I feel like Greta Garbo, without the fame or the beauty, but in hiding from nobody in particular and peering out from behind sunglasses too big for my face. I’m driving my fifth car since I first moved to Hollywood, and I’m missing New York and all the people stacked up on top of me. It’s too swanky out here; I prefer to live like a little gnome in my Hell’s Kitchen Apartment as big as a thumbnail where I couldn’t steal cable as easily. But, alas, it seems I’ve worn out my welcome in NYC, so it’s back to L.A., and an older car and an apartment further east. I figure someone out here must owe me a favor. So I start at the Big Three Agency parking lots, littering BMW’s with pictures of someone’s baby and I write with a red felt tip pen: “Had a great time at drinks last year… we should do it again, little Billy would love to meet his Daddy…”

Check her.  She’s back: D-Girl …’bout time too.