Staking Out La Lohan

I’m probably the only 25 year old in San Francisco who would rather be at home on a Friday night in her pjs watchin’ Mad Men, drinkin’ Koolaid and eatin’ pudding cups (sorry, Palin’s ubiquitous incompetence has affected my ability to finish my words), than out clubbin’ at one of the city’s hottest lounges–and get paid for it. When my pal Laurel informed me that the Ronson (Samantha, that is; or SamRo, other half to LiLo) would be in town spinning on Friday night, I gave a little sigh. As the Bay Area eyes and ears of that  little entertainment magazine, I knew this is exactly what my employer wants me to be on the lookout for, especially in LiLo and SamRo’s post-vacation bliss. So I told them, and of course they insisted I go. And that’s the easiest way for your weekends to no longer become your own.

Not only did I have to go to a club, in the city, on a Friday, but I had to go to a club, in the city, on a Friday, at the ungodly hour of 11pm–an hour when I’m usually brushing my teeth and slipping under the covers. All that after stalking Sharon Stone’s Botoxed kid from sun up to sun down (more on that in the next post). Not only was SamRo not going on until 11, that meant it didn’t end until…well, a time that used to be my normal coming home time in NYC, when I was a blissful youth (um, two years ago, that is) who could get by sans beauty rest. But hey, it was fun getting all gussied up, as it’s a rare occasion when I actually straighten my hair and put all those free Benefit products to use. Since you’ve likely never seen me with makeup on before, here’s the result:

Laurel and some of her coworkers at 944 were also going to the event, so we met up for a drink at the W (I’m that girl who orders Diet Coke on the nights she actually leaves home), then headed across the street to Roe. Wouldn’t you know the one night I do actually hit the town is also the same night it rains for the first time in the eight moths I’ve lived here? Luckily, the walk took all of 30 seconds, and we were on the list so we got to bypass the line. We headed straight upstairs, and holy mother of pearl I’ve never seen so many short, spikey ‘dos and flannel shirts on ladies before, post-1990′s. I was rather worried I wasn’t going to recognize Sam, as nearly everyone in the place resembled her.

After a quick walk through, the four gals and dude I came with decided it was a little too much of a panty party and left to go elsewhere. So I staked my claim on a plot of floor near a roped-off area, Diet Coke in hand, trying to ward off the drunkards who surrounded me at every angle, and then…it was as if the clouds cleared, the skies opened up, and God decided to deliver the Lohan right into my eager little hands. She and Sam were almost by my side by the time I realized it, and they were quickly followed by five big ol’ bodyguards (since SF is such a violent city and all). Before I could absorb it all, it was one mad frenzy of camera phones and blinding flashes.

I wasn’t about to risk losing my spot, so I kept my feet planted, as I was consistently pummeled by a drunk bitch here, massacred by a stiletto in the foot there. (I wonder if PEOPLE pays worker’s comp?) The bodyguards, by whom I was standing all night, started to feel so sorry for me that they demanded everyone who crossed my path apologize. Standing next to the Lohan for so many hours gave me a completely new outlook on celebrities. I know, I know, that’s what they sign up for, la dee da, but seriously, her life sucked on Friday night. She just sat there, comforted by some guy who could have been Justin Bobby’s pre-haircut twin, chain smoking and finger banging her CrackBerry, while all sorts of gross men were yelling expletives in her direction and sorority girls trying to coax her over to be in pictures with them. After meeting, literally, thousands of celebs over the past few years through my job, I’ve never really felt sorry for any of them in quite this way. She was no different than a tropical fish in an aquarium: Everyone crowded around to point fingers and gape at her. She looked absolutely miserable.

Appearance wise, she and SamRo both looked good, albeit a little exasperated. I would have been too if I’d just returned from Cabo to this frenzied chaos. I could have taken a million shots of them both, as I was standing on prime real estate, only it was so freakin’ dark, I hate the flash, and I really started to feel guilty and think of all the other camera-toting bargoers as seriously pathetic (and drunk).  I didn’t want to join their ranks. So I focused on SamRo’s set instead, which was solid, and taking notes (to the befuddlement of nearly every partier in my vicinity). That’s when some big girl behind me grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me backward. Uh-oh, I thought, I must have stepped on her toe by accident and was about to find myself the piece de resistance of some unwelcome fight.

“I bet you like having your hair yanked,” she purred seductively in my ear. I thought I heard her wrong. But no. “Why don’t you come back home with me and my girlfriend; we can have us a real good time.” I politely reclaimed my hair and took a giant step away from her, as menage a trois isn’t really my strong point, and her and her girlfriend–both of whom were pretty girly and wearing jewel-toned dresses and I couldn’t really gauge their gender preference (at first)–continued to dance circles around me, offer me beer, twirl me around by the hand, spin my necklace around my neck and overall just seduce me into their lair. It was uncomfortable to put it mildly–it would have been just as uncomfortable as it were two dudes trying to taunt me–particularly as my bodyguard friends chuckled from the sidelines. I shot them a look. A little help here, guys? Pretty please? But it just didn’t stop and no one came to my aid.

When my new lesbian friends got distracted by some other helpless young victim, I made my graceful exit and slipped out of the club. Technically, I should have stayed, as Sam wasn’t done yet, but she and LiLo were pretty tame that night and it was already past 2:30am and I still had to write my story once I got home before I could hit the sack. Howard Street was booming, so I walked back to the W, hoping to get a cab. After I diverted one man’s attempt at going home with me with a “my boyfriend is a professional wrestler,” my search for a cab began to prove pretty futile. That’s when Anthony Michael Hall’s clone and a self-professed copyright lawyer/foodie geek swooped in to my rescue. Anthony gave me his jacket as he apeishly ran around Howard trying to get some cab to let me in, while lawyer geek and I chatted politely. Twenty minutes went by, and thanks to the uncharacteristic drizzle, every cab in town was occupied. It was nearly 3am by this point, BART stops running at 1, and I live more than 10 miles from the downtown. I was at a loss for what to do, when a black town car pulled up. He demanded $75 for a ride home (it’s usually $30); I declined. The next town car to pull up offered $60; I figured if we kept trying, maybe the price would be manageable (granted, I was expensing it, but still felt guilty). I continued my quest, but unbeknownst to me, Anthony handed the town car driver the fare plus tip and helped me into the car. I tried and tried to get out and get him to take him money back, but he was a proud individual. His lawyer friend gave me a look that said, “it’s fine; he’s not strapped for cash.” I thought I was going to have to go through the awkward I-have-a-boyfriend convo when he asked me for my number, but he didn’t even so much as request my digits (what? Am I no longer desirable now that I’m a coupled-up old hag?). He simply took his jacket back , bid me adieu and said, “just remember, there are nice guys in San Francisco.” I would have to agree.