Sorry for the delay in new postings – had a death in the family. Finally back!

I work on a movie lot. Those of you who don’t probably envision it as one nonstop MGM-type glamourganza – hundreds of extras in black tie and tails doing the Lindy down the street, while gladiators and nuns hang around outside soundstages, smoking Chesterfields and reading the racing form.

It’s pretty much never like that, although one sixty year old grip did point out the area of the old Love Boat stage where everybody used to do coke. Other than the occasional outdoor shoot by a Modern Family or House, or a Tom Cruise or Robert DeNiro whizzing by in an electric golf cart driven by a nervous p.a. (which reminds me of one of my co-workers, Jason, who, years ago as a p.a., was driving John Goodman to the Roseanne set, when John politely suggested, “Could you maybe quit driving like a f***ing moron?”), it’s pretty much like the campus of any large company across America. That is, in an effort to avoid any pesky downtime while you attend to your personal necds, they offer a wide range of onsite services, including dining.

And while the restaurants here on the lot are actually quite good, there is the rare occasion when my co-workers and I can actually spare the time to flee the premises.

When we do go out, usually to celebrate someone’s birthday or adult circumcision (don’t ask), we go to one of the large number of establishments that dot the boulevard in front of the lot. One such restaurant is a place called The Milky Way. And, until recently, I’d never been there. For a reason.

It’s owned by a billionaire’s mother.

I’d been invited by a co-worker from another department to go to this restaurant numerous times, and I kept stalling. After all, “celebrity”-owned restaurants can be notoriously bad, famous more for their owners and their hilariously absurd prices than for the food or service. I fully expected the famous mother – if she was there at all – to whisk by in a bejeweled gown as gay minions fanned out behind her, barking orders on Madonna headsets and instructing diners not to look her in the eye.

But after much hounding by my co-worker, I finally relented. And to my great surprise (and a wildly inappropriate level of delight from my co-worker), I was WRONG.

The place could not have been more homey. A hodgepodge of dark pleather booths, carpeting, oak trim that has seen better days, and memorabilia from Steven Spielberg’s movie empire, The Milky Way is a kosher diner that is, to put it kindly, unassuming.

And the food is surprisingly good, and ridiculously reasonable, which, given that you may, at any time, spot a superstar or two, makes it downright delicious.

Most surprising of all, though, was the owner. Leah Spielberg, Steven’s mother, was a total freaking delight. This tiny, 91-year-old woman who could buy and sell me a hundred times over, greeted everyone in our group like prodigal sons and daughters. (Wait, she’s Jewish, do they believe in that story?) She hugged us, flirted with us, and made us feel as if we were the most important people in the room – which, given that Steven Spielberg and Sid Sheinberg (former head of Universal Studios) were dining two booths away, was quite possibly not true.

Sure, you could argue that when one of your offspring is the most successful director of all time, you don’t have a lot to be stressed out about. I mean, the story goes that when the landlord of the building that houses The Milky Way was gonna sell it (meaning Leah would lose her restaurant), Spielberg just wrote a check and bought the whole block.

But come on, she’s NINETY-ONE. She could lie around on a chaise made of platinum and puppies and count her son’s money. But there she is, every day, charming the patrons and chatting up her admirers with a twinkle in her eye.

I guess I should reserve judgment on celebrity restaurants. Sure, most of them will still be obnoxious and overpriced. But every once in a while, maybe I’ll stumble onto another Milky Way.

Although I’m sure the owner won’t be as hot.

I was driving to work the other day, enjoying the beauty of a sunny Southern California winter morning; admiring the leafy trees and cloudless blue sky and silently thanking God for not having to live in the snow bomb belt, when some numbnuts in a BMW ruined everything.

Obviously having carefully contemplated what jackhole move would get him the most bang for the buck, he decided to cut me off, and then SLAM on his brakes so he could make an ILLEGAL left turn, nearly taking out an old Chinese woman crossing at the light.

As I skidded into the opposite lane to avoid turning his car into a 2,000 pound origami, I screamed like a girl, awaiting my untimely, fiery death as my car collided with the semi of natural gas that I was certain was waiting for me in the other lane.

Miraculously, there was no one there, and I swerved safely around the BMW.

“You stupid FREAK!” I hollered with all the righteous indignation I could muster, ignoring my own advice about bad behavior within the “work radius”, as the BMW roared off down the street.

Why, I asked myself as I pulled up to the next stoplight, still shaking, do people do stuff like this? It’s obviously a calculated attempt by [your Higher Power goes here] to transform me from the calm, centered, patient and forgiving man that I am (some would dispute this, but screw them) into a raving lunatic, capable of following someone home to demand, as they stand shaking in their driveway, who made them the Designated Douche. (Okay, I don’t really do that, but I’ve thought about it.)

As I continued the remaining mile or so to my office, contemplating the confrontation I would love to have had with this idiot, I pulled up to the stoplight in front of where I work.

And the BMW was in the turn lane, two cars in front of me.

Delirious with my good fortune, and still boiling mad, I followed him into the parking garage, wondering all the while if he realized that the car now immediately behind him was the person he had wronged only five minutes earlier.

When we got out of our cars, my fists were clenched. “Be calm,” I reminded myself. There’s every chance that this moron is above me on the food chain, in which case challenging him to a duel would be, shall we say, ill-advised.

The driver in question was a thirtysomething guy I knew from another department. He’s always been very warm and friendly, which made his jerkwad behavior that much more mystifying. But then, for my money, you see the true mettle of a man when he gets behind the wheel.

I strode quickly to catch up with him at the elevator. It was just the two of us. PERFECT.

“Good morning,” I said with a steely edge, barely able to conceal my anger.

“Good morning,” he replied, a slight tremble in his voice. I could see from the odd, uncomfortable look on his face that he must have realized what he had done – not only to a fellow employee, but to a sort-of friend. His face crumpled up a bit, almost as if he were going to cry.

Wow. This was so not the reaction I had expected. I figured he might give me an awkward smile, maybe mumble a quick apology. But tears? My look of disdain and judgment is more impactful than I thought. I must remember how incredibly powerful I am.

My heart began to soften. “It’s okay,” I said with a smile. “This stuff happens to lots of people. Well, not me, but -”

He gave me an odd look. “Did Jenna [not her real name] tell you?”

What did Jenna have to do with it?

“Well, nobody needed to tell me, I mean, I was –“

“It’s a little scary,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said with a chuckle, “for everybody. Especially me. And that old Chinese woman.”

He cocked his head. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

I cocked my head. “What are you talking about?”

“I, um, have this phone call this morning. About a cancer thing.”

All the air went out of the elevator.

“Oh,” I finally stammered, “I was talking about…never mind. What’s going on?”

We got off the elevator and talked quietly for several more minutes. I shared the story of a friend’s wife who had gone through the same thing, actually been diagnosed, and been in complete remission for years. As we parted ways, I wished him well.

And I wondered if maybe I should consider dialing down the snap judgments to other people’s bad manners. Because, let’s face it, I don’t always know what’s going on in their lives.

Although they really should be wearing a sign.

Driving to work in LA is an exercise in impulse control. I consider it a good day when I’ve made the round-trip, 90 minute drive without attempting – via bloodcurdling screams or iconic finger signage – to inform some selfish idiot that he should be killed.

It’s not that I’m some Type A driver attempting to accomplish an hour and a half drive in four and a half minutes. Quite the opposite. Friends call me “Grandma” when I’m behind the wheel. I’m a relaxed, everyone-in-their-turn driver.

Until some selfish d*** comes along.

Of course, I’m no fool. When some driver performs an act of callow narcissism and I feel obligated to respond, I reserve those helpful assessments for the area outside the “work radius” (that five-mile quadrant surrounding my place of employment). After all, nothing says “fire me” quite like hollering “Assface!” to the jerk in front of you who turns out to be your boss.

Good example: a while back, as the evening twilight was turning to darkness, I was zipping home along a surprisingly open stretch at the top of the canyon I take, where the road narrows to one lane. Suddenly, a red sedan several cars back brazenly gunned his motor, rocketed down the gravel shoulder of the road and cut me off, nearly forcing me to plow through the guard rail and plunge to my fiery, howling death in the canyon below.

Ironically, his wildly irresponsible antics didn’t garner him much, for a hundred yards up the road, we were stopped by a red light.

This was an act of such recklessness and disregard for human life that I was shocked. And flat-out incensed. I sat behind this jerk, fuming, trying to decide what to do. Should I flip him off? Get out of the car and pound on his window? Follow him home and set his house on fire?

I quickly nixed the last option, for obvious reasons ( I had no open containers of gasoline).

Then I remembered that I was still somewhat within the work radius. Take a deep breath, I told myself. Unclench your fists. No one (i.e. Me) needs to end up with a Lohan-style mug shot over this.

But I was still furious. Until it suddenly struck me that the car in front of me looked familiar.

Very familiar. I recognized the license plate.

The driver was one of my employees.

I picked up my cellphone and dialed his number. On the third ring, he picked up.

“Hey,” he replied casually, seeing my name on his screen.

“Bill [not his real name, which I imagine he’s thanking me for],” I said calmly, “you could at least wave.”

There was a slight pause. “Huh?”

“Look,” I said evenly, “in your rear view mirror.”

It was almost dark and he couldn’t see my face, so I flashed my headlights. And, judging by the sudden tremor in his voice, I sensed a certain, shall we say, panic.

“Oh, uh, um, yeah, hi. Is that – is that you behind me?”

“Yes,” I replied, trying to hide my glee at, for probably the first time ever in one of these situations, having the upper hand. “Although I could just as easily be lying in the ravine.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bill is an enormously talented guy, but a terrible liar.

“You almost killed me just now by cutting me off that way,” I said in my most restrained tone. “Have you lost your mind, driving like that?”

Bill’s tendency to pilot a car like he’s trying to take the entire city out in one giant, flaming crash was well known, but I had never experienced it firsthand.

“Oh,” he replied, laughing nervously, his pitch elevating an octave or so, “I didn’t know that was you.”

“So in other words,” I replied, “the only way you wouldn’t have pulled that stunt is if you thought you were doing it to your boss?”

“Did I cut you off?” He sounded as if he had inhaled helium.

“Bill,” I said, calming down a bit, “you’re lucky that, number one, I’m a nice guy, and number two, that I know you. And number three, that I don’t have a baseball bat.” I could hear him swallowing loudly on the other end as I added, “Especially number three.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you shouldn’t be so aggressive.”

“Maybe I should watch who’s behind me.” He obviously thought humor was the way to go.

“I was ahead of you before you cut me off.” I obviously didn’t.

“Oh, shoot,” he said quickly, silently thanking God that we were in a canyon. “There’s a blind spot ahead. I’m gonna lose you.”

I was proud of myself for handling this incident in a relatively rage-free fashion.

And then, THIS happened.

(More to come…)

Last weekend, in a cruel and, I might add, unsolicited bid to bulldoze the tenuous façade of self-worth I have so carefully constructed over the past couple of decades, a friend’s son came to visit.

This young man, Chris, is not, sadly, an adorable four year old. He did not require an Elmo doll and an adult escort when deplaning at LAX. He’s not even a hilariously awkward teenager whose feral mood swings and conviction that God knows only slightly more than he does would insure the swift uncorking of wine the moment he opened his mouth. He’s a 27-year-old med student interviewing for a residency position at UCLA.

In other words, a pretty much fully-realized human being.

A grown up.

I suppose I should take solace in the fact that Chris’ dad is a couple years older than me. And that he leapt into fatherhood at an age when most people are experimenting with grain alcohol and Lesbianism (frequently in that order).

But I mean, COME ON.

As I sat and stared at this articulate Yale graduate who hoped to become a researcher in forms of medicine so advanced I can’t even spell them, I couldn’t help wondering how I had actually become 153 years old. How it had happened that I was no longer the 27-year-old setting out to conquer the world?

I wondered if he could hear my spine creaking, or if he felt the need to speak extra loud. I wondered if he thought he should write down big words or reiterate his thoughts several times in case I forgot them in the intervening moments. I wondered if he looked at me with pity, or amusement, or just disdain.

And then I remembered that he was sitting in my (reasonably) nice little tract house in LA. Drinking my (reasonably) nice little vodka. And holding a copy of my (reasonably) successful little book. I remembered that I was taking a (reasonably) nice little trip to Mexico to see his dad in March. And that I had a (reasonably) nice little job at a television network.

And suddenly, this delightful young guy, who reminded me of myself (albeit smarter, handsomer and 85% more rounded) made me almost grateful for the two decades that had passed since I was his age; and for all the events – good, bad and just plain stupid –  that had served to mold me into the (reasonably) decent man I am.

And I found myself silently thanking Chris Connelly – not only for being the kind of honorary nephew that I can be so incredibly proud of – but for holding up a mirror.

Of course, now that I look a little closer, I could use a little moisturizer. And some Clairol Natural Instincts for Men.

Hey, I’m not 27 anymore.