Fame, Recognition, Money: No Longer the Destination

Subtitle: However, it would be a welcome byproduct.

Let me explain.

From the time I was a child, I wanted to write for television.  I didn't know what that meant.  But I know that I watched TV shows and I wanted to tell the characters what to do.  I wanted to be in charge of what they did.  I was probably around 8 or 10 when I realized that.

I was also made fun of every single day from that time all the way through high school, although around my Junior or Senior year it either dissipated or it didn't matter any more.  But every day at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Downey, I heard the word "sissy" and when I got older and kids got more sophisticated, I heard the word "faggot."  So how did that affect me?

I smiled every day.  And I cried most days.

I kept a brave face because that's what I was told to do.  My father would say to me: "I'll give you something to cry about."  He was trying to toughen me up because he probably realized very early on if he didn't try to build a tough exterior for me people would take advantage of me.  But that optimistic persona started to build even then.  I think if you asked my grade school and high school friends what their impression of me was they would say that I always rose above it all.  But I was hurting deeply inside.  And I kept most of that pain down deep inside because I didn't want to create trouble for anyone.  You see, I grew up in a house where there was a lot of fighting.  A lot of verbal arguments.  I used to say that I wasn't abused physically, just verbally.  Like that was somehow better.  But even that was a lie.  I was whipped with a belt as a child and probably until I was about twelve.  And that's where the lies started.  I lied about how the belt whippings affected me.  I believed they only made me tougher.

So I was verbally torn down at home.  And at school.  Every day.  But it made me better.  That's what I told myself.  It made me tougher.  It certainly gave me an aggression and it gave me this sense that I had to fight.

So I fought my way out of Downey.  First to a prestigious high school in LA.  One of the most prestigious, actually.  Then to Santa Clara University.  Then to Portland.  And then to the city of my dreams, New York.  I made it to NYU on scholarship.  The whole time I kept saying to myself, "When I'm rich and famous and someone people know and respect and look up to, then it will all have been worth it.  I'll show them!"

And I did all of those things.  Then I came back to LA to "make it."  And by that standard, I failed.  I haven't "made it."  But something incredibly interesting happened to me.  I worked my ass off at my goal.  I worked hard.  But I always wondered if I had worked hard enough because the Fame, the Recognition and the Money continued to be elusive.  It still is elusive.  I've been working at it for a long time.

Most of my life, I had held on to those values.  I whole heartedly invested in the idea that those three things would make me happy.  And then there were those three words that I needed to hear from my Father that would make me complete.  My father died last year and I never heard those words.  And I still haven't earned those three things.

So where does that leave me?  Am I a failure at everything I ever wanted?

As has been well documented in this blog (hell, it's the whole reason I started the blog), I went through a break up of a relationship that lasted for five years.  I walked away.  And when I walked away from that relationship, what I was doing was walking away from the way I had seen the world.  I didn't fully realize it then, but that was the start of a whole new journey.  I left the job I had held for seven years.  I walked into a new life: single hood and new bosses who gave me every opportunity to be great and who trusted my greatness.  And I succeeded.

Then my Father got sick.  I knew I had to take care of him.  And my new perfect job had ended: the pilot we worked on didn't get picked up.  So I listened to the Universe when it told me where my place was for the foreseeable future.  I offered my Dad compassion, a compassion he never offered me.  And I protected him, in exactly the same way he protected me.  I yelled at every doctor, hospice worker, nurse, staff member and person who stood in the way of my father having the dignity he deserved in his final year.  In doing so, I finally understood what he was doing all of those years.  I had to take on the role of protector and take it seriously to finally understand.  I was completely up everyone's asses when it came to my Dad.

I continued to write that whole time and actually wrote a lot.  I also taught University during his illness. I learned I have a passion for teaching.  It was that passion that kept me engaged with my students long after I had stopped teaching them.  And it was that passion that kept my hopes up when I was told a job was available at Santa Clara for the 2013-14 school year.  After everything I had been through, I thought that this was the answer to all of my prayers.  It seemed like the right opportunity.  I had done a lot of things leading up to finding out about the job that led me to believe I had manifested the opportunity.  Then I didn't get it due to forces out side of my control.  But just the process of doing through the application opened me up in new ways.

I realized that I could leave LA.  I realized that I have to do something that gives me purpose.  I also realize that working in Television won't give me purpose.  It will give me a pay check, which I desperately need.  It will give me a place in the hierarchy of the entertainment industry.  It can still offer Fame, Recognition and Money.  But what it won't due is give me a purpose or a vocation.  And I'm a vocation kind of guy.  I'm driven my something bigger than material wealth or accolades.

It sounds like I'm making a choice here, drawing a line in the sand.  I'm really not.  But the big revelation in all of this is that all of those things (Fame, Money, Recognition) should be a byproduct of my work and dedication, but not the end goal.  Because I can't control that.  I can't control my currency to an industry that rewards bad behavior and is basically like winning the lottery. I can't count on winning the lottery.

I can't even count on a teaching job that seems so altruistic because that world is full of bullshit too.  It's got the same amount of bureaucracy, but with shittier pay.  I can't count on the fact that people get how special I am.  I can't count on them acting based on knowing how special I am.

But what I can do is write.  I can write from a depth that was only achieved through all of the experiences I've mentioned.  And I have the training.  You can't take that away from me, either.  So those two things, as long as I'm tapped in, should continue to serve me well.  And I'm still in pursuit of that pay day, but I no longer see that pay day as a reflection of how good, how honest or how talented I am.  I can hit that pay day because of the shittiest script I wrote that took the least amount of effort.  I can also put my blood, sweat, tears, emotions, history and mother's milk into script after script after script that will never see the light of day.

The important thing for me to do is to still be here doing what I'm doing.  And in the meantime, I have a message for the Universe.  My friend Susan always says that when something doesn't work out or isn't the right opportunity you have to say:

"Universe, you have to do better than that."

And that's where I am at today.  I'm not freaking out.  I wish some of these scripts would come along faster.  But I'm full of ideas, good ideas.  I know the next five projects I want to work on or finish work on.  Or rewrite.  Or redraft.  I don't have a shortage of good, solid ideas.  I'm not creatively impotent.  Thank God.

So I want most of the same things I've always wanted.  But I also know what's important.  Attaining those accolades and that recognition is not life and death.  Television is not life and death.  Theatre is not life and death.  Life and Death is life and death.  My Dad died and I was there to help escort him out.  If that doesn't put things into perspective, you're not experiencing what's happening around you.  And I intend to be present for everything that comes my way.

Things We Do in Korean Spas to Pass Time

That list doesn't begin with

stroke
suck
lick

We watch old men.
We listen to the sounds of children running around, like this is a playground.
Sometimes it seems like a pedophile's playground.
But I try not to think about that.
The cute Persian guy's penis distracts me.
You know, the one that flops back and forth.
The one attached to the body with the tattoo that runs the entire right side of his body.
Over his lats.
I didn't see that when he had his laptop open and seemed to be engrossed in
some sort of interesting email exchange or porn or personal anecdote
that looking at someone pass by reminded him of that had nothing to do
with what was on the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like the bank of laptops that flanked the window of the Starbucks on
16th and Eighth
years ago in the New York of my Twenties.
But these guys were in khaki shorts and t-shirts that allows them
a reprieve upstairs in the co-ed room.
These seriously minded adult men seemed to be using the Korean Spa
as their mobile office.
I suppose it's just as expensive as Starbucks after
three coffees
and a sandwich.
Maybe even cheaper.
I can still hear the children.
Aren't their parents around?
I saw a white father and his white children--
maybe European, maybe Not--
giving them the benefit of the doubt.  And they
were all marching around the men's area:
the father or father figure
and his two sons or wards and their sister or young female friend.
They went through the showers in soaked bathrobes
that were meant to protect them from the gaze of
the naked men who all of a sudden felt like they needed to
cover themselves up in the bathroom
or in the grooming area
or the wet area and the steam room
because now they were aware something was inappropriate
because a young girl was in their presence.  In the men's area.
The men's area for men.
This normal foreigner or clueless American
paraded these young children around for
at least ten minutes
through the bathroom and the grooming area,
the wet area and the steam room.
Innocent maybe and maybe not.  Men should be allowed to
enjoy themselves and not censor themselves
even if it means enjoying the company of other men for
lascivious and platonic purposes.
I come here to be in the company of men,
alone in my thoughts, as I contemplate what it means to be in the company
of men.  Of myself.  This man who I have grown to be.
Just me and my laptop and them and their laptops
and all of us with what lies beneath our robes
and towels or shorts,
what's behind the partition,
behind the candelabra,
behind the flip screen covering our genitals
and our true intentions.
As I sit here and tip tap--
clip clap--
the keys, I find myself
writing again to the soundtrack of a language
I don't understand.

Being Boring

The Pet Shop Boys said in their 1990 song "Being Boring" that they were never being boring.

Lucky them.

I feel like I've been boring a lot lately.  Most of these blog posts, except the one that no one's supposed to read, are boring.

Maybe if I look at the lyrics to "Being Boring" I'll be a little less boring.  I love this song.

I came across a cache of old photos
And invitations to teenage parties
"Dress in white" one said, with quotations
From someone's wife, a famous writer
In the nineteen-twenties
When you're young you find inspiration
In anyone who's ever gone
And opened up a closing door
She said: "We were never feeling bored

'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end

When I went I left from the station
With a haversack and some trepidation
Someone said: "If you're not careful
You'll have nothing left and nothing to care for
In the nineteen-seventies"
But I sat back and looking forward
My shoes were high and I had spots
I'd bolted through a closing door
I would never find myself feeling bored

'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend

Now I sit with different faces
In rented rooms and foreign places
All the people I was kissing
Some are here and some are missing
In the nineteen-nineties
I never dreamt that I would get to be
The creature that I always meant to be
But I thought in spite of dreams
You'd be sitting somewhere here with me

'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend

And we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never being boring
We were never being bored

The Blog Entry Hopefully No One Will Read

This is the one where I talk about wanting to throw in the towel.
Maybe that's because I haven't eaten in six hours.
Maybe that's because I need a nap.
Maybe it's because my boyfriend's out of town and I had to sleep alone last night.
And I got up at 5:30 AM.
And was up for four hours until I was able to nap until 11 AM.
Maybe it's because I'm broke.
Maybe it's because my mother's drama is overtaking my life.
Maybe it's because I have a play I need to edit and I can't bring myself to do it.
Maybe it's because I yelled at an unlicensed contractor on Monday and had an irrational fear that he was going to come after me and gay bash me.
Maybe it's because my Dad's dead.
Maybe it's because I've been at this for ten years.
Maybe it's because I'm seeing the success other people are having around me and I'm jealous.
Maybe it's because I'm tired.
Of trying.
Maybe it's because so many things are out of my control.
Maybe it's because this blog is the only thing I seem to be able to write these days.
And that's after five other attempts to do a blog entry this month.
Maybe I need to cry more.
Maybe I've cried too much and I need to toughen up.
Maybe I need to eat.
Maybe I need to get fucked again like I was the other night before my boyfriend left down.
Maybe other huge gay victory needs to happen so my boyfriend and I can fuck again to celebrate.
(NOTE: We had sex after the Supreme Court struck down DOMA and Prop 8)
Maybe I just need to relax.
And call friends.
And just remember that this will pass like all of the other times.
Maybe I should just trust myself and remember that when I am able to write again, it will be great.
I'm not Fran Liebowitz.

This is the Voice

What kind of plays do you write?

Plays of desire.

(from the imaginary interview that constantly continues inside my head)

I was waking up this morning and standing at the toilet peeing.  That's when I figured out that the plays I write are plays of desire.  Twenty years of writing plays and I finally figure that out.  I used to think that the plays I write are plays of identity.  And that is fine.  I believe that identity fits into some of my plays, but not all of them.  But I just looked at all of my plays and I realized that desire is in all of them. Sexual desire.  The desire to belong or succeed.  Objectification.  The desire to be more.  The desire to have what everyone else has.  It's in every single one of my plays.  And I'm about to embark on a seven play series that's all about desire.  It's about coveting.  It's about wanting what someone else has.  So desire is consistent in my work.  It's also consistent in my life.  The feeling of desire, of wanting, of longing.  There's something seductive about that.  There's also a lot that's destructive about it as well.  But the feeling of desire is very much an aphrodisiac to me.

The origin of this epiphany came from an article I read announcing a TV project from a writer I know.  And I thought, "Wow, that's something I could write.  That's something I am writing about, but what I'm writing about takes it one step further."  There's a lot in the zeitgeist about sex and sexuality from an intellectual point of view.  I need to finish this play that I'm rewriting!  But something is definitely in the air.  So I was thinking about this writer and this project and I thought about how what I'm writing could be a great TV show (which coincidentally was an idea I had over a year ago and a brilliant friend of mine convinced me to write it as a play).  Then I thought about what that play is about and the word DESIRE popped out.  It also felt sexy.  My plays are about desire.  You can just see the smoke from the cigarette I'm smoking as I'm telling you that. You can feel the charge that's created when someone hears that.

And I don't know anyone who's writing those plays.  I don't know anyone who's writing the way I'm writing.  With an air of every day conversation and intimacy.  For me, besides theatricality, plays are there to talk about the things that people aren't talking about in ways they aren't talking about them.  Theatre is the forerunner.  It's the risk taker.  It's the pioneer.  You can do that in terms of form.  But you can also do that in terms of content.

So that's what I'm doing.  I always tell my students that writing is an exercise in finding their own voice.  It turns out that the task of finding your voice doesn't just end because you start using that voice.  It's the action of using your voice that helps you discover and experience your voice on a deeper level the more that you use it.