by Peter DeWolf

As a screenwriter I've been drawn to L.A. like a Hollywood starlet to a sketchy Greek shipping heir. For some reason I've thus far resisted the call. But, I have thought about what the trip would be like. And it would go a little something like this...

As soon as I arrived, I'd go straight to the Park Hyatt. (I'm an out of towner, how would I know where the cool spots were?) I'd toss my bags on my bed and head directly to the pool. The warm California sun would feel amazing on my pasty Canuck skin as I reclined and read Caprice Crane's Stupid & Contagious. My iPod would do it's part in my relaxing by blasting my California play list. Which, of course, would feature: Tupac and Dre's “California Love,” The Door's “L.A. Woman,” The Eagles' “Hotel California,” Phantom Planet's “California,” Joni Mitchell's “California,” The Beach Boys' “California Girls,” and Men Without Hats' “Safety Dance.” I... just really like that song.

After an adequate time spent decompressing, I'd go out to do some shopping. To blend in, I'd don my old In n' Out Burger t-shirt and yellow Cal-Berkley baseball cap. I'm like Fletch and shit. I'd stop at Jamba Juice for a smoothie. Ethan Suplee would be in the line-up ahead of me. He'd let me try his smoothie before I ordered my own. He wouldn't even wipe off the straw afterwards. I'd decide that when I take over Hollywood, that there'd be parts for him in everything.

On my way out, I'd bump into Whitney from “The Hills.” I'd tell her about my script meeting the next day with Lauren Graham's (of “Gilmore girls” fame) production company. I'd complain that I had no big boy meeting clothes to wear. She'd volunteer to take me shopping. We'd have a lovely day. And she'd develop a bit of a crush. Sweet kid.

The next morning the meeting would go awesomely. They'd all love me. Lauren Graham most of all. We'd agree to meet for dinner.

And dinner would be amazing. We'd really connect. You remember that scene from WHEN HARRY MET SALLY? Yeah, it'd be nothing like that horse shit. We'd finish each others sentences... but not each others food. I'd threaten to stab her hand with my fork if it came anywhere near my burger. Yeah, that's how I roll.

The conversation would be sparkling. No one would say anything silly, you know, like “that's how I roll.”

I'd drive her home at the end of the evening. I'd kiss her goodnight and she'd get a bit hands-y. I know, I'm as surprised as you.

Then Whitney would find out the next morning. She'd be crushed. She'd need some time alone to go up and sit in the “O” in the Hollywood sign. No, not that “O.” Not that one either. Yeah, that's the one.

As she finished her moping, she'd flick her cigarette and hop into her car. Unbeknownst to her, the cigarette would start a small fire in the undergrowth. The fire would spread. It would end up taking out a large wooded area around the sign. Then rain would come immediately, but briefly, causing the inevitable mudslide. This mudslide would take out a number more trees in the area.

On one of these trees, there would have been a condor nest. The mother condor and her two babies would become super-pissed. They'd spot Whitney's convertible and follow her back into the city. As she was driving and chatting on her cell, they'd begin swooping in at her – narrowly missing her head. She'd yell, “Dude, I'm Tippi freakin' Hedren!!!”

She'd lose control of her car and crash through the front of The Ivy – pinning a waiter/actor under her car. Whilst dying, the waiter/actor would act out Edmund's death scene from King Lear – in it's entirety. It would be completely over the top and demonstrate to one and all why his only fucking credit on imdb.com is “Student #4” on an episode of “Saved By The Bell: The College Years.”

And the worst thing is... It pains me to even mention it. The worst thing is that a famous producer, who doesn't want me to use his name, would have his Blackberry broken in the crash.

I just CAN'T have that on my conscience.

I won't go to L.A. At least now right now.

And you know who loses the most in this scenario?

Lauren Graham.

Fucking condors, man.

Instead of in L.A., Peter spends his time at www.peterdewolf.com