Leaving Los Angeles

I am sitting in LAX airport as I type this, waiting to board my 3:50pm flight back to New York. I’m a bit early for the flight, so there are only about twenty other people waiting here with me at this point. It’s fun to guess who is heading home and who is leaving home on this flight. For example, the guy directly in front me of wearing mirrored sunglasses, a freshly laundered hoodie, and a white stocking cap pulled down to his eyebrows lives here in L.A I am guessing. He is rocking out to his iPod (the smart money is on Timberlake) and is glancing in all directions with a look on his face that seems to suggest “Check me out- I am totally just sitting here rocking out to my iPod and it is fucking sweet, dude. When I get to New York, I am going to head straight to Bungalow 8, which I’m told is in the Village.” When he gets there he will address everyone as “bro.” I want to kick him in the nuts.

I realize I’m being a bit mean and judgmental, but it’s just more fun this way. Besides, I’ve just spent the past nine days in Los Angeles and have pretty much reached my douchebag threshold. It’s been a really nice trip though, so I’m not complaining really. But still, the douchebag quotient here in L.A. is staggering. Fortunately however, the douchebags are easily spotted and you can avoid them much of the time if you keep your eyes open. In fact, in addition to seeing lots of old friends, I actually met tons of nice new folks while I was here, none of whom deserved a kick in the nuts at any point during my visit.

On the showbiz front, my shows here were pretty good. They weren’t great though, so- being a total pro and all- I was slightly disappointed. But for the most part, it was good times and I’m glad I came out here for a spell. The trip almost ended tragically, however, when last night I was followed by a coyote for about half a block as I headed back to my car after my show last night at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. Since I haven’t had much experience with coyotes or predatory animals in general, I wasn’t exactly sure what the prospect of death was necessarily. I’d heard stories of coyotes ganging up on family pets and, well, killing them, so- since I’m pretty cuddly myself and all- I figured I might be in some danger, especially if there were a bunch of other coyotes lurking in the shadows (as I was pretty sure there were). In an attempt to avoid death and/or maiming, I called my friend Chris, who had just pulled away in his truck, and asked him to drive down the street my car was parked on and scare away the coyote so I totally wouldn’t die. He did and it seemed to work. Thanks, Chris. I am not dead and I have you to thank.

Since the near-death incident with the coyote, I’ve spoken with a few friends who live in L.A. about things and they assured me that the coyote totally would not have killed me and that I really had nothing to be afraid of. I think the word “pussy” may have been used a couple of times. Still, better safe than sorry (as people tend to say in such near-death situations). I’ve already been maimed once in my life (NOTE: when I was eleven, the family Golden Retriever bit me in the face, which is why I am so horribly disfigured. Oh, don’t act like you hadn’t noticed.), and I pretty much want to avoid it ever happening again. That coyote seemed a like a feisty one, the kind that would have absolutely no regard for my career in show business.

An Oreo-induced coma seems to have set in between this paragraph and the last, so I must stop for now. Looks like I’ll be jumping on the plane in a few minutes. I hope they don’t seat me next to the douchebag in the white stocking cap and sunglasses. I can hear his iPod from here. How does he keep himself from dance-dance-dancing?! Okay, I’m starting to feel bad. He’s probably just a nice guy who is just dressing and acting like a douchebag for some reason that is beyond his control. Maybe I need to take a closer look at the douchebag within and just learn something from this, dammit. Or maybe I should kick him in the nuts after all. Decisions, decisions.

Dave Hill