Real Estate Tales From The Streets of Hollywood

After a reader read my rant last week, "R U Networking or NOTworking," he challenged me to try a day of face-to-face marketing. (For those of you who cannot recall what that is, it involves getting out of your chair.) Moron that I am, I accepted his challenge and headed out onto the mean streets of Los Angeles to solicit clients. This is the bizarre story I barely lived to tell:

8:00 am: I pop out of bed. (That's early for us showbiz types.) After donning my fake designer duds I head out the door of my Hansel-and-Gretel-size overpriced house, jump into my leased Mercedes, wave to my stoned neighbor, try to back over a slow-moving kid (hey - this is L.A., not Iowa - speed or bleed!), and serpentine down Laurel Canyon with throngs of other Los Angelinos who feel that driving should never distract them from texting. Twenty minutes later, I finally arrive at Rite-Aid Drugs, which is practically walking distance to my house.

9:30 am: I run into Rite-Aid to grab a few of the props I will need for marketing: 1. Red Bull. (I do not drink caffeine because my synapses are already challenged, but I must have it visible in my car in order to look cool.) 2. Gourmet dog cookies and 3. Pepper Spray, which the somnolent salesclerk insists they don't sell. When I tell her I am about to embark on direct marketing and ask if the store sells firearms, she threatens to call the manager. I slip out the door before the manager/actor/bartender/waiter can find me and assault me with a head shot.
That's Not What I Had in Mind, Waldo!

9:45 am: Outside the store a group of people have congregated. With utmost confidence, I approach the group and hand out my business cards, offering to price their homes or answer any questions they may have, as though I am the Oracle of Re-fi. One guy asks me if I will marry him and have his demon spawn, and another turns his back on me and pees on a nearby newspaper stand.

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