Friday, June 24, 2011
White House - Gay Marriage - NY
Post "Be Like NY" on the White House's Facebook page now. And share with friends. :)
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Dinner
Last week, I went out to dinner with an ex. We had been trying to get together for about a year but our schedules could never mash up.
He was someone I met when I came to LA in 2005 and had $22 left in my pocket as I waited to hear if I had been cast on the new version of I've got a secret for Game Show Network. I had no home. I lived in my friends moms her alice office, behind a partition, on an air mattress. I spent that last $22 on a beer and a vodka cranberry on a Sunday night at mickeys. Thats when I met the guy we shall call Ron.
Ron was hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. We hit it off because of this. He was hot. And I liked hot.
Otherwise, not a lot there. Ron talked about show business and his plans of taking over the industry. We talked about his celebrity friends. We talked about various fights he'd had with old friends. We watched American Idol. We had great sex. And very loving pillow talk. Ron cooked for me. And once or twice he bought me groceries. And dinner at chipotle. I was on the verge of homelessness, I didn't get the part, and my boyfriend whom I hated, was buying me a carnitas burrito.
But it wasn't the right fit. And I realized that when I found out he had a boyfriend.
So I ended it, but really, it never really was, I suppose. I was scared and broke and sad but relieved. I kind of hated being with him unless we were eating or fucking so over a final burrito bol i told him it was over. No more sour cream for us. He was upset about this. He didn't understand why I wasn't more patient. Why it was all about me. Why after everything he'd done, I was just going to bail. I mean, the idol finale was next week, and he'd much rather watch it with me than with Jim.
But we've stayed in touch. He's single now, and exactly the same otherwise. Dinner was a conversation about his new ventures, his family, etc. At one point he asked me if I still live on Sweetzer. Otherwise, he may have forgotten my name. I think I heard him say "later, Seth" after we hugged.
Regardless, I made a vow that one day, I would take him to dinner, and that we would have expensive food. And I would definitely pay, and I would tell him it wasn't because I was trying to get laid, but because it was a marker of how far I'd come. How I was now independent. That I was paying him back by showing him that he helped keep me here when I almost had to leave in those first few weeks, without a dime in my pocket and now, I'm a writer, and a comic, and I work in tv, and I gladiated, and started a movement, and don't forget about my cute little doggies.
When I told him this, that i survived, and dinner was my token of thanks for his help, he said he didn't remember that he paid, ever for anything. And "why is it always about you."
He kind of had a point.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
He was someone I met when I came to LA in 2005 and had $22 left in my pocket as I waited to hear if I had been cast on the new version of I've got a secret for Game Show Network. I had no home. I lived in my friends moms her alice office, behind a partition, on an air mattress. I spent that last $22 on a beer and a vodka cranberry on a Sunday night at mickeys. Thats when I met the guy we shall call Ron.
Ron was hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. We hit it off because of this. He was hot. And I liked hot.
Otherwise, not a lot there. Ron talked about show business and his plans of taking over the industry. We talked about his celebrity friends. We talked about various fights he'd had with old friends. We watched American Idol. We had great sex. And very loving pillow talk. Ron cooked for me. And once or twice he bought me groceries. And dinner at chipotle. I was on the verge of homelessness, I didn't get the part, and my boyfriend whom I hated, was buying me a carnitas burrito.
But it wasn't the right fit. And I realized that when I found out he had a boyfriend.
So I ended it, but really, it never really was, I suppose. I was scared and broke and sad but relieved. I kind of hated being with him unless we were eating or fucking so over a final burrito bol i told him it was over. No more sour cream for us. He was upset about this. He didn't understand why I wasn't more patient. Why it was all about me. Why after everything he'd done, I was just going to bail. I mean, the idol finale was next week, and he'd much rather watch it with me than with Jim.
But we've stayed in touch. He's single now, and exactly the same otherwise. Dinner was a conversation about his new ventures, his family, etc. At one point he asked me if I still live on Sweetzer. Otherwise, he may have forgotten my name. I think I heard him say "later, Seth" after we hugged.
Regardless, I made a vow that one day, I would take him to dinner, and that we would have expensive food. And I would definitely pay, and I would tell him it wasn't because I was trying to get laid, but because it was a marker of how far I'd come. How I was now independent. That I was paying him back by showing him that he helped keep me here when I almost had to leave in those first few weeks, without a dime in my pocket and now, I'm a writer, and a comic, and I work in tv, and I gladiated, and started a movement, and don't forget about my cute little doggies.
When I told him this, that i survived, and dinner was my token of thanks for his help, he said he didn't remember that he paid, ever for anything. And "why is it always about you."
He kind of had a point.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
You Will Heal
There is an unreal sense of healing that human beings experience that I can't sum up in a simple word. I know this because this week, someone I know and care about very much is facing the reality of betrayal and it's immediate aftermath: shock, survival, discovery, humiliation, and unworthiness. And i went through this, more than once, and i am so much better. We have all been betrayed, and it makes us so angry. We sit in anger for days and months, sometimes even years but forgiveness comes and it heals.
The shock comes from having trusted, from believing in the innocence of an intention, while another's double life was hidden, and a stronger force than the bond we shared, and that seems impossible. The survival is in splitting the house or the friends or the pets or the bills, in making sure we haven't been hurt deeper than just the emotional. It's calling banks or doctors or lawyers. It's buying new furniture. It's trying to leave with more dignity than what the truth revealed. The discovery is in what actually happened. How the lie really went, and friends will tell you they suspected all along, or had heard this or that. Maybe you piece together missing pieces of old stories, or maybe, as was my case, a third party confessed. The humiliation and unworthiness is all the same. I wasn't good enough to be told the truth. I wasn't good enough to be enough. And now, everyone knows. And I am a fat son of a fuck.
And it makes you angry, but you can't scream and you can't cry, because you want to be the bigger man, and you don't want to keep being the victim. And you don't want this to be how you identify or how other people identify you. But it feels endless. Everywhere you look you see an accomplice. You speak to the betrayer alone in the shower. every morning, you replay the final conversation and how you should have said it to really have left them breathless, like you still are now.
And then, you start to heal. You walk a little taller the first time someone tells you that you have pretty eyes. You run into an old friend who reminds you of how fun you can be. You pay your bills. You ask questions and go to therapy. You sleep and you wake up, over and over again. And you meet people who you trust. And you meet people you don't trust, and now for the first time, you can tell the difference between these two types of people.
You fall in love again. You run into the betrayer and you literally feel nothing. Not sad, not happy, not mad, not fat, not thin, not scared, not competitive, you just feel...fine.
You remember a good time, and you smile, and that good time involved the person who hurt you: your mother, your ex, your friend, your boss, and you send them a note to say thanks for this memory. And you mean it, and you feel good offering gratitude and letting them know that you release them of guilt, or blame, or worry about it all.
But you know you have healed when it happens to someone you love, and you can share your recovery, and you say the words (only to yourself), "the person who hurt my friend is not evil, not void of goodness, but fucked up back then. And I have compassion for the betrayer, because they fucked it up."
Out loud to your friend you say, "I am so sorry for your loss. And I am so excited to watch you grow right now, because the death of this relationship will make you a Phoenix, a Hulk, a Bloomin Onion, and I get to watch you smile again. And I promise you this, it will get better than it ever was or has been. And I know this because I am. I mean for gods sakes, I'm 165 pounds."
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
The shock comes from having trusted, from believing in the innocence of an intention, while another's double life was hidden, and a stronger force than the bond we shared, and that seems impossible. The survival is in splitting the house or the friends or the pets or the bills, in making sure we haven't been hurt deeper than just the emotional. It's calling banks or doctors or lawyers. It's buying new furniture. It's trying to leave with more dignity than what the truth revealed. The discovery is in what actually happened. How the lie really went, and friends will tell you they suspected all along, or had heard this or that. Maybe you piece together missing pieces of old stories, or maybe, as was my case, a third party confessed. The humiliation and unworthiness is all the same. I wasn't good enough to be told the truth. I wasn't good enough to be enough. And now, everyone knows. And I am a fat son of a fuck.
And it makes you angry, but you can't scream and you can't cry, because you want to be the bigger man, and you don't want to keep being the victim. And you don't want this to be how you identify or how other people identify you. But it feels endless. Everywhere you look you see an accomplice. You speak to the betrayer alone in the shower. every morning, you replay the final conversation and how you should have said it to really have left them breathless, like you still are now.
And then, you start to heal. You walk a little taller the first time someone tells you that you have pretty eyes. You run into an old friend who reminds you of how fun you can be. You pay your bills. You ask questions and go to therapy. You sleep and you wake up, over and over again. And you meet people who you trust. And you meet people you don't trust, and now for the first time, you can tell the difference between these two types of people.
You fall in love again. You run into the betrayer and you literally feel nothing. Not sad, not happy, not mad, not fat, not thin, not scared, not competitive, you just feel...fine.
You remember a good time, and you smile, and that good time involved the person who hurt you: your mother, your ex, your friend, your boss, and you send them a note to say thanks for this memory. And you mean it, and you feel good offering gratitude and letting them know that you release them of guilt, or blame, or worry about it all.
But you know you have healed when it happens to someone you love, and you can share your recovery, and you say the words (only to yourself), "the person who hurt my friend is not evil, not void of goodness, but fucked up back then. And I have compassion for the betrayer, because they fucked it up."
Out loud to your friend you say, "I am so sorry for your loss. And I am so excited to watch you grow right now, because the death of this relationship will make you a Phoenix, a Hulk, a Bloomin Onion, and I get to watch you smile again. And I promise you this, it will get better than it ever was or has been. And I know this because I am. I mean for gods sakes, I'm 165 pounds."
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Weeeeeee Up The Hill
I've never felt this close to a version of success that I dreamed of as a kid. I just had to share that with you. It feels so close, and this is the most fun I've had climbing the hill.
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