Back from a four-day trip to L.A., where so much was happening I didn’t even feel the 4.8 earthquake despite always being worried I’d get caught up in one of those and be like Debralee Scott jiggling on that airplane attempting to land in Earthquake.
With almost no time to rest, I was picked up by my friend Corey in his candy-apple red convertible. Corey claims he isn’t rich, but I don’t believe him—he’s “Republican. With some Democratic tendencies. But mostly Republican.” I’ve only met him once, but he’s one of those friends with whom you fantasize you’re in a deep friendship with thanks to a great first impression, regular e-mails and Facebook fixes. In truth, it’d been about three years since I’d seen him, all the more reason his offer to drive me from L.A. to Laguna Beach just for a small art exhibit was charitable in the extreme. In fact, his business is charity; the reasons I can’t believe he’s a Republican just keep mounting.
The drive was idyllic. I’d feared a too-windy journey, but it felt great and I acquired an instatan. On the drive out, we pretty much slandered half of Hollywood—he felt bad, I did not—and talked about ways my job could and will intersect with his.