Here’s how I found out that there’s no such thing as a fraternity of Howards.

Once upon a time I was alone in Los Angeles for a week. I had a screenplay that no one had bought, a manager with third-tier industry contacts, and a huge stack of Yahoo maps.

Why? Because although the script hadn’t sold, a bunch of production companies thought it was funny and wanted to meet with me to see what else I was writing. (This gives you a hint of the hotbed of lunacy that is Los Angeles. People reject you and then interview you, instead of the other way around.)

I had 30 meetings that week, about six a day. From morning until evening I studied my stack of maps and kept my appointments, driving around from studio to production house to studio. And I wasn’t meeting with Steven Spielberg, either. It would be an assistant at Fox Searchlight or an intern at Meg Ryan’s production house. The highest person on the food chain was a producer who worked on Lethal Weapon and Free Willy, but she was just looking for someone to write her pet project, a remake of All About Eve, without being paid. I passed.

About midway through the week I was tired of the whole thing. I was sick of talking about my screenplay, and my ideas for future screenplays, and my background. I was sick of inane conversations with Los Angeles industry types, who are all very nice but cloned from the exact same DNA. I was sick of no one writing me a fat check.

I decided to keep myself occupied with a new game:

Find a celebrity.

After all, I wasn’t just in Los Angeles; I was in the studio backlots—not where the tourists go but the heart of the beast. After a meeting I’d be left alone to find my way out, so I’d wander around Paramount and Fox and Warner Brothers and just look at everything. I saw actors auditioning, special effects people working, and executives chattering on cell phones.

But no celebrities.

Then, near the end of the week, I was walking through Universal Studios on my way to another meeting. This was when Universal’s big project was the live-action remake of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and you could see signs of it everywhere. Go-carts with the Grinch logo. Santa Claus and Who costumes hanging in half-opened closets. A giantic, outdoor set of Whoville, complete with sloping domes and swooping arches the color of cotton candy.

And then, coming toward me, I saw a man with a baseball cap that half-concealed a few tufts of orange hair. It was the Grinch’s director—Ron Howard.

I had found my celebrity!

And not just any celebrity. He was a Howard.

And surely, he’d look at me and see my aura, and he would immediately recognize that I was also a Howard. He’d say, “You look tired of having meaningless conversations with industry lamers. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll have a fun chat, Howard-to-Howard?”

And we’d talk about great things!

I’d ask him: “When you did the show where Fonzie jumped the shark, did you know you’d create a catchphrase called ‘Jump the Shark’?”

And: “Do you ever whistle the Andy Griffith theme when you’re by yourself?”

And: “You directed Night Shift and Gung Ho. Did you actually think those movies were funny?

It would be grand!

But then my brother came closer. And closer. And we locked eyes. And he gave me a look.

I believe it was a look that he has given many, many times over the course of his life. It was a look that was instantly, immediately readable. There was no ambiguity to it whatsoever.

The look said: “Don’t you goddamn dare call me ‘Opie.’”

And we passed each other. I had, at least, succeeded in my quest for a celebrity. But as I proceeded to my appointment—a meeting with an executive whose sole credit was “associate producer” on the Patrick Swayze bomb Black Dog—I couldn’t help think that a fraternity of Howards would be a nice thing to have.