This summer I have lived the life of an artistic bum. This is a situation that has been romanticized for many years. You always here about mega celebrities who supposedly, at one time, lived in their car, alleyways, and off people’s floors in LA or NYC. Then over night they get discovered and boom they are rich, living in mega homes on top of the hills. Well, obviously that is not my story.
Jobless and homeless I chucked my world possessions into storage, leaving with me a suitcase worth of stuff. I lived between the boy (with and expiration date) and two other friends. Sleeping on a floor, in a sofa and sharing a bed, my clothes were spread from Soho to Dyker Heights. I’d love to say I wrote a lot and learned a lot but I can’t. I wrote little and festered away my three months sometimes in a café with my laptop, living up to my role as stereotypical playwright but mostly I watched TV and walked around. Now time is up and I am setting sail on the Queen Mary (courtesy of mom and current step dad) to London. This is my attempt to really do something. Get my masters and make a real life for myself in this crazy business. Because, let’s face it, I’m not going to be discovered in a dumpster, pumping gas or sitting in a bar. And as a bit of extra encouragement, to prove to myself things are changing (besides the obvious quarter of a century old, new country and two plays published) I decided to attest my future with getting a tattoo on my ankle; the perfect choice being a comedy and tragedy mask. Another cliché but nonetheless why the hell not? As I was being inked the artist told me my choice is a common one for gansta’s. Only they call it “Laugh now, cry later.” Some how that comforted me. Since this means my street cred is now on the rise it’s the perfect time to peace out America. Only I hope to laugh later. Cheers.
(P.S. Check back for my London life… )
