Coming down from the Grammy lemonade high, I was faced with the fact that the requests I had made to be added to lists for post Grammy parties had never been confirmed. Steffie was going to EMI, by total coincidence she was her friend's plus one. I called Caroline to ask her to be my date. She answered the phone, “Please tell me Cinderella gets to go to the ball!”  I gave it to her straight— we may or may not be on the list. The girls from the show were going to a Kanye West party at Vine Street Lounge and had invited us to tag along, but I had to take my chances with the Paramount Gates (the EMI party was on the studio lot) first. I'm a huge fan of Bob Evans, and watching The Kid Stays in The Picture turned those studio gates into symbols of something greater, of reaching some level of success. Gates, are designed to open. So I put on my women's fitted tux (sans shirt), picked up Caroline, who looked gorgeous in a purple wrap dress, and drove to the gates. We were ushered to the list master who asked for my name, she scanned pages and pages, I grew nervous, “I was a late edition, but I should be on there,” I said haughtily, to disguise my anxiety. “No worries,” she smiled, “Linda, right?”  Linda, yes. Whew. And we were in.

There were tables set out in a fake NYC street, with a sushi bar, and a bar bar. We got a drink right away.  I saw the stage manager for the Gorillaz show and gave him a piece of my mind about the bait and switch. He seemed genuinely sorry, he told me to bring the Gorillaz to life cost 90 grand. Holograms ain't cheap. We sat down next to the guys from Arcade Fire. God I love Arcade Fire. I leaned over and told the dude I locked myself up for a month and did nothing but play Funeral. He smiled, said it was nice to hear, but I could also see he felt uncomfortable, not as uncomfortable as his girlfriend, who got up suddenly and said rather sternly, “I want to go dance!” He got up and followed her.  “I thought he was a waiter at first” Caroline said.  We made our way into a soundstage that was dressed for the occasion, where Joss Stone was already boozing it up. I saw Wanda Sykes at the bar and told her she cracked my shit up. “thank you sweetie,” she said as she walked towards her friends. Suddenly a swarm of people descended up on us, and you could see Sir Paul McCartney in the eye of their swarm storm, Caroline made eye love with him (read her post). We met cute rocker boy after cute rocker boy, but they were all so serious, so indie, so… sober. What happened to rock n' roll? Where were the drugs, the slutty dressed chicks, the drunken meglomaniacs? Just as I was thinking we had gotten into possibly the lamest Grammy party ever, I made eye contact with Jakob Dylan, but before he could penetrate me with any kind of eye love thrust, I turned my head. I slowly turned my head back, and I caught him and his friend looking at us again! “Steffie,” I said. “Jakob Dylan just looked over here.” “Where?” she said as she turned her head to face him. “Oh my god, he was looking and he caught me looking.” He was looking again. Oh sweet Jesus. Rumor has it he ended his marriage this month (though I haven't been able to confirm this). Something had to be done. What? I went through my list of acceptable ways to approach celebrities, Ask where the bar is? Nope, I had a drink in my hand that I wasn't willing to part with. Ask a brilliant question that shows you're a huge fan. Couldn't think of one that didn't have to do with his father. Tell them you like their outfit. Not applicable. In the end, after a few more glances, I came up with asking Jakob Dylan where the john was, and made for him, but Steffie grabbed my arm, “no you can't. It's too late now, we've made too much contact.” And I lost Jakob Dylan like Apollo 13 lost the moon. Maybe one day we'll meet again and drive it home, with one headlight…

LA Weekly