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.