Did I mention I've recently (reluctantly) come to peace with the fact that I have no choice but to pursue this stupid Hollywood dream? I am still not at peace with the fact that I have to do this in Hollywood. I FUCKING HATE HOLLYWOOD. It’s like Vegas for me. After three days of soaking up the desperation and angst, I’m in the fetal position ordering chicken noodle soup and watching the Bellagio fountain show from the safety of the double-paned, suicide-proofed windows of my hotel room.
Speaking of suicidal--at the moment I’m the dreaded stereotype I’ve desperately tried to avoid my whole life: the Waitress trying to be the Actress. It stings, doesn’t it?
Truth be told, I'm too pathetic to even get a job waitressing. So now I’m the Actress trying to be the Waitress trying to be the Actress. It’s like they can sense my delusions of grandeur on a cellular level. I haven’t worked for anyone since I quit my shitty bartending job at a now defunct Hollywood sports bar six months after I moved here (six years ago). Since then I have carved out a niche teaching yoga, working with autistic teens and goat farming. But I’m done doing that shit. I want to get paid to do what I was put on this Earth to do: make a mockery of myself and the English language.
I also say ‘recent’ because until recently, I didn’t want to accept the consequences of pursuing that dream. No going back. No other path. All eggs in one basket. I live in LA--I see what happens to gals like me who don’t “make it”. I’ll end up on Sunset Blvd., drunk with a broken high heel screaming “I made up a word once!! Dane Cook retweeted me!!!” Nowhere in the world are there more talented homeless people, than LA.
It’s taken me years to embrace the Writer. She’s dark. She’s twisted. She’s drunk. She scares the be-Jesus out of even me. And I’m not scared of anyone. Now, coming full circle, metaphorically and literally, around the globe, I realize it’s time to rediscover, the Performer--no matter how behind the curve I may feel. She’s even more fucked than the Writer. She’s insecure. She’s vain. She’s annoying. Combined with the Writer I am one, hot mess.
Travel epiphany #2045: despite her flaws, she’s a damn good stalker and the Performer hunts me down wherever I am. Before I could even talk (which--big shock--was way ahead of most other, dumber babies) and most certainly write, I was in front of a camera. Back in 1979 I was adored for my role as the endearing yet fierce cave baby in a Huggies commercial. Band-Aid has yet to find a child that looks so amazed at a boo-boo. Sears still uses my photo to train the other toddlers trying to master the “Blue Steel” of catalog modeling--the “doll look”. Don't you see two readers? That’s why I’m so fucked up! I was an Infant Star. I’ve been chasing that fame forever.
Where is she now?
Sure, now that I’m a yogi and whatever, I realize that the only thing ever getting in my way, are the persistent and ever-present doubts I have about myself….blah blah blah. But all the Buddha bullshit in the world doesn’t take away the agony of realizing, not only am I too old to die young, I'm also too old be called a wunderkind in the Hollywood Reporter.
So now what? Well, right after I open this Coors Light, I’ll tell you exactly what: In the Sorry! game of life, I just got sent back to Start. I suppose it has its benefits. Beginners mind. Beginners luck. Of course it’s so much more than that, but like distilling a joke down to its essence, at the core, my current role as a Waitress/Actress is very simple. I can dance around it any way I like. Yoga instructor. Aide to kids with autism. Globetrotter. Goat farmer.
Truth is: I’m a Wanna among Wannabes.
It's that simple. Just like the rest of these jokers climbing and clawing their way to the top of this overcrowded clown car--I’m gonna have to fight for my place, prove my worth, pay my dues and shed my soft, infant skin for the hardened, jaded shell of a veteran.
Many of the things that happened to me, (just like being born an Infant Star), happened by chance; but many other things happened because I’m a stubborn narcissist determined to prove everyone wrong. The only choice I have, is how I’m going to deal with it. How I’m going to perceive it. Which is why my NEWEST motto is:
never too old to be a Starlet.
(aka: Just you wait, bitches.)
One of Phetasy’s longstanding, unknown platitudes has always been: Practice Fame in Your Everyday Life. Believe your delusions of grandeur or not, to the people who know you and love you, you’re a fucking superstar. Or you’re a villain. Or you’re the lovable doofas. The hippie intellect. The money man. The lawyer. The stoner. The wife. The lover. The recalcitrant adult acting out. The frustrated white hetero. The fabulous gay man. The witty Tweetager. The hero. The failure. The rockstar. The underdog. The Phoenix.
You’re something. And whatever your role, I guarantee you underestimate it. Every life on this planet makes a ripple, no matter how small. So shine on, baby. Shine on. I know I'm going to...Or die tryin’.