L.A. star-spotting great for teen travelers
My 13-year-old son, Alex, has all the dish on Madonna and A-Rod's kabbalah canoodling. He also knows everything there is to know about Britney's latest parenting faux pas, Lindsay's lesbian love affair, and the career ups and downs of Justin Timberlake. So where better to take a kid who is coveting his own subscription to Us Weekly than on a celebrity-spotting jaunt to Los Angeles?Celebrity-spotting is a lot like whale-watching. There's no guarantee you'll spot a big one. And even if you do, no guarantee you'll be allowed to approach. The best strategy is to hang out where these larger-than-life beings have been spotted, and wait. Just make sure you actually enjoy where it is you're hanging out. Otherwise, it's just a long, boring boat ride.Lucky Strike Lanes on Hollywood Boulevard fits the bill perfectly. According to the guy in the porkpie hat who rents us our shoes, "Tom and Katie bowl here every weekend." Lucky Strike certainly looks more like it caters to Scientology-loving movie stars than beer-swilling blue-collars. The decor is vintage bowling alley by way of a Design Within Reach catalog. Forget the molded plastic seats. At Lucky Strike, bowlers wait their turn on low-slung leather couches. And if scoring that last spare worked up an shoes appetite, the waiter is happy to bring you a serving of ahi lollipops and a couple of grass-fed burgers.Having missed TomKat at Lucky Strike, Alex and I console ourselves by walking around the corner to Grauman's Chinese Theatre, where even if you don't spot any actual celebrities, you do at least get to see (and fit your own appendages into) their hand- and footprints. Indeed, as far as my son is concerned, it's enough to know that Adam Sandler had his hands in that piece of cement.Deciding where to stay in Los Angeles for maximum celebrity-spotting is tricky. While Hollywood seems like a natural choice, it can be more gritty than pretty. And while gritty isn't even allowed near Beverly Hills, not many of us can afford to bed down where Johnny Depp does. I opt for the Loews Santa Monica Beach Hotel. It's affordable (by L.A. standards), and celebrities are known to visit the beach. There's also a TV in the bathroom, so you can keep up with the Kardashians while you're in the tub, and a teen spa program that features some star-worthy pampering.I convince Alex to try the Pacific Glow (saltmousse scrub with phyto extracts and passion fruit), followed by a GreenApy Massage (the green part is oil infused with rosemary) by telling him this is the kind of thing Brad Pitt does every day."I don't have to get naked, do I?" he asks, echoing a long line of aspiring starlets."It is customary," I tell him.In the end, Alex keeps his integrity - and his boxer shorts. He also decides that Brad Pitt is a genius. We're not expecting to spot any celebrities at the La Brea Tar Pits, but we go anyway. Alex isn't that many years beyond finding a saber-toothed cat as fascinating as the trailer for the next Will Smith movie, and I'm a sucker for any attraction with "tar pit" in its name. My favorite thing is the wall of Dire Wolf skulls, backlit like works of art. Alex's favorite is the plunger that lets you experience the feeling of being stuck in a tar pit - and the fact that as we're leaving, we spot Dianne Wiest driving out of the Screen Actors Guild parking lot across the street. Hoping to keep our streak going, we head to Rodeo Drive, where Los Angeles' famous come to part with their money. We park and then wander up the pedestrian-only cobblestone avenue at Two Rodeo Drive. Walking this $2 million re-creation of a quaint European street is just like walking along any street in Europe, if every street in Europe contained both Tiffany and Versace, and nobody was smoking. At the end of the street, Alex and I stop at the sidewalk cafe of 208 Rodeo, where we order a French press of Illy coffee (me) and a frozen chocolate milk with whipped cream (him), and spot Bill Maher dashing into a nearby salon. Proof that in Los Angeles, even the politically incorrect get exfoliated. Our best sighting, however, comes that evening. As we're passing through the lobby bar of Shutters on the Beach, we spot Diane Keaton sitting on a sofa. I am speechless. I am Ahab spying Moby Dick. I make Alex walk back through the lobby with me twice. Then I ask if we can share the subscription to Us Weekly.
