From Hollywood to Hollyhood

So thanks to Tina over at Glitterati (thank you, Tina!), I had the pleasure of attending a breast cancer awareness benefit at The Ivar that Se7en Magazine was putting on this past Friday. I was going to do a nice little review on it, but the night took such strange turns that I must cover it all. Stay tuned later this week for the official write-up at Glitterati; another posh bar, the velvet rope, the red carpet, celebrities, and how Pat and I had our little paparazzi moment.

In the meantime, we had a show to catch. Art Brut (London's fab British lads and lass) was playing over at The Echo so we ditched the fashionista deal and headed to Echo Park. After driving by the venue fifteen times and missing it (it didn't say "The Echo" outside of it, duh) we decided to just park and follow the crowd.

Here's where the night got weird.

While sitting in the driveway to the parking lot, waiting for the parking lot lady to get to our car, I noticed some dudes in a caddy about fifty-ish yards up ahead. While Pat and the lady were discussing, the caddy proceeded to drive in reverse towards us. Maybe they A) were trying to get a spot that they saw before we could snag it, B) changed their mind and decided to head home, or C) they were going to floor it in reverse and slam into the front of our car at about thirty or so mph. The answer: C. Ram the back of their car into the front of ours.

Had my camera not been in the depths of my purse I could've dug it out in time to get the plate number because the damn California plates have 8,000 characters on them and my memory sucks. But the guys threw it into drive, hauled ass to the other side of the parking lot before I could get the full plate number (forgot my glasses, dammit) and rammed someone else's car before screeching off into the darkness.

Somehow the airbags didn't go off. And somehow Pat managed to not become a raging lunatic. And somehow the front end of his car was still intact.

In LA, sometimes parking lot ladies are crackpots. "Mama", as she referred to herself as she sipped her Budweiser and sucked on her cigar, said that she was "gonna get 'em" and that she "didn't care if that was [her] effing brother, he needs to be taken down". Apparently she knew their gang (yes, gang) and they might've even had guns. And they do this all the time. But not in her parking lot. Because she has a good job and she takes care of the cars in her lot. And she was going to take his drunk ass down.

After the shock subsided...we strolled in the club to catch a lil' bit 'o Brit rock. I am in love with their guitar player. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

In LA, sometimes the cops can't be bothered with a hit and run. So on the way back to the car, we were summoned by Mama, once again. She was even drunker than she was earlier and maybe a little more cracked out. She repeated over and over the license plate number (which was a different combination every time) and mother effing this and mother effing that. At this point, I wondered if we were going to get shot. If the gang boys were waiting in the bushes to pick us off, one by one. So carefully, without pissing Mama off, we made a run for the car and headed back to our neck of the woods.

But hey, now I know where The Echo is. Next time I'll wear my bullet-proof vest.