I’m writing this on my one-month anniversary. It’s been one month since I landed in Los Angeles. One month since I repatriated, became a born again Angeleno, forsaken by all civilized gods, embraced solely by the sunny freaks and ethnic tribes and brittle palm leaves. One month and I’m even more ready to sell out than when I arrived. I can hear them coming around the corner, gnashing and idea-pruned and speaking in tongues that jangle. I’m ready to take on all comers. Truly there has never been a more willing whore than I. There is no dream I’m not willing to cash in. If I could dream in the shape of casino chips I would.

The plague that spent a solid two weeks sweeping back and forth through our headquarters has finally seemed to dissipate. I’m finally settling in and getting down to business. I’ve got three spec projects I’m working to develop and a treatment I’m co-writing with a friend (one of those strange agented people). I’m also hearing chatter from overseas that longstanding, oft-delayed projects may finally, actually be moving forward. It is the ultimate irony that I hung around in Nashville for three years waiting for cameras to roll in Australia and when I finally make the jump to LA the green lights starts flashing.

It’s possible that the universe just needs to know you’re committed.

In the meantime, Earl and I are putting the finishing touches on a short film he directed that I wrote and starred in called In the Clutch. I’m also working on a short fiction piece written around it. The plan is to podcast them both as soon as they’re ready. I’m also cooking up a live event I hope to stage in the next couple of months. If I can bring it all together it could be something you’ve never seen before and possibly even pay the rent around here. Side projects keep blood, chi, and nitrous all flowing in the same direction.

Recreational highlights. I hit a midnight screening of The Room (the notoriously and hilariously awful indie flick that’s been running out here since 2004). Michael Cera and comedian Paul Scheer were hanging out a few people ahead of us in line. I had no enthusiasm for Cera, and neither will you if you ever knew a band and/or drama and/or AV geek in high school. Writer/director/producer/star Tommy Wiseau was in the house, wearing three belts and pants that defied both gravity and good taste, and every bit as fucking weird as you’d expect. He held a round of Q&A before the show and I took full advantage.

I also found time to grab dinner with author/editor DK Thompson. Dave is a cool guy with an amazing family who I’ve known for a while. I helped bring him along when his rejection card was still waiting to be filled. We had an unintentionally romantic evening at an Italian restaurant chosen at random. The only thing you can do in that situation is commit to it. Fortunately I’m secure enough in my masculinity to share a dessert of wild berries and passion fruit sorbet with another man.

I should probably go out tonight and abuse several substances en route to getting laid in celebration of my one-month milestone (not to mention toasting One More Month and saying a silent prayer that the rent got paid). I arrived at the conclusion I haven’t dated nearly enough redheads the other day. But I may end up grinding straight through the evening. As lovely as they both are, I didn’t come out here for the weather or for a bird’s-eye view of Christa Faust’s world-class feet (all right, the feet may have factored in. Slightly). I came out here to write and sell and see one through to the end.

When I’ve accomplished that I’ll don a Zorro mask and eat sashimi off naked Asian women floating in sparkling pools of champagne until three in the morning. The party will be the stuff that causes cities to be turned to salt.

Summation? Last night Earl and I lined up shots and took inventory of the last month. Accomplishments, professional strides, movies watched, women romanced; everything even remotely relevant. Earl wrote it all down in his notebook. Despite rampant round robin illness he still managed to fill up several pages with highlights. It was a full thirty days, and I don’t feel saccharine in saying we’ve made it just by being here.

Now it’s time to get serious.