I'm standing on the edge of my neighbor's property, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a pair of thongs, heart pounding and fists clenched. I'm listening for the dogs. The dogs that woke me. Lightning cracks toward Lake Mead and thunder rolls over Sunrise Mountain. The dogs are silent. It's 6 a.m. I went to bed five hours ago. For the sixth day in a row.
I'm on a mission to go to every single party during CineVegas. Every official party, that is. I understand I missed a small shindig at the Gold Coast's bowling lanes after the League of Ordinary Gentlemen screening, but give me a break. As it is, my eyes are bloodshot and I'm intermittently nauseous. My wife and chauffeur, Biana, is ready to beat me into the ground with a canapé, I could care less if a preposition dangles, sways or does a jig. And I could swear my feet are sweating.
I've got three more nights to go.
June 15
Tabú, MGM Grand
The PR women don't even bother to check the list for my name anymore. Yet, for all the parties I've been to, I still can't get the hang of attaching that sticky wristband and have to hold out my arm like a child. We arrive at Tabú, the best ultralounge in the western spiral arm of the Milky Way, on schedule but early for the party. I'm figuring out that having events run late is a CineVegas trademark.
Tonight is a party to celebrate the release of a film about TJ Lavin. He rides bicycles better than almost anyone, and you wouldn't think that's anything impressive but then you haven't had a PlayStation game made about you, have you? No, didn't think so.
We camp out in the Tantra Room, waving away the tray-bearing hostesses until the one with the hunks of bacon-wrapped lobster on a stick comes by. Las Vega Sun's gossip columnist Tim McDarrah is hanging at the bar with Jackie Wright and Krista Johnson, and wearing a CineVegas baseball cap he swiped from the festival media room. We move to the recessed booths, inviting Lurking in Surburbia's writer-director Mitchell Altieri, producer Phil Flores and stars Samuel Childs and Joe Egender to join us. With them are Keri Picolla, the film's makeup artist, and Deena Adar, "supporting friend." Deena is fascinated to meet real Las Vegans, and like almost every conversation we've had at the festival, the talk soon turns to real estate.
We're like pashas, sitting on our couch, as the Suburbia folks leave and Brent Holmes and girlfriend Shannon Agnew sit down, with Brent puffing on a giant cigar. Brent's the son of some guy who works over at Harrah's, and swears his dad "endorses" cigar smoking, at least over cigarettes. I warn him I'm going to tell, which is why I think he offers to get another round of drinks for everyone.
Oddest note: None. I left my reporter's pad at work and have to make do with a notebook I got free from Orbitz. Thanks, Orbitz!
June 16
OPM, Caesars Forum Shoppes
I've been feeling sick off and on all afternoon. Biana talks me into splitting a burrito and it turns out I was just hungry. My body has reached a point of exhaustion where basic messages like hunger don't make it to my brain. All I want to do is sleep.
But who can sleep when Billy Joe Shaver is going to be performing at OPM? The drink du noir is some red, fruity concoction made from Old Whiskey River bourbon. I've never had bourbon before and this seems like a great time: It's mixed with other stuff and it's free. It turns out to be purdy durn tasty and I catch myself replaying scenes from Cat On A Hot Tin Roof in my head. Oh, the mendacity!
Everyone is late, except for the guy who played the principal in The Breakfast Club. Biana and I wander up to where the band is setting up to settle that age-old question: What's the difference between a violin and a fiddle? I say it's a matter of what music is played, while my beautiful wife says they're different instruments. We ask a band member and ... Score one for me!
The gang arrives and Billy Joe kicks into action. Robert Duvall is at the hors d'oeuvres table, Dean Stockwell is on the couch with Bruce Conner and Dennis Hopper. They give off the same vibe as the cool kids did in high school—except I'm not worried about any of them starting a fight with me.
Soon, Conner is dancing in and the proclaimed father of MTV moves in a way I can only describe as "herky jerky." Trevor Groth, programming director for this festival and Sundance, and his wife Susan are next to us in the crowd. Trevor raises a digital camera and snaps a picture. I ask him if he got it. "Not a good one," he says.
We turn to leave and run into Danny Greenspun and Elvis Mitchell, ex-New York Times movie critic. So much for that quick exit. The rest of the time is spent contemplating more bourbon as Biana and Susan talk about how they still geek out when meeting particular celebs—for Susan, Keanu Reeves; for Biana, the blond Chippendales dancer.
Oddest note: "Dem. precinct capt. from Indian Springs drinking bourbon + looking for food."
June 17
Caramel and Light, Bellagio
Wine and Pellegrino are free at Caramel, but I want my Grey Goose martini. Biana wants a water but somehow the bartender interprets free Pellegrino as costly Perrier.
The party is kicking at 9 p.m. but it's too noisy for me. I'm tired and dizzy. I'm thinking of the man-eating lizards from Fear and Loathing when Stuart Alson and Nicole Holland of IFQ magazine come over, attracted by my proper notepad, and talking with them snaps me out of my funk.
I meet Keith Collins, ex-Tommy Hilfiger-underwear model and party promoter from New York who not only has been conked on the head by a disco ball, but is also pals with the Dell computer guy. Biana and I are stoked, having heard the Dell guy being interviewed on Howard Stern that very morning. It's either that the entire cosmos is in sync with us, or it's a very odd little world.
After some confusion at the door to Light over dress codes (Patrick Hubley, Sundance media relations manager, is somewhat mollified to hear that Shaq has been denied entry in the past for not dressing properly), we're allowed in. The room is a large rectangle of drapes and couches, with staff treating customers like Hitchcock treated stars.
I run into singer Kelly Hohman and filmmaker Ivan Barron Van Norman dancing. For those of you who read Part 1, I say, "Ha! Told ya so!" Patty Walsh, City Life contributor, tells me that Sean and Robin Penn, Dennis Hopper, and Danny and Robin Greenspun are here, but I keep getting told to move by staff before I can confirm it.
Oddest note: back cleavage on go-go dancers
June 18
OBA, House of Blues
Jason Mraz is playing as we enter. I've never heard of the guy, but there are excited fans among the partygoers. We grab some food, lining up with Brandy, reporter with KTLA and Entertainment Tonight, and her cameraman, Nathaniel. "My friends are on your covers," she says, as we debate whether the objects in front of us are loaded potato skins or not.
"Look," Biana says, "the Vegas Skirt Brigade has arrived." It's her phrase for any group of women wearing 1980s ruffled miniskirts, which she insists look bad on everyone. Me, I was a teenage boy in the '80s, so have been conditioned to give a positive response to not just the skirts, but also Day-Glo colors and big hair.
The party comes and goes in a wave, leaving me and Biana, Brent and Shannon, and one of our writers, Jeremy Parker, stranded. We huddle in a booth, '80s music blasting, shouting in each other's ears. Brent introduces his sister, Brittany Holmes, and insists she tell about how she once was grinding against Leo DiCaprio. Brittany clarifies that it was he who ground against her, but the rest of the story is lost to A Flock of Seagulls.
Oddest note: "using celebs as bait for chancier movies?" (most of this is a scrawl and I can't be sure of more than two words.)
June 19
Skin, Palms
The last night! I manage to get in a good eight hours of sleep and I'm in reasonable shape again, for a man on the verge of 39 who has put in 55 hours of work at my desk and 24 hours of work at parties, not counting the time on my laptop at home, updating the Weekly-CineVegas blog.
Meaning I feel like death that's been microwaved.
The Palms party is a condensed version of the Caesars gala—one pool as opposed to three, three food stations as opposed to a gazillion—but it also means the staggering distance between bars is greatly reduced.
I had been told there'd be a VIP party at Little Buddha, but it turns out that this is it. People tell me various celebs have shown up, but I'm always either facing the wrong way or standing in the wrong spot. A small VIP area has been roped off in back, but I can't spot a Dennis, Dean or Danny to save my life.
Dancers gyrate on floating platforms and in giant light boxes over the cabanas. Two mermaids let us examine their costumes and tell us that most men are actually very polite when confronted with bikini-top-clad, soaking wet models. They're surprised to hear that the models at the two opening parties were non-bikini-top clad and had to rely on body paint. I assure them it's the truth in a manner that gets me dragged away by my wife.
Kelly introduces us to Alan and Judy Wagner, stars of the CineVegas Jury Award-winner The Talent Given Us. The director, and their son, Andrew Wagner, is nowhere to be found, but both are proud to point out their daughter Emily's photo in the latest issue of Hollywood Life, one of the night's sponsors. It's nice to see synchronicity working for others, too.
It all reminds me of the last night of summer camp, an eagerness to return home combined with a reluctance to leave. As we make our exit, I turn for one last look: the CineVegas logo projected on the side of the building, the dance floor full, everyone milling and mingling. It's only 356 days until the next festival. My eyelids, and my liver, can use the break.