Your date for the AVALANCHE! premiere is a D-girl everybody has slept with including Thør Rosenthal, Arthur Livingstone, and half the female motion picture agents at Insanely Creative. You skip the movie at the TCL Chinese Theatre when she blows you in the bowels of the Hollywood and Highland parking structure and that’s okay because you read the script and while the moment is shady you’re not complaining about her technique, which is totally pro, her Thierry Mugler perfume invoking a prized memory of that backseat soixante-neuf at the drive-in with the love of your life, the one whose heart you broke after her father threatened you with a fatwa if you didn’t end the office affair. You don’t ejaculate because she orders you to save it for later, back at her place, that is, she says, if you still want to, wiping a blob of shiny sack fluid off her chinny chin chin. Sounds like a plan, you say, and the VP of Fellatio, hurt by your comment, writes you off as cavalier. Your name on the list gets you ushered past the velvet rope imprisoning a fall collection of slim, coked-out models in existential-crisis mode waiting to ride the lift to the rooftop party. You ride up in silence with your date, not smiling when your eyes connect in the ceiling mirror. The elevator doors widen and chunks of man-made snowflakes swirl around you like dust devils. Entering this freezing playpen of the damned, your view of the Hollywood sign is blocked by a huge K2 mountain enveloped in a fake ice storm. Your director of derailment snags a Cosmo off a tray, snarfs a bacon-wrapped scallop from a Sherpa-themed serving girl before ditching you to join a circle of cackling execs from Bellerophon standing on mounds of snow with protruding limbs. Trolls come up to you, tap your shoulder, and ask, “Did you like the movie? Be honest.” Perched above the letters of the unlit hotel signage, Asian chick DJ cocks her headphone over one ear. “Am I the only one who finds the après-ski theme wildly inappropriate?” Nobody answers you when the rooftop shudders with a tremor. Then another, and another, as if an abominable Yeti were making an entrance. Everyone prostrates themselves on the ground, eyes downward. You drop to your knees in homage when cloven hoofs stop right in front of you. Antwon Legion barks at his bodyguards Fruity and Balthazar to pull you up on your feet so you are standing in the eye-line of the biggest movie star in the world: “Reader-guy! I feel like Fogo de Chao. Jew eat?”