Man, I should have seen that coming a mile away. That blank stare, the fact that he thought risotto was Mexican, the way the only adjectives he knew were "good" and "fun," ...that guy was so LA. If you don't know what it means to be "LA," imagine if a car salesman and a female car salesman had a baby: the baby would be from LA. I bet that guy has a goddamned white baby grand. I KNOW that guy has a white baby grand in his huge, unused living room, on a black marble-tiled level maybe two steps up from the main part of the white-carpeted living room.
SO! So. That's over. I knew I'd never fit in in his world of guys who can make breezy conversation with twitty women about favorite shoe colors. If you get two LA people in the same room, and there's a bed there, and they have so much as the same favorite sandwich filling in common, they'll be hitting it within thirty minutes. That's how LA is.
Okay, enough venting. I went back and looked at all the old rushes from the cooking show I was working on before Circus Penis showed up, and they look...stupid. I look like a big fool who could just get taken in by any old shiny fad that came along. My stupid hipster pad, my trendy shoulder-held camera style, my whole approach to food...just immature. A total flub.
On top of all that, I picked up my guitar and accidentally made up the cheesiest little three-chord riff you can imagine. I was totally into it the whole time I was working it up, but then when I took a few minutes off and came back and played the finished product it sounded like something a studio guitarist would be asked to play during a sequence on a TV show where a red race car wins a race.
I think everything I touch is just going to be bogus for a while so I'm going to sign off now, on my big whiny blog.
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