WHAT’S MY LINE?


Just when I was thinking of cutting back Therapy, I have been pelted by a hailstorm of events. So much for that idea. My Therapist is Perfect Therapist. You know in a movie where the Lead Actress has some Big Freak-Out so she goes to seek Professional Help? The Professional who counsels Lead Actress is gentle and reassuring and non-threatening yet masculine. He speaks in a soothing voice and is dressed casual but nice. That’s my Therapist. We trade book reccomendations and he reads SRO. Yeah, it’s like that.

LA.’s infrastructure is based on Shrinkage. My Therapist was once an Actor and looks like Family Drama TV Dad. The appointment before mine used to be a TV Actress/Glamazon who brought her own Blankie and would leave shrouded like The French Lieutenant's Woman. Polly and I (being the only ones there) feigned ignorance to protect her privacy. We currently share the Waiting Room with an Actor seeing another shrink. Maybe, I suspect, I’m also an Actor. Or being Punked. Either way, I want a Bigger Trailer. Even far from the comforts of current magazines (The New Yorker and The Advocate, natch), acquaintances chat in the Dog Park about Our Meds. What works, what doesn’t (including sexual side effects and details). No biggie. Great shoes. Thanks! How’s your Paxil?

It’s no surprise I’ve caught myself in Therapy feeling like a cliché. I’ll be verbally pimping or castrating my writing, Perfect Therapist occasionally adding Useful Insights, and cringe. (“Man, I’m having so much trouble knocking out my new spec for McG...” ) I wonder how many people just come to hear something positive about their Bravo Pitch/Reality Show Premise : American Dodgeball Model. Whoring your Hidden Genius and willingly getting a Cell Number : Priceless.

I’d be Therapist Anti-Christ. “Frankly”, I’d begin as their Scruffy Hipster Mugs looked hopeful, “your idea fucking sucks. What are you? In Tenth Grade?” Their composure would crumble. Actually, yeah, they do think they’re still in High School. Isn’t that the Point? Then they’d note my flip-flops. “Hey, he’s not dressed so nicely!”. My jig is up.

I’m the forty-two year old queer with No Movie Script, No Pilot Pitch whining like a Von Dutch Girly-Man about writing. Yeah, you heard me. I’m like Gay Larry David without the Billions of dollars. I’ve finally given in and taken the final step. I moved past Recently-Moved-To-LA and Arrived where I Live. Dude, that is, like, so a Curse, a Blessing or Both.

10:34:05 PM    sro home /

LIFE IN THE DUGOUT


Sometimes I hate Betty.

There, I said it. Look at Her, all smug and “I’ve got a Secret” looking. I hate that Look. Add some crap like “You’ll know the Secret too... but not yet” and you get the picture. But not yet. Can you believe it? That’s not only rude, it’s evil. Betty, you are ebil.

Sure, she puts on a Good Show - Look at the sky! Great weather! Isn’t Polly funny? - but I don’t buy it. I look the other way and you know what She does? She giggles. I can’t see Her but I can hear it. Crappy little “hee-hees”. Cunt. Ebil Bitch of The Best. Yeah, the weather’s peachy but what about my car? What about my computer in the shop for six days? What about my being broke? What do you have to say about that Little Miss WiseAcre?

I hate Her answer. “Well”, she calmly states while running her hands down her dress to flatten any wrinkles, “those books you read while your laptop was being fixed seemed enjoyable.” Big fucking deal. Ok... yeah... those were great books. “And your breaks needed fixing which may have saved us watching you plung off a cliff.” I knew that, Little Miss Thinks-She’s-Einstein.

She’s always right. I hate that too. Always raising her hand like the Class Kiss Ass, “I believe the correct answer is Hugh needs to depend more on others.” The other students nod and look to me, probably thinking what a Fucktard I am for not knowing that answer. I want to hold my nose and mimic “depend more on others”. I want to scream at the class, “Don’t you see how She is? Sure, She’s all “I’m Your Best Friend” but what about when I need her? What about now, when I’m living day to day? What about when I’m frozen?” The School Counselor would show me a doll and say “Point to the place where Betty touched you’”. I’d take it in hand and rip it inside out.

None of that happens. Betty sits calmly, hands folded on her wooden desk. Our eyes meet (always with the eyes) and her lips curl like potato chips into the faintest smile. How can I Trust someone, anyone, Betty? How, I wonder, do I Believe someone who watches me suffer? Betty throws me curve balls and (so far) I’ve caught them all but I can’t throw a single one back. “It’s not fair” is the best I can muster under my breath. The lamest sorriest Point, as if there’s a “What’s Fair”, as if “Fair” exists. I got nuttin’ but a chance for World’s Best Catcher. Something, Betty notes, which is more than I have now.

Right again. Dur. So I step to the plate and await Her next pitch. Frankly, what have I got to lose?

10:32:04 AM    sro home /