To recap:

7/14 – Celebrate 32nd birthday in Ogalala, Nebraska with my father at Ogalala Steakhouse & Billiards. Much red meat and drinking and billiards.

7/19 – Arrive Las Vegas. Give all credit cards, ATM cards and cash for my father to hold. I place no bets. I do spend over an hour watching a craps game at Caesar’s in which a well-dressed fiftyish gentleman of Asian descent silently loses over $25,000.

7/20 – Arrive Los Angeles. Catch my first wave on Kadish’s couch in Los Feliz. I will surf there on and off for the next six weeks. L.A. is in a heat wave when I arrive, temperatures hovering at 100 degrees during the day and near 90 at night. I am assured this is unusual weather. I am skeptical.

7/22 – I play my first round of golf at the Los Feliz Golf Course, 9 hole, Par 3. It costs four dollars per round. As I walk toward the links that first day, two large African-American gentleman ahead of us casually pass a blunt back and forth. Behind us two white-haired grandmothers amble forth, guiding their wheeled golf-bags. I shoot a 54, giving myself an initial handicap of 27.

7/24 – I attend a party at a warehouse/art gallery that is essentially a front for a speakeasy in the basement (though there is art for sale, starting at prices in the low thousands and going up as far thirty-six grand for one light installation. Kadish knows Cynthia, who’s working the door, which is how we get the password. The password changes every week. Without it, a friendly armed guard won’t let you in. There is art for sale, starting at prices in the low thousands and going up as faras thirty-six grand for one light installation.I cannot help but think somehow I am Foley being called “Akhmel” by Serge. Kadish and I go down into the basement, which is hazy with smoke. The liquor is cheap, but more importantly, patrons can smoke wherever they want. And I’m not just talking cigarettes, dig? The DJ plays only Tribe Called Quest for the first two hours we are there. At one point, I sit down on one of many couches that overlook the giggling games of backgammon and checkers being played throughout the four dimly lit chill rooms. A very attractive blonde soon sits down next to me. On the advice from Kadish that it is much easier to begin conversation out here than back in New York (or Boston, for that matter), even with women who are decidedly hot, which this little number certainly is. I lean forward and asks her how she likes this place. She says she thinks it’s super-chill (more on the excessive use of the “super-hypenate” by Angelenos later). We chat aimlessly about the place for a couple minutes before I ask her what she does. We have still not exchanged names. She says she is an actress. She asks me what I do. I pause for a moment, gauging what a woman such as this will make of a poor graduate student. I tell her I am a producer. We talk for a minute more and then she says she sees a friend she needs to talk to. I ask if I could get her number, maybe call her sometime. She says sure. I take out my cellphone to record my first digits since my arrival in L.A. Now, my cellphone, it’s four-years-old bulky, and the front screen is cracked. I haven’t given these facts much thought. Blondie sees my phone, shakes her head, and says “I don’t think so.” Then she turns and walks away.