Got out of town for a week to write. Okay, I know what you’re thinking - What a wussy thing to do. I can’t write in my own living room? You know what? I can’t tell you how much easier it is to write, sitting in the middle of the desert in an air conditioned hotel room. I got fifty pages done in a week. Los Angeles is all distractions. Palm Springs sucks. 120 degrees? I can’t wait to get back there and do nothing but write and eat room service.
Funny story from dinner at Benihanas. I’m eating alone at one of those big stove top tables, where the chef performs for you (which is weird enough in itself when you're there alone), when this girl in her early twenties at a neighboring table suddenly gets up and screams “No fucking way! I’m not going to let him choke me! He’s going to kill me!” She storms out followed by a few friends. She was amongst a pretty big group. Maybe twenty people.
Later on, I’m at the valet waiting for my car where the aftermath is still unfolding. A cop is interviewing a couple people. People are split up in groups deliberating. One guy in his fifties comes up and asks me if I’m staying at the same hotel as his family. I am. He asks for a ride. His family seems nice enough. I say sure.
We start driving back up to the hotel. The father is really pissed. I ask him if he knew the girl who ran out. He sighs and says yes. He continues to explain that they’re all there in town for a wedding the next day… and the girl who ran out screaming is the bride. The last thing I heard as I left was one guy saying, “Well I sure hope we can still get a round of golf in tomorrow, make this whole trip worth while.”