Hey, Amir Bar-Lev. Whatcha doing?

“Premieres, my man. Schmoozing. Going to parties sponsored by start-up vodka-delivery apps.”

We’re coming up on another tech bubble, aren’t we?

“Big time.”

Is this how white men dress now?

“We seem to have reached a consensus, yeah.”

I’m trying to decide which is more rebellious: the sweater on the sweaty guy, or the blue sneaks on beardface.

“Well spotted. Those two are the wild men of the group.”

Amir, I gotta say that you sound a more…how do I put this?

“Sane?”

That’s how I would put it. Sane, yes.

“It’s done. I’m done. The movie’s out there and there’s nothing left to edit and there’s no one left to kidnap. When it first screened, my mind just…you know how you’re going around the turn on a roller coaster and your stomach isn’t where it’s supposed to be, and then the car straightens out and your guts slap back into place?”

Yeah.

“Like that. But instead of my stomach, it was my sanity.”

Congratulations.

“I got a little out there.”

It was worrisome.

“Can’t go back to the library.”

Why?

“I had this idea that certain ideas were ‘hot’ and other ideas were ‘cold,’ and I started really thinking about that, and then I was awake for four days straight, and I went to the library and doused all the books with the ‘hot’ ideas with a fire extinguisher.”

Ooh, that’s not good.

“And several patrons.”

Did you think they were “hot?”

“No, I just wanted to spray old people with a fire extinguisher.”

That’s the first non-crazy part of this story.

“Right? You must be tempted to.”

Constantly. Or a potato gun to the chest.

“Sure. Oh, and then because there ‘cold’ books in the library–”

You set it on fire.

“–I set it on fire. How’d you know?”

Intimately familiar with insanity’s florid logic.

“But I’m all better now. Little vacation with the family. Seeing old friends on the publicity tour. Bought myself a blue shirt.”

It’s a nice shirt.

“Thank you. Listen, I’m glad we’re talking. You’re an incredibly gifted man, and I want you to write the screenplay for my next film.”

What? Really? Sure, I’d like to do that. Let me just–

Am I talking to the real Amir Bar-Lev or the semi-fictional one?

“Second guy.”

Dammit. No, I do not want to collaborate with a documentarian that doesn’t technically exist.

“We’ll do great things together. And I can pay you.”

With what?

“Money.”

Real money?

“No.”

Knock it off. Who are these bozos?

“Tall guy on the left is Giovanni Thant. Owns all the Burger Kings in Düsseldorf.”

Okay.

“Next is the third Weinstein brother, Marvin.”

I didn’t know there was a third one of those.

“He’s usually not allowed out. Weird case of sleep-induced Tourette’s. Just the filthiest stuff imaginable.”

What’s the problem? He’s not anywhere near asleep.

“Narcoleptic.”

Ah.

“Marvin’s conditions react in a sort of amplifying wave. Very unfortunate combination.”

I’ll say.

“Marvin is also a biter.”

He sounds great.

“Solid citizen. On my left is Cassius Hammersmith, a 18th-century sea-captain with many problems.”

That’s Justin Kreutzmann.

“No. Troubled sea-captain.”

Amir.

“How do explain the shanties?”

Amir.

“He means to make for the Horn, but the weather bedevils his e’ery move.”

“It could also be Justin.”

Who’s rocking the sweater?

“Eric Eisner.”

The fashion designer’s husband?

“Yeah.”

Cool. The other three?

“Randos.”

Dude! You got your own randos?

“Past three or four weeks? Boom: randos everywhere.”

You deserve it, man. You’re a Grateful Dead now.

“Yeah, uh-huh, but: I don’t like it.”

No one told you to make the monster, Doc.

“You turned my shit around on me.”

I did.

HIGH FIVE

This was nice. I’m glad you’re not crazy any more.

“My lawyers aren’t. Gave them a lot of work.”

Fuck lawyers.

“True.”