I get some pomade on my hands and run them through my hair, even apply a little eyeliner (another tip from Clarice). So by the time I’m dolled up properly, I hardly recognize myself. I look very, very hip. You should see me.
The Fam is watching a news program when I pass through the living room. It seems such an adult thing to do—watching the news on a Saturday night. I’d get pretty sad if I really thought about it.
I tell them not to wait up for me, that I might not be back until tomorrow. I can tell that Hannah’s kind of blown away that I’m going out on the town and all. I’m guessing that from what Bo’s told her, she didn’t count me as a terribly happening guy.
I kiss Sam on the forehead on my way out and promise him we’ll play in the backyard tomorrow. It’s the sort of thing you have to do when you’re an uncle.
The nightclub La Casa is in a big warehouse on Hollywood. I let the valet park my Hummer, since that’s probably what every good Star would do, slip him a $20 for his trouble (I’m carrying $2,000 in cash in my back pocket) and survey the enormous line. The doors opened at 9 p.m. Three very big, very scary-looking men are standing at the double doors leading into La Casa. A burgundy rope separates them from the crowd of several hundred. They keep pointing at people, unhooking the rope, and letting them inside. When the doors open, I feel the pulse of music vibrate in my chest. Sometimes, they point at someone and shake their head and laugh. These people in turn look highly embarrassed and usually leave immediately.
I’ve never been to a nightclub. I’m excited and anxious. Everyone looks fabulous. I’ve never seen so many beautiful people in one place, and this makes me feel kind of small.
I eavesdrop on this pack of girls ahead of me as my section of crowd slowly pushes toward the rope boundary.
“That’s him. I kind of know the doorman on our side,” this total bombshell directly in front of me says. She smells very good. Delightful even. “He’s in my yoga class. He told me to find him and he’d let me in and whoever I brought. You either have to know the doorman, be famous, or look totally fucking hot, otherwise forget it.”
“Oh my God, if we get into La Casa, I am totally going to tell everyone I know. I’m going to send out fucking announcements and shit.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t bring Amanda.”
“Are you crazy? No fucking way!”
“I totally agree.”
“Yeah, totally.”
“Oh totally.”
“Whoa, look at the hottie.”
“Where?”
I realize that I’m doing this all wrong when I see this white limo pull up. The door opens and this couple steps out who I recognize but can’t recall their names. They’re Stars for sure. Not the heavyweight I am. Medium Stars.
One of the doormen yells, “Move back!” and the crowd splits.
The couple, extraordinarily dressed, moves quickly through the divided crowd. They pass through the rope barrier as flashbulbs explode everywhere. They’re smiling at the doormen, oblivious to the crowd of hopefuls all around them. The doors open for them, and they disappear into the inner dance utopia.
I don’t waste one more second standing in this ridiculous line. Instead, I go and find the valet and ask him if he wants to make $200? Sure he does. He follows me into the parking lot, and I tell him to get into the driver’s seat, which he does.
“Look, I don’t have any X on me, man,” he says once we’re in.
“I don’t want any X. Here,” I pull two hundreds from my wallet and hand them over. He’s young, early-twenties perhaps, with long, stringy hair. I wonder if he’s in a rock band, trying to make it, like everyone else. “Drive me up to the curb and let me out in front of the crowd.”
“They won’t let you in if they don’t know you, man. Doesn’t matter how you arrive.”
“I’m James Jansen. They’ll let me in. Now drive.”
He cranks the Hummer and we roll back out onto Hollywood, do a u-turn at the next light, and head back toward La Casa, my heart bumping as we pull up beside the crowd to the front of the line where the white limo stopped just ten minutes ago.
The crowd parts. I take a breath, slip on my shades.
Then I open the door and step out of the Hummer, as nervous as I’ve ever been in my entire life. I muster this sort of irritated scowl on my face, keep my head slightly down, and walk quickly toward the doormen.
Let me tell you, the eyes are all on me. First, because I stepped out of this huge fucking Hummer like I owned the place, and second, because I think everyone starts to realize who I am.
“James!”
“JJ!”
“I love you, James Jansen!”
I try not to smile, but it’s pretty hard when cute women scream that they love you.
But I don’t acknowledge them. Sure, if this were a movie premier, I’d stop and sign autographs and wave and blow kisses and be altogether charming as hell. But I’m here to have a good time. I’m taking a chance coming out and mingling with the commoners, so it’s imperative that I maintain this nobody-better-fuck-with-me iciness in my face.
I reach the velvet ropeline, and much to my dismay, it has not yet been unhooked.
The three sentinels have turned their collective attention to me.
I remove my sunglasses.
One of the doormen lifts a black notebook off a podium and beings scanning a page of names.
I feel hot in my face.
Cameras are beginning to flash all around me—paparazzi.
“Don’t waste your time. I didn’t get on the list,” I say.
“Well, that’s a problem,” the doorman with the book says.
I look dead into the eyes of the doorman standing in front of me.
“You know who I am?”
He nods. “Yeah, your last movie was a piece of shit.”
“Unhook that motherfucking rope.”
This is one tough, jaded fellow, but fear flickers in his eyes when I say this. I guess it’s sort of an unwritten rule that you should never piss off powerful people.
The doorman with the book comes over to me, says, “Look, if you aren’t in the book—”
“I don’t give a shit about your goddamn book. Bill Flanagan, the owner of La Casa, has been a guest in my home for numerous parties. I can’t tell you how angry he’d be to find out I’ve been treated this way.”
I have no idea who the owner is. First name that came to mind.
The rope is unhooked, and I’m ushered, apologetically, toward the open door. It sort of scares me, because I don’t know what I would’ve done had that last bit not worked.
I stop in the threshold and turn back to the three doormen.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “You will all be fired before the end of the night. I promise you that.”
Then I put on my shades and enter the mayhem of La Casa.
Chapter 13
pink purple neon madness ~ DJ SuperCasanova ~ gets a table ~ observes bodyshots ~ surveys the joint and expounds on the philosophy of the hollow generation ~ walks into the center of the dance floor ~ looks up an Asian woman’s dress ~ the bachelorette party ~ Kara ~ Richard Haneline ~ gets invited to a premier party ~ slow dances to a fast song
La Casa. Wow. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m as over-stimulated as I’ve ever been—lights flashing, spinning, flickering in pink purple neon. It’s all light and motion and sound.
I’m standing just inside the doors taking everything in like I’ve stepped out of a spacecraft onto a new planet. What strange creatures these are.
A spectacular redhead charges me $30 and stamps the back of my hand and I walk into the crowd. From where I stand, I can see four bars, mirrors behind each one, reflecting the crowd. I count five spinning disco balls.
On the second level, it’s more of the same—a crowd moving together in waves like a field of wheat. More bars. More light. And this constant thumping…boom, boom, boom, boom.