Letters From Hollywood

The neighborhood was sketchy. The building looked like somewhere you’d expect to find a brothel or perhaps even a cocaine ring. Of course, there I am... walking around in my bright pink shirt.

Too late to turn back now. I talked this up at work all week. If the guy with a thousand stories goes back empty handed, I’d never hear the end of it. Unacceptable.

Parked the car smack out front, dismounted my GPS from the dash, and hid all my belongings. Here goes nothing.

Surprise, surprise. The bright red doors were not doors at all. In fact they were actually a breach in time and space. I found a wormhole. Tighten up the belt, popped the collar, and walked right on through. Own it.

Inside was beautifully decorated. Large floor-to-ceiling mirrors inset in gold moulding adorned the hallway walls. The ridiculously large building had somehow shrunk, allowing just enough room for me to fit through on the long walk to the back of the lot. It reminded me of the scene from “The Matrix Reloaded,” where Neo visits the Key-maker and each door looks identical to the next. Each revealed something entirely different from the next.

After entering my room, I was instructed to sit on a plush leather couch that sat behind a beautiful coffee table adorned with spring water bottled in real glass.

Despite my seemingly trivial motives, I found myself unexplainably nervous. I was surrounded by a half dozen others, each adorning their own stand-out apparel . Each with their own stories of undeveloped stardom and backstories to match. I found a strange comfort in their absurdness. This couldn’t be real.

A man who looked like a disenchanted used car salesman entered the room. The type of guy who had a rotating enthusiasm about nothing and everything. He yelled and screamed at us at the top of his lungs, all the while holding a crooked smile. You could tell he’s done this before. At this point, I was so amused that I couldn’t help but laugh... entirely out of place.

I was coached through the entire process, much in the same way Lower Dauphin teaches to their standardized tests. I was told what to say, when to say it, and even how to say it.

I was promised ten minutes. By my watch, that’s still five minutes short of the sought fifteen of fame. I got one hundred and twenty ... ... ... seconds. It all happened so fast that in a blink of an eye I felt used and cheated all at the same time. I spent two days filling out the book of paperwork. I expected more than a desolate, “we’ll be in touch.”

I absolutely hate reality television. You’ve heard me wisecrack about, “The Real World,” “The Hills,” and those alike. This was different. I wanted on. Bad. This was perfect for me. I was perfect for it.

Wipeout baby.

Until next time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

Kemer

Going through cocaine treatment is necessary if you want to get a chance to live a life without illicit drugs.