Last night as I was strolling the Sunset Strip I passed a red carpet that had been set up in front of a hotel. Some of the people gathered there were obviously celebrities, but I didn’t recognize any of them, so I kept walking. All sorts of vehicles were pulling up to the curb, and camera crews were jumping out and setting up, and the crews all looked really intense, as if they were doing something incredibly important, and I sort of thought to myself, Wow, these guys really get worked up over a bunch of minor celebrities that I don’t even recognize.
As I was passing House of Blues, this big black guy said, “Hey, can I give you something?” and thrust an object into my hand. I figured it was a handbill and took it. It was actually a CD. The guy said, “This is my CD. We’re giving them out as a free promotion.” He pointed to the cover. “That’s me there — the bald dude — and this here is my crew. We’re very respectful. We don’t call women b-i-t-c-h-e-ses or anything like that.” I was like, “Sounds great. Thanks, dude,” and went to leave. He added quickly, “Of course, we are accepting donations to help us cover the cost of production.” And I was like, Argh. I am. So. Gullible. I figured, Well, that’s what you get for letting someone hand you something/letting someone engage you conversation. I figured a dollar was a small price to pay for a lesson learned and a chance to get away without this encounter turning any more painfully awkward than it already was. The guy managed to talk me up to two dollars, since “It costs us two dollars to make each of these,” which is total b.s., but whatever. Anyway, I am seriously never letting anyone hand me anything ever again.
Then some Scandanavian tourists pulled up next to me and ask me how to get to Hollywood boulevard. I am asked for directions with insane frequency by poor fools who don’t realize that beneath my affable exterior lurks a tragic — almost superhuman — inability to navigate. About 80% of the time I manage to send people 180 degrees in the wrong direction. Which I did again last night. And yes, I’ve given some pretty bad directions in my day, but being in the middle of Hollywood and misdirecting people to Hollywood boulevard, which was one block away, I think represents new heights of accomplishment.
On the way back to my car, I passed the red carpet again. A whole family of Southerners was gathered on a stoop there with cameras poised. My curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, “What’s going on over there?” They said, “They’re opening a new club. We saw Ashton Kutcher and Demi. But they went inside already.” So, I blew my big chance to see Ashton and Demi. Dammit. Two years in L.A. now, and what do I have to show for it? One lousy Giovanni Ribisi sighting. (Sorry, Giovanni.)
Speaking of celebrities, according to Locus online Greg Bear will be appearing on the Daily Show on Thursday, which I can hardly believe, but if that’s true it’s awesome. On the exceedingly rare occasions that I watch late night talk shows, I am usually filled with despair at the thought that no matter what I accomplish in my life, my society will never value what I have to say as much as it values some airhead telling a lame anecdote about how she once accidentally tripped over her dog, or whatever. But this gives me hope.
Best T-shirt spotted recently: “I was bald and drunk before Britney.”
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