Ari Gold - The Gold Standard: Rules to Rule By

My first meeting in Hollywood was with a man named Chaim Roth. Not the character Hyman Roth from The Godfather, but a 310-pound Jew who was just as powerful. Chaim had started a record label in 1965, the year I was born, when he was twenty-one years old. I dont remember if he discovered the Beatles or the Monkees or if he came up with the term groupies during a sweaty tussle with some of the jailbait he stocked on his yacht, LChaim. Doesnt matter. Fact was, Chaim Roth owned the music business when I arrived in Hollywood in September of 1990.

Chaim had a mansion in Beverly Hills and liked to fly his own plane to another mansion in Palm Springs (how he managed to shimmy his giant ass into the tiny cockpit of a twin-engine Piper Aerostar is beyond me). Hed fly the nine minutes instead of making the two-hour drive because, as it was told to me, Chaim Roths time was worth more than gold.

My father had an aunt who had a cousin who had a friend who went to school with Chaims brothers friend or something. At the end of the day we were both members of the chosen tribe, and that was as close as I could come to having a connection in Hollywood back then. Somehow it was enough to get me the meeting.

Fresh out of law school with my JD/MBA, two hundred grand in student loans, and the 1979 Toyota Corolla that my grandfather left me in his will, I drove to LA with the one suit I owned, prepared to make, as my father would say, a lasting impression on Mr. Roth.

Roth had a fancy office near the water in Santa Monica. The parking fee in his garage was more expensive than the suit I was wearing. The meeting was set for 8 a.m. and, not wanting to risk being late, I checked in with the receptionist at 7:30.

Ari Gold for Chaim Roth.

I felt important. I was there to see the boss.

Youre early.

I nodded.

Hes usually late.

I felt less important.

The receptionist was a pretty redhead named Caroline. Growing up in Milwaukee she dreamed of being an actress, but after five years of Hollywood disappointment and a couple of amateur art films, she was on the verge of giving up and heading back to Wisconsin, where she could once again be the prettiest, most talented girl in town. A girl who would never again have to perform fellatio while a director screamed at her, Trust me, this is going to be the next Carnal Knowledge!

When I told Caroline that I was new in town, she responded with a closed-mouth half-smile that said, I hope you last six months, then head back to whatever shithole youre from with nothing but a herpes sore to remind you of what a miserable fucking place this is when you fail.

7:45.

I flipped through a Hollywood Reporter. Goodfellas was number one at the box office, and there was a big article about Sylvester Stallones impressive growth as an artist between Rocky IV and Rocky V. The author compared him to Paul Newman. I thought Dennis Miller was more on target when he said Slys acting had less range than a Daisy air rifle.

Caroline asked if I needed some water. I said sure and almost spit it out when stinging bubbles hit my tongue. It was the first time I had ever had sparkling water.

Caroline cracked a smile.

9:30.

Id watched half the office come and go, most sneering at the overdressed kid in the lobby. No one in the record biz wore a suit. Thanks, Dad.

10:30.

Roth finally rolled in, cigar in his mouth, still wearing his golf spikes and yapping on one of those ten-pound-brick cell phones. He covered the receiver with his doughy hand and whispered to Caroline, loud enough for the beach vagrants to hear, that he was on the phone with Madonna.

10:40.

I looked to Caroline for some guidance because not only had Roth not acknowledged me but he had also spent the last ten minutes prepping a bagel while stuffing his face with lobster salad (flown in from Sables New York at sixty dollars a poundworth it!) and talking shit about how grunge music would never catch on and he was one hundred percent certain that the dirtballs in Nirvana would be back to selling weed by November.

Chomp chomp chomp. Mayo and lobster that I wouldnt be able to afford for years was flying like his mouth was a goddamn wood chipper as he talked. Disgusting.

10:50.

Twenty-five years later I go nuts when I think back to how that prick made me wait for three hours, but at the time I brushed off the disrespect. In my mind, I was just like Charlie Sheen in Wall Street, waiting all day outside Gordon Gekkos office. All I needed was five minutes to impress the guy and then he would immediately kick-start my inevitable ascent to the top of the Hollywood sign. Unfortunately, Chaim was no Gordon Gekko and I didnt get five minutes.

Mr. Roth will see you now. Suddenly, Caroline was cheerful and accommodating. Roth, meanwhile, continued feeding his fat face a few feet away like I didnt exist.

Come with me.

Following Caroline down the hall, I couldnt help but notice the perfect shape and buoyancy of her ass (which I would slap repeatedly while banging her in a bathroom stall at the Brown Derby a few months later) and it reinvigorated me. I was certain that I was about to have a life-changing meeting. Caroline deposited me in Roths cavernous office and scampered back to her desk.