Tuesday, March 08, 2005
When I was driving to work today I thought it would be a good idea to use this blog to tell my prostitute story.
Trust me, it's not what you think.
And it's not THAT, either. Those days are behind me.
Okay. It's January, 1993 or '94. (It was the week Babylon 5 premiered. The ONLY reason I remember that is because it's a corollary to my prostitute story that has no bearing on the tale per se, but if you ask I'll tell you how and why I remember this.)
I was in San Francisco for the NATPE convention. NATPE stands for National Association of Television Production Executives. It's a big,expensive show where people go to buy the shows you're going to be watching in syndication two years from now. In a nutshell.
It's also where lesser-informed people (like me at the time) go to try and pitch shows to companies who wish you'd just go away.
With me on this trip was my good pal Susie. We were up there to pitch an idea to whoever would listen about a new-age style newsmagazine. (Trust me, it was a pretty good idea but we realized early on that it wasn't what the BIG GUYS were looking for.) We were also up there to pitch an idea of Susie's, a game show idea that, son of a gun, a big-time foreign game show producer DID give us the time to pitch and actually optioned for about a year (although no money changed hands, dammit).
Anyway, one night while we were up there, Susie and I drove down to one of the nearby Santas -- Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, I don't remember anymore, and had dinner with a couple of friends of hers. Great time. Good food, good conversation, FANTASTIC wine, as I recall.
Then we drove back to San Francisco.
Now, I have to tell you something about Susie. I love her to death. To this DAY one of our dearest friends. At the time (and maybe even now), Susie had the remarkable ability of falling asleep almost literally on command. We got in the car and she said, "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when we get to the hotel." And within seconds, she was sleeping her way up the freeway. (Don't worry; I was driving.)
Now, if you've ever been to San Francisco, you know that the GOOD parts, the parts people think of when they say "San Francisco," are situated on a maze of one-way streets. You can't just drive to where you want to go. That would be too easy. You have to "negotiate" with San Francisco. Reason with it. Say nice things to it. To wit: We stayed at this funky old hotel down near the Tenderloin (that's the area you don't go into at night) called the Mark Twain. It's called that because he stayed there once. Anyway, I pulled off the freeway right near the hotel, and the road put me right in front of the hotel.
But this being San Francisco, access to the parking garage for the hotel was not on the main street, but on the north side of the corner where the Mark Twain was situated. Which meant lefting and righting for about five minutes until you could get on the street where the entrance was, all while going the right way. Follow me?
So anyway, I'm parked at a red light in front of the Twain. It's a January night. It's San Francisco. It's FREEZING outside, and standing at the corner are several prostitutes, dressed like it's summer in Phoenix. Shivering. Hard. Obviously in pain.
As I'm waiting at the light, the smallest prostitute (now THERE's a Hallmark Hall of Fame Special: The Littlest Prostitute!) walks up to the car, shivering, makes eye contact with me, and yells, in a voice that I'm sure could be heard in one of the Santas:
"PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAASE!"
I cracked up.
Susie slept right through it.
I'm making hand signals (I'm not ABOUT to roll down the window) that no, I'm not interested, shrugging sorry, etc.
The hooker points at Susie, still snuggled in the suicide seat.
"Oh, come ON, man! SHE ain't gonna give you SHIT tonight!"
I started laughing so hard I nearly missed my green light. I mouthed "Sorry" to the Hooker and went navigating my way around to the parking garage. This caused me to pass the hookers again, but I didn't have to stop that time.
When we finally parked I woke Susie and told her the story. She LAAAAUGHED....
Poor little prostitute. I hope she found somebody that night.
But that's my prostitute story. That's what I get for having Catholic morals...
------
Had a good time last weekend at the Fiddler's Dream festival. One of the highlights for me was a trio consisting of a harmonica player/singer, guitar player and stand-up bassist who played with a bow. After doing a series of not-very impressive originals they ended with a version of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" (based on Cream's arrangement) that blew everybody away. The Bass player bowed the familiar Claptonian intro, and it was off to the races. Place went nuts.
My wife Jan and the Fair Melissa gave a fine bellydance demo and class and my sons kicked ass as last-minute musicians for the demo. I'm so proud.
TT
Trust me, it's not what you think.
And it's not THAT, either. Those days are behind me.
Okay. It's January, 1993 or '94. (It was the week Babylon 5 premiered. The ONLY reason I remember that is because it's a corollary to my prostitute story that has no bearing on the tale per se, but if you ask I'll tell you how and why I remember this.)
I was in San Francisco for the NATPE convention. NATPE stands for National Association of Television Production Executives. It's a big,expensive show where people go to buy the shows you're going to be watching in syndication two years from now. In a nutshell.
It's also where lesser-informed people (like me at the time) go to try and pitch shows to companies who wish you'd just go away.
With me on this trip was my good pal Susie. We were up there to pitch an idea to whoever would listen about a new-age style newsmagazine. (Trust me, it was a pretty good idea but we realized early on that it wasn't what the BIG GUYS were looking for.) We were also up there to pitch an idea of Susie's, a game show idea that, son of a gun, a big-time foreign game show producer DID give us the time to pitch and actually optioned for about a year (although no money changed hands, dammit).
Anyway, one night while we were up there, Susie and I drove down to one of the nearby Santas -- Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, I don't remember anymore, and had dinner with a couple of friends of hers. Great time. Good food, good conversation, FANTASTIC wine, as I recall.
Then we drove back to San Francisco.
Now, I have to tell you something about Susie. I love her to death. To this DAY one of our dearest friends. At the time (and maybe even now), Susie had the remarkable ability of falling asleep almost literally on command. We got in the car and she said, "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when we get to the hotel." And within seconds, she was sleeping her way up the freeway. (Don't worry; I was driving.)
Now, if you've ever been to San Francisco, you know that the GOOD parts, the parts people think of when they say "San Francisco," are situated on a maze of one-way streets. You can't just drive to where you want to go. That would be too easy. You have to "negotiate" with San Francisco. Reason with it. Say nice things to it. To wit: We stayed at this funky old hotel down near the Tenderloin (that's the area you don't go into at night) called the Mark Twain. It's called that because he stayed there once. Anyway, I pulled off the freeway right near the hotel, and the road put me right in front of the hotel.
But this being San Francisco, access to the parking garage for the hotel was not on the main street, but on the north side of the corner where the Mark Twain was situated. Which meant lefting and righting for about five minutes until you could get on the street where the entrance was, all while going the right way. Follow me?
So anyway, I'm parked at a red light in front of the Twain. It's a January night. It's San Francisco. It's FREEZING outside, and standing at the corner are several prostitutes, dressed like it's summer in Phoenix. Shivering. Hard. Obviously in pain.
As I'm waiting at the light, the smallest prostitute (now THERE's a Hallmark Hall of Fame Special: The Littlest Prostitute!) walks up to the car, shivering, makes eye contact with me, and yells, in a voice that I'm sure could be heard in one of the Santas:
"PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAASE!"
I cracked up.
Susie slept right through it.
I'm making hand signals (I'm not ABOUT to roll down the window) that no, I'm not interested, shrugging sorry, etc.
The hooker points at Susie, still snuggled in the suicide seat.
"Oh, come ON, man! SHE ain't gonna give you SHIT tonight!"
I started laughing so hard I nearly missed my green light. I mouthed "Sorry" to the Hooker and went navigating my way around to the parking garage. This caused me to pass the hookers again, but I didn't have to stop that time.
When we finally parked I woke Susie and told her the story. She LAAAAUGHED....
Poor little prostitute. I hope she found somebody that night.
But that's my prostitute story. That's what I get for having Catholic morals...
------
Had a good time last weekend at the Fiddler's Dream festival. One of the highlights for me was a trio consisting of a harmonica player/singer, guitar player and stand-up bassist who played with a bow. After doing a series of not-very impressive originals they ended with a version of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" (based on Cream's arrangement) that blew everybody away. The Bass player bowed the familiar Claptonian intro, and it was off to the races. Place went nuts.
My wife Jan and the Fair Melissa gave a fine bellydance demo and class and my sons kicked ass as last-minute musicians for the demo. I'm so proud.
TT
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