Two weeks into 2003. Pies consumed: Zero.

Doing pretty well, although I feel the cracks starting to form.

Also, to consider: "The Women of Diaryland" Pin-up Poster?

That tappity-tapping sound you heard was JoeyGlitterBoy registering the pagename and getting busy with the HTML.

Good morning, my friends. I am enjoying coffee.

So, as might be expected, it's been Jonny's birthday since, well, Jonny's birthday. Mr. Injury is starting to be able to do things on his own, though, since he broke those fingers, but for the past couple days, I've been lending assistance. I've brought him glasses of ice water, driven him wherever he needs to go, and even tied his shoes. Luckily, he has been able to manage shaving, applying his own deodorant, and showering by himself.

I am so glad he broke only one hand. I don't even want to think about what bathroom visits would have been like.

So, like I said, he's getting back on the mobility train. Regaining functionality and doing things with his hand he couldn't do a few days ago. Last night, however, the boy creeped me out.

I'm sitting in my room, and in wanders Jonny, as he is wont to do. He sits on my bed, chatting with me, as I read something on screen. From the corner of my eye, I see an odd motion and realize that something is very, very wrong...

"What the fuck are you doing?" says I, incredulous.

"What?" he innocently replies.

For the past thirty seconds or so, Jonny had been picking up things from my bedside table and rubbing them against his injured fingers.

Needless to say, I was solidly creeped out.

Soon after, he insisted that he was merely tapping the wallet against his hand. Still, it necessitated me to use the phrase "Don't tap my items against your wound," which I am willing to bet was the first time in human history those particular words in that particular order were uttered.

The incident blew over shortly thereafter.

On to other recent events:

One of them can be nicely summarized using Hemingway's Patented Two Word One Syllable Anecdote Generator: Had date. Went well. Nice girl. We'll see.

I had a job interview Friday, with a small boutique agency that reps writers, directors and cinematographers. They were looking for someone who was hellbent on becoming an agent, and willing to spend two years learning the trade at their desk. Due to large amounts of mutual honesty, both parties involved decided that this was not the job for me, which is fine. All was not lost, though, as the guy wants to help me become a writer (if a writer makes money, an agent makes money), and I now have a good new contact.

I had another job interview yesterday, for a production assistant gig on HBO's 'Curb Your Enthusiasm.' Just like Buffy was, it would be a great show to be associated with. Also, unfortunately, just like Buffy, the shifts are twelve hours long, and, like any PA gig, it's all shlepping.

9am to 9pm.

God, that just looks depressing.

I've been very lucky in the short time I've been here to gain a lot of experience, and I've had many, many opportunities to evaluate my feelings about this business.

I see so many things in this industry that I hate.

Buffy: Diva cast members and insanely high strung office culture.

ATJ: Writers sitting in a little room for 10 hours a day working the same script over and over, trying and often failing to make the stale jokes from the original script somehow funnier. It's always been the goal to avoid sitting in an office ten hours a day, writing or not.

Screenplays: Learning that it can often take 20 or more pitches (in the most extreme case I know of, 27) to actually get a script sold.

Curb: All the PA shleppery of ATJ and Buffy, but unlike ATJ, terrible hours.

If I were to finally get a creative gig, it would literally be a dream come true. I've been writing plays and stories since I was a wee lad. I've been shooting video camera movies with my brothers and neighborhood kids that we took care to pour skill into for almost as long. In college, when I was a writer/producer on our cheesy little soap opera type show, I felt passionate about getting my vision across and on screen, and fought for every line and inflection.

I want to have that feeling again, the joy of pure creation, but goddamn if sometimes this business doesn't want to make me head home to Chicago and produce stories on obesity or hero German Shepherds for the WGN evening news.

All that said, I'd be insane to turn down Curb if they offered it to me. Then again, I wonder if I should just land some brain dead 9-5'er and write, write, write. Showbidness: I love to hate you.

And so, the job search continues.

There's a nice bright spot ahead, though: Last week, Edie emailed me a job she found while searching for something for herself.

I emailed them with a cover letter and writing sample that was so cute that Jesus himself couldn't have done it. It was really, really cheesy, and I didn't expect much to come of it, but they wrote me back and asked me to call them on Monday to set up a meeting.

So, I call yesterday, and we chat a bit, and the woman gets to the business of setting up our meeting. She asks where I live, I tell her, and she says she lives in Beverly Hills.

"Cool," I think to myself. "A freelance writer's meeting up in some posh Beverly Hills office! This is going to be great!"

Then she says "Let's meet somewhere between the two of us. There's a Hamburger Hamlet over on the corner of National and Sepulveda."

Oh. Hamburger Hamlet. OK. We're meeting in the bar.

I asked how I would recognize her, and she described herself. I told her what I looked like and said I would wear black. It felt like I was setting up some skanky internet sex meeting.

So, for tomorrow, don't wish me luck on my freelance writer's meeting. Wish me luck on my freelance writer's tryst.

I live in Los Angeles.