Julie Harding, 81, wields the silver prohibition era speakeasy cup of her first of seven husbands, Bob, founder of Possum Kingdom, Texas.

The other night we attended that most incongrous of American cultural happenings, a party in the Hollywood Hills, the closest earthly experience to going down the rabbit hole.

When Nathan West was hammering out Day of the Locust in his managers office at the Kenmore Hotel on 23rd street, we’re certain he couldn’t have known his perseflage of Hollywood would remain accurate into the 21st century. His novel comes to mind as we climbed into the dog legged streets West populated with whore houses and failed actors, arriving at an ambitious recession era party. Ever wondering how we are seen by others, forced to gaze upwards at our stature, we roll up to an impossibly tall chic. On approach, Legman notes she is carrying a book. Here in Hollywood, a literary type?

“So who are you reading?”
“These words are god-birthed” she replies, unblinking.

“As a writer, I like to credit some dude for crafting that” we offer.

“No, God”

“Well, let me run this by you. I think aliens created human life on earth.

“And what facts do you have to back that up?” she asks.

“Absolutely none, its pure belief.”

“Well that’s a silly way to go through life thinking of such important things.”

Indeed. But after each foray, we are more convinced we’re the only one with our head screwed on straight in LA.