The Wayward Traveler: Part I

Feast or famine. That’s what I’m always hearing about this business and it’s that uncertainty that keeps things interesting—you never know what the next job is going to be or when it’s going to come. And when that opportunity comes to make to make a few bucks, you better believe you won’t know what you gorged on until you’ve eaten yourself into a stupor.

I couldn’t stop grinning when I saw my bedroom at the hotel. Surely, I had a skipped a few chapters in the big book of my life to end up in a split level room with my own fireplace and minibar, complete with a collection of red wines and a chrome cork remover. Just the weekend before, I was in New Jersey for a music video, where the cork remover was conveniently mounted next to the toilet. There’s something poignant to be said about status in society and what you’ll find next to a toilet.

Los Angeles: land of bittersweet memories. The last time I was here, I was piled under scripts and suffering a bit of a burnout. Now, I was sucking down raw oysters and exquisitely cooked Hawaiian Opah and Mojitos.

Mindblowing. I’m the sort of guy that doesn’t mind eating stale bread, the sort of guy that’d be happy with a bit of manual labor and a bit of cheap beer at the end of the day, and here I was hobnobbing with the VP of HBO original entertainment, the CEO of Comcast, Oscar winners and multi-million dollar producers. Living big, spending bigger.

It was too mind-blowing to even put in entertaining, humorous prose. So I won’t. I’m too tired and out of practice with my words to describe how exciting but draining such a trip could be.

All I can say is that if there’s some sort of cosmic conservation of good experiences to bad, I’m badly due for a kick in the groin in the near future.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to pack for Asia.