By Chas Smith:
We havenâ€™t slept. It all started with a late afternoon surf. The wind breathing a touch onshore. The setting sun burning hotter than it should this time of year. Flawless. And it hasnâ€™t ended. The groupies, who play future dystopic groupies in the film, are here, draped over the black/white leather Kartell Pol sofa pushed up to the sliding glass wall. One of them has the most amazing hotpants and a nylon gun belt around her neck. The other smells like a mix of driftwood smoke and Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb. And Dion, who plays Dion, is here. Leaning against the poured cement countertop. Staring vacantly, drinking a freshly made Bloody Mary courtesy of a Filipina maid. He might have a black eye. Somewhere in the middle were caipiruvas, aged NY strip steaks (with onion rings and spiced horseradish sauce) and Happy Ending Ice Cream at the Chateau Marmont. Drag racing a late 90s Porsche Boxster (convertible) north on the PCH. Getting screamed at by a Malibu burnout for saying, â€śAll of this should be paved. And I donâ€™t care about renewable energy.â€ť Having him throw a handful of gravel, a granule of which hit Dion near his eye. Drinking Bud, shooting Smith & Wesson model 10 revolvers out back of Pine Mountain Inn on Route 33, near Ojai, while a wild boar and emu watched. And having a dance party, the remnants are still strewn about, at our rented Rincon home. Modern. Black bamboo flooring. A red soled heel in the kitchen sink. Sliding glass walls. We shall turn it back over to a nonplussed property manager tomorrow. Or rather today. It is near seven am. Dion is going for another surf either for the film or for himself.
The future is now.