In Hollywood, even the panhandlers audition.

Just made an early-morning run to the Staples on Sunset to pick up more microcassette tapes (for interviews and press conferences) and some boxes (for shipping home press kits, books and tapes). In the fog that comes with too many late nights and eight to 16 press conferences a day, I managed to leave one of the boxes on my car hood as I prepared to pull out.

A couple of guys who appeared to be in their late 20s or early 30s were weaving in to the parking lot just then and waved me down, pointing at the boxes. One grabbed it and insisted on helping me get it into the car, a service for which I paid a bit more than the "90 cents or a buck" he requested.

I'm not sure it's the money he really wanted, though.

"Let me tell you a joke," he said, holding my car door so I couldn't get going.

Fine, I said, and heard some kid's riddle that turned on a dime's having "more cents."

"Let me tell you another one," he urged, apparently disappointed at my lack of laughter.

"I was standing at this bus stop where there was a German shepherd chained up," he said. "An old homeless man comes up to me and says, 'Mister, does your dog bite?' I looked up to heaven and then shook my head. 'Nope.' So the old guy leans over and pets the dog, who bites him on the arm, the chest and the neck," he continues, pointing out the spots.

" 'Mister,' he says, 'I thought you said your dog doesn't bite.'

" 'Man,' I said, 'that's not even my dog.' "

I laughed. He let me go.