Lazy in L.A.

Marion manages to avoid work for another week.

It sure is great to write a column the way you like. There is no fear of editors censoring you or complaining that your column is, “anecdotes about you getting drunk and fighting people who make you angry.”

Yes, lots of freedom to write about whatever I want to and nothing I really want to write about. Of course, there’s always the added benefit of not having to your editor pitch his horrible ideas for awful books. I think the last manuscript Tito was working on was an inspirational book on inspirational ghetto weddings called: Pimp my Bride.

I kind of miss that guy actually.

So yea, for the last six months or so I was living high on the hog off Escapist money. Now I sleep on my girlfriend’s sofa in Southern California. Since I have no money, and have completed Red Dead Redemption, it’s time to find a job.

Of course it’s that is easier said than done. Telling people that you’re a writer in Los Angeles is like telling people on earth that you’re human: no one cares. I guess that’s because everyone in LA seems to be something – a guy with an acoustic guitar is a singer/songwriter, if he has a car that goes over 90 he’s an illegal street racer and if he took a creative writing course in college he’s a writer.

Funny story about that guy;  he told me he might have a lead on a job and that I should come over to his house and listen to some of his original compositions, talk about writing and watch Iron Man.  His apartment smelled like socks, he couldn’t actually play the guitar, his short story was just about his fantasy of him kissing Robert Downey Jr. and Iron Man turned out to be the gay porno of the same name. I was beginning to see what my dad meant when he warned me, “Los Angeles is a haven for slackers and homos.”

After my first “job” interview, I went back to looking in the safest place I knew: The Internet. There, at least as long as I was reasonably paranoid, I wouldn’t fall victim to perverts or con artists. The only problem with the internet is that when you’re living with three other people sharing one computer, getting on the internet can be a challenge.

The computer was located in an upstairs room that Jessica had dubbed “the study.” The study, however, was really just an old bathroom that had been renovated with some bookshelves and pictures of Jesus. The computer sat where I imagined a sink once was and the chair was probably in the place that the toilet had once stood. Most telling was an ancient toilet paper holder that was still attached to the wall, the screws stripped where someone had obviously had a very hard time of removing it.

The computer room/repurposed toilet was nearly always occupied. Jessica ran a small business in Second Life where she sold something. She obviously did quite well for herself, but the whole business aspect required a great deal of attention – six to eight hours a day depending on the traffic her store got. Around 4pm She took a break to let her son Zack and surf porn while he pretended to research his book reports on Wikipedia. Zack made sure to finish before his grandpa got home which usually left the computer open until dinner. That could be anywhere between 30 minutes to an hour. After dinner, Grandpa then spent two hours playing some Korean poker game. I intoned from the arguing in Spanish that he wasn’t really supposed to be, but he did anyway. Jessica spent the rest of the night playing Second Life, and I sat on the couch that had become my semi-permanent home.

This gave me plenty of face time with Rockstar’s new cowboy game and watch Hot Tub Time Machine, but not so much time to look for a job. I supposed I could have cut into Zack’s “study time.” Truth be told, I was having a good time relaxing after my dad nearly shot me, so I didn’t force the issue. Besides, I had a lot of other things to do. There was sex, daily showers, Red Dead Redemption, eating, sleeping and more Red Dead Redemption.

On Wednesday, I did get a few hours on the computer to write and look for jobs in LA.  I looked through some local classifieds, failed to find anything and went back to the couch where I remained for two more days.

Friday I made the mistake of watching the news. I saw footage of pelicans covered in oil and was depressed and strangely hungry for some KFC chicken. The only thing in the fridge was tuna. Let me ask you, if it’s chicken of the sea, then where are the drumsticks?

That was also the day I finished a sandwich and Red Dead Redemption. I really do want some chicken though, I guess it’s time to get a job.

Marion Cox is an out of work freelance game journalist which in LA means he’s qualified to grow a beard, shop at Anerican Apparel and listen to anything recommended on pitchfork. You can follow him on twitter, or read this column here every weekend.