My first full week as a repatriated Angelino is in the books. Or will be when I write my inevitable memoirs. The ride started virtually the second I landed and didn’t stop, hasn’t stopped, and I am in fact writing this on the back of a Harley tearing ass down the Strip dodging jets of habanero sauce and hooker spit and the discharge of tinsel cannons. I’ve got stained clothes and split knuckles and psychic fractures and all of that good shit your imagination conjures when you think about some illusory thing called the LA Experience. It’s all happening. It’s all just as deserving of its own comic book as you think. I am already a legend, already a millionaire, already nominated for five Oscars and there will be full-frontal illustrations of it all to follow.

But first I have a maxim I’d like to share with you. Because we’re tight, you and me. We’ve been in the shit together, right? We’ve fought back-to-back countless times and busted slobs on each other’s sisters. So here it is: If during your first weekend in LA you meet “Rowdy” Roddy Piper and he soulfully grasps your hand in his and says, “May all your dreams come true.” Brother, you are blessed. You wear the high-sign upon your brow and the path before you is golden. The rest will all work itself out.

Seriously, ignoring the irony that after wrestling professionally for a decade, thousands of shows and traversing several countries and ten times that number of states, I had to move to Los Angeles for the purpose of screenwriting to meet the Hot Rod, it was about as fortuitous and awesome as meetings get.

So what’s the craic, as my good friend David Kanter would ask? In my first seven days in Los Angeles I starred in and am writing a short film (in that order). I attended two birthday parties for people I’d never met before. I ate tacos. I’ve been welcomed, re-welcomed, and post-welcomed. I met and partied with the famous, the semi-famous, and the someday famous. It’s more active than I’ve been in years. My knee, the fulcrum that’s seen steel chairs and often been folded every way but the intended one, has been popping and locking like a circa-80’s breakdancer on a flattened cardboard box at Grand Central Station.

Most of the past weeks craic owes its life to Christa Faust, who has graciously taken me to her ample bosom based on little more than my ability to flash on references to bad wrestlers and worse movies. The day after I landed she and the unsinkable Keith Rainville treated me to Thai food and took me on an expedition to Dark Delicacies, the renowned horror shop. I also had the honor of escorting Christa to several events, including the grand opening of the new location of Gokor’s MMA Academy in North Hollywood. That’s where I met Piper, legendary stuntman “Judo” Gene LeBell, and mixed martial arts champion and color commentator Bas Rutten among a host of other fighters, stuntmen, and assorted desperados. I also joined Christa for the opening ceremonies of Left Coast Crime at the Omni Hotel. I met a plethora of mystery and crime writers, all of whom seemed inexplicably impressed with the dragon inlay shirt I was wearing, very few of whose names I will actually retain. Although I will remember screenwriter Robert Ward, who told me stories about William Friedkin that will make you laugh and check under your bed for the man at night.

On the professional tip, I didn’t get much writing done. But I’m giving myself a pass on that, considering for a large portion of the week I didn’t have a desk or a desk chair or even a bed. I did “network” on several occasions. I handed out business cards that at the very least will dice up lines of coke and/or be used as rolling paper by/for some very talented individuals. I had a few meetings, pitched some old ideas, had a few news ones, and just basically laid groundwork. I accomplished nothing, but felt like I accomplished a lot, and in that way I’ve already nailed the LA writer mindset. The rest should be cake.

My extra-curricular activities were far more rewarding and successful and were centered largely on tacos. After the opening ceremonies of Left Coast Crime, author Eric Stone treated me and about a dozen crime authors to the Cadillac of street food. The habanero sauce was that morning’s kill. I went ten deep on chorizo, suadero, cabeza, al pastor, and I believe I was the only one with the brass stomach to take on the tripita, or tripe. It was crispy and delicious and my colon did not eject itself. A couple of nights later Earl and I were out rambling and we came across Mojica Tacos, an oft-blogged taco truck. Proving himself to be a roommate you can trust in the field, Earl stopped, sampled the asada with me, and then waited while I got another ten to bring back home.

What’s the final tally? I don’t know, man. I watch Earl, my roommate. His enthusiasm for LA is boundless. Every day, every moment seems like an affirmation for him. He’s made of hope and hustle and I dig his whole vibe. I remain ever the cynic, however. It’s a city. I’ve lived in dozens of them. Every now and then some bit of sense memory jumps off and I catch a wave of nostalgia, like a brief, sharp high. But it’s not a homecoming. It’s a city and it is business and I’m here to wreck both without mercy, pity, or compromise.

But I am here, and for a purpose. I’m chasing down my first writing gig in LA. I’m connecting with producers and managers. If there’s a picture it’s slowly coming into focus, and sure, for all I know it’ll turn out to be a crude drawing of a very large, veiny cock. But then I am five minutes from the porn capital of America.

And much like porn, every stroke brings us closer to the money shot.