There’s so many reasons why I love working in Hollywood. Yep, I’m done the mall-facing gig, and I’m back on the lot. I walk the hallowed halls of Jules White and William Holden and Rita Hayworth and am an unwitting participant in what I call “The Starbucks Dodge,” where you see your coworkers in Starbucks in the morning and they pretend not to see you. These are the same people who will harass you throughout the day when they need things.

Having worked on this lot off and on, I’ve gotten to know the regular denizens who spend the day sitting outside what we’ve nicknamed “The David Lynch Starbucks.” Today as I walked by, I overheard this little gem:

“Abilene. The one thing I remember about Abilene is the smell. The smell.”

“It smells like puke.”

After running my errands at the other end of the strip mall, I finish up at Starbucks. As I’m leaving, Johnny Knoxville walks by. He had been behind me in line, I think. He’s holding coffees and items.

“Congratulations!” I tell him.

“Why?”

“You got divorced, didn’t you?”

We both go, “Woah!” as in “bad joke ‘woah.’” As I walk by the regulars, they chuckle.

better what than red in the head?

Heading towards the Gulch. A large disheveled white guy with a crazy look in his eye starts towards me. I have my sunglasses on thank God.

“Hey! Give me some money!”

Walking.

“Got any crack? Give it to me!”

Keep walking. I wonder if he’s going to lunge for my purse ’cause I can see him out of the corner of my eye and he’s got some bad juju. He ain’t getting his hands on my Longchamp no matter what. The embarrassing thing is, I’m wearing clogs, ’cause I’m going out later and left my cool boots at my desk. Then I think, y’know, that’s not such a bad thing, cuz I can always take one off and wallop him on the head.

“You got directions to the 101?!” he screams. “Money! Crack!”

Someone across the street is watching this and starts yelling at him to leave the girl alone. I’m way past him now anyway.

“Fucking redhead! Bitch! Turn the fuck around REDHEAD!”

Why do they always have to make it about the hair? WHY?

My lunchtime walk, this time, on a job in Beverly Hills. I’m at the crosswalk, waiting for a very long light. Crossing is tricky here and takes two tries through the light. There’s a meridian in the middle.

A weatherbeaten blond guy on a bike comes towards me. He stops right at my sneaker toe.

“You like Kurt Cobain.” It’s a not a question - more of an assertion. I know this is a long light, and there’s no way I can ignore him. That said, I can’t encourage him, either.

“Mmmm … not really.”

“Ronnie James Dio.”

(Wow! I’m fascinated by people’s thought processes. I should have been a shrink. That’s a good one! I haven’t heard that name in twenty years, but I have to hide my fascination.)

“Nah.”

“Freddie Mercury!” His chin is up now, he’s trying.

“No.”

“Robert Plant.”

“Yeah. I like Robert Plant.”

“Well - who else do you like?” he’s exasperated. I picture the Vegas marquee:

“Tonight! The only singers in the world: Cobain! Dio! Mercury! Plant!”

I have to throw him a curveball. Dammit, this light is long.

“Frank Sinatra.”

He squints then jerks his head down and stares hard at my sneakers then looks up at me.

“You’re only twenty eight years old! How can you like Frank Sinatra?”

“You don’t have to be old to like Frank Sinatra you know.”

“You are too young! So is it true about redheads–”

I hold up my hand. “I’m outta here.” The light finally changes.

Update: Almost 24 hours later, in almost the exact same spot, there’s Courtney Love. We do that “hey” nod thing and I keep walking on to the park.

fox(es) on the run

It could only happen to us. The return of FunkyJenn and me to Gower Gulch had to be remarkable. It started off okay; I got there typically early and hung out at the David Lynch Starbucks, wondering if I had the wrong day for our wrap lunch. When you’re out of work, it only takes a few days to get into the “what day is it?” blur and when you are in Gower Gulch, that blur hangs overhead permanently, making the calendar useless. I looked for Jack in vain, joked with the employees about the loss of the “Sunset and Gower: We got the Power” sign (their new one: “Sunset and Gower: We Never Shower” and they like FJ and my “Sunset and Gower: Tower of Power” for the next one.) Anyway, we had our wrap lunch, then headed out to shop. I went back to Starbucks (can I stay away? Will anyone believe me when I say I’m a Bean girl?) to wait for Jen who had ran over to the studio to grab her last paycheck. She arrived, breathless.

“I just jaywalked across the street, right in front of a cop car.”

“Did they stop?”

“Yeah, they pulled in here.”

“Oh, there’s too much crime in Hollywood for them to chase down a jaywalker.” I still can’t believe, EastCoaster than I am, that you get tickets for jaywalking. We invented the sport, for chrissakes.

“When they have a quota to make, they do.” FJen knows all. She was born in Hollywood. Who the hell is born in Hollywood?

“Ok, lemme go look.”

I dash outside. Jen stays in at the counter w/our former boss. I see the cop. It’s a she. She’s walking slowly down the Gulch, looking into the window of Togo’s. Then she speeds up and heads towards SBucks. I turn and start to go in and warn Jenn to get in the bathroom, but the cop steps in front of me and beats me inside. Fuck!

Jenn is still in line. The cop is right behind her, looking her up and down. There’s no way for me to tell her what’s going on. Our old boss glances at me, incredulous. I’m watching the cop as Jenn moves towards the pickup counter. Somehow I get her from the counter to my car which is miraculously parked right in front. She jumps in the front seat as I lock her in.

“Go get my drink - venti ice soy chai for Jennifer.”

“Will do.”

The cop is still looking around but she hasn’t spotted Jenn in my car. Boss is laughing and covering her mouth.

“Only you two.”

It’s true. The security guards at Sunset Gower nicknamed us double trouble and we don’t even work there anymore. On the one day we come back, of course there would be police.

I get Jen’s drink and get in the car. I look over and the cop car has gone. I point:

“She was parked right there, in that space. Now it’s empty - right next to the–”

Jen finishes the sentence.

“Right next to my car.”

Beverly Pillbillies

My shrink is moving offices. Which is too bad, because today was my second and last visit to his Beverly Hills digs in a very 60s building on Brighton Way, right off of Rodeo. I’m really getting into my shrink appts at lunchtime in B.H.; it’s like being in a Fellini flick, or just Halloween, because I feel like I’m dressed up like someone else. I mean, how the hell could that be me? Today I felt like me. I met a nice, giant black Great Dane named Matisse and we walked from the little park down Rodeo to my corner on Brighton. I felt so regal. Then as I waited at the light, someone sidled up to me.

“Havin’ a good day, honey?”

I didn’t turn around much. I get used to this. Having red hair means people can talk to you without introduction; they think this somehow breaks the politeness barrier of a say, “Hello,” or “Good afternoon.”

“Yeah. You?” I finally turned to look. He was a homeless black man, holding a can. Jesus.

“Yes, I am honey, just waiting for the Kingdom. Waiting for the Kingdom.”

needles and pins

they find me. they always do.

yesterday at work i was on a call to a designer. we have never met, and this was the first time i have spoken to him.

at the end of the call i said to him,

“well, i’m sorry to have stuck the pin in your creative balloon, so to speak.”

him: “be careful what you say - there are some of us that LIKE that sort of thing.”

um, okay. how the hell do you follow up that kind of response?