That's Paul Mazursky in the beret with a bunch of other Hollywood writers sitting around a table at the L.A. Farmer's market. They've been meeting there once a week for the past 25 years to have breakfast, chat, ogle the women and gossip. Kind of funny that these movie men find the time to hang out and act like kids.
NPR ran a story on the people in the Farmer's Market, a nostalgic flea market with eclectic food vendors and homespun gift shops. It's not just Hollywood types who are regulars, but a wide and varied collection of L.A. residents.
Listening to the audio, I found it interesting to hear these older guys throwing out one-liners to zing their fellow diners, bring up a bunch of "remember when . . ." career stories that always ended in laughter, and then hear them hit on some of the pretty women walking by - "Hey, Jessica, Katherine, Charmaine?" They were just guessing at the names trying to get their attention. Usually they would get a scowl and occasionally a finger. All this caused these guys to break out in a titter. Really, a titter. They sounded like school kids, idiots.
And I loved hearing this. It reminded me of how I act when my friends from ages ago get together and reminisce, play cards or, if we're lucky, walk down a boardwalk in Atlantic City and argue over whether or not that was Jennifer Aniston or her double filming a recent movie (The Bounty).
I felt some affinity to Mazursky and his crew. I identified with the behavior which I've been told is quite immature. But it didn't stop these fogies and it didn't stop me from feeling a bit jealous. I wanted to be at the table with them, with the luxury of time they all seemed to have and an illustrious career in a business they seem to love.
I can't really picture myself sitting around a table with some past colleagues talking about credit lines that were yanked from customers, or risk weighted assests that had to be re-balanced, or who the latest person running the international business is. I can't even imagine ogling some of the women we used to work with. "Hey, isn't that Doris from Operations. She's looking mighty slim. Must've dropped 40-50 pounds. And I'm not talking British Sterling."
When it comes down to it, we’re all just gonna be some skin and bones left on this so-called plate of life. It’s pure hell if you think about it.
And lately, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. You see, I’m convinced that I’m already dead and this is hell.
That’s been my mantra for a while. I know it’s not too uplifting, believe me I know.
What brought me to this dismal conclusion? That’s what this blog is about - a collection of stories, examples, proofs, etc., that show without hesitation that I’m already dead and this is hell.
But don’t let me take the limelight. I know after you read some of these entries, you’ll find examples in your own “life” that will enable that light bulb to pop on and help you explain the inexplicable. You’ll soon realize that WE'RE already dead and living uncomfortably together in hell. So please, feel free to send me your stories, or just browse through mine. As Freud said, “It’s therapeutic, Mrs. Pappenheim.”