Berman. Jeff Berman.

Went to a famous person’s house in Beverly Hills earlier today. We had an arranged interview, which I was pretty excited for.

Arrived at the door, was greeted by the man’s wife.

“You must be Jeff Berman,” she said.

“Pearlman,” I replied.

“What?” she said.

“My name is Pearlman. Jeff Pearlman.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Entered the house. Amazing. Gorgeous. The man had an assistant. She looked at me and smiled. Then she turned to her boss. “Just sign that paper,” she said, “and then you can get to talking to Mr. Berman.”

“No, it’s Pearlman,” I said. “Jeff Pearlman.”


There are times, for most everyone, when we think we’re more important than we really are; when we puff our chests out a bit too much. I saw it, profoundly, with Barry Bonds and  Sammy Sosa, and I’ve experienced to a lesser degree with, among others, myself. I don’t think I’m great, or even especially good. But there come times, as a writer, when you get recognized, or publicly acknowledged, and it feels nice.

Then, appropriately, you’re reminded that you could be Pearlman or Berman.

It makes absolutely no difference.

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