There should be a rule book for people living in Los Angeles. I’ve lived my entire life here, and I find that I still make horrific faux pas in the most embarrassing ways. This book should be offered at all LA book stores, and it should cover behavior, LA-speak, personal façades, and the LA club scene. Every page should expound on dos and don’ts of the city. Why? Because there’s no city like LA, and there are no people groups like Los Angelenos. The kind of eccentricities and embarrassing scenarios one encounters here can’t be learned intuitively anywhere else. The reason is obvious: no other city has Hollywood. Yes, Hollywood. Breeder of fame, fortune, and political power.

As you know, it’s not uncommon to see the odd celebrity doing mundane tasks around town. We’re nearly used to it…or at least we play it off like we are. You know the LA drill. Don’t stare, take a picture secretly and go one with your life. That’s all well and good unless you don’t know they’re famous.

Cut to: Mark Edward Lewis sitting in a café in Burbank that he’s never been to. In walks an exotic brunette with short hair, spaghetti strap top, bright blue eyes and a saunter four feet wide. Cut to reversal: Mark is doing everything wrong. He’s staring at her, not because she’s so striking, but because he thinks he knows her. He’s so sure of it, that when this babe looks back at him, he doesn’t flinch. He’s sure she’ll recognize him. Her frown, her wince and her look of “in your dreams, buddy” doesn’t phase him. He leaves his stool and ambles in her direction. Four feet from his fingers tapping her bare shoulder, Mark has a flicker of a memory. Cut to Flashback: His living room, a television, late night channel surfing, seeing her chiseled body smashing thugs wearing black. The bumper before commercial reads: “VIP.” Back to café and a medium shot of Mark’s hand inches away. He yanks his hand back as though from a snake. His face turns shades of red, and he slinks back to his stool muttering hindu grace. No, he doesn’t know her. He had simply channel surfed onto one of television’s most exploitative and sexist shows. He’s ashamed he even knows this woman’s face at all, but he’s relieved that he didn’t make a fool of himself and repeat the most used celebrity face-slap pick-up line in the LA club scene: “Hi. I think I know you from somewhere.” Ugh.

Yes, it was Natalie Raitano. Yes, it really happened. No, I didn’t get her number. The lesson: if you think you know someone in LA (and they’re gorgeous), it’s okay to cross into their line of sight so they see you, but honestly, they don’t know you. Making this mistake with a network television star is relatively harmless compared to the more incriminating scenarios you could find yourself in…

I’m a native. A California native. Worse, I’m a Los Angeleno native. Born, raised, and most likely will die here. I reek of surfer inflection in my English, of West Coast fashion, gait, brazenness, and rebellious long hair. I grew up in a musical family, recording in LA studios, with LA musicians from the time I was twelve. Tragic. I know AFM rules like my social security number, how to balance string player eccentricities with trumpet player pride, and I definitely know when an orchestra has lost respect for me.

In LA, it happens after your first mistake. Thus, one day, like a frightened fish drowning in a bowl of applejuice, I found myself conducting a recording session in London, England, and my usual LA intuition had to be scrapped. Apparently, my session coincided with both a John Williams and a Jerry Goldsmith session…all in London. I’m not sure how but, I still got the cream of the London Philharmonic crop. The players smelled my California aroma immediately upon arrival. These were the very players that had performed some of my favorite scores. Feelings of inadequacy permeated me as I took the stand and was announced by the contractor. The players applauded! I realized that it was a British custom, but my heart didn’t care. They paid me respect, and now I could conquer Everest. As we recorded, there were several orchestration problems that I had to deal with on the stand to my great dismay. After the second “conductor” mistake, I figured I’d lost that respect. Not so. They encouraged me on with winks and smiles even though they had every right to ridicule me.

On one particular cue, the poor first trumpet player had to hit high “E”s over and over while the violins were playing sixteenth notes. Unfortunately, the violins kept blowing it, and because of the setup of the studio, we couldn’t overdub. Had we been in LA, by the third take, the lead trumpet player would have bounded into the violin section and bent his “C” trumpet around the concert master’s neck. Rightfully so. But on our fourth and final take in London, not only did the brass section perform perfectly, they never complained. Even though it was causing the brass a good deal of pain, their respect for the music and their peers allowed the violinists to do their unincumbered best and eventually nail the part.

It has been said that to make an atmosphere of creativity, one must first make an atmosphere of respect. I have to agree. Now, I’ve been told that what happened that day was completely atypical of a London session. Perhaps so. It was a bit idyllic, and I’m a bit naive. But I have to wonder how much more enjoyable the human experience would be if we showed a little more respect in our everyday LA sessions.

I hate parties, don’t you? Especially those thrown in Burbank, or the West Side, or worse yet: Hollywood. Why do we have to go then? If you’re under 25 years old, the answer is quite a bit different than for a 32 year old film director like myself. For those of us not bopping around in search of club-fulfillment, the answer is simple: networking. It’s the synergy that makes the film industry go ‘round. That’s fine…if you like chatting up people you don’t know, laughing at stupid jokes by self-absorbed morons, and screaming at the top of your lungs because of Richter scale rated music. No thanks. I’m an introvert, and so are you. We hate nothing more than getting our charisma and good looks trumped by the clique club suit. But, the successful are reported to attend these debaucheries of biceps, alcohol, cleavage, and fathom deep façades, and we must attend in kind.

The problem: your provocative dress or exceptional posture won’t get a second glance from the clump of chit-chatting partiers you want to meet. The answer? Simple, slick, effective. Get them a refill. Yes, a drink refill. Procedures: first, don’t bother with parties that make you pay for drinks. There’s nobody important at those parties anyway. Second, saddle up to some people you want to start a conversation with, and immediately ask the loudest member of the group if they would like a refill on their drink. Have no shame introvert, interrupt their conversation! Third, whisk yourself off to the bar before they ask you who you are. Mystery piques the imagination, and they’ll be thinking about you every second you’re gone. Don’t rush. Take your time and saunter back. Let them acknowledge you. They’ll interrupt themselves this time. Present your drink, and then introduce yourself and what you do. Of course, they’ll know they’ve been had, but they won’t care. They’ll even give you the time you need for your turbo-charged charisma and wit to reach 2500 rpm. Get the business cards of everyone in the clump, but don’t get drinks for everyone else. It will make the person with the new drink feel more important than those around them, and they’ll remember you for that feeling. Finish the conversation early. Just get the business information and the verbal promise of a meeting and move to the next clump of people (preferably in the next room) and repeat.

Why does this work? Because for the last 6000 years, every guru of every religion says the same thing: serving others will get you everything you want. They’re right. It’s the opposite of what Hollywood says, “when you’re served, you get it all.” Hogwash. It’s all a deception to keep the introverts out of what is primarily an extrovert club. Don’t be discouraged. Trump their nepotism with the service heart suit. It’s an age old paradigm that works…even in Hollywood networking.