I live two hours and a lifetime away from Los Angeles. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about that. My mother’s an actress, I told the kids on the playground, or my father is a producer, both marginally true and also total fabrications. Hollywood is complicated, even when you’re five. Later, much later, to valets and doormen and shopkeepers and receptionists, to bartenders and nameless boys and maybe even you: I work for [insert FAMOUS ACTRESS/ACTOR/ COMPOSER/ETC.], true enough, although of questionable value. The reflected glow of someone else’s star power.
Here, 120 miles to the south, I have a variety of freelance jobs that have nothing to do with Hollywood. I run errands that have nothing to do with Fred Segal or Smashbox or Pantera Sera’s newest club. I have a dog who can’t fit in my purse. It’s dark out here. I still need a flashlight.
