So you?re the one.? A beautiful, tanned, blond dude dressed in baggy orange surf shorts, white leather Birkenstock clogs, and a brown-and-white pony fur vest with nothing on underneath smiled at Vanessa with glistening white teeth. His name was Dork or Duke or something and he claimed to be a producer. ?The genius filmmaker.? ?She?s the next Bertolucci,? Ken Mogul corrected Duke, or whatever his name was. ?Give me a year and she?s going to be a household name.? Ken was dressed like an urban cowboy in a silver Culture of Humanity down vest over a black Western-style shirt with pearly white snaps instead of buttons. His curly red hair was tucked into a black Stetson hat, and he was even wearing black cowboy boots with his Culture of Humanity boot-cut jeans. He?d flown into New York that night from Utah, where his most recent film had just been introduced at the Sundance Film Festival. It was an ambitious piece about a deaf and mute man who worked in a cannery in Alaska and lived in a trailer with thirty-six cats. The man didn?t talk and spent a lot of time at his computer e-mailing girls on singles Web sites, so Ken had had to be extremely creative with the camera to keep the action going. It was his finest work yet. ?Dude, watching your film was like being born again,? Dork told Vanessa. ?It made my day.? The corners of Vanessa?s mouth turned up in a half-bored, half-amused Mona Lisa smile. She wasn?t sure how she felt about being called ?dude,? but she was glad she?d made Dork?s day. The Culture of Humanity by Jedediah Angel after-party was an even bigger deal than the fashion show itself. Highway 1 had been decorated like a Hindu wedding tent, and bikini-clad models who hadn?t even been in the show were lounging on leather sofas, drinking saffron martinis. or dancing to the live bhangra music. Vanessa tugged on her tight red top. It was kind of hard not to feel like a porker around so many bony, seven-foot-tall models. ?Okay. Here?s the guy fromEntertainment Weekly ,? Ken Mogul said, wrapping his arm around her waist. ?Smile, it?s a photo op!? Duke stood on the other side of Vanessa and pressed his tanned, angular cheek against her soft, pale one. He smelled like Coppertone. ?Say salami!? It was Vanessa?s policynot to smile when she was being forced to have her picture taken, but why not? There really wasn?t any danger that she?d get swept up in the glow, marry Duke in the Temple of Surf and Sand, and live cheesily ever after in a surf shack?cum?film studio on the............