The scene is as expected. Long queue, long wait, the lounge is almost at capacity and they’re being very selective. But it’s not who you know anymore, it’s who knows you, and I’m fortunate enough to slide in stag. Places like this are what’s wrong with this city. Overpriced drinks, bottle service, snooty attitudes without foundation, but fortunately Three Olives Vodka are sponsoring so it’s open bar from 10 to midnight. I head to the head to empty the stoli. Standing in front of the urinal, staring at blue tiles I realize that the bathroom is a total mind fuck. Sure, I’m drunk, but they’ve somehow fashioned the wall into some sort of optical illusion and raising my hand to touch a surface that isn’t exactly there. I get out as soon as possible and see large black porter watching me oddly.
“That’s a pretty trippy bathroom they have there. I think I saw another dimension.”
“Yes…yes it is…”
Hurrying back upstairs, I wonder if he was agreeing about it being a trippy bathroom or if he was confirming that I did indeed see another dimension. Looking down at the black and white zig-zagging floor I realize that I’ve somehow ended up in one of Agent Dale Cooper’s creepy dreams and everyone around me sounds like they’re speaking backwards.
“!suolubaf kool uoY !uoy teem ot ecin os s’ti ,iH”
“!ti ni citsatnaf erew uoy thguoht i ,eivom eht devol tsuj I”
“…serutcip ekat annog er’ew esruoc fO ?nuf ekil dnuos taht t’nseoD .ssa ruoy fo tuo rettub tunaep skcil god ym elihw tnioj a ekoms dna ecalp ym ot kcab og ew t’nod yhW ?siht retfa gniod uoy era tahW”
It’s a big blur and I see to my right is a table designated just for Three Olives Vodka so I decide to investigate. Maybe there’s something in this vodka that has my world spinning backwards. Lets just hope I can understand what they say.
At the table is bottle of Cherry flavored vodka. I help myself to taste as the distributor rattles off the 16 different flavors of their liquor.
“There’s grape, triple shot espresso, tomato, green apple, melon, root beer…”
These people are like the Baskin Robbins of Vodka. Why the hell would someone make a root beer flavored vodka? Better question, how does one infuse root beer into vodka anyway? The cherry vodka is syrupy sweet. Proles drink this sort of stuff with an unrestrained pleasure. “Root beer-tinis?!” They’d say, “That sounds SOOO GOOD!!”
I’m being pulled to meet with an actress. Sabrina’s new assistant – Justine, is telling me the girls name is Julie but that she’s not quite sure about that.
“Hi, Julie!”
Irritated, she responds dryly, “I’m not Julie, you want someone else.”
I turn to Sabrina’s stand in, “She says her name isn’t Julie.”
“I told you I wasn’t sure!! What are you doing??”
I turn back to the Non-Julie, “Sorry Julie, what’s your real name?”
Non-Julie is giving a little bit of attitude, “I’m Erin. No- It’s spelled A-R-Y-N. Aryn Cole. I’m nobody.”
“Oh come on. What film are you in?”
“Gigantic. I play a masseuse.”
She’s blonde, but she’s no Laura Palmer. Where’s Laura Palmer when you need her? Jacque’s cabin no doubt. I make my way to the mirror encased smoking patio and find myself standing next to David Lynch himself. Okay, maybe it’s not really David Lynch but he’s tall and has voluminous grey hair moused back, a clean face with those understanding eyes that droop down on the ends, a cigarette resting snuggly between his long fingers as he chats up an Asian beauty. He isn’t David Lynch, but he’s my David Lynch and he’s offered to hold my drink while I light up.
“You really need to explain Mulholland Dr. to me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your film. It’s one of those movies that you can’t stop thinking about. My mind runs around in circles trying to pay it all out and make sense. That blue box, the cowboy, the….”
“I’m a lawyer man.”
“You just HAD to go and ruin it.”
Stepping back inside I’m introduced to another two filmmakers. I wish I could tell you it was the Man From Another Place and the One Armed Man but it isn’t. It’s a Father and son act and by now I am without a doubt three sheets to the wind. I think to myself, It’s too bad scallwag doesn’t have it’s own Lil the Dancer, briefing me on what’s to come with blinking eyes, sour faces, and a blue rose pinned to her dress that’s been tailored with different colored threads to fit Lil like a glove. The dress would be code for drugs; it would mean drugs would be involved for the evening. The DJ is playing Mojo’s Lady and it still sounds played out to me. Better give that one another 5 years kid. 1Oak is brilliantly decorated but without Lynch’s characters, it’s all business tonight. If only Cheap Shots and 1Oak could switch inhabitants for one night. I might even pay for my drinks to witness something like that.
Outside I’m a block away and leaning against what looks like somebody’s high school baseball coach.
“I’ll need to crash at your place.”
“That’s fine. You can do that.”
“Have you ever seen Twin Peaks?”
“The owls are not what they seem.”
I flick my cigarette and stand myself up straight. I’m a year older, but I’m still a sucker for a good Mormon, who like just fire, walks with me.
