Yesterday, I was out walking about, which in Los Angeles is almost worthy of an entry unto itself, considering that I had to force myself to resist using my car to do my errand the same way someone on a diet might resist cheesecake. I was out walking, when I was approached by an old man riding a bicycle.

He must have seen me from afar and decided that I looked like a person who would enjoy a non-sensical, unrequested anecdote about a driver who cut him off. Maybe he sensed fraternity in our mutual pedestrian status. Luckily, his anecdote was over quickly, and I didn't even have to slow down to hear it, but as he pedaled off, it was his farewell that stuck with me.

"Have a nice day, God!"

Not "have a nice day, guy!" or even "have a nice day, guv'!"

No. I was, in the mind of demented old bicycle man, the focus of all theology. For a few moments, I almost felt bad for the old gent. Then I realized that, if upon meeting God, you decide to tell him that your biggest beef is that some dick in a red Miata just cut you off, you must be doing pretty well.

This story has been brought to you by Unemployment. Thank you, taxpayers!

I have been inundated lately by queries as to why I haven't been writing more. The national outcry has been enormous and the cards and letters very touching. One would think that with oodles of time on my hands, I'd be updating FadeIn three times a day, but the truth is that if you don't go out on the street and hassle innocent old bicycling passerby into acting strangely toward you against their will, unemployment does not generate much entry fodder.

Oh, I could give you anecdotes, dear reader. But do you really want to hear stories that begin "I've decided I don't need to shave today after all," or "The vaccuming I gave my carpet today went better than expected," or "I'm not sure, but I may be out of orange juice"?

You say you do, and that's sweet, but you don't.

I wish that unemployment were a bit more like this:

I could go on. But you get the idea.

The reality is much more subdued and involves far less shplorking than I'd like. A breakdown:

6am - 930am: I usually wake up somewhere in there. Today, in a fit of industriousness, I awoke at 615am.

930am - 1030am (or whatever hour-long period after I wake up): Prepare for my day the champion's way with a caffeine intake so massive it has killed children. During this time I help myself to some Diaryland, certain news outlets, and, optionally, a morning tv show playing softly in the background.

1030am - approx. 1pm: As the end of the Caffeinating Hour rolls around, I am imbued with a sense of self-assuredness, hubris, and energy rivaling what especially zealous religious fanatics must feel. This feeling is necessary for the task ahead, which is several hours of networky, shmoozy phone calls, and fine tuning resumes and cover letters to convince various CreativeAgencies/ProductionHouses/AnonymousProducers that I am the CreativeAssistant/XeroxHero/CoffeeLackey they have been waiting for all their lives, respectively.

Oh, and somewhere in there, I usually eat, when I remember. The menu options are peanut butter on Ritz, humongous yet economical blueberry muffins, apple pie (when available), or my current fave, Vanilla Yogurt granola bars. My eating habits alone, at this point, would make my mother, were she Jewish, plotz. Since she isn't, she would simply cry.

1pm: The day can go in one of two directions at this point. Sometimes, I become sick of my computer, disgusted with everything it represents, and leave my room to do something edifying. This can include walking around the living room playing guitar. It can also include leafing through back issues of the New Yorker to find articles I have not yet read. I often consider going for a run and reject the idea, favoring instead reading a book or watching Conan on TiVo under the auspices of "studying comedy."

The other option is unblocking myself from my buddy list and providing free entertainment to people who have found those magical "I get paid to check my email all day" jobs.

Remember when I first moved out here and I was turning down jobs? Yeah, those were the days.

Sunday marked the one year anniversary of my move to Los Angeles.

It hasn't been all bad, but here's hoping they sign some better writers for season two.