The absurdity of living in L.A. with the Baby-CPR Monster
“Baby, wake up! Oh, no! Somebody help my baby! Please!”
Don’t worry; I’m not quoting a real parent in distress. Rather, I am quoting my over-the-top, insane, crazy-pants baby-CPR instructor.
Living in Los Angeles, you are surrounded by folks who work one job but wish they were working in the Hollywood industry instead. Sure, your waiter is taking auditions by day, but it’s so much more than that. The grocers are animators; the bank tellers are editors; and what the dentists really want to do is direct. So I don’t know why I was thrown off-guard when my instructor turned our class about how to give CPR to a baby into an audience for her one-man show.
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