These blogs aren’t going to be about the turkey sandwich I had or how nice people are. When I worked with rudiusmedia and Tucker Max, I got in some trouble because of my diarrhea of the fingers… as it were.

I can’t promise that you’ll love me as a writer or a comic. I can’t promise you’ll even LIKE me. But, if you’re patient and the 21st century pandemic of self-prescribed ADD (brought forth by Twitter, text, Facebook, google, etc.) still allows you to take some time to follow my crazy life… I CAN promise you that you’ll probably feel better about yours.

That’s about it, with, maybe, a nice turn of phrase here and there.

CINCO DE MAYO, 2009

I moved to Los Angeles from NYC in February. As an actor/comic in Manhattan, the prevailing axiom is ‘let LA come to you’ or ‘don’t go to LA unless they bring you out.’ I held onto that mantra in my 20’s, but then had to create a new mantra when I turned 30, namely ‘why the hell am I telling fart jokes to tourists in Times Square in my 30’s?!’

Not that fart jokes and tourists are all that bad, but other than the vampiric sexuality of Manhattan nights, nothing was really keeping me in my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. So I shoved some rags and an ipod into a duffle bag and tripped the light fantastic to the land where dreams are made…..

Like most actors, when I first came here, I wanted to live in ‘Hollywood’ proper. I wanted to wake up in the morning and see the big HOLLYWOOD sign! I wanted to look at the empty pink terrazo five-pointed stars on the boulevard, use ‘The Secret,’ and inlay it with ‘BILL DAWES” in bronze. In my Willy Wonka-size imagination, my star would represent all 5 categories, just like Gene Autry.

However, one thing you may not know is that, if you live in the heart of Hollywood, you actually can’t SEE the ‘Hollywood’ sign. It’s east and high, closer to the rich people. Also, if you live in Hollywood proper, on any given morning, there is a 10 percent chance you will be shot in the face by a crack addict in a diaper.

Only a slight exaggeration.

I mean, just this past Saturday, a man was shot 6 times on Hollywood Boulevard out front of the tragically hip ‘Teddy’s’ nightclub. Those poor hipsters almost got blood on their Manolo Blahniks! And THEN what?!

ANYDEATH, I printed out my Craigslist posting and went to my first potential apartment. $700 a month. The same place also rents rooms by the night… and by the hour. Undaunted, I went up to the lobby and politely said hello to the man behind the latticed gate and bulletproof window.

“Hey, I’m responding to the room for rent on Craigslist?”

He measured me up. I guess to make sure I wasn’t the Craigslist killer or that I wasn’t wearing a diaper.

“Sure, sure, hold on, my friend.” He spoke with an accent and eyebrows that were most likely Persian. However, I’m sure if asked, he would answer with whatever country the USA just happens not be at war with.

I followed him to the room, in awkard cadence with the inharmonic timbre from his 3 million keys. I was convinced that at least one of those keys must be to a man-sized safe.

He opened the door to my ‘apartment.’

The mattress was a stained twin, the windows were wrought iron Gray-Gardens-gated, and a small, lonely tv hung in the corner — a la ER hospital room — with locks and chains around it to prevent theft. Why the owner would be worried that someone was desperate to steal a 13-inch crappy cathode ray tube TV from the 80’s is beyond me, but there it was — protected like Davy Jones’ locker. Pale paint was peeling off the ceiling and walls like dead tongues.

A wave of weird, creepy, psychic, Ghost-Whisperer vibes washed over me. I was sure that horrible things had happened in this room. It reeked of morbidity. On the plus side, there was probably a pretty good chance that if I opened up the mattress, there would be a stash of 100 dollar bills in a leather suitcase. Should I risk it?

A little Mexican boy was absently spraying disinfectant at things in the room when we walked in, but it didn’t cover up the smell of sex. Probably gay sex — the sweet amalgam of ass, cologne, and attitude. New York clubs and cabs had almost gotten me immune to the smell, but still, bile shot up my throat like a geyser and I swallowed it with a wince.

“So what do you think? For you, I do $650. Very good price, my friend.”

The Mexican boy squatting in the corner suddenly quit spraying the Lysol and looked up with me briefly with a look that said, ‘Don’t effin’ do this, senor! Es mal!’

I was temporarily speechless. Finally I managed to speak: “uh, yeah, this is cool.”

I said that. I’m retarded.

“I’m going to look at a few more places, but I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, for you, $600. For special friend, special price. Cooome on, my friend.”

The Mexican boy left the room and for a fraction of a second, I thought I was going to be raped and turned into ‘The Gimp.’

I started edging my way towards the door.

‘I just have appointments, but this is nice. I really dig it.’ (why did I say that? I used 70’s jargon!)

He didn’t move and I felt a slight bit of relief when I got to the hallway un-raped. I saw the sunlight through the metal matrix covering the glass entrance to the building and I started walking purposefully towards it. I knew he was behind me, looking at me, and I didn’t want to betray my nausea and fear by walking too fast. I felt like Jodie Foster in ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ Quid pro quo… my friend.

I got outside to find myself in a slight state of hyperventilation. Nice, Bill. What a man!

I walked, more than a little creeped out, to my car. I had a ticket. The meter had expired one minute earlier.

It was like the parking authority was saying…

‘Hey Bill… welcome to LA.’

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