No big whoop, right?
It’s just Sir Elton John… Singer, songwriter, pianist, actor, philanthropist, and recipient of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire by her Majesty, the Queen. He is only one of the most celebrated, influential and successful musicians of all time, with 300 million records sold, and 50 Top 40 hits (but who’s counting?)…
And his Oscar Party is only one of the most sought after and high profile parties in the film and television industry…
And I was invited.
Okay, not really.
I had gone down to LA with two friends from work, and earlier in the week we had gone to a club where we met some interesting (read: whackadoodle) avocado farmers from Northern California that told us they could get us into Elton John’s Oscar party.
(Note: This is LA in a nutshell. Anything can happen at any time. You can sit next to Goldie Hawn at Le Pain Quotidian, or have Judd Apatow photobomb your selfie, or have Adam Sandler show up to an open mic night. It is what makes LA strange and wonderful and exciting, and why I miss it very much.)
Long story short… We met up with the two whackadoodle avocado farmers the night of the party, but they said it was way too early to go. They said that anyone who is anyone goes late to these sorts of events. So we all went to a diner across the street and sat around for several hours, learning the ins and outs of the avocado industry.
At around 1 or 2am, one of the whackadoodle avocado farmers (and yes, it’s important to continually note their whackadoodle-ness… They wore thick, wool sweaters and their hair was dreadlocked), said that it was finally time to go to the party.
As we walked across the street, we were beyond excited, nudging each other breathlessly. We didn’t know what to expect, but surely Sir Elton John would be there?!?! And there would probably be alcoholic beverages, and possibly recognizable celebrities, and maybe even a shrimp ring?!?!
One of the whackadoodle avocado farmers nodded as we passed the security guard* perched outside on a bar stool, and I remember being very impressed by his nonchalance. We strolled into the Mondrian Hotel like we owned the place.
As I entered the hotel’s grand ballroom, I prepared myself to be welcomed into the fold of Hollywood elite…
But the party was over.
Like, way, way over.
The caterers were folding the table linens, the DJ was packing up his equipment, the few remaining guests were being poked by security, and all that remained of Elton John was his essence (note: it was still very potent).
The whackadoodle avocado farmers acted like they were surprised the party was long over, and suggested that we continue the party in their room.
We started to wonder whether they had ever even had the means to get us into Sir Elton John’s Oscar party, or if it had all been an elaborate scheme to get us up to their room. We also started to wonder if they were actually avocado farmers, or just very knowledgeable about avocados.
Some questions will forever remain unanswered, and that’s the real lesson here.
* It could have been a big hobo.