Him: It’s steep. I told you not to wear Converse, Michael.
Me: Eh. I’ve hiked the Adirondack trail in Converse. I bet I’ll be fine.
Him: I forgot to tell you how steep it is. Where’s my car?
Me: I don’t know?
Him: I took a photo of the street signs. It’s okay. I know how to find it. Don’t worry so much?
Me: I wasn’t – Fischer –
Him: I’ve been here for 6 weeks, Michael I know how to get around.
Him: Don’t walk over there! It’s really steep! What if someone came up and pushed you?
Me: I’m four feet away from the edge. Also, if someone pushed me that person would be a murderous sociopath. I prefer the company of narcissistic sociopaths, personally.
Him: This is way deeper than it needs to be. Look at the canyon!
Me: I’m looking. It’s beautiful.
Him: Look around – do you see any recognizable faces?
Me: Yeah. Everyone sort of looks like everyone else. Part of that is conformity, probably. Part of that is surgery, probably.
Him: Do you know that to be true?
Me: I’ve been in town four days, three of which I was sequestered by Network.
Him: So you’re just making blind assumptions.
Me: I’m just making jokes.
Him: Well, people could be listening.
Me: Good. I think my jokes are funny, sometimes. Maybe they’ll give me a dollar? You’ve only been here three weeks, by the way.
Him: Doesn’t mean I’m not careful what I say and when.
Me: Let’s yell really loud into the canyon and listen for the echo.
Him: OMG no! Is that Aubrey Plaza?
Me: No. Aubrey is prettier than her. Also, she’s gabbing away. Aubrey listens and judges.
Him: How do you know?
Me: I might’ve been on an improv team with her, once upon a time.
Me: Who can remember? Ancient history.
Him: Introduce me to her!
Me: She’s not here! But that’s Gus Van Sant.
Him: Let’s get a photo with him.
Me: I’m joking. That’s not him. He lives in Williamsburg. That’s a Pilates instructor that takes screenwriting classes on Thursday afternoons.
Him: Michael, people could be listening to you!
Me: They should be listening to you. Are you singing?
Him: I don’t sing anymore. I want to write television and that’s the only thing I care about.
Me: You have a lovely voice. Frank and I had our eye on you. You probably would have made a team.
Him: You’re not my teacher anymore, Michael. This is Los Angeles.
Me: It certainly is, Fischer.
Me: Even at Peg’s apartment you wouldn’t sing. Even just in front of the dogs.
Him: I don’t know about my voice. It has problems.
Me: It’s a legit musical theater voice. You have a great voice. I want to hear you sing my songs.
Him: Could we make money selling songs?
Me: We certainly could.
Him: How’s that done?
Me: I imagine you go over to Gaga’s house and sing her a song you wrote on your uke.
Him: That’s too twee. Also she writes her own.
Me: That’s true. Gaga has actual writing talent. But quite a few pop stars don’t.
Him: People could be listening.
Me: You’re my friend.
Me: So, I know this is L.A. but let’s just pretend this is New York, for a sec? Let’s just pretend, Fischer, that it’s totally okay to just talk without getting incredibly paranoid Stephen Spielberg might be listening to us. He has bigger problems than two homos talking philosophy. Trust me.
Him: It’s not the type of conversation you have on Runyon Canyon. I think that’s Omarosa.
Me: It’s not. It’s Michelle Obama.
Me: Who cares?!
Me: I think it’s Serena. No – Beyonce. No – Miley. It’s Miley.
Him: Don’t walk so close to the edge!
Me: Why did you stop singing? Where’s your lovely voice, Fischer?
Him: I don’t. I don’t want to perform.
Me: If you want to sell a song, you gotta sing a song.
Him: I just want to write.
Me: All the best comedy writers I know perform all the time.
Him: I don’t have to. Don’t walk so close to the edge!
Me: You’re right. I’m going to run the rest of the way.
Him: What? Why?!
Me: We have to remind ourselves to do brave things, sometimes, Fischer. Otherwise we wind up moving to Hollywood with a beautiful voice – and then become too shy to even sing.
Him: What? Stop! Don’t!
Me: See you at the bottom of the canyonnnnnnnnn!
(I run away, singing, and flailing my arms. Fischer looks mortified. Paris Hilton is amused, then annoyed. Also, she wasn’t there at all.)