Hell of a weekend. So Friday night I played guitar in The Burlesque of Bond, same as usual. (The show?s extending through next weekend.) Next morning, I hopped a plane with my wife from Orange County, grabbed a plate of amazing pasta at Zza’s in Oakland, and went to Rhythmix for the closing night of The Death of Ayn Rand. The show was awesome; I received and gave a lot of love; Rob and Linda and Angela were awesome folks to hang out with. I was gratified to discover that since I am apparently dead, my writing’s now worth a lot more than when I was alive. We stayed up till the wee hours, drinking and talking, and bright and early Sunday I hopped a plane back to Santa Ana. I drove to Los Angeles at ninety miles per hour, arrived just in time to catch the Dances with Films festival. Ambassador’s Day was playing at the shiny Laemmle 5, on Sunset in Hollywood. I just made it in time to catch myself, with Dave and Charles sitting beside me in the theater. Now I know that names are just names, and places are just places, but there was a never-to-be-forgotten thrill in leading in a Hollywood film. Yes, that’s me up there, making you laugh! After the film, I took the guys back to Costa Mesa, got them all nice and drunk, and we all watched the current cut of Absolute Pleasure. I collapsed in bed, failing from sensory overload, as the calendar turned from Sunday to Monday. Yeah, hell of a weekend.
Where any office boy or young mechanic can be a panic
Published