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.

At last, I see the music source. Atop a large column in the center of the dance floor, DJ SuperCasanova stands behind a shelf of keyboards and turntables and ear-shattering speakers. He’s this white guy sporting a sequin suit and a sequin top hat, and you can tell he loves his job.

I push my way through the crowd and claim one of the few vacant tables.

I sit there, taking it all in. On the table beside me, a woman has stretched herself out flat on her back and pulled her shirt up over her bra, to expose her bellybutton. One of the men lifts two shotglasses from the table and holds them up.

“Tequila or tequila?” he asks and bursts into laughter.

He straddles the woman, pours a shot very slowly onto her sternum and watches ravenously as the liquor trails into her bellybutton.

“Oh yeah!” the woman cries out. “Suck it! Suck it!”

So he sucks the tequila from her naval and runs his tongue up and down the tats on her stomach, lapping up the liquor and making her belly glisten—much to the delight of their company.

When he finishes, the woman climbs off the table and another girl assumes the position.

More drinking of liquor from orifices ensues, nipples are exposed, and I’ve got to tell you, it’s  all fairly entertaining to behold.

When I tire of watching the youngfolk beside me, I walk to the nearest bar, order an Absolut, one ice cube, no lime, and return to my table.

I sit there sipping my drink and watching the multitude of dancers. People in LA certainly know how to look good. Nearly all of the men are tall, tan, muscular, possess perfect hair, and have this superficial charisma down cold. For instance, I watch this guy talking to this girl on the outskirts of the dancing mob, and even though I can’t hear what they’re saying, I can read in his face that the only thing he cares about is the possibility of fucking her brains out a little later. I mean, she’s chattering away, and he just keeps nodding and flashing these smiles that aren’t really smiles, and looking around every now and then to make sure something more fuckable isn’t in the vicinity. Real gentlemen, these LA guys.