How I became carless in L.A.

I was driving home from a publicist's apartment in Orange County, merging to the 5 from the 91 East. My black 19931/2 Saab Aero's electrical functions died for a moment and resurrected (as they intermittenly had), then expired permanently.

I had spent the past five months jobless, living off a sizable savings, spending precious hundreds paying the small-potatoes publicist to try to jumpstart my utter lack of acting career. It hadn't worked.

Nearly broke, I was already in the midst of a frantic job search, ready to do just about any soul killing job for money, except anything involving porn or violence.

I had no money for car expenses, no more money for the publicist. I felt as if my life in L.A. had just been slammed over the head with a grey fold-up chair.

The car was towed off the freeway by AAA, then to my parents' house by a guy my dad knew. Parents paid to fix it and sold it.