WRITER - The Tyee -
Little David in Hollywood (Continued)
Two Rodeo Drive is the current Centre of the Universe. It’s a little curve of a High Street running off Wilshire and bleeding into Rodeo proper. Across the street is the grand old Regent Beverly Wilshire, run now by our very own Canadian Isadore Sharp’s Four Seasons. Go Canucks! All the Ferragamos and Versaces are perched here. Here everybody is casually aggressive, laid-back psychopathic. They sit on the garden benches, talk loudly into their cells, and broadcast their exciting lives to the passing throng.
“How long is the flight from Miami to Barbados? No! Well, we have a discount at the Ambassador if you want it. No problem. Just speak to Bob.”
Fremantle Media is a worldwide conglomerate sitting comfortably –very comfortably! – on the fourth floor of a quiet building on Colorado Avenue. They own many “properties,” but foremost among them are “The Price is Right,” and “American Idol.” They bought “Price” from the originators and have been distributing it in 147 countries for years. “American Idol” is their flagship show and the profits therein are downright terrifying. Opposite Eileen in Reception (“Sure, my asthma is awful, but Arizona? Come on, Man!) stands the glass trophy case filled with “American Idol” products: American Idol mugs, American Idol pencils, American Idol T-shirts, American Idol sports bags, American Idol toothpaste, condoms, bubble gum, well, you get the idea.
“Good program, David, but I’m going to pass. It’s great, but not for us. Here’s what we’re looking for – the next American Idol! We’re talking hard concept, high concept. Smack ‘em in the face! And look, you speak to Darnell at Fox, he’ll want to know does Robin Williams take off his clothes? Can we push Reese Witherspoon off the cliff, worry later about catching her? See where I’m going? For example, last week I had a guy in here pitching me with "Deflowering the Virgin!” But, hey, you have my number, David. You call me anytime with the next American Idol!”
“O.K., Mike, how about “Frontier Rabbi?”
“Hahaha. Oh man, you’re funnier than your project! I love the way you think!”
The hotel is right on the cusp of the Orthodox Jewish neighbourhood. Who knew? Two ladies in the kosher supermarket on Pico, “Sure, I’ve got acid reflux!” One is tempted to blurt out, “Well, you don’t always have to eat the pickles they put in front of you as soon as you sit down.” One bites one’s tongue.
At the Museum of Tolerance, swarms of ten-year olds stare at the horrible pictures. Their comments in the visitors’ book, after witnessing the most graphic of holocaust histories range from “Fantastic! What an unforgettable experience!” to “What about other people? Native Indians and Asians? Too limited. Boring!”
The Afro-American clerk at Taschen books (Dali, Botticelli, Madonna!) is really an animator, a cartoonist. Tomorrow he has an interview with Disney. His real name is Sylvester. “But you can call me Nick.” Fifty years ago, someone made a Sylvester the Cat cartoon that was based on “Of Mice and Men,” Steinbeck’s heart- breaking story of Lenny and George, two itinerant workers during the Depression. In the cartoon, a giant, lovable and stupid cat follows Sylvester around like a lost sheep. He keeps calling Sylvester “George.” No matter how many times he is corrected by the distinctive sputtering, lisping Sylvester, the big dumb thing keeps saying, “But I can’t say Sylvester, George.” Children in theatres around the world turned to their parents and friends and hollered, “But he just said Sylvester!”
Nobody works harder than Los Angelenos. Venice and Zuma Beach be damned, most folks work round the clock. The kid at the Taiwanese cosmetics, teas and spa (full body massage, 3 hours, $800US) starts at 10:30, ends at 10:30, goes home, cooks, cleans, meditates for 2 hours, goes to sleep at 2:30am, gets up at 9 and repeats 7 days a week. The lovely lady who owns the Greek café ruminates, “Oh, sure everything fine. But, you know, you have to ask yourself why, why, why? Never stop. Inside, outside, take-out, every day. And for what? More money? Who has time to spend?”
On Air Canada’s return flight (pre-Celine!), a man is gabbing on his cellphone as we board. He doesn’t care what we say; his chat about nothing takes precedence over our safety. Evidently, we worry too much.
The next day, back safe at home in sleepy, drizzly, wonderful Vancouver, the New York Times blares “Shooting of Teen Shows There are Two Different Cities Called Los Angeles.”
Amen.
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