Hollywood Trilogy

2/28/1997

It is a strange group that hangs at The Palm in Los Angeles every Sunday night.  It started as just a dinner several years ago, but has grown to almost mythical proportions since then.  It’s still just a dinner, but food serves more as a backdrop for the chatter that surrounds it.  You see, these “gatherings” now serve a much higher purpose.  We join together to dissect, discuss and define the radio and record business as we perceive it during any given week.

Okay, so you see through my subterfuge?  We hang out to bitch and complain…and most of all, to criticize those who aren’t at the round table!

Last week it was particularly invigorating.  Usually, one or two stories run through the table that everyone finds amusing.  Or at least everyone pretends to laugh.  There is a lot of pretending done.  Let’s face it…this dinner takes place in Hollywood.  But last Sunday night, following in the footsteps of Star Wars, there were three stories that all felt worthy of sharing…call it Network 40’s Trilogy, if you will.

Anyhow, the stories are much too long for Page 6, but I thought they would be of interest here.  I could be wrong.  You decide.

The first one, entitled “Car Wars,” is pure power Hollywood.  The head of a record company had to visit a movie studio for a high-level meeting.  The studio has two parking lots:  Lot A is close to the offices; Lot B is perhaps 50 yards further away.  The record executive’s assistant was told by the movie public relations person that parking would be provided in Lot B.  The assistant, knowing the parking layout, questioned the procedure.

“Why can’t she park in Lot A?” she asked.

“We’re doing something with the Vice President that day and he’s using Lot A,” answered the PR person.

“Well,” said the assistant with hesitation, “I’m going to have to pull rank on you.  You’re talking about a vice president and I’m talking about a CEO.  She should park in Lot A.”

The PR person replied, “I’m not talking about a vice president, I’m talking about the Vice President.”

Needless to say, Vice President Al Gore got the preferred parking!

The second, “The Internet Strikes Back,” involves a certain regional promotion person from the South.  We shouldn’t mention either the promotion person’s name nor identify the record company, but the initials are in the following:  DMAWC.  You figure it out.

Anyhow, this extremely intelligent individual who works so hard that he has no time for anything else was (shock) cruising the Internet not long ago.  Of course this guy was only searching for ways to improve his promotional skills.

Somehow, totally unknown to him, he was switched from “Sale Techniques” to “Sex.”  Imagine that.  Soon, our fine, upstanding friend found a website called “Sexygirls.com.”  This website boasted uncensored, hardcore pornography at, get this, absolutely no cost.

Free porn on the Internet?  Our hero was intrigued.  He logged on.  The site informed him that to see “Nekkit Women,” his machine had to be reconfigured and suggested he click on a particular icon.  Our hero complied and sure enough, he was soon looking at uncensored, hardcore porn.

For educational purposes only.

As a good promotion person, he quickly called his boss to share his good fortune.  This was better than an add!  The boss had the company computer expert check out the site.  It seems that when you click on the icon, the website automatically disconnects you from the Internet and reconnects you through a 900 number that charges $3 a minute!

Our humble hero got the bill yesterday.  $960.  He says he fell asleep.

Sure.

The third in the trilogy, “Return of the Bad Guy,” involves me.

I had been getting calls and letters from a guy named Bobby Ocean.  Now, the real Bobby Ocean is an old and dear friend of mine, someone I’ve known for years.  We worked together in several different markets and he’s one of my favorite people.

I hadn’t talked with Bobby in a long time and when my assistant told me he was on the phone, I picked it up excitedly.

My excitement immediately turned to boredom as I listened to a dweeb who called himself “Bobby Ocean” tell me all about his limited career and even-more-limited success.  He then proceeded to rail on me about giving him a job.  I got off the phone as quickly as I could.

Well, this guy was relentless.  He sent packages.  He sent emails.  He sent gifts.  He was sending me around the bend.

My assistant buzzed me last week and told me Bobby Ocean was on the phone.  I made my assistant get back on the phone and make sure it was the “real” Bobby Ocean from San Francisco.  Assured, she put the call through.

I picked up the receiver and said, “Ocean, I’m sorry to put you through all this hassle, but there’s this loser who’s using your name, who’s been bugging the hell out of me.  He keeps sending me stuff and calling constantly.  I can’t get away from him.  That’s why I had to make sure it was you and not the jerk.”

There was a slight pause, then the voice said, “Gerry I am that jerk.”

For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.  When I could finally talk, I said, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

I could continue this editorial, but I feel some jerks are reading it.

So, I have to go.

Now, aren’t you glad you aren’t at The Palm on Sunday?