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“Go now!” My friend Lauren hisses in my ear. We are seated at two precariously placed stools in the posh, library-esque lounge at Studio City hotspot, Firefly, a trendy bar and restaurant notorious for its revolving door of celebrity clientele. For us, it’s merely a half-way point between her apartment in Woodland Hills, and mine in West Hollywood. (And an excellent place to see and be seen while nursing over-priced fruity cocktails and glasses of white wine.) Much to our good fortune, a primo couch in the middle of the populated space has opened up, and I have been charged with securing the coveted cushioned seats.
I nod in response to Lauren’s command and bolt across the room as gracefully as is possible in my Charles David black and white heels (ie. not very gracefully at all). I land smack dab in the center of the couch and turn back to her with a triumphant grin. A cushy couch seat is prime real estate at Firefly, and we have hit the jackpot. “Excuse me, miss. This place is reserved.” A male server says, deflating my enthusiasm in less than five seconds.
I look up to him with crestfallen eyes. “Oh, is it? I didn’t see a sign…” A quick scan of the table next to the couch confirms my assertion. Nope, no sign. Firefly’s lounge seats are first come, first serve – aren’t they?
And then it hits me like the dodge balls the bigger girls used to pelt at me in fifth grade.
I’ve just been slighted for a celebrity.
Red-faced, I stalk back to my friend and plop down on my shoddy undesirable stool. “It’s reserved.” I say with a huff.
“They can’t do that! You were there first!” She responds, a scowl spreading across her normally pleasant face.
“Yeah, well….” I pause mid-sentence, my eyes bulging as they land on the usurpers of our seats, Weeds star, Mary Louise Parker, and her incredibly hunky boyfriend, Jeffrey Dean Morgan. My friend turns to look, her mouth gaping open with appreciation.
“It’s Denny!” She squeals, referring to Morgan’s guest-starring character on Grey’s Anatomy.
I smile, not able to help myself from becoming slightly smitten with his rugged mountain-man appearance. Male chest hair is hard to come by in LA. I allow myself to devour his overt masculinity for a moment, before turning back to my friend. I am not one for overzealous celebrity gawking.
“Where’s our waiter?” I ask, my throat burning for the glass of Sauvignon Blanc I plan to order.
“Not sure. It’s been almost ten minutes since he dropped these off, huh?” Lauren responds, referring to the drink menus sitting listlessly on the small bookend table we are sharing with the party next to us.
“Yeah.” I frown as I crane my neck for anyone bearing a tray. I want my alcohol, damnit!
“Typical.” Lauren scoffs.
I nod. Suddenly, Jeffrey Dean’s chest hair doesn’t seem as sexy as it did a moment ago. My friend and I have again been slighted for a celebrity.
It isn’t the first time I’ve been pushed to the side and forgotten once someone with IMDB credits enters a room. Survival of the fittest names (and derrieres) is a way of life in Los Angeles.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sporting a mild green tan when my friend and I weren’t deemed worthy of the cushioned couch, but celebrities wouldn’t be celebrities if everyone was considered “equal.” I want to be mad at the manager and wait staff at Firefly, but I can’t really blame them. The US Weekly society has made the actor superior to the gawky tall blonde who can’t walk in her Charles David heels. In that world view, stars aren’t just like us. They are better. And get better seats.
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