When I was four or five I lived on Fletcher Drive in LA across the street from some park whose name I forgot long ago. I was in that park one day when a film crew was shooting something. I watched from a distance and decided I wanted to do that too. So I marched over to the guy I thought was in charge and asked if I could. He was amused and told me I needed a parent’s permission so I ran my happy ass across the street to our apartment and interrupted my dad’s Dodgers game. A massive no-no; Dodgers games were my dad’s time to himself.
Dad was annoyed and disbelieving. But I was a pain in the ass about it and he knew his son was a relentless little shit, so he acquiesced and walked across the street with me. I don’t remember what was said, or if anything was signed. I do know that two weeks later we were in Hollywood recording a back to school commercial for The May Company.
I wanted to do a thing so I did the fucking thing.
When I was in little league I was always infield. I hated it. Pony League tryouts were coming and I told my dad I wanted to play centerfield. He warned me that it was going to take a lot of hard work. I said okay. He ran my legs off shagging flyballs until I couldn’t walk and carried me home. For days and days. I ended up starting centerfielder on the eventual league champions.
I wanted to do a thing so I did the fucking thing.
My brother suggested I try my hand at stand-up comedy after dad died. “You’re funny and you could do some Christopher Titus type shit about dad.” I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote some more. I went to the San Jose Improv on an open mic night and the place was packed (if you know comedy, this is not typical for open mics) because they brought in a headliner who was a massive draw. The kid gonig up before me was scared when he saw the size of the crowd. It was his first time, too.
“Are you nervous?” he asked me.
“Nope.”
I wasn’t remotely nervous. “I have an army of people who love me and whatever happens tonight, that isn’t gonna change.” I got on stage and killed. Turns out telling stories about my old man was as funny as it was healing. It ended up being my job for a few years.
My point is simple, I decide I want to do a thing and then I fucking do the thing.
And sometimes I fail.
When that happens I get in a dark hole and forget who the fuck I am.
And today I am in that hole because for the last month I have been busting my ass to become something and I failed. It was a job I really, really wanted but did not get. Not for lack of trying. Not because I am not good enough - if I had been hired I would have kicked ass and made the powers that be so fucking glad they chose me.
I tried. I failed.
And that happens. We - you, me, everyone - tries, and gets knocked on our ass from time-to-time.
It suuuuuccccckkkkksssss.
But it happened. I sat with it. I let the emotions wash over me; let the knot in my stomach keep me from a delicious breakfast; let myself feel like absolute ass for an hour.
Now it’s time to get on with it. Now it’s time to remember exactly who I am.
I am the kid who ran his legs off til I couldn’t walk. I am the kid who said, “I can do that,” and then fucking did it. I am the guy who killed at every room in the Comedy Store.
Postscript - I want to apologize for neglecting to write the story I started. I need to work and I allowed that to consume my time over the last several weeks. I promise to get back to it with a fervor.
-R
