It's very difficult to come across an occupation in LA that doesn't involve interacting with Hollywood types. You can fetch their beverages on set (or elsewhere), blow the leaves off their courtyard or you can teach their kids.
But being in the somewhat respectable position of teacher doesn't exempt you from the servility about which PAs so famously bitch. But there are untold advantages.
There are two teaching environments in LA: The hood, where you thank some deity each day you don't get capped in the faculty lounge after telling an unruly student to get the fuck out of your class. Or you can do the private school thing and be ridiculed because your frames aren't from Fred Segal.
I had the fortune to teach the daughter of a Charlie's Angel. Not Drew or Lucy Liu, but an original Angel who retained her hotness.
The student liked my class, and I got on with Shorty the divorced Angel. One day I received an email asking if I would tutor her kid at their home.
The sessions were productive. I got paid on time, thus avoiding the need to uncomfortably beg for my loot. One day I was offered full pay to go over and fax some worksheets to her ex’s chalet in Gstaad, where the kid was skiing. The maid answered the door and informed me, "Mrs no home." I held up the worksheets and she pointed to the staircase. I faxed from the upstairs office where we always worked and on my way out I noticed the door to the master bedroom was open. Inside I saw a hamper with a thong invitingly hanging over the side. I picked it up and just as I pressed it to my nose, in walked the maid.
"Mrs no home?" I asked as only the busted ask. She violently seized me by the ear and dragged me all the way to my car.
A voicemail from the Angel awaited me at home. She thanked me and asked if I could tutor for two hours tomorrow, by which time she guaranteed to have my ear feeling better.
