It's over. Well almost. I'm still stepping over the cardboard boxes. Still raking the pizza cardboards and brewski bottles into the corner. Getting to know the neighbors. Well some of them. Don't think I want to know those dudes down the street living on the edge of that Homeless Encampment. But, I'm here. Still here.
Years back it was simple. As an actor, to keep overheads low, I shared a two-bedroom in Glendale fairly close to The Studios. My roommate, Larry, was heading back to Oklahoma. He said he was heading home. I suspect it was a bit more complicated. I never asked. He never said. I suspected Extradition. Whatever. I needed new digs.
Craigslist to the rescue. It wasn't the Taj Mahal. It wasn't Shakespeare. It was off-street parking and in Burbank, closer than ever to The Studios. I had to share a kitchen. And a bath. No worries. You gotta do whatcha gotta do. The rent was about a third of what people were paying just a mile away, and really close to Warner Bros. It was Ok. I thought. Then the dry-rot slowly crept in. It wasn't pretty.
I don't mind living close to Serial Killers or an occasional Socio-Path. To each his own. Live and let live. This is L.A! I suspect the flotsam that passed through my shared kitchen and mostly never-flushed bathroom were only borderline. Borderline Felons. Hey, I'm an actor.
I had to keep my eye on the Prize. A SAG card. An Oscar. A trophy wife. An ocean view at Malibu. So far I have a SAG card. Oscar is an almost-there mirage. The trophy wife never returned my texts. Sitting on the beach in Malibu is not a problem. The Metro 180 bus stops in Hollywood and after a short snooze, you reach Malibu.
Yes, I survived. In spite of Mr. America the bodybuilder that never said hello. In spite of Mr. Feces a guy who had chronic bowel problems at Midnight. In spite of Miss America, an Armenian woman who banged on the door during my 6am four-minute shower, begging to use the restroom. It was a good six-year run. Then my latest Slumlord asked me to leave. Wanted to make some major renovations. No worries. Craigslist to the rescue once again. I thought. It wasn't pretty.
Three phony apartment no-shows. Combed through a myriad of rent-a-room websites. Finally, I lucked out. A guy that does stand-up. Now in my new digs in Pasadena. Close to my day job. Close to my Argentine Dance Studio. There is a God. She was looking after me once again.
But, enough about me...
