Only In L.A.

Or

My Yesterday In Montage

Skipped the gym (yes, again) to go out to breakfast where I ran into another gym regular (shut up, if they know me I still count as a regular.) We don’t speak in the gym, but we chatted almost-but-not-quite like pals in BeaBea’s. Shared guilt is wonderfully inclusive.

The sullen-faced teenaged girl clomping through Target wore a long sleeved, thick black hoodie with sweatpants and Uggs --- in 90 degree heat! Maybe it’s because the store is air conditioned, but that doesn’t explain how she got through the parking lot dressed like that.

Drivers honestly believe that the most expensive car has the right of way. This works in both directions. I’m talking to you, Corolla. You had the right of way both legally and morally, yet you deferred to that pushy Beemer. Stiffen your axles and take your proper turn next time.

The guy at the vitamin store was surprised then annoyed that I don’t have a Burger King versus McDonald’s preference. He works in a vitamin store, fer chrissake. He should know by now the type of customers they get. Nuff said.

The good Improv shows (not an oxymoron, you snarky devil) all happen late at night. Hollywood Boulevard, late on a Monday night, is still replete with local character(s), an occasional tourist, and the ubiquitous scent of urine.

The theater or club, or whatever you want to call the place where Robert was performing, has a full bar. Thus, they card everyone on the way in. I’ve seen a few shows there and had to drag out my antediluvian driver’s license every time. Not tonight. The bouncer/gatekeeper/sentinel checked everyone else – everyone! – but my wrist was stamped without a second glance. Even the only guy who is older than I am had to show his i.d.. Grr.

After the show, in homage to high schools everywhere, we all stood around outside talking like cool kids. Remember, this is right on Hollywood Blvd, at around midnight. Some poor shlub was walking slowly west, surrounded by four or five people with various types of sound and camera equipment. Eventually the sad, straggling, scruffy micro-circus came back the other way. Apparently the shlub is on TV, significantly enough to warrant paparazzi, but not significantly enough for them to care.

Don’t bother asking me who the shlub is. He wasn’t from Leverage or Top Chef, ergo I have no idea. I’m really trying not to be smug about that.

And then I wrote this. End montage. Good night.