right on Robertson and scoped out the scene. Then, after strapping Baby Diva on Mr. Diva's back, we headed to Kitson.

Kitson was a really weird experience. I thought it would be, I don't know, nicer, I guess is the word I'm looking for. As I told Nuwanda Girl - it reminded me of Urban Outfitters, but more crowded and less organized. The clothing there wasn't inexpensive, but it was cheap. The lighting was bright and garish. The music was loud and typical of what you would expect from a store that screams "We're so fucking hip we can't even stand ourselves." The clientele was young, thin Paris Hilton wanna-be's. The Diva family stuck out like a big fat red oozing pimple on otherwise flawless skin.

So I started flipping through the racks, and Mr. Diva whispers to me, "First Sighting! First Sighting!"

"Who?" I say thru clenched teeth, looking as inconspicuous as possible."

"Brittany Murphy, to my left."

I turn and see no one except a mob of anorexics and a young male paparazzo looking rather bored.

"Now to your left," he mutters again.

I turn and see, Brittany Murphy.

I know, on the celebrity richter scale, she's about a 3.7. But I loved her in Clueless. Too bad she has no resemblance to that person anymore.

She is really, really, really tiny. But her head is huge. A balloon on a string, NG said. Exactly. A Bobblehead.

But the weirdest thing about her is by far her legs. I selected the above picture specifically to back up my observations. Her calves are like sticks - no muscle at all, right? But then her thighs are really curvy and fleshy, in comparison. Most of the anorexitantes have no meat on their legs whatsoever, thighs OR calves. It looked really freakish.

But she has beautiful skin and she was really friendly with the staff. The bored paparazzo took a couple pictures and then went back to just being bored. I have a feeling he claimed Kitson as his turf - and if any other paparazzi came, a fistfight would ensue. Either that or Kitson hired him.

Regardless, I didn't have the balls to get my camera out and take a pic myself. I know - wtf should I care? I'm not there to compete with these people. I was there to report back to you, my loyal readers. But, basically, I felt like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles at the dance. She should have talked to Jake Ryan, but she just couldn't do it. So she sat in a torn-apart car in the mechanic shop with Farmer Ted.

So we left, went to Tory Burch, Lisa Kline, etc. and then decided to walk past The Ivy.

The Ivy is a little restaurant with an outdoor seating area that celebs go to when they want to be seen, usually to put break-up rumors to rest. The funny thing is we saw NO paparazzi there at all. The only men standing outside were 5 valet parkers. But it was packed full of people, and while we were walking past, a bunch were waiting for their cars.

I walked ahead of Mr. and Baby Diva and brushed shoulders with someone who looks exactly like Jessica Simpson, collagen fish lips and all. I was cool, though, and just kept walking, knowing that Mr. Diva would confirm my suspicions if they were right. I waited a few paces before turning around.

"It wasn't her," he simply stated.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah - that chick was too fat."

"Well, I'll check Perez tonight and see if she is in town today."

And, in fact, she WAS in town, because later she went to the nightclub Hyde and bumped into Nick Lachey and his new woman, Vanessa Milano Cookie.

And she IS curvy - much more so than most of the chicks in LA-LA land. But there was no paparazzi. And no CaCee Cobb. And no gay hairdressers.

So it could have been just one of the trillions of bims who spend hours of times and loads of cash trying to look like Jessica Simpson.

We drove back thru Bel-Air to get to the Highway from Hell (i.e. 405) and did not see one person enjoying their palatial monstrosities they call home. But we did see numerous Hispanic landscapers mowing lawns.

Los Angeles. Not for me. I'm sure they are crushed.

2 Comments:

Anonymous Nuwanda Girl said...

Still bummed there isn't a real Peach Pit, and Peach Pit After Dark.

6:05 AM  
Anonymous Mot said...

I am looking into opening a restaurant called The Peach Pit and a bar called the Peach Pit Afterdark here in michigan. It has been a real bitch to get the Spelling's to sign off on the naming rights. It's as if Aaron Spelling is dead Oh and I need to get investors to put up most of the cash too. Calls are in to Joe E. Tata, Jennie Garth, Gabrielle Carteris and Carol Potter but none of them have called me back. I was hoping to hire them to work at the restaurant.

7:46 AM  

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