So, I had a procedure done yesterday morning at the new Cedars-Sinai outpatient facility across from the Hard Rock Cafe on Beverly Boulevard. (Never you mind what kind of procedure. Suffice to say, all is well.) I was in the curtained recovery area, emerging from my Valium-induced snooze, when the nurse -- an adorable gay man named Carter -- asked me my occupation. "Uhhh...I'm a writer and producer," I responded, trying not to slur. A beat; then, from the cubicle next to me, I heard a similarly drugged male voice: "Yeah? You are? Hey, I'm an actor! What are you working on now? I was in the last three episodes of "Dawson's Creek!"
There was more to his verbal resume, which continued while he dressed, and after he seated his undeniably cute and tousled self across from my gurney. I tore the heart monitor from my chest, hoping the flatline would deter him. Notsomuch.
Flattery followed ("Wow, you're a redhead!"), laced with small talk about how he got his hernia. I feigned a seizure.
As he took his next breath, undoubtedly in preparation for the inevitable Hamlet soliloquy, Nurse Carter scooped up the can of worms he'd opened and came to my rescue, swiftly closing the curtains before Hot Actor Boy could take a bow.
...I love LA.
