Preparation: La-La-Land
I’m ashamed to admit this, but I loved LA Story as a pre-pubescent. I know that doesn’t gel well with the Woody Allen Love that is currently making everything until I meet him in New York a blur, but at the time I thought it was hil-ar-i-ous. No idea why, as I now find Steve Martin to be a very close silver medal to the champion of Hollywood’s-Most-Annoying-Man crowd, the impregnator Cruise. (The only reason Robin Williams isn’t on that list is because he’s won gold in the Please-For-The-Love-Of-God-Don’t-Ever-Let-That-Man-In-Front-Of-A-Camera-Again category.)
Nevertheless, I loved the stupid round of over-the-top coffee orders, I loved Sarah Jessica Parker and her proclamation that the reason her breasts felt different was because they were real, I loved the whole driving down a highway in a red convertible thing. Then my friend Catherine called it Le Story, in a phony (but also hil-ar-i-ous) French accent, and referred to it as La-La-Land, and I realised that my love was, to others, dirty. Thus my love-hate relationship with this city I’ve only ever seen in movies and really good bad teen TV shows began. (Yes, I watch the OC and Brenda is still the best bitch ever to rock Beverly. Stop judging me!)
So when I decided to go on my mid-twenties (I can too still say that Oscar!) journey of exploration to the motherland via North America, I just had to go to Los Angeles. Not just because my wonderful friend Todd is there, but because I just have to see what it’s really like for myself. Plus, there’s the whole Richie-stalking thing. But as I started to really think about what going to LA would mean, I started to think like a Los Angelenos, or at least how they are portrayed in that fabulous bad TV to which I am addicted, (I SAID stop judging me!) and I realised that while I am perfectly fine looking in BrisVegas, that close to Las Vegas I will be a pasty, not-skinny-enough white girl. Ayyyyy! Something had to be done.
As Los Angeles is well known as the land of all things fake – breasts, marriages, singers – I decided I would attempt to fit in with the crowd by making myself a little less pasty – and therefore somewhat skinnier, as we all know tanned bodies look thinner – by smothering myself in fake tan for the couple of weeks before I depart. As much as I attempt to emulate Jessica Simpson in most aspects of my life – marrying another barely famous singer and having an award-winning* TV show based around my life, wearing ugg boots with tracksuit pants, having carnal relations with a General Lee – I decided that her particular shade of orange probably wouldn’t go with my hair, so chose instead the gradual “tanning” option offered by several products. I didn’t choose the Mischa version, as much as I would love to be just like her and embarrass myself every time I step out of the house/car/toilet stall wearing hideous rags on my anorexic frame, I’m cheap. So, I started to lather myself up with a more generic label, and was getting right into it, exfoliating the Jessica patches away on a regular basis, only to find out from my LA contact that in the land of fake, actual fake tan is a no-no, and that instead you should fake up the sun, by visiting what I’m guessing is the cool term for a solarium, the “Bulbs”.
*Most-Likely-To-Inspire-Hilarious-One-Liners-In-The-Gilmore-Girls Award, 2004
I may as well give up, start eating Cheetos and go to Britney’s house. At least I’d find a fellow not-skinny-enough slightly pasty white girl there to plan how to make Richie fat again. Plus I could talk her into buying K-Fed a belt. Now there’s a stellar plan. Librarian out.
I’m ashamed to admit this, but I loved LA Story as a pre-pubescent. I know that doesn’t gel well with the Woody Allen Love that is currently making everything until I meet him in New York a blur, but at the time I thought it was hil-ar-i-ous. No idea why, as I now find Steve Martin to be a very close silver medal to the champion of Hollywood’s-Most-Annoying-Man crowd, the impregnator Cruise. (The only reason Robin Williams isn’t on that list is because he’s won gold in the Please-For-The-Love-Of-God-Don’t-Ever-Let-That-Man-In-Front-Of-A-Camera-Again category.)
Nevertheless, I loved the stupid round of over-the-top coffee orders, I loved Sarah Jessica Parker and her proclamation that the reason her breasts felt different was because they were real, I loved the whole driving down a highway in a red convertible thing. Then my friend Catherine called it Le Story, in a phony (but also hil-ar-i-ous) French accent, and referred to it as La-La-Land, and I realised that my love was, to others, dirty. Thus my love-hate relationship with this city I’ve only ever seen in movies and really good bad teen TV shows began. (Yes, I watch the OC and Brenda is still the best bitch ever to rock Beverly. Stop judging me!)
So when I decided to go on my mid-twenties (I can too still say that Oscar!) journey of exploration to the motherland via North America, I just had to go to Los Angeles. Not just because my wonderful friend Todd is there, but because I just have to see what it’s really like for myself. Plus, there’s the whole Richie-stalking thing. But as I started to really think about what going to LA would mean, I started to think like a Los Angelenos, or at least how they are portrayed in that fabulous bad TV to which I am addicted, (I SAID stop judging me!) and I realised that while I am perfectly fine looking in BrisVegas, that close to Las Vegas I will be a pasty, not-skinny-enough white girl. Ayyyyy! Something had to be done.
As Los Angeles is well known as the land of all things fake – breasts, marriages, singers – I decided I would attempt to fit in with the crowd by making myself a little less pasty – and therefore somewhat skinnier, as we all know tanned bodies look thinner – by smothering myself in fake tan for the couple of weeks before I depart. As much as I attempt to emulate Jessica Simpson in most aspects of my life – marrying another barely famous singer and having an award-winning* TV show based around my life, wearing ugg boots with tracksuit pants, having carnal relations with a General Lee – I decided that her particular shade of orange probably wouldn’t go with my hair, so chose instead the gradual “tanning” option offered by several products. I didn’t choose the Mischa version, as much as I would love to be just like her and embarrass myself every time I step out of the house/car/toilet stall wearing hideous rags on my anorexic frame, I’m cheap. So, I started to lather myself up with a more generic label, and was getting right into it, exfoliating the Jessica patches away on a regular basis, only to find out from my LA contact that in the land of fake, actual fake tan is a no-no, and that instead you should fake up the sun, by visiting what I’m guessing is the cool term for a solarium, the “Bulbs”.
*Most-Likely-To-Inspire-Hilarious-One-Liners-In-The-Gilmore-Girls Award, 2004
I may as well give up, start eating Cheetos and go to Britney’s house. At least I’d find a fellow not-skinny-enough slightly pasty white girl there to plan how to make Richie fat again. Plus I could talk her into buying K-Fed a belt. Now there’s a stellar plan. Librarian out.
posted by NomesD at 3:27 pm
2 Comments:
Dear Librarian,
Just I discovered your hidden depths over dinner at my house before you left, through this blog I am discovering your hidden white-trash shallows!
HOWEVER, I am afraid I CANNOT JUDGE YOU (even though judging people happens to be a long-standing hobby of mine), as I TOO LOVED LA STORY WHEN I FIRST SAW IT. And, what's more, I TOO CANNOT IMAGINE WHY AS STEVE MARTIN IS GROTESQUALY IRRITATING.
Ahhh... it feels so better to have that off my chest.
Librarian-in-exile
Out.
Can you really tell what sort of fake tan you have just by looking at it? Besides, all the trashy mags I've read have most stars raving about spray-on tans, especially the expensive sort that rock up at your house with their tan-van.
For your next trip, you should just save yourself the trouble and go to an asian country, where all the women are trying to be more pale. It's so bizarre coming from a country that is tan-obsessed then going to a country where every other beauty product promises "whiter skin".
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