Well, Now I am Just Homeless

So, as one the luckier people around, I did fall into a part time accounting job in my first full day in the Los Angeles area. At least someone called it luck, I call it more or less that four years of accounting firm experience that looks extremely desirable to someone looking for a semi mentally disabled bookkeeper. I can definitely play that role, and with great ease I might add.

But yesterday was not all (umm…flowers and candy? I cannot think of two things to pair here…) escargot and garlic butter…ewww…ummm Fun Dip and candy stick…(eureka!). After finding out about my employ, I began more intensely looking for a place to live. At first I had this glossy eyed dream of getting my own place, but then I realized “Hey! That costs a lot of money, you dirty hobo!”. Soon after I began looking on craigslist for people looking for roommates…so I found a guy, and with the chiding of my new found friends I made at Starbucks, I was encouraged to contact this man since he lived in an excellent neighborhood. I did so, and within an hour I was over at his place.
As I walked in I immediately knew that this was not the “BEDROOM AVAILABLE IN AWESOME TWO LEVEL APARTMENT WITH GREAT AMENITIES!!!”. It was a crappy little place with dirty carpet, odd furniture and fixtures, and an odd 35 year old man from Wisconsin who looked and acted far too much like a creepy Gary Busey (yes…a creepy one…not even normal Gary Busey). This guy had shifty eyes, no sense of humor, his 1985 Nordic Track (my kind natured ribbing about it being 2007 nearly drove him to kill me), and the ability to probably have killed me without anyone knowing where I was. At the end of my “tour” (awkward glances around the rooms, me looking for places to escape) he said he just had three questions to ask me before I left.
GB: So, you don’t smoke right?
TCR: Nope, I don’t.
GB: It’s fine if you do (motions at ceiling for no reason), you just have to do it outside. Question two, do you do drugs?
TCR: Again, that’s a…
GB: (interrupts) I mean if you want to smoke dope and come back here, that’s fine, just don’t do it on my property…well, my landlord’s property. Thirdly…no gay hot sex anywhere on the premises
TCR: (picking up jaw off floor) Really I don’t plan on having gay hot sex anywhere
GB: (extending hand for handshake) Well, I think you are looking like a prime candidate (for what???)
TCR: (shifting nervously, eyeing door) Ummm…thanks. (Things I should have said: I think I might give up this dream and move home. I was thinking about suicide too…so umm yeah, talk to you never)

After that I was not entirely sure I wanted to live with anyone, but by the end of the night I had checked out an awesome place in Brentwood with some cool guys who lived there…they have many people to choose from…I just hope I stuck out enough in their minds with my witty banter/racial slurs/magic tricks/ omelette making.

So, my job is a QuickBooks job I do out of someone’s house. And as if L.A. people were not centrally driven toward the fruity mean in the first place, this woman’s business is making organic cookies and selling them to fru fru stores like Whole Foods…she had awful body odor and a desire to pay me $18/hour for 20 hours a week and thought I was great…and hilarious…which is always a start. If I can meet everyone here, maybe the same impact will be felt throughout. Actually though I am pretty sure that most of the time she did not realize my humor was actually mocking her, but whatever works.
This weekend the main goals are finding a place to leave and showing off my muscle less, pale body down at the beach. The real daytime drama everyone has been waiting for. Also everyone here keeps calling me a writer, but until that is what I get paid to do I would just like to get called a “liver” (not like the organ…I do far less filtering) or “survivor” (not like the TV show, I am way more awesome). Don’t paint me with your brushes.