Sunday, Jan 23, 2005

So, I went to one helluva weird party last night.

Whether you live in Lincoln, Nebraska or in the heart of LA, everybody has a mental picture of what the typical Hollywood party looks, sounds, and smells like. Trust me, people -- I was at that party.

Drenched from the ceiling to the floor with auteurs, wannabes, movie makers, music makers, rejects, prima-donnas, has-beens, snobs, clingers, and some good ole' fashioned freaks, the party was thrown in one of those old spanish style dual level apartment buildings over in the Hancock Park part of town. It was kinda like Laverne and Shirley's place after they moved to Hollywood (you probably just said "Oh yeah. I forgot about that"). Spanish style architecture aside, the comparison ends there though.

Once inside, I thought I was in some kind of weird time warp/alternate universe version of old Hollywood. The layout of the place was dense and labyrinthine with one dark, antique ridden room mysteriously leading to another. Everywhere I turned there were looming book cases chock full of way too many books for anyone to have ever read, walls adorned with crazy paintings, and enough cleverly placed votive candles to put a monastery to shame. As I explored the rooms, my mind ran out of control as I pondered over which old silent screen star had OD'd or killed someone here. Very Hollywood Babylon-esque and very much my dream home. While the mis en scene was intriguing, it was the entities populating this little suarez, however, that truly stole the show.

The best way I can describe the general style of the party's populace is to call it "avant garde Euro meets New York meets LA pretense". These were the kind of people you'd expect to see mingling about Warhol's Factory as The Velvet Underground played in the background, all the while engaging in superficial, bullshit small talk for only the sake of highlighting themselves to everyone else around them. I swear I thought some of these people were made of wax with little speaker boxes shoved in the back of their throats playing the same monologue over and over again on a loop. I don't even need to tell you what they were talking about because, once again, I'm sure whatever you can conjure in your mind is exactly what they were saying. Really. It was like that. And for the record, yes, the regular cast of characters was present and in fine form.

Let's see here. There was "blazer-with-no-shirt-and-a-scarf-guy", "Frida-Kahlo-look-alike-lady", "kilt-and-pumas-guy", "didn't-make-the-cut-for-The Strokes-guy", "still-thinks-she's-sexy-even-though-she's-fifty-two-lady", "fringe-actor-who-was-almost-big-time-six-years-ago-guy", and my all time fav, "black-suit-with-thick-rimmed-glasses-guy" along with his fifteen twin brothers. That's right. They were all there, but -- I'm sorry -- they didn't ask me how you were doing, because they were all too self-important to care.

Some hours earlier, in the afternoon, I got a call from my buddy, asking what my plans for the evening were. When I told him I was going to some kind of indie/Hollywood party, he said, "Shit. Start drinkin' now".

He was right. I should have.