So you’ve been out all night drinking with friends and hoping to meet someone special, but it wasn’t happening – nothing new there. There was a bit of excitement, though, when you really hit it off with that cool producer/director who is a friend of a friend and you pitched her your pilot and she seemed genuinely interested; but somehow, stupidly, you didn’t follow through…now you’re somewhere between drunk and sleepy, and just about to catch that lonely Uber ride home, and then you see the warm glow of that neon sign in the distance…”Open 24 Hours”…Walk towards the light, for what warms the heart more than the hot, fluffy pillows we call pancakes?
The décor is depressing and the service may make you think they should’ve named the place “Sub-Par’s”…but those pancakes! Each one a monument to sweet dough, substantial yet light and airy, so high that the “short stack” of three obscures your view of the tacky carpeting. It’s easy to see why the lead writers of “Bosch” had their protagonist detective wax so poetic about them…the kind of detail you might add if you ever had a chance to write for TV, which you never will if tonight is any indication.
An LA classic…something they will never say about your TV show, since it will never exist. What the fuck were you thinking? Not only was the producer there and listening, but you had managed to lay out the basic premise of your original pilot script and she was asking questions. Do you believe in God? If so, God just placed you in the middle of the perfect unplanned (and unearned) pitch meeting, and you responded by taking a dump on the whole thing, hot and steaming like the pancakes here, probably.
This famous Jewish deli is not known for its pancakes. And you are not known for anything, and probably never will be. If there are any agents out there eager to snatch up a writer who can absolutely fuck away any opportunity, give them a call. Otherwise, take a look around this LA landmark and wonder if any of these groups noshing in the wee hours are actually creative teams in the making, having the kind of exciting meeting you will never have. Could you have asked for her fucking business card, at least? Given her your info maybe? Order some pancakes.
The ricotta blueberry pancakes are second to none. But wait, is BLD open 24 hours? No it is not, and since it’s 3 AM it is closed, which is perfect for you. Go stand outside and stare through the window into a dark and empty place and imagine how those pancakes might taste and how your life might be if you had any sense of timing whatsoever.
“But this isn’t a restaurant, it’s a sign!” Are you sure? Do you know what a sign is? You missed the blatant signs that led to the chance you just pissed away. How about the sign that it’s time for you to give up once and for all? Anyway, don’t those giant O’s look kind of like pancakes? Chew on one of those bad boys for a while, and wait for the shards of wood to pass through your system like the hopes and dreams you chewed up and spat out. It might tear you up and kill you from the inside, but since the Failed Screenwriter is the only Hollywood icon you have a chance of embodying, you might as well embrace it. Bring a stepladder and pour some syrup in the middle of that O.