Globe’s making a new movie. It’s going to be different…

By Chas Smith

We haven'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 hasn'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, "All of this should be paved. And I don't care about renewable energy." 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.