Sunset Boulevard

I knew that in LA, I’d meet people trying to break into the business. Stupidly, I thought such sightings would be occasional, that meeting F-list celebs would be novelty.

But small talk with any waitress will reveal her desire to be on screen and unless the 20-something at the party is working towards his PhD in something hopelessly un-cool, you’ll find that he’s paying rent by writing, editing, or if he’s really good, directing the next poor substitute for the spin-off of the spin-off of Debbie Does Dallas.

That academic 20-something plans to spend his days humbly toiling in a laboratory. He knows his role has nothing to do with Hollywood.

But the sidewalks are paved in red carpet, stretch H-2’s line the streets and even the road signs reek with fame.

Those who reside in the ivory tower may be notoriously out of touch, but this can make them particularly susceptible to the fantasy of stardom. By the time they are a 40 to 50-something they’re living with a full-blown delusion that their celebrity in the field of sono-luminescence is much more far reaching.

My statistical mechanics professor refuses to distribute e-mail address for fear that “every high school student in the country” would be contacting him for science fair advice were the information readily available.

He spent a good deal of today’s lecture venting about being hounded for interviews by the paparazzi of physics – the New York Times science editors and the producers at NOVA. In researching ways to maintain his svelte figure, our good professor had been disappointed to find that even talking on the phone burned more calories than sex. But, after spending a grueling day exhausting himself speaking about his discovery (pain endured ‘for the fans’), this world-expert on energy decided that effort spent on the phone just might approach the passion he puts into copulation.

At least we didn’t have to read his thermodynamic equivalent of Magical Me. He’s probably just waiting for someone to buy the screen play.

Netflix It

Most people join Netflix for the convenience and price. I’ve found that it’s also forced me to remove the bull from the list, Let’s see that in a sentence now: “The Seventh Seal? Yeah, I really need to watch that. It’s totally at the top of my list”.

The Netflix list is an online catalog of movies you’d like to see. When you send back seven and eight, DVDs nine and ten are sent to you.

And so the list evolves. It is born a collection of classics, arty films and foreign flicks. Then, you find yourself returning – without watching all those depressingly honest subtitled must-sees chronicling the lives of the disadvantaged, malnourished and lame.

Soon, your list no longer resembles a syllabus from the “Intro to Film” course you never quite found the time to take, and looks more like the HBO lineup you missed when your roommates refused to chip in for cable.

If only I could subject to the same polygraph that fanciful collection of things I say I’d like to do sometime. Instead of DVD’s in the mail, it would be a man at my door. He’d be built like a tumbler from Cirque De Sole. On the days when there’s nothing I have to do he’d burst into my apartment at 7am and yell, “Sky diving lessons!”. How quickly that list would become void of adventures and full of dates with my couch, some tea, my pajamas and Netflix.