LA Nights: The Chateau

IF you live and breathe the polluted, smoggy, famehungry air of the little place on earth we call Los Angeles like WE DO, then odds are you've been, or have tried but failed desperately to go, to the legendary Chateau Marmont.

Known as a breeding ground for celebrity trysts like Jean Harlow & Clark Gable, or the place where Johnny Depp famously boned Kate Moss in "every room" (so they say) -- or perhaps where an iconic 2007 Britney Spears was #askedtoleave (forever) after smearing food all over her face (why, Brit, why?), The Chateau is a Hollywood Wonderland that commoners could only dream of escaping to forget about their h̶i̶g̶h̶l̶y̶ ̶p̶u̶b̶l̶i̶c̶i̶z̶e̶d̶ problems (shoutout to Lindsay Lohan!).

The Bar Marmont and The Restaurant at Chateau Marmont are available to the average peasant (upon reservation), but if you haven't figured out by now - we're not fans of general admission. Oh, and we usually forget to make reservations (because we can't afford, I mean *fired* our assistant). So we are here to tell you *certain parts* of the story of how we snuck into The Chateau pool that Lana Del Rey often sings about, and where James Franco wrote that stupid story for Vice.

It was your average Saturday afternoon in Tinseltown, and we were in deep with bottomless mimosas (or rose? whichever is more trendy) in the heart of West Hollywood: The Mondrian Pool. Our fake Australian accents were kicking in, and River had just gotten proposed to by a young gent who had earlier tossed her into the pool -- so it was about that time to be #askedtoleave. Since the s̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶l̶y̶ beyond tipsy men of Young Hollywood kept telling us that we looked like rockstars in our cheapo Tobi monokinis, and the mimosas were in full speed, we were becoming confused on whether or not we were ACTUALLY famous. I mean, hello? River just got PROPOSED to. So clearly we were the hottest thing at The Mondrian -- which means we were practically the hottest thing to ever happen to LA. NO, it didn't matter that River's mascara was now running down her face from being thrown in the pool - this was our moment! - and we HAD to go to The Chateau. Mainly because we had just gotten kicked out for "causing a scene" or whatever.

We took our alcohol induced levels of confidence and decided to strut down Sunset in our swimmies (isn't that what the Aussies say?) - and straight into Bar Marmont, looking nothing short of Lilo's mugshot(s).... and were immediately #askedtoleave because, ya know, dress code?! Which was fine - because luckily there was a cute changing area outside. Or maybe that was employee parking. Whoops?

After throwing on actual clothing over our bikinis (seriously, what were we thinking?), we strutted back into Bar Marmont for a drink. When they let you in a second time for actually wearing clothes, and you're allowed to sit and drink your overpriced cocktail made by an annoyed waitstaff in booths haunted by ghosts of Vivien Leigh and Betty Davis, it can get stuffy and boring after like 10 minutes. Hello?! We were more famous than just being 'let in' somewhere. I mean, the guys at the Mondrian thought we were rockstars -- we BELONGED at the Chateau pool instead of at this chandeliered dump. So to the pool we went.

Now, HOW we got into the highly secure hotel *dreamland* with our mangled, air-dried pool hair, Charlotte Russe wedges and fake Aussie accents is for us to know - but let's just say, if you have the mindset that you're famous, then chances are other people will play along... whether it be a girl at the bar desperately trying to figure out who the hell you are, or the hotel concierge who thinks they royally fucked up your reservations ;)

Whatever the reason, odds are by the time they've figured out you're not actually a former ABC Family child star who has just returned from a 'relaxing vacation' in some facility in Vermont, you're on your way to a better party anyway. I mean, a girl can only listen to a certain comedian with a British accent tell their jokes at a legendary pool for so long before the oysters and RBVs (Red Bull Vodkas) they've been ordering non-stop start to taste dry and boring. So off we went, with the same panache and overly bored socialite-from-Australia-but-maybe-not attitude we'd arrived with. Yes we were stuck with a bill we had to split on three different credit cards (comedians can still be cheap wouldn't ya know), forcing us to walk 3 miles back to the humble hills mansion that we were couch surfing at - but that's just the price you have to pay when you're so fucking VIP it hurts (your bank account).