Dying Conversation in LA

Three comedy writers sat six feet apart over coffee in Santa Monica. One said of President Trump’s pre-gassed walk through Lafayette Square, “It’s good to be the king.” Normally, quoting Mel Brooks leads to giddy swapping of best-loved Mel stories. But not that day. Not on Juneteenth. Not in pandemic Los Angeles.

Instead: “Now Trump’s holding that infect-a-thon in Tulsa …”

Trump-Corona-Racism. One or two or all three, now comprise all conversation in left-wing LA. There are no other subjects. If you’re not talking Trump-Corona-Racism, you’re shallow. If you’re out of opinions on Trump-Corona-Racism, you’re silent.

At the risk of being cancelled into protective custody: Conversation in our fun town is no fun these days.

Don’t get me wrong. Trump-Corona-Racism. We need to stamp out all three DES-PER-ATE-LY. Four syllables, italics, all caps… that desperately. And yes, as people on cable news say, “We need to have conversations about these issues.”

But must they be our only conversations? From time to time, can we talk about something else?

Yikes. In an America so hard to shock yet so easy to offend, blowback to these questions can boil up in no time. But as people on cable news say, “You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.”

LA has always been a great place for chitchat. Everyone knows most of our work time is down time. Wandering studio lots when the money’s dried up, waiting around sit-com sets for rewrites, scanning craft services tables for anti-oxidants… there’s little to do but talk. And really, aside from all the hateful gossip, our discourse is very amiable. Aside from scripts, lively dialogue is part of our identity.

Forsaking our bubbly one-on-ones simply because multiple crises are wrecking our lives… it just feels wrong.

But now, our condescending-coastal-elite-entitled-radicalism has made us all conversational three-trick ponies. And we’re getting worse at all three: New insights on Trump were exhausted by 2018; Corona is so derailing, “How are you?” leaves us stuck for an answer; racism is so flammable, we’re reduced to dainty bromides. And yet we keep trying to float above it all by wearily quoting Rachel Maddow or meekly riffing on movie ideas like My Dinner With Fauci or Do The Right Stuff: The First All-Black Space Mission.

Honestly, at this point, I’d be thrilled to hear my whiny neighbor go off on leaf blowers again.

Admittedly, with virtually no film production, sports or new restaurants, LA’s body of talking points is woefully underfed. Still, it might help to pre-heat Trump-Corona-Racism talk with tiny chats like those we had pre-2020, when being in denial about America circling the drain was doable. In fact, in many uncertain terms, I bet such frivolous appetizers might enhance our Trump-Corona-Racism dialogue.

For instance: Let’s say two estranged film producers, reunited by pandemic boredom, take a walk. In lieu of telling mask-less joggers they deserve to be on ventilators, one says: “You know what I love about LA? If you see a guy wearing a suit to work, you feel sorry for him.”

The other says, “Why? I’d assume he’s got a real job.”

“Exactly. Real jobs here are so embarrassing.”

“Really? When did you become the official publicist for White Privilege?”

And that’s it. Then, the two walkers, refreshed, segue to: “So, is Corona Virus like the parent company of COVID-19?”

Or: ­­­­­­­­­­­“You think Trump even knows what Mar-A-Lago means?”

Or: “Maybe along with choke holds, profiling and no-knock warrants, cops should be banned from having those Andy Sipowicz mustaches.”

“That’s your beef with American policing? Mustaches?”

“So? Your beef with Trump is that he can’t translate Mar-A-Lago.”

“You’re an imbecile.”

“I’m an imbecile?”

Okay, so pre-2020 talk as a conversational palate cleanser isn’t a killer idea. But we’re in, as people on cable news say, “uncharted territory.” Back when LA’s banter was charted, there was an easy flow from Peloton to legalized pot to the raging majesty of Kobe Bryant to the end of the world and how it never seems to happen.

Boy, those were the days. (Oh, Kobe… how can it be?) Now we’ve been herded into this interactive holding cell with more dead spots than Laurel Canyon.

A recent Venice Beach colloquy: “Wouldn’t it have benefitted society more if they’d let Lori Loughlin avoid jail time in exchange for compelling her to buy 5,000 laptops for underprivileged kids in LA?”

“Great point. Especially since the Trump’s slow response to Corona makes educating disadvantaged kids so difficult.”

“Ever notice how people on cable news use the terms ‘underprivileged’ and ‘disadvantaged’ interchangeably?”

“Yeah. It’s like words don’t matter anymore.”

“Not that ‘words matter’ should be some kind of movement.”

“No, certainly not.”

“So… are you any closer to renting a guest house?”

It’s unbearable but we’re looking at six months more of 2020. With an election promising more pitiless spasms of Trump-Corona-Racism, discussing anything else can only get stricter —

You know what? Forget I brought up the conversation-in-LA-is-no-fun subject. Honestly, it was just talk. And as people on cable news say, “We’re all in this together.”

Oh, by the way: Years ago, walking with popcorn down the aisle of a packed movie theater, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and Mel Brooks said, “You’re a tall Jew, look around: Do you see Carl Reiner?”