mr dan zak

LOS ANGELES — Despite three previous weird-ass visits to this city — an absent-minded college hunt in Malibu, terryclothed junkets with Kate Winslet and LL Cool J, a car wreck on Sunset Boulevard — I still rely on Joan Didion and David Lynch to fill in the uncharted emotional geography of the metropolis. I’ve been feeling Santa Ana winds that aren’t blowing and hearing Moog synthesizers that don’t exist. This morning I watched a driver plucking her mustache hairs behind me at a red light. (Could this not be done at home? And why did it need to be done now, on Olive Avenue in Burbank in the rear view mirror?)

I breakfasted at the Taco Bell across from the Warner Brothers lots. The place was wallpapered with autographed headshots of child stars from the ’80s and ’90s, none of whose names are recognizable today with the exception of Rider Strong. The weather’s beautiful here, but I can’t brush away the psychic dandruff of dead dreams — the ozone of desperation — the city puts out. It feels overrun with Betty Elmses in transition. This afternoon my brother and I went to a taping of The Ellen DeGeneres Show, where our other brother interns, and this guy behind us in line went on and on about how he almost developed a show with Kelly Ripa’s husband, and it seemed like the highlight of his life.

The Ellen show looked and felt exactly like it does on TV, but during “commercial breaks” the fair hostess looked sullen under those frosty, sculpted boylocks. Bummed because Baldwin canceled at the last minute? Trouble at home with Portia? Or is she simply on when she needs to be on, and off the rest of the time? My brother says it’s the latter, though I don’t want to live in a world where Ellen is routinely off. Josh Groban (ick), Evan Lysacek (boring), Jeremy Renner (playful) and Lenny Kravitz (boring) were all trotted out and kissy-kissied against a sleek technicolor backdrop on a set sprayed with magenta orchids. When we took our seats, we were instructed to pretend that it was Friday instead of Thursday and that we’d all just received not one, not two, but three Academy Awards. The warmup guy told us to hold the imaginary Oscars and dance, which we did. That’s the the level of energy (of artifice) Ellen requires. We all responded to her and her guests in that shrill, familiar chorale first plotted high above the musical staff by Oprah herself. It’s like a stratospheric G sharp, sustained until the larynx caves in on itself. You’d think no one in the audience had ever been gifted a DVD before. Everyone about died when she announced we were getting “Precious,” “The Hurt Locker” and $100 to spend at a chain of cinemas where you press a button on your barcalounger and a waitress brings you spring rolls during the movie.

“Remember the energy and good feeling you had here today and bring it home with you,” Ellen told us after the show wrapped, projecting a warm smile that seemed to say “I’ve done my good deed for today.” Then she left for the “American Idol” taping.

A final word on Ellen: There are thousands of people who create Ellen-inspired art and mail it into the show. Bedazzled T-shirts, oil-on-canvas portraits, monogrammed Christmas stockings, you name it. Guess where this deranged craftsmanship ends up? With the interns. My brother’s apartment walls are exclusively furnished by this specific brand of American crazy. Exhibits A and B:

P.S. This addendum is directed to Lorne Michaels: You fucked up by excusing Michaela Watkins from “SNL.” Saw her with the Groundlings tonight. She rocked harder than any of the yo-yos in your current repertory (Wiig included). Buh-itch, pleeeze.