California girl Lisa is living a very un-Hollywood life, and that’s just fine by her. She took over her father’s pool service business and enjoys sunny days and a quiet home life with her mom. But one of the guys on her crew who moonlights as musician occasionally puts an extra spring in her step, and when she starts facing financial pressures, she starts wondering if there might be a few things she’s missing. Then her mom finds out that one of Lisa’s premier clients possesses a mysterious and enigmatic pair of shoes that are rumored to change fortunes, and lives, for those who wear them.
Will Lisa decide to take a walk on the wild side and test the powers of the supposedly serendipitous high heels? And do the shoes really possess magical powers that could make Lisa’s Cinderella dreams come true? Or is what Lisa really wants just a click of her heels away in the form of a smoldering rock drummer? From swank Beverly Hills days to sexy Sunset Strip nights, Lisa is on the cusp of finding out what really makes LA glitter.
By the time we get to the club, evening has fallen, and as I’m finding parking, Mom is wiggling her feet into the shoes. They fit her perfectly. And she doesn’t have the slightest bit of trouble keeping herself perfectly balanced in them. At the club entrance, there’s a formidable line, but Mom doesn’t hesitate. She struts right to the front, full of confidence, and tells them her name. Sure enough, Rick put us on the list.
Inside, it’s already crowded. Stocked with hip, hot twenty-somethings, the guys with their hair meticulously messed up and the chicks trying to show as much firm flesh as legally permissible while still making it look nonchalant.
But the music is what gets me. Mom immediately threads her way to the front, not the least bit fazed by the younger crowd, and I follow close on her impressive, supposedly magical heels. Rick’s band is good. Really good.
He sets down a hard driving beat and they all follow. It’s very L.A. rock, the kind that makes you fall into the groove. I love it. Before long, I realize I had gotten mesmerized watching Rick. It’s warm in the club, and he’s working on the drums. From where we stand, I can see his biceps and triceps flex when he hits the snare. His shaggy dark hair gets damp and sometimes rivulets of sweat fly when he hits a hard downbeat.