The Road to Beverly Hills

East Side of Beverly Hills, Calif.

My agent left a message on my service. He likes my Friends spec script! Wants to meet me Tuesday. I already have three dates lined up. I think I’m going to like Los Angeles.

I’m glad to be out of Las Vegas. We managed to avoid the Albert Brooks-Lost in America-secret-gambling-maniac plot twist. I still have my nest egg. Gambling always makes me sad, even state lotteries that allegedly go for good causes–not just because it’s a regressive tax but because the government always ends up pushing lottery-gambling on the public instead of making difficult budget cuts or increasing taxes.

This was a great trip. None of my stuff was damaged. Bob was sweet, and, despite a few minor incidents, better-behaved than expected. I can’t drive back with him, of course. But I think when he goes he might be willing to take some stuff back to the East Coast for me. In particular, there’s a piano someone out here gave me that doesn’t fit into my new place. It would be great if Bob could take it to my storage space in D.C. It’s not a grand, or anything, just an upright, so I don’t think it would be too heavy.