Feed the Birds Beer

When I was a kid, I had a bright orange umbrella. I carried it everywhere for a while, having just seen Mary Poppins, and was convinced that when the wind was right, I would open the umbrella and fly away. Reaching the end of my patience with wind, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The Credit Union had sent a sheet of lucky penny stickers with my monthly statement (I had more money in my bank account at 6 than I do at 25), so I stuck them all over my umbrella, climbed 8 feet to the top of my treehouse, opened the orange canopy, and leapt.

I did not fly. I landed in the sandbox, but that moment just as I jumped where I truly believed flying was possible has stuck with me ever since. Six year old me stood in the sand and calmly thought, "Well, I did everything I could have. I guess there has to be a bird on the umbrella for it to fly."

I flew home to Michigan this week, sans umbrellas. As I spread mulch and mowed grass, I let the sentiment sink in and became incredibly happy for the world outside of Manhattan. And then I was quickly reminded how fast the grass becomes greener.

My parents took me along to their Thursday night date spot, one of those small town bar and restaurants where you know everybody at every table. Before we had even walked up the steps, a substantially inebriated man - sober my Midwestern standards - patted them on the back. I was introduced as being home from New York City.

Man: New York City? What were you doing out there?
Me: I was an actor.
Man: A what?
Me: (having no idea how else to specify) ...an actor?
Man: An actor? Oh...well...that's OK.

It felt more like the man was telling me my homosexuality, though disappointing, was surely acceptable in other parts of the world. My parents decided to jump in with more exciting tidbits.

Mom: He's moving out to L.A.
Man: Oh boy, wait until you find out what they do there!

At this point, I'm wondering if he means the gays, the drugs, or the booze.

Man: They're ALL in television and film. Every last one of them in that Hollywood. That's all they do!

Maybe he was unaware of the gays and the drugs. He seemed to have no problem with booze.

Man: Television and film. It's all bullshit, what they do, if you ask me. What the hell are you going out there for?
Me: ...to write for television and film.

I was glad that the man didn't try to backpedal or apologize for his statement. Instead, he repeated his sentiments, saying that his daughter also wanted to pursue entertainment after college. He was less than thrilled. I asked if he watched any television, and he told me there was only one show he watched: Masters & Johnson. 

I appreciated that he did not want to say Masters of Sex, in case it gave off an element of perversion, so I reminded him it was called Masters of Sex. He became surprisingly bashful, but I applauded the brilliant writing of the show and it's creator Michelle Ashford, along with the history of Masters and Johnson, and how important it is that such intellectual but controversial topics be presented through the media of television in a way the world can understand them. It's education, not smut. What a brilliant choice of a favorite TV show.

I think I made the man feel really smart. I think we became friends.

As my parents finally pulled me away to a table where they had beer waiting, I thought about how lucky I am to have parents that built me a treehouse, and let me be a gay actor in New York City, and support my bullshit writing for television in Los Angeles. Then, I thought about that man's daughter.

I hope she finds an umbrella with a bird on it.

Beer is so cheap here,

TJB: Making It