“I just moved here from Manhattan.”

This sentence is, in itself, hacky. For a couple of weeks, it lends the issuer of the aforementioned sentence some sort of quasi-coolness, maybe even enough to get a ‘welcome to LA BJ’ in some 1960’s plywood condo off Fairfax. True story, by the way.

However, after that 14 day grace period, that person becomes completely enfolded into the tumor-like growth that is the collective of actor/comic/performer in LA which NOBODY gives the smallest iota of fecal matter about. Nobody cares that you gave up a sweet one-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen that only cost $900 a month because it used to be a shady ‘hood and when you moved there in 1996 crackheads wearing diapers were still trying to shoot you in the face (this is PG – or Pre-Giuliani). And, nobody (particularly an agent or manager) cares that you did a new play off-Broadway to stellar reviews, even from the tough critic at the NEW YORK TIMES! Yawn.

The truth is, people just regard you as another coagulant blocking the artery of traffic; a coagulant that makes the commute to work so damn miserable. “So, screw you! And screw your cigarettes and turtlenecks and Obies and acting chops too, Yankee douchebag!”

So, after the luster of being a transplant loses it sheen after a week or two, you have to chant Stuart Smalley-style affirmations to remind yourself and the ‘UNIVERSE’ that you’re not a loser. I mean, I don’t do that… because I don’t mind being a loser – that’s where the good stories come from.

TO POINT, I went to a swank movie premiere for a swank movie recently (not one starring Hilary Swank, however). I wore my one off-the-rack suit and even performed a rare hair comb before arriving. For some obscure reason that is lost to me now, my ‘presentation’ at the premiere seemed very important. It was my first big industry ‘event’ in LA and despite the pseudo-glamour and glitzy packaging, there was still the palpable undercurrent of ‘Who do I need to impress to get a job in this town?’ Or, as some actresses might put it, ‘who do I need to blow to get a job in this town?’

But enough about Andy Dick, this story is about the current under the undercurrent: the sways and fros of the bottom feeders. The ones who don’t know ANYONE but have a weird belief that they’re going to bump into Steven Spielberg eating mini-wieners and segue into a conversation of such compelling charm and charisma that Stevey will literally be throwing 3 hole bound scripts at his or her head before leaving.

That’s the LOTTO ticket delusion. And here’s the crapiphany (crappy epiphany) I had while hanging out trying to act cool at the movie’s after party after one hour: I AM, indeed, just a coagulant on the highway. The people in power don’t just NOT care about me, they also hate me because it’s my fault, indirectly, that they’re late for their golf or lunch or mistress.

THIS crapiphany at the Hollywood Ballroom premiere party made me angry, annoyed, frustrated, and ultimately, drunk. Suddenly, a great idea burst through the haze of my Hennessey clouds and revealed itself to me — how about I flip my anonymity into anarchy! Hmmmm…

I cleared my throat, remembered my Scottish dialect work, and starting talking with an aggressive brogue to anyone who would notice. Sadly, even as a completely over-the-top character, I couldn’t seem to make an impression in this town. So I grabbed a full bottle of PINK vodka from behind one those of little cart bars and begin striding across the ballroom with a roguish swagger.

That’s when I saw one of my favorite comic actresses of all time. She was dressed… in a dress… floral and just an inch here and an inch there that whispered scandal. She was staring out alone, arms folded.

“AAAAAy, eeeewr a GRAAAAAYT actress! I’m eeewwwwr BEGGEST FAN!” Tone down the brogue, drunk boy, she won’t buy it, I thought.

“Excuse me,” the angelic actress said, voice like cotton balls with aloe soothing the skin.

“I’m TIM, I’m from GLAS-G0 and I just love your WERK in your films and sech.”

She smiled a closed smile. I flashed her a toothy one and she laughed. It was on, as the kids say, like Donkey Kong.

Somehow, someway, something clicked and we ended up talking for an hour and a half. We started passing the bottle between us, flirting and talking about God knows what. My accent held, although the drunker I got, the more I was convinced that I was sounding like a Chinese Jewish Cowboy. A couple of times, my Scottish brogue was placed so far in the back of my throat it felt like I was gagging. I’m sure, once or twice, I just sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball.

Then, without warning, she informed me that her husband of 15 years – with whom she has two lovely children — has been cheating on her and absconded to Arizona with his secretary for the weekend. I took a swig. Gulp. My moral conscience became crystal clear and loud. It said, ‘Bill, enough with the charade. You’ve made your point. You tricked this poor lady into confessing her heaviest, darkest secrets. Now it’s time to tell her that you were putting the accent on for fun and apologize to her…’

So that’s what I said… KIDDING!

“LESS GOOO BECK TO EWWWWRR PLACE AND GET REVENGE AND THAT STEEEEEEWPID FECKER!!!”

That’s what I ACTUALLY said. Her face looked a little gobsmacked by my utterance. But then it relaxed, she gave me a once over, and she started thinking out loud about the logistics of bringing me back home with her…. “Well, the babysitter is there and I’d have to deal with her, but the kids are asleep. So, I could probably get you in the back door…”

A naughty schoolboy in the dark recesses of my mind tittered a ‘tee-hee’ at the double entendre.

Then the reality of the situation came crashing upon me, sobering me up like a coffee enema. Am I about to sleep with a famous, married actress? Is she going to cheat on her famous, married producer husband with me? Oh crap, it’s not even ME, it’s Tim from GLASGOW! AM I GONNA HAVE TO SCREW HER LIKE A SCOTSMAN NOW? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? IS SHE GOING TO EXPECT ME TO HAVE PLAID BALLS AND SCREAM ‘FREEDOM’ WHEN I ORGASM?!!!

I was panicking but I was also in way too deep; there was no way I was going to back out now. She took out her cell phone to inform the babysitter she was coming home.

“Hey Bill, what’s going on? We’re taking off. You need a ride?”

Holy butt crap! It was my friend Mark Feuerstein (check out his show ROYAL PAINS on TBS). I had thought he left the party two hours ago, but apparently, he had been milling in a different area.

The first problem was that he called me Bill, when, clearly, I was Tim from Glasgow. The second problem was that his question warranted a response and, in real life, I don’t sound like a gagging Chinese Jewish cowboy from Glasgow. I tried to split the difference phonetically so I sounded like Bill to Mark and like Tim to the actress.

“Naw, that’s cool. I’m jus gonna hang out here.”

I did it! It sounded perfect. The actress didn’t furrow her brow. It was a middle of the road sentence that could sound either way.

“Oh, you’re doing the Scottish thing!” Mark laughed.

A brief silence ensued that felt like an epoch. My response was a weak giggle and ‘pffft!’ Great improv, huh? Her response was to look ashen. Her face literally dropped. Her mouth hung open and she, for a second, seemed catatonic. I gave Mark my best “eff-off” look so he subtly nodded and walked away, laughing his gravelly New York Jew laugh. It was the most effective cockblock of the 21st century.

The actress just stood there, mouth agape, while I tried to dance circles around the event.

“Oh, he’s jus tekkin’ the PESS OUTTA MAY! I’M REALLY TIM FROM GLAS-GOOOOOO!”

Of course, like a typical guy, even caught red-handed I couldn’t cop to it. Men are absurd that way. We could be going down on a woman and have our girlfriend walk into the room and we’d STILL give some ridiculous BS. “Oh, baby, this isn’t what it look likes. Remember that earring you lost. I thought it might be lost in this girl-I-don’t-know’s vajayjay. I was fishing it out. That’s what I’m doing with my two fingers, that’s a ‘fishing out an earring’ motion I’m doing in her vajayjay!”

Don’t believe me that men are like this? Watch ‘To Catch a Predator.’ We suck and are suckers for frozen lemonade too, apparently.

The actress suddenly and sharply turned to me and said, “You’re an actor doing character work, aren’t you?…. I just want to say that’s some of the best character work I’ve seen, you should be very proud of yourself.”

“No, I’m Tim, I jus –”

“Please don’t talk. I’m guessing it was for an audition you’re preparing or something? Well, good luck, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

She held out her hand to shake mine. I reluctantly took it, denying it all the while… even on the drunken car ride home by myself.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 5th, 2009 at 6:09 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.