I’m back. Did you miss me?

I had just written this entire page when my Netscape crashed… so I’m doing it again.

The show went well. Really well. We had people stay to chat, and go out with us afterwards to get nice and drunk. We are a friendly troupe, I’ll tell you that.

Don’t go to a big city for your first time with fourteen people. Just don’t. Save yourself the headache. And especially don’t go when ten of those people have just spent thirty consecutive hours together on a van. They were so tired of each other I felt like I had been on the drive with them. That and no one wants to do the same thing.

I didn’t get to see the Viper Room.

But I put my hands in John Travolta’s hands, so I traded one John for another…which many women in LA do, I’ve heard (sad attempt at prostitution humor, I know, I know…) Of course, while I was having my Hollywood Moment someone came stomping over my intimate head conversation with Danny Zuko and shouted, “I’m hungry! How many more damn stars do we have to walk over?”

We all had a very quiet moment as we took a picture over Sherri Lewis’ star.

On the second day we found a small dumpster outside a theatre filled with headshots and resumes. I wanted to save all of them. Wipe the food and coffee of their smiles and perfect hair and find a better place for them to rest. Not because I wanted better karma, but because I wanted to take care of my fellow entertainers…there was something about seeing so many hopes and dreams at the bottom of a trash bin that was too spooky for words. I only hope that when someone finds my headshot they don’t use it for a coaster.

I mean, that’s my head, man.

So, yes, the show went well, and the psychic we went to visit an hour before curtain said good things will come out of this for me. I’m telling you now, so you will understand why I’ll be all quiet if no one calls…

The psychic said I was too uptight, that I needed to relax, and all I could think was, “Ohmigod, you can tell how tense I am from looking at me? That can’t be good. I’d better do something about that. What should I do? Maybe I’ll make a list of things that I could do to calm down and then I’ll prioritize them in ways that I think could possibly help me fastest and then I’ll officially become a member of the mind body soul network and pay my dues and spend $25 a pop on an e-mail telling me that my problems are all in my head.”

And then I realized that I was sucking on one of her tarot cards. She asked me to put it down.

I gave her five bucks and thanked her for her insight.

Los Angeles is big. But small enough for two of my friends to find an old friend in a bar. Big enough that we never saw any celebrities (although one of us saw Bob Odenkirk from Mr. Show)…and we almost got to see Quentin Tarantino, but he was out of town. He asked us to deliver some Shiner Bock to him, as I guess it’s one of his favorite beers, and we hauled a few 12-packs in the van over to him… his personal assistant thanked us for our work.

We drank at the bar in Swingers but no one asked me to dance. I didn’t see any beautiful babies. In fact, I was just sipping on a Blood and Sand feeling like a big ol’ poseur.

People kept coming up to us and saying, “Oh, but you don’t seem like actors. I hate actors, but you guys seem nice. I should move to Texas where I can meet nice actors. Is that the casting agent from New Line? I’ll talk to you later.”

I liked performing there. I liked the audience. I liked the people. I just didn’t like the city, I guess. It’s not very welcoming. It’s too big to even notice when it has a guest. Not the city’s fault, I know, but it doesn’t even seem like I was there anymore.

Unless my phone starts ringing.

Ring.

Ring, damn you.

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