Bachelor No. 1

So, as hesitant as Evans may have been about a documentary, Pam must have buried the needle on his talent detector. She's funnier than any woman I know. And equally sweet. And crafty. And she rides a Vespa scooter. So it was no surprise that when I met Pam at Factor's Famous Deli for a writers meeting last Friday, a fresh copy of the book was sitting in my place at the table.

"After you read it I'll get him to sign it for you." I love you, Pam Gravy!

It really is who you know. But the happy who-you-know stories are rare. It's a small town. Play it out and eventually some who-you-know will lead around to someone-who-doesn't-like-you. A friend of mine signed with a new agency and started taking meetings all over Hollywood. She was pitching her latest project to a producer and went on to explain how it would be different from all the bullshit movies that fell into the same genre. She tore into one movie in particular, performing a step-by-step evisceration of the film.

The producer's wife had written it.

Luckily, he appreciated her sense of honesty.

Well, I've gotten away from my original topic a bit. Or maybe not. Hollywood is a strange town. Trying to have a relationship out here is difficult because the whole place pulses with an anticipation of what's coming next, not what's happening in the moment. By the time the Oscars air, those films have been wrapped for a year. Everyone is on to the next thing. After watching Matt and Trey go around and around with Paramount producer Scott Rudin for months, it was difficult to get my head around the fact that, by the time the "South Park" movie premiered, Scott was already halfway through producing "Sleepy Hollow" (and certainly had several other projects in the works).

Maybe I just need to slow down a bit.

Trey's neighbor on Kauai, Kenny, and his wife moved there in 1970, lived in a tent under the bridge down the street for two months. Then they roofed a house for $2,000, bought a speedboat and began giving water-skiing lessons on the river. Thirty years later, they live in the same house, do the same thing every day, and they're as happy as clams.

Sounds pretty good. I don't mind camping, I've roofed a couple of houses and, with a little practice, I bet I could teach someone something about wakeboarding.

Nah. Who am I kidding? Gotta go, go, go.

Perhaps what Foucault says about sex could also be said about a relationship in Hollywood. Or a movie. It is always better tomorrow.

Love,

David.

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