Killing time and selling screenplays in Los Angeles

I awoke this morning, not with a crisis, but a question: What else is there to do in Los Angeles? My answer: sell a screenplay.

I've been tinkering with a script for about a year and finally decided to do something about it. So I rent a car (around here, public transportation is a dirty word) and take to the streets of L.A., seeking out agents. Of the twelve I visit, eight refuse to give me the time of day. If they had had bouncers, I'd be left with just enough strength in one leg to make it to the airport. One actually accepts my script and another offers some advice and the lead agent's e-mail address.

Before I know it, it's already 4:30. The convention will reconvene in thirty minutes and I do not have today's credentials. (Credentials are issued each day and are only valid that evening.) I call two friends, and fortunately, both have extras. If I meet them at the center, they can get me in.

Disaster!

The only problem, I can't get close enough to the center because every law enforcement agency and rent-a-cop on the West Coast is now checking credentials. The shuttle bus driver won't let me on board and three blocks from the center, random CHiPs (that's right, real-life Ponch and John's) and LAPD check my creds. Not one notices that my pass has expired until I hit the last check-point when a security attendant -- who resembles a bouncer from last night's Paramount Party - turns me away. Go figure.

I make a few calls, but no one can help out. One friend is busy staffing a Senator and another's cell phone doesn't work. I'm stuck outside with the protesters. It's now after 7:00, the keynote speaker will take the stage at any minute, and the enormous posters of aborted fetuses are beginning to turn my stomach.

~ I justify my Of the four nights, Tuesday is scrub night. None of the principals - the president, Gore, Lieberman or their wives) will speak, and delegates do not officially nominate their candidates until tomorrow. So be it. I cut my losses and regroup for the evening's festivities.

All's well that ends at a party

Ed and Bob are not to be found tonight, but I find my friends Johnny and Rocco. Johnny is not only a good friend, but a poltical animal of the most savage stripe. He's got an uncanny ability to name nearly any congressperson by his or her district. (Me: "Minnesota 8th District." Johnny: "Jim Oberstar"). Rocco is a Los Angeles native and an accomplished writer.

The evening's first stop on the post-convention party tour is Paramount. Here, Big Bad Voodoo Daddies join forces with Big Bad Corporations to throw a huge part (Hey, someone's gotta pay for the booze.) The next stop is a real test for Johnny. He secured access at Paramount, but can he do the same at the Conga Room? With only a business card and the inscription: "Take care of my boy. - Alex" he takes the front desk through a wild goose chase that ends with "Alex" on the cell phone, telling the Party's hosts that they have to let us in - and they do. "Classic LA," Rocco tells me.