One fall Thursday evening, I accompanied some friends to the Magic Castle. This place is invite only, and supposedly you can only be invited by other magicians. An acquaintance of my friend Michelle, was with was currently dating a magician, and by default I went. Michelle and I had met previously during extra work. We lived close to each other. She was a loud boisterous Greek/Syrian girl from Boston, where I was this quiet Midwestern girl who was inexperienced. She always invited me out on the town when she got invitations. We were complete opposites but bonded because we were both new to the city and had broken up from long term relationships. I never really had club or “going out” clothes before this, in Ohio I was only there for several months after I turned 21. I was a good girl, and never had a fake ID or tried to sneak into bars. My 21st birthday was with my family at TGIFridays, where mhy parents treated me to a strawberry daiquiri, pretty sad.
The Ohio bars I went to, which were infrequently, did not include dress attire. Wear clothes and shoes, be 21, and you are in. Los Angeles was a different animal. Not only would you not be allowed to enter with sneakers or jeans, but you must show some skin to get to the front of the line. There were literal red carpet lines, lists, and doormen you had to flirt with. Michelle would wear low cut shirts, short skirts, and high heels, and tried to be a mentor to me on how to fake your way to the front. I thought I was learning and had purchased tan vinyl pants and extra low tops. In retrospect, they were autrocious, but nobody told me otherwise.
Tonight was different and required slightly more class. We were already on a list and would go to Hollywood and Vine, which was less pretenscious than West Hollywood, at least at that time on a week night. That night I chose to dress slightly more conservatively. I didn’t know what the attire at a magician’s gathering called for. I was extra sweet in a cream turtleneck sweater, short denim skirt, and knee high brown boots.
When I meet new people and I only know one person in the group I’m with, I feel a bit uncomfortable. In Los Angeles, I pushed myself to go out because I needed to meet new friends. Liquid courage always helps, but in Los Angeles it can be costly. I generally only could afford at most two drinks, which is enough to make me relaxed. But tonight was special. Open bar but no food, a pure winning combination. We sat through a magic show, which I believe this person we came with performed in. It was nothing spectacular, probably those same things you see when entertained by an audience warm up guy. But the drinks mixed with a magic show made for a blurry surreal experience. In retrospect, I think a spell was cast that night.
We went to a small bar in the Hollywood and Vine area, empty at this hour on a Thursday night. The guys we were with bought a round of drinks. I looked at the door at what prospects would walk in. And a familiar face entered the room. He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and workout pants. But I didn’t know him personally, just through television. It was Adam Sandler. I was already inebriated that evening, add that to the fact that I seem to have no shame when approaching celebrities. I walked up to him alone and said, “Your friend stood me up.” He replied “who?” I answered back “Norm McDonald” “Well I’m going to see him tomorrow, we’re playing golf, I’ll yell about it to him then.” We took a quick photo, as I always had my camera handy. And he went on his way.
I recalled that a bassist was djing on Thursdays at the nearby Beauty Bar. This wasn’t just any bassist, but that of my favorite current band Maroon 5. This was before they hit it big internationally, and they were still playing monthly shows at the local bars. I asked my friends to tag along with me to the bar, but they wanted to stay at the low key stranded bar. I thought I would leave briefly and meet up with them later. I just wanted to make an appearance.
There were ulterior motives, as there was hope that my current crush was there, Adam Levine. Before he was one of the hottest guys in America, he was simply a guy who rocked it on stage, seemed pre-emptively cocky, and in my mind there was always some chance or hope for just a one night fling. Having only been in one adult relationship from the age of 17-21, who took up my “good” years of learning how to taunt men, I was naïve. I reverted back to my flirting ways of my teenage years, asking guys for a ride home. As a sophomore in high school, I had done this before I could drive to avoid taking the bus home. I would primarily only ask the hot seniors on the basketball team. Even though they may live miles away from me, it wouldn’t stop me from asking. And once it worked, nothing happened with that lead basketball player, but I did land a ride. So maybe it would work with Adam. We weren’t friends, merely aquaintances, or more like I was a Band-Aid. Immortalized by Almost Famous, I wasn’t officially a groupie as a I didn’t have sex with band members, just appreciated their music and of course looks. Every time I saw him, I generally talked to him, and was a greeted with a “I recognize that face” nod and hug. I felt almost in the circle.
Adam was there looking hipster cool in a plain white tee shirt and a grandpa vintage cream sweater, dancing with his circle of friends. I tapped on his shoulder and said “hey.” He responded with a quick exasperated “hey, how are you?” “Great, I said, but I can’t find my friends and I don’t have a ride home, do you think you could take me home.” He said, “Where do you live?” “Glendale.” The Band Aid knew he lived nearby in Los Feliz, so I hoped there was a chance his gas guzzler black SUV could bring me home. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to.” My heart sunk, “that’s okay.” I left him so he could continue to dance with his friends, and felt completely humiliated. I couldn’t believe I did that. I walked around the bar, looking for a familiar face and immediately felt sick to my stomach. I went outside the Beauty Bar, and sat on the sidewalk of Cahuenga Boulevard and began to vomit. All those drinks I pounded down at the Magic Castle were now abracadabra disappeared out of my body to the ground. Michelle walked up to me, “There you are. Are you okay?” She moved my brown hair out of my face and pulled it back so I could purge more. The doorman looked at me with disgust as if to say, “Amateur. This is LA, How unladylike are you” “No, can we go home?” I said quietly to Michelle, embarrassed for my actions that whole entire night. “Sure honey, I was looking for you.” She dragged me to the clubs where her friends were at, and I passed out the rest of the way home. The next day I couldn’t believe what had just happened, and couldn’t wait to tell my friends back home who I ran into. I know I should have kept the story to myself, but my lack of shame with celebrities was too comedic to hold back.
This was one of many nights where I drunkenly embarrassed myself and vomited my way out of a club. It actually turned into a monthly occasion and did not stop until several years later. My hedonous lifestyle was just beginning.
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