Sunday, January 21st – Solo Mission

Posted January 23, 2007 in
We both managed to stockpile about nine hours of well-deserved sleep before making our plans for the day ahead. Unfortunately, Mr. Lopez could not accompany the Sundance - Chevy -bandwagon, which was terribly mangled in a parking lot "accident" the night before (someone hit me). So I packed my things and set out to cross off the list of gatherings in the grind house.

The first person I met was the very talented Zooey Deschanel, the older sister from Almost Famous. She was nice, but declined to do an interview for fear of midget autograph seekers who might spot her and unnervingly hunt her down Main St. So it was time to move on, for I had some time to kill.

After drinking my fair share of overpriced 3.2, I scurried my ass over to the Sidecar for a free Matisyahu (accapella) performance. After standing around for about thirty minutes the sound engineer grabbed the microphone and started yelling at people to get out. Apparently, the show was cancelled. Either the sound guy was a huge Matisyahu fan and he was beset with anguish, or his girlfriend just admitted to sleeping with the whole cast of American Zombie. He sounded very distraught to say the least. Before leaving the building, I jumped into the elevator and got off on the wrong level (which I often do), and much to my surprise, I found myself face to face with Ryan Reynolds (Van Wilder, Just Friends). He looked like shit and appeared to be very tired, so I thought it would be a good idea to do an interview with him. Ironically, my batteries thought it would be a good idea to DIE two seconds into recording. It wasn't the batteries that made the situation was the people standing around him staring me down like I kicked a puppy or something, in a "how dare you speak to Ryan Reynolds" kind of look. Fuck the elevator, I took the stairs down.

Time to check my agenda, What's next? Hmmm, a Queer Lounge Pool Party. I hoofed it about 20 blocks to Silver King's hotel where the emphatic sounds of Eurythmics and Madonna came roaring out of every window. I knew I had found the right place. Everyone seemed very nice at the party, which was broken up into about seven different rooms (two of which I did not enter, don't ask) heavy with perfume sprayers and makeup applicators. I questioned the level of my alcohol consumption and the concern that it might be too early to have another drink. That lasted about five seconds. After my second free pour (did I say that?), I was approached by a guy who told me in many more words, that I don't belong at the party; I'm not gay and I had to leave. Cool, I guess it was obvious. I laughed and left.

"My kid couldn't paint that"

Thirty minutes later, I finally reached Main Street. By this time, the sun had gone down and the bitter cold had finally pushed its way into my bone marrow. I was officially freezing. I ran into the Sidecar (yes, again) for the My Kid Could Paint That Premier Party which was fully catered by Mr. Mark White himself. Pizza, Sushi, Prunes, and more prunes were some of the choices of interest. I was so glad to finally see some real food. Surviving off of snack size Luna and Cliff bars for three-straight days gets old quick. The party was unobjectionably entertaining and turned out to the meeting point for my editor Angela Brown, fellow photographer Colby Crossland, City Weekly photographer John Taylor and I. We had a few more drinks, looked at some four-year-old art by Marla Olmstead (a painting prodigy and the star of the documentary), and planned the next destination. By this point, I wasn't sure if I could drive home.

Local action sports filmmaker Mark white carries sushi

We walked and talked about halfway down the street until we found ourselves getting into an undisclosed location in the most unspecified of ways. Sorry for the shroud of obscurity, no one wants to get sued. In fact, that's exactly what happened. I found myself on unholy ground. The likes of Billy Bob Thorton, Jenna Malone, and Heather Graham were among the elusive convoys. You might say to yourself, "So what, celebrities can party too." Fact: When celebrity's party, they bring their own managers, lawyers, body guards, agents, and publicists. Little did I know, this was a private event and I took a lot of pictures. Pictures that enraged Heather Grahams publicist. He threatened my accomplice, saying that if I didn't stop taking pictures he would SUE ME. I guess he was afraid that she was getting out of hand and I might catch something. Kind of like when she was sitting on her companions lap and got up to "relieve herself" in the bathroom, fell over (use your imagination) and the guy jumped up in pain, yelling, "Oh my God! I feel like my legs are broken!" Yeah, people from Hollywood are heavier than they appear.

Heather Graham and her broken legged companion.

The rest of the night went very well. We ran to another spot where Zooey Daschanel happened to be singing and I shot a lot of nice photos, only to find out later that I broken the rules photography allowed. Good thing I didn't use a flash, I could have been sued. Desperate for some more action and story, we ran across the street to the Celsius Lounge where I began to interview the door guy. After the first question, some people came to the door and I turned off the recorder so I could let him do his job. The interview went great, although, I forgot to turn the recorder back on. At that point, I wasn't very inebriated and what I remember is his story involving Sir. Anthony Hopkins slipping on some black ice in front of the club. It was a very sad story and I don't know why he chose that particular story to tell because Tony Hopkins kick's ass. That was it. I stuck a fork in my motivation and drove (safely) home. I have the highest hopes for tomorrow...movies, interviews, raves, rants, more crazy shit to fill this bladder and blog.

-Lance Saunders and Erik Lopez

Monday, January 22nd Today was an office day. Time to update and upload the blog.

- Erik Lopez and Lance Saunders