When I moved to L.A. I had about $500, a CapitalOne credit card, and an old (1978 Dodge Aspen station wagon) car I’d paid about $150 for in PA. I started doing background work, earning (after taxes) maybe $35 a day. $50 on a good day. You know, I have it written down in a journal, packed away in storage. I suddenly felt wonderful about myself. I had more money than I’d ever had before. I was having fun, I was working, I was on set. I was on my way up. And after a few months, I could afford to get an apartment with a friend. It was only $750 a month for the two-bedroom in Winnetka. We lived simply, but not stress-free. At one point I was overdrawn in my bank account, and I determined never to let that happen again. And other than one time several years later when the IRS froze my account and sucked it dry (thanks guys. I love how my government really cares about how I’m going to survive with no money in my bank account. Oh, and US banks – really? Charging me a fee? And how do you think I’m going to pay that. You’re my bank. It should be clear to you how much money I have), I’ve kept to that goal. OK, except this week again, when it wasn’t my fault (thanks hacker, I love how you really care how your fellow human beings are going to survive without any money in their bank account. But thank you French banks, for not charging a fee).