David Lynch: Czar of Bizarre

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Lynch's films shout that sentiment in every frame, of course. But listen to him on the subject of aging -- which, as so many things do, attracts and repels him. "Scientists are working right now, while we are having lunch, to give us a better life. I hope they make some big breakthroughs soon. If you could only reconcile the mental with the physical, then throw in the emotional! These growth hormones, where can I get a bunch of them? Is there some way that, with electricity, you could stimulate your own growth hormones? Plug yourself in for five minutes, there'd be a little jolt, but you'd get used to it. It wouldn't be bad at all; in fact, you'd get to enjoy it, probably. Then away you'd go, and youth wouldn't be wasted on the young anymore. You'd be 25, with a 95-year-old mind. Granddad would start breaking into liquor stores and staying out late. Hope we have it soon!"

David Lynch has finished his meal. A $20 tab, cheap at twice the price for lunch with a gee-whiz genius. "Do you mind to take me home?" he asks. "It's only a five-minute drive. But you can't come in!" And up he goes into the Hollywood Hills, where the entertainment industry's most beguiling outsider can find refuge in the daydreams and nightmares -- the forests and Philadelphias -- of his pinwheeling mind.