With one portion of my life complete, I was more than ready, anxious, and excited to see what was in store for me next. I was 22 years old and so wet behind the ears my lobes had pit stains. Obviously, I was curious but also unsure what the future was holding for me. I hoped it was holding a job as well as some money, because life was about to “get real.” But truthfully at that point, the only thing that mattered was, I was in L.A., baby, and I was ready to give 'em hell!

My cross-country drive came to an end with me cruising into Santa Monica on the fabled Route 66. Maybe there was some foreshadowing and irony to that, since my first acting gig would eventually land me the lead role in the NBC reboot of that storied series.

My sister helped me out with a place to stay for a minute—see if you can follow this. My sister's neighbor in Ohio supposedly had a friend who lived in Santa Monica, who had agreed to let me crash on her couch for “exactly and only one week” until I found a place of my own. She was a single woman in her late 30s whose, let's call it, quirkiness was only outmeasured by her kindness of letting a total stranger stay on her couch. With the week quickly passing by, I held true to our agreement and on day five I found myself a tiny studio apartment to call home.

Apparently, a few years after I had achieved a bit of success on MTV, the woman told her friend in Ohio, who in turn told my sister, who in turn told me, that we had “hooked up.” Now, while the details of said “hooking” would probably make this story more enticing to romance novel enthusiasts and Fabio fan club members, it just wasn't true. The book would have been titled 50 Shades of No Way! At least now maybe she can rework her story by saying something like, “Figures the guy who used to fart on my couch in his sleep would call me quirky.” All I'd be able to say about that is, it holds a bit more weight than the “hooking up” story.

I was flying solo in L.A., and in my mind, my studio apartment was amazing. The building apparently hadn't been updated since the late 1960s, and if the rust-colored shag rug in my room could tell the tales of yesteryear, I'm sure they would have been saucier than Olive Garden's Fettuccine Alfredo.

The place was unfurnished so I unleashed my inner interior decorator and added a few necessities that tied everything together and really made it feel like home. First, a futon—it's not just multifaceted, it's stylish as well. It's a bed, it's a couch, no, it's a futon! (I wonder if “bouch” was ever in the discussion as a name choice). Next, a hot plate. Stoves can be cumbersome, but a hot plate does the same job in a tenth of the space, leaving so much more room for activities. Finally, a bright yellow, dual-cassette-deck Sony boombox. R.I.P. Panasonic Platinum, but this was L.A. and I needed to look the part as well.

In my mind, this place might as well have been The Four Seasons, and I felt like I was livin' large in L.A. (Sorry, but I had to use “livin' large” as an homage to overused 90s phrases gone too soon.) Unfortunately, thanks to the down payment on the studio and the futon purchase, my $1,100 was fading faster than Snoop Dogg on a Friday night.

Thus, the job hunt was on. I was open to anything I could find that would pay the bills and put food on my TV tray. Don't worry I didn't buy the TV tray. I found that little treasure left in the closet. It was good as new once I scrubbed the stains off of it. First things first, I reached out to the MTV peeps in New York to see if they were going to be shooting anything in L.A. I let them know that I was ready to work, but to no avail. Honestly, I think they probably got tired of me calling after a while.

Luckily a few blocks away from my place was a bar/grill I'd frequent called Mom's Saloon. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that was pretty popular with the UCLA students because the burgers were cheap and the pitchers were cheaper. I became friendly with the manager after having hung out there a few times, so I hit him up for a bartending gig. I guess he liked me enough that morning or was still drunk from the night prior, so he hired me.

With the job box checked, I was clinging to my mantra, “It's all about the tips,” because this place would get packed on the weekends. When I inquired about what shift I'd be working, he replied “Shift? Shit dude, it's almost a two-year wait to bartend here. You're working the door.” This was a blow to my bartending ego, but more than likely it was karma with a sly smirk and a kick to my stones after all of the free shots and beers I gave away in Chapel Hill.

But I stayed positive. It was still a job, and maybe I could put my Downtown Julie Brown bodyguard techniques to work at the door. The gig was basically this: I only got paid $3.75 an hour, but the hook was, for every fake ID I found I'd get $20 cash at the end of the night. So as time went on and rent needed to be paid, I started taking legitimate IDs from of-age college kids just so I could make a few extra bucks. Each time I chose to do it, I'd make sure it was either a guy who was smaller than me or a girl who was with a group of friends who wanted to party. Then, I'd put my remedial acting skills to the test and I'd attempt to make it sound like I was doing them a favor.

“Look I'm going to let you in the bar, but I'm gonna need to keep the ID because its legitimacy is questionable. If it is real, just come back tomorrow at noon and pick it up.” I always thought by saying “legitimacy is questionable,” it made my legitimacy seem less questionable. College kids surprisingly didn't care; they just wanted to get inside and start drinking. Especially the girls. “Krissy, he's letting you in, just come back and get it tomorrow. Plus, Becky's got Fireball shots waiting.” Honestly, I did feel bad because they were basically my age, but I needed the money. I mean, what good is having a hot plate if you can't afford the mac n' cheese to cook on it?

A week or so later, I headed into the bar to have lunch and my manager approached me. I saw the look on his face. He knew, and I knew he knew. He told me that kids kept coming in to pick up real IDs that I'd confiscated, and then he asked how much money I had on me. I'd just come from the ATM where I'd taken out my money for the week, $40. Isn't it amazing when you're young, how long you can stretch money out for?

Anyway, I told him I had $42. He said, “Give me $40 and keep the other two.” I did as I was told and then watched him put the $40 into his own wallet. He proceeded to walk behind the bar, filled a pitcher of beer, brought it back, and sat it on the table right in front of me and said, “If I catch you doing it again, you're fired.” As he walked off, all that I thought was, “Sweet, a free pitcher of beer and I still have a job. This is a good day!” I've always been a positive, glass-half-full kind of guy, but when a pitcher is totally full, my positivity is off the charts.

When I got home a bit later, I collapsed on my futon, ate the remains of some stale Goldfish crackers, and checked my answering machine. The red light was blinking, one message. “Hi, this message is for Dan. My name is Ted Demme and I'm the producer of Yo! MTV Raps…” That's all I heard, because in my rush to sit up and listen (because as men we think we hear better when we sit up) I started choking on a freakin' Goldfish. I think part of it is still lodged deep inside my nasal cavity. (That would definitely explain why, even to this day, I still taste a hint of synthetic cheddar every time I sneeze.) Ted said he was coming to L.A. to shoot an episode of Yo! and they needed a P.A. (production assistant) for the shoot. I obviously returned the call and happily accepted the job. A two-day shoot, $75/day, yep, that definitely bought a helluva lot of mac n' cheese and fresh Goldfish.

Not only was I happy to be working, I was a huge fan of Yo! MTV Raps. Recognizing the potential opportunity, I busted my ass to make everything as perfect as I possibly could for that shoot. Thankfully, I think Ted appreciated it because after that, I became Yo's go-to P.A. when they shot in L.A. We had shoots all over the city—the L.A. River, Ice Cube's house, Ice T's house, and all the other ice houses. Thankfully no Ice Castles, or else I would have had to make sure not to forget about the roses…(that one was for the white kids from the early 80s). The shoot at Ice T's house was the first time I ever saw a money counter, massive stacks of cash, guns, and weed all on a desk at the same time. Actually, it was the only time I ever saw that, but what a glorious time it was. God bless MTV in the 90s.