After living and working in Miami, Buenos Aires, Barcelona and Manhattan, successful models Kelsie (who’s American) and Guillaume (who’s French) recently packed up their car and moved to L.A. to pursue a career in acting. Follow along in their adventures, as they explore new places, work to be discovered by Hollywood, and continue traveling the world. Their dog Yogi is pretty cool, too.
On a recent Wednesday night, L.A.'s annual “Young Hollywood Party” was thrown. (Wednesdays are pretty wild out here in Los Angeles) While considering purchasing tickets to this extravagantly expensive event, we conjured images of swankily-dressed children of famous people, hipster-looking types that we sort of recognized from the IFC (Independent Film Channel), and maybe - for a brief moment - I even imagined Lena Dunham there, sipping on cocktails and laughing maniacally with other clever young people.
With those fantasies and the encouragement of an industry friend who is totally “young Hollywood”, Guillaume and I splurged on VIP tickets (Economy was all sold out) in the name of business. The funds were, after all, going to “charity,” which everyone dutifully pretended was the real reason to attend.
It was sort of a double-date between Guillaume and myself, and this “young Hollywood” couple. They invited us to the Soho house for a comedy show before the party. The Soho House is the exclusive 'members only' club for important “Hollywood players." Sorry, there isn't a less farcical way of phrasing it.
We drank exotic cocktails and crunched on thyme-and-honey-roasted almonds (they don't serve peanuts at the bar there) and saw many people who looked important . . . and many who were trying to. While the comedians were fantastic, perhaps the best part was the plush red Lazy-Boys (or whatever the classier name for these are) and cashmere blankets, while you watch.
On to Greystone Manor
Turns out “young Hollywood” - or at least those who define themselves as such - are a lot like the entire Hollywood zip code . . . not our kind of peeps. Everyone did look pretty fabulous though. The party was held at Greystone Manor, a night-club; unfortunately career relationships don't really blossom during drunken shouting, so the club was not what we had in mind.
However, we made the best out of it, and sat a table dedicated to an awesome production company that one of our friends works with. From what I understand, the production company writes a check “to the charity” and then, so they don't have to attend themselves, sends an email to everyone under 30 in the company and tell them to go and collect on their free booze.
I felt like an old biddy secretly wanting a mild-mannered cocktail party over this, but we danced and had fun and I did my best to speak to people over the gyrating music. Guillaume, meanwhile, has only recently discovered dancing, so he enjoyed himself doing ridiculous disco fingers which I hope everyone had the good taste not to take seriously.
Throughout the night the confetti machine went off like clockwork, managing to leave floating debris in everyone's vodka-something drinks. The fog machine hazed the crowd and laser lights danced on the walls next to the go-go's. None of this is really new to any nightclub but in a weird way is still pretty fun if you're with the right crowd.
Bob Sinclair was the DJ, which was pretty rad, especially as we had the best seat in the club, and Greystone Manor is a BIG club. Mr. Sinclair is one of the last remnants from the days I actually went to clubs (they lost a lot of appeal as soon as I became of legal age and got relationship-ed) and he is still a legend in my book.
The night tore on, and while we didn't meet a whole lot of people, we did manage to dance our little hearts out, and look glamorous while we did so, which I should have known is really what a “Young Hollywood” party is all about.