Tom Barnard Show
Tom Barnard Show
Neil Haley – Total Radio Network
Neil Haley – Total Radio Network
Michelangelo Signorile Show
Michelangelo Signorile Show
May 25, 2018
I want a TV series.
Don’t judge. This isn’t champagne wishes and caviar dreams bullshit. I’m not busy imagining what it would be like to invite friends to my palatial home in the Malibu colony, where my 50 feet of private beach frontage makes them wish I was dead.
I’m not spending my days envisioning waving at the cameras as I’m seated next to Spielberg and Oprah at the Oscars. (Even though I’d make sure Oprah was sitting on my good side because she probably knows all the gossip.)
Trust me, I realize that wanting a TV series sounds superficial and pathetically sad – like I’m the kind of person whose existence as a human being isn’t validated until someone, hopefully hot, is playing me on TV.
But I don’t want a TV series for reasons of fame or money or glamour. (Although if Ryan Gosling wants to fight Channing Tatum to play me, I’m not saying I won’t pull up a chair.)
I want a TV series because when your book is developed into a TV show – and especially if it’s a hit – people flock to read what’s known as the “source material”. Your reading audience can go from twenty thousand to a million overnight.
I wrote in an earlier post about how my first memoir was developed as a sitcom for ABC. But since the show wasn’t “picked up” (put on the air), it didn’t do my book writing career the slightest bit of good. I was left to founder in the cesspool of very nice reviews and very lackluster sales.
This time around, I’ve decided, things are gonna be different. This new memoir is gonna be a television hit. And that series will bring millions of readers to my books, where they’ll find entertainment, joy and inspiration.
Sure, all those new readers may have the side effect of propelling my books to the top of the bestseller lists. The sudden spotlight might cause talk shows to clamor to nab me as a guest. The visibility may result in companies paying me six figures to give motivational speeches. I may be FORCED to buy a home in the Malibu colony as a tax shelter, and insist that I be seated next to Oprah and Spielberg at the Oscars because the security is tightest there.
But if that’s the price I have to pay to share my story with others, I’m willing to pay it. Really, when you think about it, I’m kind of like Jesus.
But without the dirty robes and bad sandals.
May 19, 2018
The first comment friends and family make when they discover that I’m working on a second (or third) memoir, is “Oh, that’s great” – followed almost immediately by the question:
“Am I in this one?”
When I mention that they say this almost immediately, I mean literally in the same breath.
“OH THAT’S GREAT AM I IN THIS ONE?”
No comma, no pause.
Really, why bother indicating interest in my artistic goals? Why bother congratulating me on my work ethic, or my desire to tell the tales of a life poorly lived? Clearly, this question demands an immediate answer, one that cannot wait for such trivial, seconds-burning matters as a compliment or expression of support.
Some seem excited at the prospect of becoming (well, in their eyes) a literary icon. Finally, they’ll have earned that largely undeserved 15 minutes. These are the ones who assume that Chris Hemsworth or Jennifer Lawrence would be the obvious choices to play them in the movie version.
Others gasp slightly or take on a somewhat menacing demeanor, likely fearful that I’m about to portray them as a troll who lives under a bridge. Veiled threats are made: “Did your dad ever find out about that loan you took out in his name?”
The people I’ve known the longest are generally the ones most concerned, since I’ve had a lot of time to accumulate dirt on them. People you’ve known since you were a teenager or young adult are the ones with whom you tended to do the most memorable stupidest things – like getting bad perms and wearing parachute pants, pounding long island iced teas and then falling out of a taxi, having sex with a stranger in a deli, or snorting coke and throwing up in a dumpster.
I didn’t do any of those things, of course. Okay, I didn’t do all of those things. But my friends did. And now, they’re a little nervous.
You see, this new memoir begins when I’m 16 – just the age when you start making really bad decisions. And my third memoir, which I’m working on now – covers my later 20’s and 30’s in Los Angeles, a time when most people grow up, but we, fortunately, did not. (Clean living does not make for a good story.)
I once asked my friend Kurt – when we were in our 20’s and going out in trashy overalls to a bar in West Hollywood, “When are we too old for this?” and he replied, “30. Definitely 30.”
(A fashion WTF.)
Then, when we were in our early 30’s and going to a party at a gay bar in New Orleans in our underwear, I asked again. “When are we too old for this?” And he replied, “40. Definitely 40.”
I used to have an agreement with my older cousin that if either of us was walking through West Hollywood wearing Spandex when we were 50 years old, the other was allowed to drive by and shoot him. Luckily for him (?), he passed away of cancer at 49.
Most likely, by the time the third memoir is out, everyone will calm down, because most of the stupid mistakes and unfortunate life choices will have been made and exposed. And then they can get back to asking the really important question:
“Are you making money off me?”