It’s 1:08 a.m. in Hollywood.

“It’s just like you’ve discovered a new planet that looks amazing, but there’s nothing living on it,” I explain to Silver Medal Girl as she begins to see my point.

“All flash but no substance – these shiny but not so bright people who come here to this club – I know, but it’s L.A., these people are everywhere; everyday and every night,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

I agree with her fully.

“I know. AND I know that they know, and that’s my point. All the people who come here and go anywhere and everywhere to be seen here in L.A. is a given, but if you were one of those people, after first contact – FIRST EYE CONTACT even – wouldn’t you want that person you are trying to get to notice you to make a new discovery?” I ask.

I lose her again on that question. I slow down a little to explain further.

“Something more, something other than the beautiful flash in the pan that is expected here in L.A., something that lasts longer than just the look, like intelligent conversation, talking about something other than Hollywood or fashion or something …”

She interrupts me, “Like something real?”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved that I haven’t been explaining myself for nothing all this time. “Something on this planet, something in this city we call L.A. for the ears. There’s already enough for the eyes.”

Silver Medal Girl takes a step back, puts her hands on her hips and shoots an icy stare at me. Although she’s wearing sunglasses, I still feel her eyes hitting me as hard as her statement is about to, an all too obvious statement that, along with her stare, puts me in my place.

“People don’t come to L.A. for the real. They come to L.A. for the fantasy.”