I've written about this before, in the early days of McCovey Chronicles, but I'm lazy, and busy, and nobody (at least nobody with a life) is reading this anyway, so why the hell not just recycle a really funny story? Of all the crazy things that have happened to me since I've been in L.A., not only is this probably the craziest, it was actually the first. Talk about anti-climactic.
The main reason I'm re-posting this is that I want to start a semi-regular series where I ramble on about some of the only-in-LA moments I've experienced here. I've been feeling a touch nostalgic about my time here because (drum roll) my wife and I have decided to move Boulder, Colorado in '09! I'm not quiting screenwriting or anything -- many screenwriters now work from all over the globe, keeping contact with the industry by phone and e-mail, and face-to-face meetings are down anyway due to scaling back of development tracing all the way back to the writer's strike -- but I have to get out of this town. Like, now. My current nostalgia is rooted mostly in the knowledge I'm finally escaping*.
But why not enjoy the nostalgia while the tide is high, right? So, without any further ado -- like there wasn't enough ado already -- here's my first-person account of what it is like to be serenaded by the one and only Richard Simmons:
The year was 1997, and I had just moved out here to L.A., hoping to make my way in the business they call "show". I moved out in late September (on Brian Johnson Day), but purposely avoided getting a job for the first month, so I could watch every agonizing inning of the Giants getting swept in the NLDS to the Marlins.
When I finally did get a job, it was as a lowly assistant at a production company, Crash Films, which made commercials and videos. These types of jobs usually allow you to wear shorts and a t-shirt -- after all, you spend half your time in your car making runs and getting people’s lunch -- but after giving me the job, my bosses asked that I wear a dress shirt and tie. While this was somewhat of a hardship for me (as dressing formally always is), there I was on the first day, dressed in my Sunday finest.
My first assignment of that Monday morning was to go to the nearby Vons supermarket to buy a bouquet of flowers for display in the office's lobby, which they shared with a photography studio next door. So I was quite the sight entering the office that day -- dapper in my pressed shirt, tie, and khakis, and holding a giant bouquet of beautiful flowers. So much the vision was I, in fact, that I caught the eye of a man standing at the entrance to the photo studio. He, too, was hard to miss, standing there in his tight red short shorts, skimpy tank top, and perfectly picked afro.
Now, you have to remember, I'd only been in LA a month, and still prone to being starstruck every time I saw anyone I recognized from film or TV ("Hey, weren't you Calderone's Henchman #3 in an episode of 'Miami Vice' in 1986? You were AWESOME!!!"). So I was still getting over my shock at seeing Richard Simmons standing 20 feet from me when he raced over, dropped to one knee and began to serenade me with a very emotional rendition of Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond's "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" at the top of his lungs.
Before long, every employee from both offices had filtered into the lobby to gawk at the spectacle. I tried to laugh it off as my face turned red, and even inched toward the door, trying to make a sly getaway. But that Richard Simmons is quite an agile fellow (must be all that sweating to the oldies), and he managed to block my way, while never leaving his one-kneed stance. And since Mr. Simmons unfortunately knew the whole song by heart – and really, how could he not? -- I had to just grin, wait him out, and pretend like I wasn't in a living hell. As Richard finished his song with trademark flair, the place exploded with laughter and applause -- a standing ovation that seemed to last forever.
Needless to say, because of this incident, I was a laughingstock in that office for weeks. And that only ended when I provided more ammunition for mocking by getting torn a new one by former Whitesnake frontman David Coverdale, leading to enough Tawny Kittaen jokes to last me several lifetimes. But that's a "Hollywood Horror Show" post for another day.
*I'm planning on writing a longer post on this -- my reasons for leaving L.A., how I feel about it, Colorado, the whole shebang (What the hell kind of word is "shebang", anyway?) -- so you'll have to wait for the details until then. The two of you reading this, that is. (One of them being me.)
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