So I’m busy writing up a pitch today (Hollywood stuff), but, for inexplicable reasons, I’m feeling some kind of way. It’s not anything bad. It’s more that I’m antsy, like I wanna play hooky, but my focused side won’t let that happen. Once I get this pitch written, I think I’ll scratch that itch. Maybe take a drive through Topanga Canyon over to Malibu. (I like drives. They calm my spirit.)
Or maybe I’ll just go to Gelson’s.
Because Malibu. Gelson’s. Is there really a difference?
This whole wanting to play hooky thing reminds me of my favorite episode of the cartoon series The Flintstones where Fred buys this special talking Dodo bird, Doozy, as a birthday surprise for his wife Wilma. When presented to her, Doozy doesn’t say shit. Naturally, she’s salty about the gift and lets Fred have it. Later, in the midst of Fred and best friend Barney plotting how to get away from their wives to go to a Water Buffalo convention with their fellow lodge brothers, to their alarm, Doozy starts talking up a storm and repeats back everything he’s heard them say. Here’s the episode. True hilarity ensues around the 14:22 minute mark.
The fake doctor their lodge sends over tells Wilma and Betty that Fred and Barney have come down with a case of dippydoodleitis. He insists they must be quarantined away for a few days, along with the rest of the water buffalo members, who all have the same thing. The doctor is actually a plumber (heh), and the men are all going away to Frantic City for fun times and dancing girls (!!!). When things finally hit the fan, that talking Dodo bird Wilma wasn’t too happy about getting as a present turns out to be a most valuable ally.
So yeah. I think I’m gonna claim I’ve got dippydoodleitis today. Or not. Either way, this pitch will get written. Then I’ll scratch my itch either via a drive up PCH or a stroll down a Gelson’s aisle. One of these things is not like the other. Tomato. Potato.
Let me get my butt back to work.