I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
"Relax," said the nightman,
"We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave."
--The Eagles
"Hotel California"
Shortly before I moved to San Diego, I became friendly with an openly gay television actor. He's not a household name -- it's not Neil Patrick Harris or TR Knight -- but he's a recurring character on a well-known and long-running series. Let's call him Donald.
Donald had stumbled upon my Therapy show one Sunday night and introduced himself afterwards. He was a fan of stand-up comedy and very much wanted to try it himself sometime. I told him I'd be thrilled to have him on the show, and we eventually became casual friends.
I liked Donald and still do. He's kind and warm and easygoing and has none of that phony Hollywood persona I find so repellent. He really plays no part in this story other than the fact that it was he who introduced me to the person who figures prominently in the first of my two West Coast Tales of Woe:
My manager.
Yes, folks, for one brief, shining moment, I had an actual professional business manager. Or least I thought I did.
His name, for the sake of this story, will be Bruce Crenshaw. Bruce was Donald's manager and had been for years. He lived in L.A. but was in New York on business one week and had accompanied Donald to Therapy to see my show. Later that week, the three of us went to dinner.
Bruce was exactly what you'd expect of a Hollywood business manager: Jewish, late 40s, with a hangdog look, a sardonic, slightly sour sensibility and a straightforward way of speaking.
"I think you got something, kid," Bruce told me. (I don't know if he actually said, "kid," but that's how I would write it if this were a movie.) "You're likable. You got charm. I could see you doing TV stuff. Hosting -- that sort of thing. Look me up if you ever come out to L.A."
I was, of course, on Cloud Nine. But I also figured, when the hell am I going to be in L.A.?
Actual picture of me taken that night.
Fast forward six months. I'm living in San Diego with BW and have recently begun reaching out to all my L.A. industry contacts (of whom there are about three). Bruce is, of course, among them, and I shoot him a friendly email. He writes back immediately and says to let him know when I'm next in L.A. Later that week, I get my first L.A. club booking. A gay comic there is hosting a new show called "Thank Gays It's Friday" at the Laugh Factory and offers me a spot. I immediately let Bruce now, and he and I arrange a meeting at his office in West Hollywood the afternoon of my show. I am over the moon. (Which is somewhat higher than Cloud Nine.)
A few words about the drive from San Diego to Los Angeles: It's brutal. It's only about 130 miles, but somehow it never takes less than three hours and can easily take as long as five. The closer you get to L.A., the shittier it gets, with endless road construction, terrifyingly narrow, windy lanes and constant, hideous traffic. Before I moved, I had this crazy notion that I could easily commute between the two cities should my burgeoning show-biz career require it. Now I understand it's the equivalent of living in Philadelphia and commuting to New York. Which, I guess, some people do, but I could never be one of them.
(Actually, I just Mapquested it; Philly to New York is easier -- only about 95 miles. Still shitty, though.)
Ugh. I still get nauseous at the memory. What a shithole.
But none of that mattered to me as BW and I inched up the 405 in his black Honda Civic (whom we named "LaHonda"). I was on my way to my first Hollywood meeting. With someone who might want to represent me professionally. This was a major milestone.
I remember what I was wearing. Having watched countless episodes of "Entourage," I knew that Hollywood was all about dressing down, but in a chic, fashionable way. So rather than wear slacks or a tie or something dorky like that, I was dressed in my most expensive gay jeans and a tight, olive-colored graphic t-shirt. I was tan and in good shape and still in my 30s. I looked good.
This was not taken that day, but it's more or less what I looked like
at the meeting. Except I didn't walk into the meeting holding a microphone.
at the meeting. Except I didn't walk into the meeting holding a microphone.
BW and I pulled up to Bruce's office. BW dropped me off and then drove off to shop or get coffee or have sex with a stranger or something. (Just kidding! I'm sure whatever he did during my meeting was entirely wholesome.) I was met in the lobby by a quintessential Hollywood assistant -- a young, cute, perfectly dressed gay boy who acted like we were old friends but had a simmering undercurrent of hostility. He ushered me in to meet Bruce and his partner.
The meeting lasted about a half hour. I don't remember anything we discussed because I completely left my body during the course of our conversation. This happens sometimes when I'm greatly excited about something. It used to happen to me whenever I got onstage and still does in rare moments -- when everything clicks perfectly and I'm firing on all cylinders. And I was. I was on. Not in a loud, obnoxious, needy way; in a cool, confident, charming "I got this" kind of way.
Given the title of this blog posting, you probably think you know how this story ends. Bruce stands up, shakes my hand, and says, "Not this time, kid. But come back and see us again sometime." I wander out into the oppressive L.A. sun, crushed, dazed, searching in vain for the air-conditioned comfort of LaHonda and the solace of BW's tender, consoling embrace.
That's not what happened. Instead, Bruce said, "Well, I'd love to represent you. Email your head shots and resume to my assistant when you get back to San Diego, and let's start sending you out for stuff."
I was in the stratosphere. This was it: My life-changing moment.
Or so I thought.
(To be continued.)
Homo deluded. ♥
