Quote:
Originally Posted by Not Bob
California has a special place in the American mind/soul/dream. And there is no question that both San Francisco and LA are beautiful, magical places. When I went to Beverly Hills in a February many (ack!) years ago for a pool-side mediation (I am Not Kidding), I learned first hand why people move there. Heck, I had picked out a gold Firebird and lined up a mobile home in Malibu before the first break-out session ended.
Then my client reminded me that I hate traffic (true) and the beach (also true). And that I wasn't rich (alas, very true) or good-looking (ouch), and that while I would love seeing games at Dodger Stadium (probably true; will have to go to confirm), I would hate seeing hockey at the Staples Center. And while I probably would like seeing hockey at the Pond in Anaheim, it's too far, and, besides, it's in Anaheim.*
And then the hot bartender called me "sir" in a way that said, politely, "you, Not Bob, remind me of Jason Alexander's character in Pretty Women," and the magic was completely gone.
*Note that I am only relaying the sneer. I have a different (but also very good) client in Anaheim, and am told that it is a delightful place.
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Most years, I am invited to LA for the Grammys, thanks to my role with a small classical music label. However, my invitation is not to the ceremony populated by rock and movie stars, with red carpets and paparazzi, and everything carefully scripted for TV. My invite is to the event that happens earlier in the day, where the taxis and squat hybrids disgorge occupants by the convention hall, with friends snapping photos on their phones by the signage, where they give out the awards for stuff that doesn't garner any ratings. Yes, we are webcast live! I missed the biggest year, though, the one where Bob Dylan released a classical album and beat us in our category, and sent one of his close hangers on to gather up the award.
After all our awards are given out, though, they put the real ceremonies up the big screen where we can watch them from our convention hall seats, and they keep the concessions open, too!
If LA is a cruel place for the almost-famous like me, I can only image how tough it is on a failed writer like Hank.
