They say “Hindsight is 2020”…

At least that’s what they used to say, until 2020 came and everyone said “the end of the world is 2020”. This past year has been so crazy that it has thrown writing process off. Aside from a post back in June, I haven’t posted a single blog throughout out the year. And I’ve had a lot to think about…

I was originally going to write a story about what my life was like five years ago and then to compare big moments in my life in five year increments. It was going to be kinda long but eventually it would’ve made sense. Hopefully. I never know with these blogs.

That story evolved into a different story, one about the failed ideas and ventures of Shea Freeman over five year increments. Topics included my 18 month stint as a rapper named SheaFree, as well as my journey into the film industry. It would include how that failed venture led to my current venture and how both of them are equally hard things to accomplish.

I didn’t want to go that route because, honestly, the rapping part was just too embarrassing to revisit. Sure, it would’ve made for a hilarious story but it’s the biggest regret I have in my life and I was expelled from high school AND arrested by the time I was 20. That’s saying something.

Alright, fine… I’ll talk about it…

I was 19 and I thought I could be a rapper. I actually wrote rap songs and recorded them on my MacBook in a non-ironic way. I really did make a “mixtape” called Sex Education 101, which is funny considering at the time I had only had sex with two people. .

It was horrible. It’s a disservice to rap. It’s a disservice to the culture. I never said the N-word on any of the songs, but if I had to give a tweet length review, it’s basically “the 14 track equivalent of wearing black face”. It’s that bad. I listened to a snippet of it about a year ago and cringed so hard I almost had a stroke. I’m legitimately terrified to become even moderately famous because that will almost certainly ruin my career.

Jokes aside, though, I honestly thought at the time that I was on to something. I was pretty confident in myself and had Trump-like illusions of grandeur. I really thought there was a lane for me, that I could make a name for myself in the rap game.

As much as it embarrasses me now that I’m a rational 31 year old, I do remember how proud I was when I heard the mixtape for the first time. I said I was going to do something and I did it. You could tell me it sucked — and people did — but you had to acknowledge that I at least put my money where my mouth was and did it.

While I was putting together the story, I kept asking myself why I would do that. Then I remembered the songs I would write when I was in the 5th grade. I couldn’t play an instrument but I knew what lyrics I wanted. To me, lyrics are like little stories and what I really love to do is tell stories. That’s why I wanted to be a rapper. I wanted to tell a story.

My rap career wasn’t the first time I got in way over my head with something I was creating. Back in the 4th-5th grade, I started writing a comic called The Adventures of Super Chicken. It was about a chicken who has a cape and protects the city of Chickentown. I wrote and “illustrated” it myself and had my mom to make copies at work, so I could sell them at my school for $1 each.

Not only did some people actually buy my comics, the school newspaper was annoyed that I was selling them on campus. No one was buying their paper and I guess they didn’t like having to compete with a goofy but cute looking eleven-year old practicing small business. They told me a couple of times to “cease and desist” but my dad told me that I had the leverage and not to let it go, so we came to an agreement: they would put the Super Chicken comic in the newspaper.

I don’t know if Super Chicken ever made it into the newspaper but I do remember that they stopped making the newspaper shortly after that. Did I put them out of business? Probably not. Should they have put me in there to save their business? You decide. I will say, however, that when the newspaper came back in my senior year, guess who they asked to write the movie reviews? That’s right, the former creator of Super Chicken.

That same year I also wrote to our elementary school principal about my disdain for the school’s uniform policy. As I eloquently put it, I felt the uniforms were “stupid” and needed to go. We had these things called a “Jeans Day Pass”, and it was like currency. You got them if you were an honor roll student or won a prize, and I said that we should have at least one Jeans Day a week because it made us feel better.

I’m not sure what I wrote in that letter, but I didn’t sign it. I might have been bold but I wasn’t that bold. I didn’t want to get in trouble, which is what I thought was going to happen when the principal called it out in chapel that week. I sank down into the pew as a couple of my friends looked at me with smirks. I had been paddled by this woman before; my bony ass was puckered up. That was the last time I speak up and voice my opinion…

Except she was calling me out because she liked the idea. In fact, the PTA was going to come up with a shirt that, if purchased through the group, you could wear on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So it was kind of like a uniform, but not quite the uniform and people could wear jeans. Unlike the newspaper, that was a win. I didn’t the credit for it until now because I didn’t want to get spanked, but I will take the credit for it now because I’m a grown man who’s not afraid of getting spanked anymore.

That was twenty years ago… it’s wild to think about. Eleven year old Shea was so friggin’ sure of himself. A precocious little piss-ant, as my father would say. But even he would have to admit that kid was driven. I wish I could talk to him, ask him a few questions about where he sees himself in ten years. He wanted to do so much.

Eleven year old Shea used to write in a journal every night before he went to bed, just like Doug Funny. Dear Journal, it would start out and then whatever came next was just how he was feeling. He always wanted to keep it a secret, so he put locks on the journals. Some of his friends made fun of him because only girls have diaries EVEN THOUGH DOUG IS A BOY AND HE HAS A JOURNAL, OK??? IT’S DIFFERENT!! Anyway… he wrote a lot, is what I’m saying.

Somewhere along the way, though, he stopped writing. Probably around 14. There were other things he wanted to do, like get drafted into the NBA. That was something he was confident would happen, too. It didn’t, just like the rap career didn’t happen either. A lot of things have not gone the way I would’ve hoped.

When I look back on all of the past failures or missed opportunities, I think about eleven year old Shea. I wonder what he would think of me if he met me. Would he think I was cool? Would he be impressed by me? Would he be upset I wasn’t married by this point? (I know the answer to that last one, and it’s definitely yes because even young Shea was a hopeless romantic.)

What would I say to him? He’s about to start school, which isn’t as scary as it it now in 2020. Still, he’s a little nervous. Last year before middle school. He’s still writing Super Chicken, still writing songs about the girl in his class that he has a crush on, writing “plays” on his grandmother’s type writer and getting his family to act it out for him. What would I say to that kid?

Dear Shea,

Hey, man! It’s the start of 5th grade and things are moving pretty fast. I know you’re probably worried about what’s-her-face, but it’ll be OK. If anything, you should ask her to skate with you at the end of the year. How did I know about that? Well, that’s because I’m you but twenty years older.

You’re not great at math, so that means I’m 31. You’re right, that IS old. For you, maybe, but not to all of the old people reading this right now. That’s right, other people are reading this (hopefully) in the future. It’s something everyone does in the year 2020, we all flood the internet with how we feel no matter how crazy or embarrassing it might sound one day.

I say this because I want you to remember one thing: keep writing. Don’t ever stop. Because you have a lot to say. Forget about what people will think of it because it’s true to you and it’s what you really care about. You’ll get writer’s block or not have the urge to write at times, but don’t ever stop creating.

Not everything you make will be good, though. There are going to be a lot of disasters. There will be times where you want to give up on it or you’re embarrassed by what you’ve done, but you shouldn’t be. It’s part of growing up.

If you think you can do something, try it and see how you feel. If you say you’re going to do something, then do it. And whatever you do decide to do, make sure you finish what you started. If you fail, that’s OK, too. You live and you learn, but don’t be afraid to try something if it looks like it’s too hard.

Listen to other people. Take whatever advice you can get, even if you don’t agree with it, because there’s always a chance to learn something from it. Trust me, I’ve failed a lot over the years. No matter what how much criticism you get, good or bad, take it and apply it to something. Eventually, you’re going to mold it into something better.

Don’t worry about the things you can’t control. There are going to be some people who are never going to see you the way you see yourself. That’s OK. Just keep working on being the best you that you can be and one day you will be. Don’t ever give up on that creative drive you have. Keep that energy.

You inspire me everyday, and I hope one day that I make you as proud as you make me.

Take care of yourself, kid!

Shea Freeman, age 31

PS: Instead of rapping, why don’t you try stand up comedy? You’ll do a lot better in that arena, trust me.

I’ll admit, that letter is a little weird but then again so is having a conversation with your preteen self. But it’s also a letter for my current self and future self. Hopefully, twenty years from now, I can look back on this blog and look at it with the same sort of pride I do with my younger self. Maybe I’ll be able to laugh at my attempts at putting together a real blog.

I have no idea what my life will be like five, ten or twenty years from now. I hope I’m around that long. I like to think that whatever I’m doing I’ll happy. That’s all I really want in life, to just be happy with the way things are going. 2020 has been a shit sandwich and I’m ready for it to be over, but it’s helped me deal with something… change.

I used this blog to express myself because I was bottling it up inside and I’ve learned a few things about myself in the process. I hold on to the past too much and I have a lot of anxiety for the future. I feel a lot of pressure to succeed but a lot of the pressure is self applied.

I’ve also learned about myself as a writer, mainly in that I’m still not that great and have a lot of work to do. My writing has never been perfect and having it out here kind of helps me, in a way, because with hindsight I can spot the problems and eventually fix it down the road.

This will be my last This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things post. I’ll still be writing, though. I’m always writing. I’ll just be writing something different and on a different medium. Shorter stories, funnier stories. Stories that aren’t so personal. I really need to work on my jokes, honestly; because while my routine was pretty good prior to the shut down, I could find some new material.

If you’ve been reading this long, I wanna say thank you and that I appreciate your support from the bottom of my heart. I wish I could’ve give you but I’m confident I’ll find another way to tell my stories for the world.

For The Last TIme… (or until another time)…

SF

“So, it’s good to use your heart; not your brain=” – The Adventures of Super Chicken, issue 6: “The Clone From The Lab” by Shea Freeman, age 11.

I want to tell you all a story. I never planned on telling this story, because I didn’t think it would ever matter. However, in light of everything that has been going on lately, I think it is important that I openly discuss this issue with everyone, to shed some light on how I feel and where I stand regarding race relations in our country. All I ask is that you come in with an open mind and an open heart.

I’ve been arrested before. When I was 20, I was charged with a DUI. It wasn’t a fun night. I was scared, I had no idea what to expect and I thought my life was over. I had heard stories about going to jail and your permanent record being tainted. My life was already out of control two years removed from high school, so I prepared for the worst. I went to jail that night, was bailed out and went to court months later for my sentencing.

Prior to that day in court, my lawyer told me to wear something nice and clean myself up. Shave and get a haircut. I needed to look presentable to the judge, to show her that despite my wrongdoing I was just a kid who didn’t know any better. That I still had time to learn from my mistakes and reform into a good member of society. I remember thinking to myself, yeah but that doesn’t change what I did. I was still guilty. Was the lack of facial hair or this $15 tie I got from Marshall’s really going to keep me from going back to jail? Probably not, but luckily I didn’t go back to jail due to it being a first offense.

Instead, I was put on probation for a year and had my license taken away. Two years later, after paying my dues at Salvation Army and completing drug and alcohol counseling, I was back on track. I had learned from my mistakes and promised I would never put myself in that situation again. I was in the clear. Or so I thought.

A few years after my arrest, I was working on a big project outside of a Starbucks near the house I was living at on Hawthorne Road. We didn’t have WiFi at the time, so I set up shop outside of the Starbucks a block over, as I normally did. I stayed at that Starbucks way past closing time, til about 2 am. That’s when the cops came.

You see, I was working outside of a closed business in the middle of the night. While I had done this before, it doesn’t mean that I’m allowed to do that. I was the only one there and I was sitting in my car, taking a break from working and smoking a bowl. One cop came behind me, flashed his lights and once again I thought my life was over. This time I had weed on me, which was obviously not legal back then.

As I got out of the car, I quickly explained to the officer why I was there. I pointed over at my work station, which had my computer among other items and told him about my project. I thought I was in the clear because he seemed really interested in what I was doing and he was actually a nice dude. But he wanted to see my ID, which was sitting in my car in a haze of smoke. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I did the only thing I knew I would do in that scenario: tell the truth.

I admitted to the officer that I was smoking pot when he pulled up and I even showed him the pipe and how much weed I had, which was maybe less than a gram. He appreciated my honesty and as a gesture of that appreciation, he promised me that I would just get a citation and be able to finish my project at home, that is if nothing else turned up in my car or on my record.

As I sat in the back in handcuffs, while the officer checked my car for more contraband, another officer pulled up. He was not happy about me getting let off. He wanted me to go to jail, said I was potentially causing a disturbance. He even pointed out my DUI arrest from a few years earlier. The nice officer told him to calm down and not make such a big deal of it. I only had a little bit of weed and I was sober enough to have an intellectual conversation about existentialism in film (what he didn’t know was I had taken an adderall a couple of hours before and literally couldn’t get high. I was just smoking to get my hands to stop shaking as I typed).

Much to the dismay of the 2nd officer, I was let go and went home, although without my car because it had to get impounded. To me, that was a fair trade. I did get to finish that project, however karma is a bitch and after all that my professor didn’t even count the paper (it’s a long story and it still pisses me off to this day).

I never went to court for that incident, at least not in person. I had a lawyer go for me. No shaving or getting my hair cut, no putting on a tie to show I was a respectable member of society. Hell, I think I was on my way back from Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale at the time. Not sure, although I did get pulled over for speeding that day. Regardless, it was actually pretty quick and simple. I was put back on probation for a year and had to take substance abuse classes (again). Now, after 6-7 years, it’s been expunged from my record.

This story isn’t about the cops. It’s not about me saying “all cops aren’t bad”, just because that particular cop and a few others I have met are pretty good people and have helped me out in certain situations like that night at Starbucks. I’m sure there are great men and women out there who DO want to protect the lives and rights of people out there and want to change the world for the better. That’s not what this story is about.

This story is about my white privilege. It wasn’t my honesty that got me out of trouble that night. It was the color of my skin. Had I been just a few shades darker, who knows what could’ve happened. I could’ve gone to jail, or worse, been shot dead on the spot for being somewhere I shouldn’t have been. I will never know what could’ve happened because I don’t know what it’s like to not be white. I don’t know what injustice feels like, because I’ve never felt injustice. The system actually worked for me. It doesn’t for work that way for everyone.

Saying you don’t have white privilege because you’ve been poor or you’ve been arrested or you’ve had a bad run in with the cops is missing the point. Those are not exclusively non-white things, and no one is saying that you maybe didn’t have a hard time growing up. It’s the ways in which that privilege provides you a way out. I often times do feel guilty for that, despite not having any choice or say in how I was born. But I do have a choice to speak on it and a voice to shed light on it. I can sit here and say that I have benefited from the system because I want other white people to do the same.

The first step to change is to admit your flaws; the second is to accept them. Then, and only then, can you really set forth and make a change. You can’t fix something you don’t think is broken. You can lie to yourself and say that it’s fine, but when it breaks down and THEN you want to fix it, how will you know what the problem is if you ignored it for so long?

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I’d like to tell you all another story, to give some insight on some things that I have experienced and to draw a parallel to how I see the world and people of color. Not that I know what it’s like to be black, but I do know what it’s like to be different.

Due to my special circumstances of birth, I feel like I have a sense of empathy most do not. It’s not to say I’m better than anyone, I’d argue that’s not true at all, but it is something that I can at least have a semblance of understanding towards.

Growing up with Crouzons, I naturally stand out in a crowd. Not a lot of people look like me, and for years I didn’t know anyone else that did. I have been stared at and made fun of and excluded from things because of the way I look.

As a child, my mom fought tooth and nail to give me a life that every other kid had. I was never going to be rejected because of something I couldn’t control. When the public school system suggested I go to a special education class in fear of how other students would treat me, my mom took offense and went to a half dozen other schools to get me a fair shot.

When I was on the playgrounds, kids would run away from me. I looked like Frankenstein or a Gargoyle, they said. My face looked funny. I had a hole in my neck. I wasn’t supposed to be there. The kids would ask their parents “why does that boy look so ugly”. And the parents would shoo their kids away, avoiding the situation all together. Some would apologize, some would make their kids apologize. But every time my mom would always say the same thing… you can’t be mad at those kids, they don’t know any better and it’s your job to educate them. I, personally, thought that was bullshit. Why is it my job to educate people? What if they use that against me, or hate me for calling them out about it? I want friends, not enemies.

The thing is, people fear what they don’t know or, rather, have a curiosity for what they don’t know. A child seeing me for the first time could be scared and run behind their parent, because they don’t know what they’re looking at or how feel about it, like seeing a dog for the first time. Now if the parent deflects and retreats, what does that say to the child? That I am a monster? That I should be avoided? It squashes an uncomfortable situation and in the other parent’s eyes is a way to not have to embarrass themselves.

Or, what if it was the opposite. What if that child’s mother said, “it’s ok, he’s a nice boy, he just looks different”? There are two endings to this scenario. One is just making that statement and having the child apologize. It’s a nice gesture, sure, however it’s missing a key element. The other scenario involves the child AND the parent asking me and my mother what happened. Is it uncomfortable? Absolutely. I hate having to talk about it because I try to imagine what they are imagining and it makes me feel like a science experiment. But it needs to be said.

Something as simple as asking me “why does your face look like that” isn’t going to make me upset. If anything, it allows me a chance to teach someone about Crouzons, in hopes that one day people won’t ask me about it; they’ll just accept it. It’s what my mom wanted me to learn as a kid: it starts with communication and having that conversation. Yes it’s uncomfortable for both parties, but it’s necessary to change the hearts and minds of people who, frankly, just don’t know any better. (Not the people who DO know better and don’t care to change. Those people can go fuck themselves.)

Growing up, I tried to use humor as a tool to deflect how I felt about everything. I knew I was different and knew I couldn’t do anything about it, so I created an image for myself. I made fun of myself so that I could normalize it. Did it work? Probably. Everyone who knows me knows I’m kind of a clown, but at least I’m not a scary one. (Side note: I still have no idea why people are terrified of clowns. Pennywise is the only one I can think of and he was beat by a group of children who just said “you’re not real”. So… I don’t know. Educate me.)

The problem with me masking my problems with comedy is that a lot of the time it blurs my own purpose for it. I want people to accept me, yes, but I also want them to know why they should. Not saying anything about it on my end is just as bad. I don’t make fun of other people if they can’t help it. To me it’s cheap. I ridicule myself in part because I can, but that doesn’t mean I can make fun of someone else who has the same problem as I do. However, that person probably understands why I’m making those jokes. That person can, maybe, identify with me and can laugh along with me, and hopefully that makes them feel normal or empowers them to say something too.

I have always gravitated towards black culture because, for some reason, I’ve identified a little of myself in there. I have always felt like an underdog, having to fight battles that others don’t have to fight just to have a “fair shot”. When I was a kid I would always root for the black guy in game shows, like Survivor, because he was basically on his own. I saw pride in that, a uniqueness and individuality that was missing among the white people. Maybe it’s because I didn’t see a lot of black people.

I went to a predominately white school, with roughly one black student per twenty white students. In a way, I could Identify with sticking out in a sea of people who don’t look like you. I didn’t know what being black was like, I just knew what being different was like. The one black kid would always get picked first in gym class, because of prejudice, just like I got picked last because of some sort of prejudice (probably my face, but maybe I wasn’t very good). Either way, we both were treated differently because that’s just the way it was. At least that’s how I saw it.

I never experienced racism growing up. I never looked at black people as less than me or something to fear. If anything, I tried to be like them. I wanted to be like Michael Jordan and Vince Carter and Allen Iverson. I wanted to be as smooth as Will Smith and Denzel Washington, or as funny as Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle, or as cool as Jay Z and Kanye West, or have buddies like Kenan and Kel. Those were my role models growing up. It didn’t matter that they were black, what mattered was that they had been through adversity, and they fought to get to where they were.

I studied up on them, read their stories. I tried to imagine what life must have been like for them, the obstacles and challenges they faced, and apply it to my own story. Then I started to see them in my friends, the same age as me, and wondered if those same struggles applied to them. I thought I was the greatest white ally since that one white dude in the movie Drumline, which I saw three times in theaters and still can’t remember what his name was.

Loving black culture, however, is not the same as loving black people. Why, for example, would I hang out at Westshore Mall every weekend and not University Mall? It could be because I lived closer to Westshore but it could also be because University Mall “wasn’t as safe” for a 14 year old white kid from South Tampa. Disregard the fact that a lot of black people went to Westshore too, University was “ghetto” and had a “jail” inside the mall in case shit went down. That’s not just how some people felt… that’s how I felt. I could say that to my white friends and they would all probably agree with me. Is that fair? No, it’s not.

It’s moments like that that make me reflect and dive deeper into the other scenarios that resemble those thoughts and opinions. Chik Fil A on Dale Mabry is much safer than the Church’s Chicken off Hillsborough Ave. Plant High School is superior to Robinson because that’s where all the smart kids go. Be careful going to Ybor on Saturday night or you’ll get shot. Stupid things like that paint prejudice unfairly all over the city, for no reason other than that’s how most white people feel about about stuff, including this white person who at one time said all three of those things, probably in the same day.

Am I perfect? Hell no. But I know that, and I know that in order for me to reconcile those old prejudices, I have to be honest about it. Over the past week I’ve been trying to better understand what I can do, and what I could’ve done, to put an end to racism. It’s uncomfortable at times, learning things that I may have contributed to without realizing it, but it all goes back to my original point: we have to start asking these questions and educating ourselves.

We have to have those uncomfortable conversations with one another because that’s the only way we can learn and grow and move forward to create change. Because maybe one day we won’t have to have that conversation anymore. Maybe one day we won’t look at the world and say “I don’t see color”. Because I DO see color. The world is filled with colors, of many different shades, and it’s what makes this world a beautiful place. If you look at something with color blinders, not only can you not see the beauty of the world in front of you, but you can’t see the ugliness that lies underneath the surface and, in turn, you can’t fix it.

To those of you who have read this and feel that I’m right or wrong, please tell me. Tell me so we can have this conversation. Help me better understand where you’re coming from. I want to hear you, I want to listen. In the same way that young Shea wanted to be heard and understood, in the same way I that I wanted to be accepted, all it takes is asking me to tell you a little bit about my story. Hopefully, with that, we can all learn something.

Until next time…

SF

We need more light about each other. Light creates understanding, understanding creates love, love creates patience, and patience creates unity.

Malcolm X

Well… it’s been a while hasn’t it? You must have thought “damn… Shea has been pretty quiet lately” or something like that. I mean, if you’ve been keeping up with my new venture with BragHouse (more on that later), you’ll know that I’ve beenright pretty busy and I’m sorry I haven’t kept you updated with my blog (Mom) but I’m back with the conclusion of one of my not so finest hours… The Mayfair Apartments.

You’re probably wondering why there’s a picture from Avengers: Endgame. Well, this “Mayfair” series is no longer a trilogy but part of a larger extended universe. One in which shit happens to me and it’s all connected. It’s maddening at times, but yet amidst the madness it all makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is how this started as a “detective story” and is now something else entirely. Anyway…

It feels like it’s been forever, but in case you’re unaware of the Shit Saga, as I call it, here are the major points: someone shit in my apartment. I got mad. I told my landlord, Mo. He did nothing. My roof caught on fire. Mo thought it was me (it wasn’t). Mo did nothing. My AC went out at the exact same time (also not my fault). Mo did nothing for months. When I last wrote, it looked like nothing was ever going to change… except something did.

The last time I wrote in the blog was a heavy one for me. My grandfather had just passed away and I was in a weird spot in my life. I went back home to Tampa and said goodbye to a man that I held in the highest regard. I had a long time to reflect on my life during that week, and what was going on with it. I’m not going to go into too much detail, but I determined I wasn’t happy with my current state.

At the time, I was unemployed and not sure of where my life was headed. As I told people about my situation at the Mayfair everyone kept asking me the same thing: why don’t you just leave? It’s not as simple as that, I said; I loved that apartment. I’m also stubborn, just like my grandfather that I admired so much. No way was I leaving, especially when I had done nothing wrong.

However… there was one particular moment during that trip that changed my outlook on everything. I finally came to the realization that I have let people that hold some little tiny piece of power dictate my life. And Mo had become part of this problem. He knew I didn’t want to leave and he knew how much I loved my apartment. He could do whatever he wanted because he knew, at the end of the day, I wouldn’t leave. In a way, he won. Kinda like Thanos. (Seriously, if you haven’t seen these Avengers movies, I’m sorry but you’re missing out.)

After months of dealing with his bullshit — and months of nothing getting done at my apartment — I felt like nothing would change. I was depressed. My grandfather was dying, my grandmother is also getting old and my mother was trying to do her best to keep everything together, both for the family and for her own sake. I thought coming home would be the best option. I was ready to give up. It felt like this was the end. I could either accept it and let it happen or keep fighting until it killed me.

I was having these weird nightmares prior to going to Tampa that I would come home and wouldn’t be able to get into my apartment. That maybe my dog was inside and they wouldn’t let me get her. Or worse, I would come home and someone else would be living there, with their stuff all over the place and no recollection that I ever lived there. And there was seemingly nothing I could do because every time I would bring it up to Mo he would blow it off.

I got home to Tampa and had a conversation that was reminiscent of a conversation I had roughly ten years ago — more on that in a later story. It motivated me to want to go back to LA and get my shit back together. It made me want to see Mo face to face because — surprise — he didn’t do anything to fix my AC while I was gone. I’d had enough. I was going to file a complaint with the housing department and have them look into it.

Then something miraculous happened…

One of my Parlour Room buddies, Enrique, suddenly had a room available in his apartment down the street. He knew about my battle with Mo. One time, when the temperature rose to over 90 degrees inside, he let me bring Layla over so I could keep her out of the heat. He told me if his roommate moved out, I could take the room. I jumped at the chance. Sure enough, his roommate was moving out at the end of September. That was all I needed.

I gave Mo my two week notice once I was approved for the apartment and told him I wasn’t paying for the next month rent. He wanted me out pretty quickly, but I told him that I wasn’t going anywhere until I had to. After all, I paid a lot of money to move in — first and last month rent, plus twice the security deposit. I stood my ground and he obliged. It felt good to stick up for myself.

The day I moved out of the Mayfair was a pretty interesting one. I had moved everything out of my apartment and into a storage unit, but the last of my stuff was able to fit in my car. So I stayed the night. The next day I had an interview with this production company, CineKat Filmworks. It’s a small company, but the owner is a pretty good dude. We met at his bar in Hollywood, where I was working on a script. He offered me a job in the bathroom. It wasn’t weird.

While I was cleaning up the remains of my stay, a buddy of mine called me about a business proposition: writing college football blogs for an app called BragHouse — which you can download now in any App Store, by the way. I’ve always wanted to be a sports writer, and since I’m usually writing something for fun why not get paid to do something I love? It was a no brainer, I accepted the job.

Later on that day, CineKat offered me a job to work for them as a line producer. It’s not a lot, but it’s something and of course I took it because it’s an in and I’m not in a position to complain about work at the moment. Not only did I get a new apartment, I also got two jobs in the same day. Shit happens, as they say.

It’s been a couple of months since I’ve lived at the Mayfair. The other night, I was walking home from a friend’s and I saw the lights in my old room turned on. I don’t know if I saw anyone, but it was weird imagining someone else in a place that I called home. I wondered if that AC ever got fixed. I wondered when I would hear back about my security deposit, which of course I’ve asked him about. But this is Mo… he doesn’t usually respond to requests all that quick.

I gotta be honest, I miss living there but I couldn’t be happier about how all of this came to an end. Not only am I still living in Hollywood, I’m in a much better place — both physically and mentally. Now I can rest easy at night knowing that I can get up and be a productive member of society, all while air circulates through my apartment. It finally feels like I’ve won.

So what did we learn from all of this? Well, much like that fateful conversation I had in Tampa — which I promise I will get into on my next one — I decided that I wasn’t going to let someone lurk over my shoulder, holding my happiness hostage. I wasn’t going to let someone walk all over me and talk down to me like I didn’t matter. And just like that conversation in Tampa, I did what I had to do — be the bigger man and walk away. I wiped my hands clean of the bullshit; I checked out of the Mayfair.

Shit happens. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. But whenever shit does happen, there’s something you can learn from it. Because beneath all the bullshit is a lesson. And the lesson was inside of you all along. It just takes a lot of shit to happen for you to see that. Life is full of shit like that. Take 2019, for example, and the biggest movie of 2019, Avengers: Endgame.

A lot of shit happens in that movie. It’s a culmination of shit we’ve seen before, but it’s dumped all out on the screen for three butt-numbing hours. It’s intense. It’s euphoric. It’s unlike any shit you’ve ever seen before. And when it’s done you sit there, exhausted, but you’re ready to do it again. Because at the end of the day, when you reflect on how you got to the end, you realize it was worth it.

And that’s how I feel about my time at the Mayfair Apartments. It was a long, fun ride that had it’s ups and downs but I will always remember it as my favorite apartment. And I loved it 3000.

Until Next Time…

SF

The following is the eulogy/speech I gave at the funeral for my grandfather, Joseph R. Lopez, who passed away at the age of 95 on August 29, 2109. It was harder to get through than I had anticipated, as my emotions took over and I went off script, but I wanted to share it with everyone anyway. I have been blessed to be able to spend 30 years with him in my life and in my corner, and I hope he has WiFi in Heaven so he can read it, too. Rest In Peace, Papa…

I want to thank everyone again, on behalf of my family, for coming to today’s service and thank you to my good friend Steven Poncin for his lovely words.

I’ve been thinking of what to say for the past week now, and it’s been hard, but the one word I keep circling back to is Legacy. Something that is left or passed down by a predecessor. Legacy was an important thing to my grandfather. If I had to bet, I’d say that was the one thing he cared about most.

My grandfather, or Papa to us, always wanted to be king. El Rey. Something about overseeing a kingdom and watching it grow into something special. King’s leave behind legacies; it’s why we remember them centuries later. And every great King needs an even stronger Queen to keep things together, and there is no better Queen than Wewa.

Even when there was trouble within the kingdom, the Queen would make sure the King still saw it through rose colored lenses. I honestly don’t know where we’d be without her…. King’s can’t live forever though, and that’s why it’s up to us, the family, to uphold that legacy and keep it going.

I’ve always wanted to be like my grandfather. I still do. The way he carried himself, the presence he had… it looms large over all of us. I’m blessed to have the family that I have, to be born into such a tight-knit group that puts family above everything else. And that starts at the top, with my grandparents. Papa used to say no matter what happens, the family will always be there.

But how do I remember him? He was probably the coolest man that I ever knew. He always used to say “You either go first class, or you don’t go at all” and one of the best examples of that is how he would dress. Every time he went out, his outfits were flawless.

His shirts were perfectly ironed, his suits tailor made for him, his shoes shiny and new. If you went into his closet, everything was color coordinated and labeled and put away a certain way, nothing ever out of place. And he’d wear this Aramis cologne that you could smell from a mile away, almost like he was accompanied by a trumpet band that said “Make way! The King has arrived!” Even in his 90’s he could’ve been on the cover of GQ. And sadly, no matter how hard I try, I will never have that much swagger. He’s just too cool.

Definitely the best dressed man I’ve ever known. He’d probably look at what I’m wearing now and say “Really? You’re wearing that? Are you sure?” He’d also want me to shave, tell me my hair was too long, say I need to eat more, say I need to eat less, tell me to wear a belt, tell me to wear socks. Tell me not to get a tattoo, which I never did. Yes it was strict, but he liked things that way. That was the Navy Man in him.

He used to box in the Navy, too. Even at 80, his jab was impressive. I would know; one Friday night when I was 17, I came over to watch the fights and he hit me on the chin with a clean two piece. In fun, though. He would never intentionally punch one of his grandkids, especially not the expensive one.

I’m gonna miss him, though. We all are. Last weekend, my brother Ryan was telling me how weird it was to walk into the condo and not see Papa sitting on the black recliner, watching the TV at a super loud volume. We have been blessed to have him in our lives for this long, to grow up with two amazing and influential people as grandparents. Even though as he he got older he wouldn’t remember things as well, and we’d have to repeat the same conversations over and over, I was always happy to have a chance to talk to him. To get some advice from him if I could. To get his stamp of approval. That meant more to me than anything, and it still does even now that he’s gone.

I think I can speak for all of his grandchildren when I say we revered him. And he loved his grandkids more than anything, because we are his legacy. He would sit down each of us individually, for about five or ten minutes, just to check up on us and make sure we were OK. He wanted to know about our aspirations in life, what we cared about, what was happening in our lives, and he supported us no matter what, even if one of us wanted to join the circus, he’d put on a clown wig and get a front row seat.

My lasting image of Papa will always be this: He’s sitting at the head of the dinner table. All of us are sitting around after a big family meal. He’s got a glass of wine, his hand at the base of it it, swirling it around a bit. My grandmother’s sitting next to him, finally getting a chance to sit down and eat after all of the cooking. Everyone’s getting up and talking, laughing, yelling over each other because that’s just what we do. We’re the loud family. And, ironically, he’s probably the quietest one in the family. But he’s looking at all of us, with this smile/smirk on his face. And he’s happy. He’s on his throne, looking out at his legacy, and he’s proud. And he points over at me and tells me to come over. He’ll ask me the same questions: You behaving? How’s school going? Are you doing ok, do you need anything? And he always follows it up with the same thing… “You keep on doing what you’re doing and just remember… if you ever need anything, you come to your Papa and I’ll take care of it. Because no matter what, the family will always be there for you.”

I wish he were here, to see how much he meant to all of us, but knowing Papa he wouldn’t even want to be here. He was a humble man, was never about the accolades, despite accomplishing so much in his long life. I wish I could be half the man he was, but that’s a tall order. When we were going through his closet the other day, my mom handed me a pair of his perfectly shined shoes and said I should take them. I had to turn her down, though; just because they fit doesn’t mean I can fill them.

But I know I’ll see him again one day, and I’ll tell him how much I loved him and how much of an impact he had on all of us. I’ll tell him that the family came together and found peace in all of this. That Wewa is in good hands and we’re going to protect the Queen at all costs. And the first thing he’ll say is… “That’s great, but when are you gonna shave?” Because Papa didn’t like to dwell on the sad stuff; he wanted us to be happy. And I’m beyond grateful that I got to spend as much time with him as I could, and I am forever honored to be a part of his legacy.

So Papa, on behalf of your grandchildren… Michael, David, Ryan, Jake, Alexis and myself… we love you, we miss you, and we hope to make you proud.

Until Next Time…

Long Live The King!

SF

“You either go first class, or you don’t go at all.” – Joe Lopez, El Rey

I came up with the title “Shit Happens at the Mayfair 4Ever” for a couple of reasons: 1. it’s no longer a trilogy anymore so I need to come up with a clever title (Shrek 4Ever After, 4 example) and 2. Because it feels like this story is never going to end. It started with what seemed like a prank and now it’s evolved into something else entirely. Like how Fast and Furious was about stealing DVD players and then suddenly they’re jumping out of planes, while driving cars and then driving said cars on buildings… Shit just doesn’t make sense the further it goes along, but someone will find it entertaining I’m sure. (I am one of those people, by the way.)

It started with a pile of shit and a tampon. Then the AC went out. Then the roof caught on fire. I went from investigating something stupid to being smack dab in the middle of an “investigation”. I’ve already gone over the story about the AC and the fire (if you’re reading this, stop and go read Part 3). At the time, I only had so much information. That all changed about ten minutes after posting the third part of the story.

I’m not saying my landlord reads the blog — it would be cool if he did, minus that last one I wrote — but I did find it a little weird to get a call from him write after bitching about him for an audience of about ten. Apparently the AC guy was coming, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about dealing with Mo it’s you have to see it to believe it. So I sat outside waiting for this AC man and wouldn’t you know it… there was his truck sitting outside. It was like seeing a river after wandering through the desert for weeks. It was a friggin miracle.

I was overjoyed. I thought this man was a myth but he wasn’t. In fact, he was the same guy that came to fix my AC the last time it was broken. He remembered me, too. He remembered Layla and he even wrote down when he came, which was in early May. He thought it was a little weird I had problems because he fixed it. Well… shit happens, bro. He laughed when he saw that Mo set my AC at 45 thinking that was going to change anything. I did as well but that was probably due to the heat making me go crazy.

I explained to him the situation. How it had been weeks since any cold air was coming through the vent. How I took out the filter thinking that was going to fix it. How I turned switch off in my breaker in hopes of rebooting it. Within a few minutes, he knew what the issue was: there as no refrigerant in the AC unit. Easy problem to fix, except there was something strange about it… that was exactly what happened the last time and he said he put enough coolant in there to keep it going for a couple of years.

I followed him up to the roof because I wanted to see what he was going to do. I wanted to see this firsthand so in the event that it happened again, which was possible, I could be able to tell Mo exactly what was wrong with it. He check the unit and his guess was correct. There was no refrigerant inside. I watched him work and nodded my head every time he told me what he was doing, acting like I knew what was going on. I had a lot of questions.

For one, why was there no refrigerant if he had put it in a couple of months before? If it really is supposed to last a long time, how did it just disappear out of thin air? This man — this angel of a human being — had an answer for everything. It could be that the unit had a leak, but after he put this green goo on it that proved not to be the case. According to him, the only other way it could’ve gotten out was someone would have had to have gone up to the roof and let it out manually, like siphoning gas out of a car. He even showed me how someone could do it, too. He joked that maybe I had an enemy in the building… He might be right about that, too.

He put more refrigerant in and within a few minutes the AC was up and running. Within a half an hour, the room was getting colder. I wanted to dance. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kiss this man on the forehead or buy him a drink or something. I didn’t get his name, but I’m pretty sure it was Jesus because there’s no other person I know that can perform miracles like he did. I was over the moon… but not for long. Remember guys, I can’t have nice things… and this story’s not over, either. We’re now entering conspiracy theory mode.

I’m not saying that Mo had anything to do with this, but let’s go back to the beginning for a second… after the Shit and Run I asked Mo for help and he took a week to address it. He stalled and skated around the subject when I asked about the cameras. When the fire happened, he immediately jumped to conclusions and made me think they had proof that I was the one that started it. He said “they” (the building owners) were probably not fixing my AC because of the damage to the roof. And after he and I had words in the building, the next day someone finally comes to fix it. Other than me and my dumb luck, he is the only other constant in this story.

There’s also my trusty confidant Roxie, who has been my ace in the hole of sorts throughout this whole ordeal. I’m really gonna miss her. She moved out of the Mayfair last month and tomorrow she’s leaving LA for good. Still, she came through in a big way that has changed the scope of this story in a way. Earlier today, she came by to hang out for a bit before giving her apartment keys to Mo and she asked him if they had any leads on the fire. Just like we thought: they have no idea who did it because they don’t have any footage.

Why would Mo lie to me, though? For weeks he told me that someone was coming and someone was going to fix everything, but that simply wasn’t true. As far as I know, I’ve never done anything to this guy. I’ve turned the other cheek when shit goes down in the building because I like living there. I’ve said it before, it’s the best apartment I’ve ever had and I don’t plan on leaving. I’m in a committed relationship with this place. Mo gave me a sweet deal on my rent and I’m super lucky for it. And yet, therein lies the problem…

I’m not gonna tell y’all what I pay for my apartment — and to some it might sound crazy, either way — but I spend about $300 less per month than I should. The reason is because when I first met Mo I had to convince him to let me move in and I had a perfect idea: take him to get a drink. We had a good initial meeting and he mentioned the bars in the area, so when it came time to seal the deal we went for a drink and some tacos. It was fun, he seemed like a good guy and was pretty funny.

He liked me and said he was going to let me pay the same rent I was paying for my studio apartment in Burbank, which was insane to begin with. This place was 250 square feet bigger and in the middle of Hollywood. It was a super good deal. I signed the lease and I’ve been paying month to month ever since, the same rent for nearly three years. I’ve never had any problems until now. Could it be that maybe he’s trying to force me out? And if that’s the case, how long has he been trying?

Speaking of problems, the air is out again. This time, I caught it as it was happening. I noticed it was 75 when it should’ve been 69. I turned it off and I could hear dripping. Then I pressed the vent and water started draining from the roof. After doing some investigating on google, I came to the conclusion that it’s gotta be a problem with the drip pan, which could also be why the coolant escaped the unit on the roof. It’s common when the air is hot and humid, which it usually is during the summer. The last thing I need is for this thing to keep leaking and mold everything up.

It would be one thing to just call up Mo and tell him “Hey, the AC is out again”, but after this debacle I’m not sure I can count on him. Even worse, I tried asking the assistant manager if he could put in a request but he directed me back to Mo. The man took six weeks to send someone to fix my AC, and I gave him hell for it despite knowing he’s convinced I had something to do with fire. He’s not just gonna bend over backwards to make sure it gets fixed.

We can probably rule out the idea of anyone tampering with the AC unit if in fact it is the problem with the drip pan. But this is gonna require some work and work requires some money. That’s where we’re at with this: they don’t wanna keep paying for stuff that I’m involved with. The management company has to pay for the fire. They also have to pay for the maintenance to our apartments. He could let my place mold up to the point where I’d have to either pay to get it fixed myself or move, in which he would then fix it and put it back on the market at a higher price. It’s exactly what happened at my last apartment in Tampa (seriously, go read “Have You Ever Seen The Rain”, it’s a good story).

So I sit in my 82 degree apartment again, knowing this story is probably never going to end. No matter how optimistic I get, no matter how high my hopes get, no matter how much I learn about air conditioning (which is a lot)… This story is going to continue on 4Ever. The first part was funny and unusual, something new; the second part was a little darker and revealed a bit of my shitty past; the third one no one wanted it and yet it lives on to serve as a reminder of why I can’t have nice things. This one? I don’t know what this one is, but I know it’s not the last one.

This is the one where I realized all hope was lost and not even Jesus the AC Guy himself could save me this time. This time, the bad guy won.

But next time there won’t be a next time…

So Until Next Time…

SF

“We’re in the endgame now…” – Doctor Strange, Avengers: Infinity War

Just when you think it’s over, the bullshit pulls you back in…

A few months back, I wrote a story about “The Shit-and-Run”, a now infamous story that has defined my year of living at The Mayfair Apartments. It started with poop on the floor and now, unfortunately, the shit has hit the fan. Or, rather, the roof. Before we get into the new problem, let’s recap the old story because it’s going to come into play…

Back in March, I came home to find a steamy pile of wet shit outside of my door. The next morning, a bloody tampon was added to the mix. For five long (smelly) days, the shit sat outside my door because my landlord/building manager was sending someone to clean it (after asking me if I’d do it, which I responded with a very stern HELL NO). I asked him if he could run the lobby cameras back so I could see if I recognized anyone suspicious, since there are no cameras by the elevators. According to him, the cameras didn’t work and there was no way to tell since it had happened a week prior (even though I asked him the day I found it). His final word on it was Chinatown-esque: Forget it, Shea… it’s Hollywood.

Fun fact about the movie Chinatown, there’s a sequel called The Two Jakes. It’s not as good as the original, but then again most sequels never are. No one ever wants to make them unless there’s money involved. Sometimes they can be frustrating, the plot doesn’t add up or the characters are different. It can be a mess, especially the third movie in a trilogy: Godfather 3, Back to the Future 3, Spider-Man 3, Hangover 3, to name a few. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to have to write this sequel but they forced my hand… so here we go…

Our story starts with a somewhat normal occurrence that anyone that lives in Florida can relate to: my A/C stopped working. Luckily, Southern California weather is great and I let the air come through my windows. But, like most places, summer brings heat and heat is no fun. Fast forward from April to June, and the A/C is broken again. No worries, I’ll just call Mo and have him send someone to fix it. Will it be quick? No. He took five days to clean up shit so this could take a week.

A few days after the request, someone came by at 8 am (which I hate) to check out the problem. The guy admitted that it was probably something on the roof or in the vent, and someone else was going to come by that day and follow up on it. Well, that never happened. I asked Mo a couple more times to send someone but got nothing… then some weird shit happened that changed everything…

It was Game 6 of the NBA Finals. The Raptors were about to win their first NBA title and I was watching in my apartment. About twenty minutes after the game ended, I was headed to Parlour Room for a drink but was interrupted by a pounding on my door… The roof is on fire! We gotta get out of the building! Now, I’ve been in flood situations before (check out my story “Have You Ever Seen The Rain”) but I don’t know what to do with fires. This was a first. I grabbed Layla and headed downstairs.

With the building evacuated, we stood outside and watched as the fire department put out the flames on the roof. To make matters more interesting, the fire was directly above my unit. Luckily there was no damage to the interior of the building, but a little staircase on the roof had burnt down and left a good chunk of the roof burnt up too. Still, no one was harmed and nothing got through the roof. You’d think that would put me at ease, but I knew something that everyone else didn’t… I was on the roof that day.

Come on, now… did you think this story wasn’t gonna have anything to do with me (possibly) doing something stupid? This blog is called This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things… this is what happens.

Earlier that day, like I do from time to time, I went on the roof to smoke and get a good breeze because, if you’re paying attention, my A/C is broken. It might be 80 degrees inside, but on the roof it’s a good, breezy 72. After about 20-30 minutes in the shade, I grabbed the book I was reading (yes, I read) and headed down to get ready for the game. That’s all I know and that’s all I can say because those are the facts. Everything else is speculation.

My guilty conscience told me it was my fault, but that’s how I usually view everything that happens to me. I take responsibility if I know I did something wrong (check out my other story “When I Ruled The World” for an example). I met up with my old friend Roxie, who used to live in the building but recently moved out and is about to leave LA. I told her I was a little worried they were gonna blame me for the fire because I go on the roof a lot, but then again so do a lot of people in the building. I wasn’t the only one up there that day either, but I ain’t no snitch. Then Roxie brought up something that made my ears perk up:

Aren’t the cameras in the building broken, though?

She’s right! Mo’s excuse as to why we couldn’t run the tape back for the Shit-and-Run was because of the cameras. A quick conversation with the assistant building manager confirmed as much: the cameras on the top staircase don’t work and they have no way of telling who was up there at what time. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I could rest easy that night and not worry about that being an issue. Or so I thought…

I had asked Mo to fix my A/C for two weeks. Getting a hold of him is always a hassle, but you know what’s the best way to get a hold of someone? Light something on fire (allegedly, of course). He called the next morning and asked me if I started the fire to which I replied “I don’t know”. Because I didn’t know. Was I up there? Yes. Was I smoking? Yes. Did I put my cigarette out? Yes. I always do. In fact, I take the butts with me and throw them away in my trash can because he bitches at me about leaving them on the fire escape. But did I start the fire? I don’t know, you gotta run the tapes and check for yourself.

According to Mo, though, the cameras got fixed and they were gonna run them back. Convenient, right? And knowing my tendency to smoke where I shouldn’t, I was his prime suspect. Instead of outright blaming me for it, however, he skated around the subject and did the whole “I’m your friend” thing. He said he wanted to help me out in the event that it was me or anyone else because he likes the tenants. He told me to text him that I was on the roof that day, which I was, and that’s what I did. I told him, just as he instructed me to, “hey, just so you know I was on the roof yesterday during the day”. Was that a mistake? Probably. But he said something about the building owners wanting to charge the person with arson, which is a felony. I’m having a hard time as it is trying to find a job, becoming a felon would make it virtually impossible.

A couple of weeks went by and no one came to my door. Not Mo, not the building owners and, thankfully, not the police. I figured it was resolved. Maybe Mo did help us out and defend the tenants from any issues. There was still one issue that hadn’t been addressed: my broken A/C. As the days wore on, the sun started to get stronger and made staying in my apartment unbearable during the day. I needed it fixed ASAP, preferably before I went home to Tampa for a week.

That didn’t happen. Instead, he told me that pest control would come by but I didn’t need pest control. Unless they can get my air blowing again, then I don’t need them in my apartment. Still, after three phone conversations and some texting back and forth, the pest guys came while I was in Tampa (supposedly). I got back to my apartment a week ago to the same problem. When I asked him to send someone and fix it he said someone did, but I was standing in 85 degree heat inside my apartment and I knew that was a lie. It started to feel like that wasn’t the only lie, either.

At the time of this writing it’s July 18. My apartment still has no A/C, despite my continuous efforts to get someone to check it out. Everyone I complain about this to has told me the same thing: bring it up to the owners. I don’t know those guys. I just know Mo. And Mo don’t know shit apparently, as evidenced by him finally showing his face at the building in over a month. I asked him to come into my apartment but he kept stalling, telling me that I should stop giving him a hard time about it since I lit the roof on fire… really now?

When I asked him if they knew for sure it was me, he laughed and said oh, they know. They ran the cameras back. The thing is he didn’t look me in the eyes when he said that. We went inside and he took his time, calling people about leaving packages in the lobby. He made it seem like it was this big issue he had to fix, forgetting that I was the reason he was even there, but I found a good opportunity to ask about the cameras. If someone stole a package, at least you can see who did it because the cameras work now. Right? He almost said they didn’t work but caught himself. He knew who he was talking to and he knows I’m on to him.

I finally got him into my apartment so he could see for himself. He told me to change the batteries, which I had done. I showed him my caked up filter and he said that was the issue, but it wasn’t. If it was, then the air would be blowing. We went on the roof, where I saw the damage for the first time, and my A/C was running. So it’s not the unit. It’s in the building, probably in the vents. I’m not an expert, but I know how the process of elimination works and the last time I talked to an expert, he said that might be the case.

I could tell Mo was getting frustrated with me but unfortunately for him I’m running out of shits to give. His last excuse was that they (the building owners) probably don’t want to fix it because they want me to pay for the damage to the roof. But if that were the case, wouldn’t I have found out about that? It’s been a month; someone would’ve said something by now. He also got mad that people in the building complain about issues and it’s not his job to fix them… only it is his job, he’s the fucking building manager. It even says so on papers around the building: if you have a maintenance issue, call Mo.

The last thing he did was set my A/C to 45 and said wait a couple hours and he’d come by to check it again (he didn’t). But I took a picture of the thermostat at 8pm and again at 10:30. It went from 81 to 78. It’s currently 77 degrees as I write this, and the lowest it’s gone down is to 75. I haven’t touched the settings, either. He said he was gonna come by at 9am this morning (he didn’t). He said the guys were gonna come and talk to me today (as of 2pm, they haven’t). He’s said a lot of things lately and all of it smells like the little present that was left outside my door back in March: a big steamy pile of shit.

I’m a patient person. I let things slide when I could put up a fight because a lot of the time I don’t want the hassle. In this case, I have a few reasons to chill. For one, I got a pretty sweet deal on this apartment a couple of years ago and I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want to move or else I would have by now. Secondly, the fire thing is for sure being held over my head without any way of me proving my innocence (or guilt for that matter). And lastly, I have no one that I can go to that usurps his power or authority. As far as I know, he’s the boss. He’s the one I signed the lease with, he’s the one who gave me the keys and the sweet deal on the rent, and he’s the one that is keeping all of this from happening.

I’m not much of a detective but I do know how to overanalyze any and every situation. So that’s what I’m gonna do with Mo… this is a guy who used to live in the building with his pretty wife and their two cute kids. He’s also the guy who used to give all of the girls in our building the creeps, including Roxie, showing up to your door with a bottle of wine and two glasses, to go to the roof of all places. He’s the type of guy who will wait five days to fix my complaint but will personally deliver Amazon packages to the female tenants, even going in their apartments to ensure “safety” (you can’t see it but I’m jerking off the air right now). He’s the guy who when I first moved in told me that “the pussy in this building is incredible” and that some of them were prostitutes. (First of all, how do you know that and secondly, why are you telling me this?) Needless to say, he’s kind of a shady character and, maybe I’m crazy, but I think he’s hiding something…

You know what’s worse than a fire on the roof? Fire alarms that don’t work. If you recall, I found out about the fire because my neighbor banged on my door and told me. In fact, she told everyone on the floor. That was the one thing we kept asking while we were waiting for the fire department to let us back inside: why didn’t the alarms go off? Again, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s a safety hazard and would be a pain in the ass if you got sued for that, which a few of my neighbors were considering doing. I’m not the only person that’s had a problem with management, apparently.

So let’s recap: there was a fire, the alarms didn’t work and the cameras (maybe) don’t work either. The only proof they have is a text message from my dumb-ass, that I was coerced into sending, stating I was at one point in the day on the roof. That’s it. And according to Mo, that’s why they won’t fix my A/C, even though it went out before the fire. Aside from these two things being unrelated incidents, I’m pretty sure Mo is the one that won’t fix it because HE wants ME to pay for it, not the management company that’s liable for it. I’ve never been to Hell before, but I’m pretty sure I’m living in some off-brand version of it.

As mad as I am at Mo and this whole thing, I don’t want to go to war with him. I have bigger issues on my plate at the moment that I need to fix. But if he wants to go there I’ll buy him a ticket. I may not have it in me to punch him in the head when I see him but I can get in his head, no problem. And that’s what I’m gonna do. If this issue doesn’t get resolved by the end of the month, I’m paying half my rent. If they don’t like it, they can come to #402 and we can talk about it in my stuffy, 85 degree apartment. And if I find out he doesn’t have visual evidence of who went on the roof that day, which I don’t think he does, I’m gonna turn the tables on him: either you fix my A/C or I’m gonna get whoever I can in the building to build a case against you and why you shouldn’t be managing this place. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet the building owners and tell my side of the story. Maybe they’ll start reading the blog. I always like new fans.

Or maybe nothing will happen. Maybe they evict me. Maybe I go to jail. Maybe they take me to court. Maybe they continue to make my life a living Hell because of God knows what. Maybe this is why I can’t have nice things. Maybe this is not a nice thing and I should get rid of it while I can. Whatever the case, it’s not right and it’s not fair. But unlike the Shit and Run, I’m not giving up this fight. You dragged my ass into the sequel that no one asked for… I’m gonna give you your money’s worth whether you like it or not.

Until Next Time…

SF

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!” – Michael Corleone, The Godfather Part III

I like to be independent but I don’t always like to be myself. One of the most difficult things about living in LA, for me, is that I don’t have too many people that I can call and hang out with, which was never the case when I lived in Tampa. A lot of the time it’s just me and my dog. I go out most nights not to get hammered but to just be around people. I may never talk to any of them, but it helps me feel like I’m not alone. That’s why I like the Parlour Room so much; I feel comfortable there and I have made a few friends, but for the most part — to borrow a line from one of my favorite movies — I consider myself to be a bit of a Lone Wolf.

According to Wikipedia, a “lone wolf” is “an individual who prefers solitude, expresses introversion or works alone”. In that sense, I am not a lone wolf. I think solitude sucks and I am naturally extroverted (I also don’t work, but that’s not by choice). When I call myself the Lone Wolf what I mean is that I don’t have a pack that I belong to. A long time ago I did, but I chose to leave my home pack and I haven’t found a new one that I fit or that fits me.

I also haven’t had anything to write about lately. I have things I’d like to write about, sure, but for some reason I haven’t had the motivation to do anything about it. Some of it is because I’m focusing on other things like some new scripts but a lot of it has to do with me. Lately, I’ve been feeling like there’s nothing to write about because there’s nothing going on in my life at the moment. Like, nothing at all. (That’s not entirely true, my roof did catch on fire last week but I’m not going to dive into how or why because that’s not what this story is about.)

I turned 30 a couple of months ago and since then, it’s been pretty uneventful (minus the fire). My birthday came and went, and aside from a nice little gesture from my homies at Parlour Room, there wasn’t really any celebration. I did, however, treat myself for my birthday: I bought five tickets to see my beloved Philadelphia Phillies play the Dodgers and Padres in early June. I had never been to San Diego and figured I’d stay an extra night to celebrate my birthday a couple of months late.

I had two objectives when I went to San Diego: see the Phillies win and successfully complete a bar crawl for my (late) birthday party. I like bar crawls, although I haven’t been on an official one. Sure, I’ve bounced around from bar to bar, but it’s never been curated or anything like that. Plus, doing a bar crawl is great when you’re in a new city because you can get as much nightlife in one night that you can handle. The hostel I was staying at happened to be doing a crawl while I was there, so this was perfect planning.

The hostel was pretty cool, all things considered. I stayed there because I wanted to interact with people and seeing as how I was by myself, I could’ve used the interaction. The last time I went on a solo vacation was my March Madness trip to Vegas and aside from a nice hour long get together with my uncle Tim, I barely talked to a soul for three days. I didn’t want that to happen again and going on that bar crawl was going to solve that problem.

So the idea of a bar crawl is simple: there’s a string of bars… you go to one, have a drink and chill for a bit, and bounce on to the next one. No more than an hour, tops. At least that’s how I always saw it. If there are a lot of bars in the area, especially in a place as cool as the Gaslamp District in San Diego, wouldn’t it be great to see as many as possible? Sure, if one is pretty lit it’s alright to stay but don’t overstay, you know? Anyway…

There were six people in our bar crawl group that night: two Norwegian girls (let’s call them Sweet and Low), a British preppie (we’ll call him Hugh), a guy from Fresno who randomly stumbled upon the group (we’ll call him Brad) and the leader of our pack who we will call Jack, because as he was “a jack of all trades” when it came to partying (keep this in mind). I was the first one to arrive and my first impression of Jack was that he was enthusiastic. I was looking forward to drinking with this guy. With all of them, really. It was an interesting pack that I was happy to be a part of.

Our first stop on the night was to a dueling piano bar called The Shout! House. Two guys playing requests on these big ass pianos. It was a nice place to start the night, get the right vibe going. Jack got everyone together at a table and said they’d play any song we could think of. When it turned out that wasn’t true we decided we had enough. Or at least, I mentioned we’d been there for an hour and should probably go check another place out. After a unanimous vote, we headed to our next stop: The Double Deuce.

The Double Deuce was a pretty dope place once we got there (we had walked around in a circle because Jack couldn’t decide where we should go next). There were two sides to the bar, one for karaoke and the other for bull riding. The best part was that because we were with the hostel, we got a free drink and special deals. People started to loosen up a bit… Sweet, the friendlier of the two Norwegian girls, had a lot of charisma and I really dug her energy. I convinced her to do karaoke, she convinced me to ride a bull and vice versa. Jack recorded it on his phone and said he’d send it to me. Things seemed like they were going well…

Then an hour went by. Sweet and I were trying to convince the others to go to another bar. By this time Brad, who apparently knows Jessica Alba, decided this bar crawl was stupid and left. Worst of all, the Jack of All Trades Party Animal was busy playing some Harry Potter shit on his phone in the corner. After another hour went by, Jack had decided he wanted to go to bed so he just left. But we were in the hands of Hugh, who was the back up host. Turns out that guy was only there in case the host decided to bail, which he ended up doing.

Hugh was a worse host. He clearly had no intentions of doing the bar crawl, nor did he want to talk to me at all. All he wanted to do was hook up with Low, the other Norwegian girl. Sweet, on the other hand, agreed that we should go somewhere else but she didn’t want to leave her friend behind. I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t stay any longer. This was not how I saw my night going. And unlike Vegas, I wasn’t going to sit in a bathtub and drink by myself; I was going to crawl around San Diego and drink by myself, because that’s what a Lone Wolf does.

The new objective was to hit ten bars in one night. I had already been to two. I left Double Deuce a little after 11 and I had until (at least) 1:50 to get my last drink, which would be at The Bootlegger, the bar right next to my hostel. As long as there was a bar along the way, I’d stop in and get whatever was on special and stay until I finished my drink. Be in bed by 2 am, call it a night. It was a brilliant plan.

The third stop on the crawl was Coyote Ugly. Fun fact about Coyote Ugly, they’re all over the place. That movie wasn’t any good, but they had a $4 Jack Daniels special going so that was enough to get my ass at the bar. Speaking of which, you can dance on the bar but you have to be a lady. I’m not saying I want to dance on the bar, but as someone who has dancing Tourette’s I feel like I should be at least allowed the option to. Who’s to say someone doesn’t want to see me dance a little? Equal opportunity, guys. Come on…

The fourth stop of the night was a place called Vybz. First of all, what a flex! You couldn’t just name it Vibes because that’s too basic and instead of deciding on whether to add a Y or a Z, you said “screw it, let’s do both”. Amazing. I’m not sure what type of vybe it was supposed to give off but there was literally no one inside except for a DJ playing extremely loud music and a very nice bartender who I’m assuming the DJ was playing the music for. They had $2 Coors light and two tables set up for beer pong, but no one but me to drink and play. It was sad.

The fifth stop on the bar crawl was arguably my favorite, The Tipsy Crow. It’s an unassuming corner bar, dimly lit and small on the inside but go up the staircase and there’s a whole lot more to it. It’s got a speakeasy look and a pool table but it also had portraits of Ron Burgandy along the walls. There were couches and tables and a faux fire place. Even the door guys were pretty nice, talking about living in SD and giving me tips on where to go next. It was definitely a classy joint. Mr. Burgandy would’ve approved, although he wouldn’t have had a $5 Jameson like I did.

The sixth stop on the bar crawl was Barley Mash. The place was pretty cool and it was still crowded even as the night began to wind down. I managed to get my drink for free after I acknowledged it was someone’s birthday in the line to get in (they were more drunk than I was). They took me in and wanted to do a shot, but I convinced them to get me a Coors instead. After a chat with the birthday boy(s?), I decided to keep on going. Barley Mash was cool though, definitely a place you’d want to go if you had a group with you. You know, like a bar crawl group… Just saying.

My seventh stop was Werewolf, a place where you can sing karaoke from anywhere at the bar. There was this girl singing “Superman” by Eminem and she was holding this super cute dog the entire time. A lot of these bars in San Diego are very pet friendly. At this point, I was pretty drunk and I was beginning to miss my pup. When the song finished, I awkwardly asked the girl if I could introduce myself to her dog and after a minute of pleasantries I went back to drinking my $4 Jim Beam. The girl then came over and wanted to talk to me, and even let me hold Cody, the dog. Dogs are basically domesticated wolves, so we had that connection. I don’t remember what the girl’s name was, though. That was probably my favorite moment of the night.

My eighth stop of the night was at a place called The Tin Roof. If you’re thinking “holy shit Shea, how are you still going”, you’re going to be shaking your head at this next part. OK, so The Tin Roof looked like the place to be if it wasn’t 1:15. If it was 10:30, oh hell yeah. A lot of good looking people, lots of space and the drinks were pretty cheap. The only problem is there were like two bartenders working the entire time and everyone around me was piss drunk. I stood at the bar for about twenty minutes before I decided to just take the untouched drink that was right in front of me and quickly chug it before I left. You can judge me all you want to, but the Lone Wolf doesn’t listen to the opinion of sheep. Besides, I was on a time crunch, OK?

My ninth stop was at The Smoking Gun, and at 1:35 we had officially reached last call. The bar was a little more upscale than the others, but it was on the way so I had to stop in. There was no special either, but I told the bartender to give me a well whiskey and make it feel special (whatever that means). I noticed a group of people hanging out, all talking about work or school or whatever. They seemed to be having fun, enjoying a night out amongst friends. I started to think about my friends back home, how I hadn’t had a good night out with them in a very long time. I got a little sad, as one tends to do when drunk. After a tear dropped in my whiskey, I drank it and hit the road.

The last stop of the night was Bootleggers, just as I had planned it. I walked in at 1:45, just in time to get one last Coors Light from the bartender. As I sat at the bar with my frosty brew, I felt really proud of myself. I know that sounds stupid (because it is) but I seriously felt like I had accomplished something. Not only did I manage to make it all the way to bootlegger’s, but I did so without any bumps in the road along the way. And even though I did it by myself, I did meet some really nice people at the bars I went to. That made up for it. And I made it back to the hostel on time. That was hands down the most astounding part.

You’d think the story would be over after that, but if you know anything about me by now you know that’s not the case. Before going to bed, I decided the responsible thing to do would be to drink a big bottle of water. There was a 7-11 nearby so I headed that way. Unfortunately, my phone died on the way there and I was so drunk that I ended up getting lost. I was maybe four blocks from the hostel but it took me two hours to get back to it. Everything I was proud of myself about with the Bar Crawl evaporated during my impromptu 7-11 Crawl. Say it with me… this is why I can’t have nice things!

My hangover the next morning wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, if I’m being honest. I wasn’t black out drunk, because as you can see I remember practically everything that went down that night. No, instead of a hangover I had a three hour train ride back to LA where I was left with my thoughts. My bar crawl was successful and yeah I had fun, but what did I really get out of it? It’s not like I could look over at my friend next to me and say “remember that from last night?”. But there was no one there. It was just me.

Later that night in Hollywood, I went to Parlour Room and told a couple of my bar buddies about the bar crawl, basically what I just told you guys. They asked me if I had fun and I said yes… but in the back of my mind what I wanted to say was “eh, it was OK”. What I really wanted to say was I wish I wasn’t by myself the whole time. What I really felt was alone. But that’s not this Lone Wolf does; he sips his cheap whiskey and keeps it moving. He can’t let anyone know how he really feels because it’ll make him look weak. In reality, the Lone Wolf misses his pack.

I do miss my friends back home. I miss going to Press Box or The Patio and throwing darts and drinking beer. I miss hanging out and cracking jokes with the homies. There were a lot of late nights and great memories, and there were times I took that for granted. I mean, it was me who wanted to leave in the first place. No one told me to move to LA, it was something I has always wanted to do. I just never took into consideration how lonely it could become. I love it here, I really do. But I don’t have a pack out here.

I promised myself that I would try something different now that I’m in my 30’s. Nothing’s really panned out from my 20’s, or since I’ve moved to LA, so it’s time to switch it up a bit. That’s why I’ve decided to join a couple of improv and sketch writing classes. Maybe there are other lone wolves in attendance. We would know, we can sniff each other out. Who’s to say that a bunch of lone wolves can’t form their own pack? If a bunch of lonely people hang out with each other, are they really alone?

Just like my bar crawl plan, it’s a brilliant idea, the first of many I’m sure to have in my 30’s. And unlike my bar crawl experience, maybe this time I’ll have people to talk to about it.

Until next time…

SF

“You guys might not know this, but I consider myself to be a bit of a loner. I tend to think of myself as a one-man wolf pack.” – Zach Galifianakis, The Hangover

Part 1: The Meaning of Life

“Movin’ through life like the roll of the dice…” – Me N U

I got my Masters Degree in 2017 and while that may sound exciting to some, I’ll admit that I wasn’t as optimistic as everyone else. You see, I had put a lot of stock into myself over 18 months and within a few short months, I had nothing to show for it. I went from being busy all of the time to barely getting people to interview me for five minutes. Needless to say, I had a lot of time on my hands and a lot of it was spent trying to keep my sanity.

My time in grad school wasn’t all bad though, don’t get me wrong. I got to work with some great people and made connections with people from different walks of life. I got to make some pretty good stuff over there and made connections with people I didn’t think I would, some in very unusual ways. For example, there was Connor Castellaw and his short film “Paper Planes”.

Connor and I had met in the summer of 2016 while I was working on another project. My job in grad school was producing shorts, basically creating schedules and budgets for the shoot. Connor had a week to get his project done and he asked me for my help. It was a struggle at times, but the film came out really well and I was happy to help. We even got to go to a premiere for it at an actual movie theater, where it opened for a turtle movie that I’m pretty sure was not even about turtles. I didn’t stay. I did, however, meet Connor’s older brother Corwin… and that’s where our story begins.

Connor and Corwin were shooting pool next to my apartment and I got to know Corwin a little better. He’s a musician and at the time he was composing a score for a Batman fan fiction film with a $75,000 budget (LA is weird, guys). But Corwin was also making music of his own and working on putting together an album. We did the usual thing most “artists” do out here, which is network and see if there’s a chance for a collaboration down the road. A couple weeks later, Corwin called me to pitch me an idea for a music video.

The video was called The Meaning of Life and it was going to be his first single. I went to his house in Mid City and listened to the song as he pitched me the concept: he’s standing in an all white room while one by one a hooded person comes in and violates his space, small at first with punches and face slaps. Soon people would throw pies and eggs and actually start beating him up… and then as he wakes up, those same people that tore him down help him back up and make him whole again. The whole thing would be done in one take, too. I don’t know if it was the song or Corwin’s pitch or the weed I had just smoked (or all three) but I was hooked from the jump. I wanted to do this with him.

Now, because there’s a lot going on in this video and it was going to get messy, in order for us to do this in one swift motion we had to make sure we could execute it with zero flaws. We rehearsed everything outside of his dad’s warehouse for a few weekends a month, making sure people knew when to come in and what to do. If someone messed up, it could set us back hours. A lot of work had to be done to make it perfect.

You see, they had to build two 12 foot all white walls because the end of the video had to look exactly the same as the beginning. That meant changing the walls, the floor and Corwin’s clothes back to white. The eggs had to be filled with food coloring to give the splatter some vibrancy; honestly, Corwin thought of some dope shit but the egg throwing was probably my favorite. However, because there were only a limited amount of eggs, we literally had one chance to get this shot.

When it finally came time to film the scene, everyone was on their A game. It went off without a single hitch and came out exactly as we had all planned. After Corwin was tackled onto the ground and we yelled cut, the feeling in the room was magical. He had actually pulled that off and really took that beating. It was a proud moment, one that would I would see more than once. But this was special. This was the start of something. I just had no clue what that something was…

* * * * * * * * *

“Under the fire lies a secret that is keeping you cold…” – The Meaning of Life

Ok, so let me pause this story real quick to give you guys a little insight into my buddy Corwin. Corwin is a natural born hustler, both he and his brother are. I think that’s why I like them, because they have drive and are super motivated. I can honestly say I was impressed by his go-getter attitude and big artistic visions. It’s inspiring, actually. But there’s something else that I was inspired by when it came to Corwin.

You see, no one’s perfect. Some of us try really hard to be and end up somewhat successful. Some people resist a lot of the world’s temptations and end up on the right track. There are some who, strangely enough, don’t drink alcohol or get high or have premarital sex or say the word fuck like it’s going out of style, all of which I do. Not all of us want to admit it, but most of us are sinners and not saints. In that way, Corwin and I are similar. However, there’s one thing that separates us… Corwin is a recovering drug addict.

Back when he was young adult, Corwin started dabbling in the world of illicit drugs and like most people had a hard time getting out of it. His druggie nickname was Young Skinny because of his lanky frame, another thing he and I have in common (except he looks like a less-tatted Adam Levine whereas I look like the love child of Gollum and ET). He’s not shy about this either; in fact, Corwin wanted me to include this into the story so you guys could have some context. As a guy who has no shame when it comes to revealing personal stuff, I’ll admit, I thought that was a pretty bold move. But that’s Corwin, man. He’s bold as hell.

A lot of addicts need something to help pull them out of their addictive ways, something to break the cycle. Some people go to meetings, some people go to church. Some people work out twice a day, every day, and get super swole. The point is, you have to create a new routine, and at the same time, find something you can put your attention towards. For Corwin, his passion for music and those musical talents were his way out.

While I’ve never been addicted to anything on the level of heroin or anything like that, I understand how hard it can be to quit something that has consumed you for so long, in such a negative way. It’s difficult to just flip a switch and become a “better” person over night. It takes time, a lot of it. Sometimes, you fall back into your old ways and have to start all over again. There’s no shame in it, as long as you pick yourself back up and get back on track.

“The Meaning of Life” was a metaphor for Corwin’s life, but the video wasn’t about him: it was about Young Skinny, his heroin-addicted alter ego, and the forces that held him back. The same thing that gives you grief can also bring you comfort, and it can break it just as quickly. The video represented the cycle and in order to break the cycle, Corwin had to do one thing: Young Skinny had to die.

Back to our story…

Part 2: The Father Grim

“I’ve been chosen for a never ending game… Hold me hopeless in between pleasure and pain…” – Self Doubt Sundays

After filming the music video, my life went back to it’s regularly scheduled boring ass program. The good news was I had a credit to my name as far as being a “producer” was concerned; the bad news was that it didn’t come with pay, not that I expected it or wanted it anyway. I stayed optimistic and kept plugging away, but I’ll be honest… I wasn’t in a good place, mentally. It can get really dark when you’re sitting in silence, especially when all you’re left with is your thoughts.

I started contemplating a lot of things. What was the point of coming to LA, again? Am I ever gonna find a job? Is all of this worth it? Should I have gone to law school? Should I have ever gone back to school at all? What would have happened had I done things differently? I started thinking about every flaw, every decision, every mistake I had made along the way and the consequences that followed. To add to the frustration, I was going home for Christmas.

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I really care about what other people think of me. In fact, anyone who says they don’t care about what others think of them is full of shit, in my opinion. Everyone cares. It’s why we wear clothes or brush our teeth or apologize to people. If it truly didn’t matter, we’d all be naked with bad breath and wouldn’t give a damn about your feelings. It’s supposed to keep us all in check. For me, it’s a reminder to hold myself accountable. I don’t want people to look at me and see a wasted potential, more importantly those that I know in Tampa.

Going back home wasn’t all bad, but it did make me think about one thing: what am I gonna do about LA? If I’m not doing what I want to be doing, am I really doing anything with my life? And if not, how long am I going to keep lying to myself and everyone else about the reality of it all? For New Year’s, like everyone else, I told myself I was going to do three things: 1). Meet someone new, 2). Try something different and 3). Sell a script. To me, all of these goals were attainable. I was ready to get back to LA and make it happen.

Coincidentally, my buddy Stewart was moving back home to Florida when I got back to LA. I let him stay at my place while I was in Tampa and two days after I got back he drove his car back to the Sunshine State. As I said goodbye to one of the few people I called a friend, I got a call from an old friend: Corwin. He sounded really excited and wanted to pitch me this idea he had been working on. The last idea he had was fantastic, so I knew this was going to be good.

This time around there was no music. There was no elaborate pitch. There was weed, but that’s beside the point. It was just me and Corwin on his porch. The music video was in the final edit stage and in a couple months, Corwin wanted to debut it at a show he was planning but he needed a band and for some reason, he needed me as the frontman. The face of the band, the one who tied it all together. There was only one problem: I don’t sing, like at all. Maybe in my shower but that’s it. There was also a solution: I didn’t have to sing. In fact, all I had to do was make people think I was singing.

Now, if you’re thinking this is a really bizarre idea you’re not alone. Personally, I had no idea why Corwin didn’t want to be the frontman if he was already the lead singer. Hell, he’s the entire reason the music even exists. He didn’t just write the lyrics and sing them, he also composed 100% of the band’s sound, from the bass to the drums to the keys, which is his bread and butter. In reality, Corwin didn’t need any of us. But this is Corwin’s world, one that he created, and he wanted me to live in it.

The band was called Sister Grim, a play on the Brother’s Grimm fairytales. Keeping with the bedtime story like name, there was also a story that was connected to it all…

A long time ago, there was a man named Young Skinny who lost faith in the world around him and decided to close himself off from the world that broke him down. He hid behind a cloak and changed his name to The Father Grim, a mysterious figure who had a new plan: he was going to bring the world together through his words of wisdom. He even assembled a team of misfits that shared his same vision: Uncle Urth (our drummer, Cam); Sister Sleaze (our bassist, Jess); and Brother Byrd, (our audio technician wizard, Byrd). Still, there as one piece missing in all of this… someone who had yet to be found…

Around this same time, there was a Prince. This Prince had a lot of promise and wanted to do great things. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, he had trouble advancing in his own kingdom. Feeling defeated by the walls of his kingdom closing in around him, the Prince left his kingdom and decided not to speak anymore. He didn’t just lose his way; he lost his voice, along the way. That is, until he ran into a hooded figure in the forest, a man who called himself The Father Grim.

The Father Grim saw something in the Prince that no one else saw. He saw young man who was destined for something bigger than himself. He saw potential, he saw someone he could use to do great things. So the Father Grim made a deal with the Prince: lead our people and I will give you my voice. The Prince agreed to this odd request and from that day on became known as The Golden Child. And with the light of the Golden Child, the Father Grim finally had his collective together.

In case you haven’t figured out this wild ass allegory, The Father Grim is Corwin and I am The Golden Child. Crazy, right? Even crazier… I didn’t come up with that. In fact, I didn’t come up with any of this stuff. Corwin did. In that moment — whether it was the eerie similarities or the strong hybrid strain I had — Corwin felt like God, like he knew the real meaning of life, even mine. And because just a few days before I had made a promise to myself to try something new… I joined Sister Grim as the “lead singer”.

Part 3: The Birth of The Golden Child

“Now my sins couldn’t take me down this time… just let me take you for a lie…” – X’ed Out

True story, a long time ago I wanted to be a rapper. I’m not gonna talk about it right now, mainly because I don’t want to and possibly because I might write about it soon, but I really liked writing music and playing around with the sounds of the instrumentals. I wasn’t any good at it, though, something that never dawned on me while I was doing it. It wasn’t until people started listening to it that I realized “oh shit, this was a huge mistake and I’m never doing that again”. Being a musician was not my path in life, although I’ve always been inspired by the art.

Fast forward nearly a decade later and there I was, on a stage in front of a hundred or so people. Dressed in a gold sequined jacked and tight black pants, in front of “my band”. It was the first time I had ever been on a stage with people actually paying attention to me, all confused as to what I was doing up there. I kept telling myself not to mess it up. I couldn’t mess it up; if I did, it would’ve been super embarrassing not just to me, but for Corwin.

It was the first real Sister Grim show, at an art studio in downtown LA. Corwin and his art collective buddies banded together to throw this super sick party where guests had to enter through a pink door and into the world of Sister Grim. On the inside, amidst all of the art and band merch, was a projector that was set to play the Meaning of Life music video for the first time. Only a few people had seen the video, so this was gonna be the first time for everyone else, including myself.

It was also the first time anyone would see the band perform live. We rehearsed twice a week for two months to get ready for the show. I’ll be honest, it felt super weird at first. Everyone in the band is really talented and actually had something to bring to the table. My job was basically to look cute which, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, is a lot harder for me than it sounds. Thankfully, I have the personality of a cartoon character so it was really easy to tap into “my character”.

There were times I thought about backing out of the show. I got mad anxiety leading up to it. In my mind, I didn’t think I belonged in the band. To Corwin, that didn’t matter. If we messed up, who cares? Every time I’d bring it up to him, he’d find a way to ease my concerns. As long as I followed his lead, everyone would follow mine and no one would notice. All I had to do was not care and treat it like a piece of performance art. (For the record, I’m also not an actor, although I’m more comfortable with that than singing).

The night of the show, I didn’t want to drink. I’d like to say it was because I wanted to have a clear head, but the truth is I was on an antibiotic and I technically couldn’t. I figured I’d smoke a joint before the show, loosen up a bit on stage and we’d be fine. It’s what I did before every practice, so why not go into the game with same mentality? That turned out to be a dumb idea.

The video was running behind, so that meant the show was running behind schedule, too… about forty-five minutes or so. That’s enough time to face a full joint but it’s also enough time to get super paranoid. What if I stumble? What if I miss my cue? What if I mess up? What if they see the video and figure out it’s Corwin singing and I look like a dumbass in a little gold jacket? I paced back and forth behind the stage, trying to get myself ready but I wasn’t. I was terrified.

I had maybe five minutes to prepare myself and four of those minutes were spent watching the music video, which was amazing. I was stunned at how great it turned out but I immediately felt this knot in my stomach. How in the hell am I supposed to follow that? The band was in place, and I had to walk through the crowd to the stage. I kept my head down and plowed through, taking my spot at the mic… only to look up and have all the eyes on me, roughly ten feet from me. The lip-syncing wasn’t going to cut it… I had to sing.

As soon as the song started, I started singing. In fact, I sang all four songs and no one ever figured it out because the mic wasn’t turned on. The crazy part? Everyone who didn’t know my “role” prior to the show (there were a few people who were in on it from the beginning) thought it was me singing. Hell, even the people who could literally hear my voice thought that it was coming through the speakers. As much as I wanted to tell everyone what was going on, I couldn’t.

In a weird twist of fate, I had to take everyone’s compliments as they were. I felt elated and guilty all at the same time. This might come as a shock to some, but I don’t take compliments well. It makes me feel weird. It’s one of the reasons I can make fun of myself. I don’t care what I think about myself. The problem is, as stated before, I care about the opinions of others. And when all of these people are telling me I did a great job, even though they have no idea what they’re congratulating me for, I felt really conflicted. They were directing their attention at the wrong person.

They couldn’t see the man behind the curtain, and that’s exactly what Corwin wanted.

* * * * * * *

“I just can’t keep up with my sins and it’s all I got at times…” – Coming Down

I remember the first time I got to sit in on a sneak peek of a new song. He had this tiny bedroom in this house in Mid-City where he composed all of the songs. It was his little studio and I’ll be honest, I’ve never seen someone do more with less in terms of space quite like him. He played me a rough cut of a song he wrote called Coming Down, which he wanted to try out live at the next show.

From the jump, I knew this was the song. This was our closer. It had such a breezy vibe and a catchy hook. It honestly could’ve been a song on the radio and I would’ve believed it. I got up and did my patented Golden Child knee knocking (it’s what I call my dancing, just picture Kevin Bacon in Footloose). Immediately, my mind began thinking about a music video for it. Something dark and sleazy, which fit with our “Sleaze Pop” genre (a genre coined by Corwin, of course). I pictured this twisted love story, but that’s not exactly how Corwin intended it.

You see, Coming Down is, in a way, a twisted love story but not about a person; it’s about heroin. All great rock songs are about heroin if you really think about it. The lyrics were a double edged sword of sorts: I get around town on fireworks and paper planes/And I’m kickin it down, we’ve got enough to go insane/Can’t give it up now, she’s lonely calling out my name/And I lit it up with her dying flame… When he explained it to me, it really sunk in and I saw what he was saying. In fact, a lot of his music really reflected his life during that period of time. The more I began to listen, the more I began to learn.

We were going to perform Coming Down for the first time in a Sister Grim Summer Party in the backyard at Corwin’s house. There were going to be four sets of bands, including Sister Grim to close it out. It was our second show and I was pretty pumped about it now that I had gotten the first out of of the way. This time I was getting an Uber, because I was going to drink tequila and to my damn thing on that stage… and also the roof.

When it came time for us to play, the surprisingly big crowd in the backyard was getting ready as the band took the stage. I, meanwhile, was on the roof, gold sequined jacket and no shirt, looking like a young Freddy Mercury (or Rami Malek, whichever). There were smoke machines and gold lights to make me shine. And I’m not gonna lie, it was thrilling. After I got down and did a wardrobe change (because I’m a diva), we finished the set and I got hammered because damn did we crush!

That party was one of the 30 best moments of my life. I briefly wrote about it my previous post, actually. When I joined the band I didn’t know what to expect. I figured it would be a one time thing and then that would be it, but that second show lit a fire under me. I loved being on the stage. I actually thought it was funny people couldn’t figure out it was me after the show. This girl I knew who I invited to the show couldn’t believe that was me, and to be honest, I couldn’t either… that’s when it got real. That’s when I realized I was legit in a band.

And that’s when it started to fall apart…

Part 4: Self Doubt Sunday

“Everybody wants to play the game, except they cannot take the pain…” – Coming Down

I didn’t want to take credit for the band’s success. There’s something about taking credit for something I didn’t do that doesn’t sit right with me. I also don’t like to lie to people and, for all intents and purposes, that’s exactly what I was doing. I was conning people in the name of art. At least that’s how I justified it. But the Golden Child wasn’t real. It was an illusion and if you looked closely, you could figure out the trick.

It’s like in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy and the gang pull back the curtain to discover the Wizard they all revered was just a regular man pulling the strings. Except the man behind the curtain wasn’t me and I also wasn’t Dorothy (although I would’ve gladly accepted because I look great in blue). Corwin wanted no one to pay attention to the man behind the curtain, but with each passing show it was hard not to notice the strings.

I actually wrote a script about all of this, called AmeriCON Idol (I know, it’s clever… someone pay me already, dammit!). The idea was that this lead “singer” of a band tries out for American Idol as a joke to get the band more followers and ends up in the show as a legit contestant when it turns out he can actually sing. The only problem is he never intended to be thrown into the spotlight and wrestles with idea that he’s nothing but a gimmick. That’s not what he wanted. (He’s also a legit con man and doesn’t want the spotlight because he’s afraid his past will come back to haunt him, but that’s irrelevant to this current story).

In a way, that’s how I felt at times. Don’t get me wrong, I loved being on stage and that show ended up being a really fun experience, but I felt like I was in the spotlight for the wrong reason. I’m not a musician; I’m a writer, or at least I try to be. I felt a little intimidated when I was around the band because unlike them I had no experience with music.

Corwin, meanwhile, was on top of his game. That backyard show was something to behold. When he put his mind to it, he could come up with some amazing ideas. There was always a bigger picture with him, and sometimes you couldn’t really see the full scope of it unless you had his vision. The next step in the process of Sister Grim was to put out a full album. 10 songs, all written and composed by Corwin. As a member of the band, I got to hear all of the songs ahead of time and it became surreal when I heard the full album in one sitting.

We were sitting in Corwin’s car and he played it through his phone. Track after track I sat there in amazement, especially when it got to the middle. There were three tracks I hadn’t heard mixed yet: Self Doubt Sundays, Pitter Patters and X’ed Out, which initially sounded like a Gucci Mane beat and I was really into that. I didn’t know what to say other than one thing: this is one hell of a good album.

The only issue I had with the album was its title: The Death of Young Skinny/The Birth of the Golden Child. To me, that was a friggin mouthful. If anything, it should’ve just been called The Death of Young Skinny. But it wasn’t just the long title that I disagreed with; secretly, I didn’t want the Golden Child thing to be mentioned. And my reason was simple. I didn’t want Corwin to feel like he needed to include me in that. I had nothing to do with the album other than maybe adding input once or twice. Was I part of the band? Yes, absolutely. But I was also a big fan, too. I wanted Corwin to get all of the praise he deserved because he truly did a great job. He deserved all the love.

I told him a few times that if the band were to ever make it big, I’d walk away. I didn’t want it to be about me, but I found myself having a bigger role and I was open to it. We did a few more shows and my wardrobe was upgraded to a gold and black suit. I even started referring to Sister Grim as “my band” without my stomach turning. I started thinking about the big picture of the band and fantasizing about our songs getting played on the radio or in a club. I got hooked on the drug of being a rockstar (or something like it).

You know you’re addicted to something when you lose a grip on your every day life. I hadn’t really found steady work since joining the band. In fact, the closest I came to getting a stable job was as a director’s assistant after he saw the Meaning of Life video I showed to his assistant. I didn’t get the job, but I got close enough to feel good about myself. Had I got the job though I don’t think I would’ve been in the band, which was my initial excuse as to why I wouldn’t commit to the band long term in the beginning.

Unemployment struggles aside, I still had one more resolution to check off: sell a script. An old friend from Tampa had come to visit over the summer and while we were catching up over lost time, we talked about collaborating on something one day. When she found her project she came to me to write the script and for the first time in my “career” I was paid for a feature length script. I’ve always been passionate about storytelling and to finally be credited for something felt amazing.

2018 was turning out to be a pretty good year, the culmination of which being a two week stretch from late September to early October. The day I sent over the script, I was on a plane to see my buddy get married in Hawaii. My brother and his fiancée came back to LA with me for a few days and later that weekend was another Sister Grim show. I was on top of the world. I had met someone new, I had tried something different and I sold a script. Everything was going great.

And then it wasn’t. Due to a mic snafu at the show that weekend, I ended up singing for everyone for the majority of the show. I’m not sure if this pissed Corwin off or anything, but I’m pretty sure people immediately figured out I was lip syncing. I mean, it was a long time coming but there were still some people who were confused when they heard my actual voice because it’s definitely different than Corwin’s. I knew that night that was my last show as the Golden Child.

A few days later, I noticed an invite to a Sister Grim show. It was a solo show for the Father Grim, basically just Corwin. If that wasn’t a clue, then the next full Sister Grim show was scheduled on a weekend I had planned to go to Tampa for my Uncles wedding. I know it was probably hard for Corwin to tell me he was gonna move on without me, but it was awkward for me. Of course I was gonna walk away; I just didn’t think it was going to be that sudden. I was really enjoying my time in the band and was excited to see where it was gonna go. But I knew it was time to hang it up. It wasn’t fair to Corwin. He had to be the face of the band because he IS the band. It was for the best, 100%.

Even though I wasn’t a part of the band anymore, I still came to his solo shows because I truly am a fan of his work. There are times I want to get on the stage and dance around again, but I like not having the pressure of everyone watching me. I’ll leave that up to Corwin, who’s learning how to take the spotlight for himself and really come into his own. There’s zero hard feelings, only good times and great memories.

A few weeks ago, I got a call from Corwin about some big news he wanted to tell me about at one of his shows. I figured it had something to do with the band, perhaps maybe I was going to be involved in something for the next backyard party that we talked about. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that. Instead, Corwin was moving to New York City in two weeks. The bad news was these were going to be his last couple of shows. The good news…

Young Skinny was dead.

Part 5: The Death of Young Skinny

“Can’t you tell the answer lies within yourself? Try a little lovin’ and give a little love yourself…” – Dead

It’s been 7 months since I donned that gold jacket and sauntered around the stage. A lot has changed since then: for one, I don’t even talk to the “new person” I met in 2018; I have sold another script and I’ve decided to just be a writer full time (selling my body on the side, but don’t tell anyone); and I am no longer in Sister Grim. In fact, no one is. It’s just Corwin, as it always should’ve been.

There’s something I forgot to mention about him upfront and I think the reason is because I didn’t think about it until the other day when we were filming the video for Coming Down. Among other things, the video shows Corwin sitting in an armchair as people begin to sit on him and climb on him, basically suffocating him. Despite it being super uncomfortable, it was also a pretty interesting metaphor.

If The Meaning of Life was about the struggles of being stuck in a cycle, then Coming Down was about how those struggles were going to be the death of him. The point of the video is the death of the Young Skinny character from the previous video, including a funeral for Corwin’s longtime alter ego. It was a fitting theme for his last video in LA, the place he grew up and lived most of his life. It was the end of one story and the start of a something new. It was also something much more than that, at least to me.

Young Skinny is the last thing that Corwin held onto from his old ways. Young Skinny was an artist and a hustler, but he was also a sad and broken person. He had a tendency to hide behind others and not want to be the center of attention. He needed a security blanket, something to cover his fears and anxieties. He had a lot to say but was afraid of what consumed him deep inside that made him feel that way. And he was afraid people would see that, deep down, there was a darkness and a dying flame called hope.

Young Skinny’s dying flame was put out when he became the Father Grim. He found someone he could hide behind, and eventually transferred that to another person who was lost and needed to hide behind something, too, hoping that person had the light to guide him back to where he came. But in reality, Father Grim didn’t need The Golden Child for people to follow him; he had the light in him all along.

Young Skinny is a mindset. He is the past. He is the a reminder of where you came from and what you endured. He is your friend but also your enemy. He can pump you up and then cut you down. He is an enigma. He is inside all of us. He’s the life of the party, but he’s also the reason you drink. He makes you feel good but he’s also the reason you get anxious and nervous and depressed and complacent and defeated. But Young Skinny can’t live forever. At some point, you have to break the cycle and say goodbye. You gotta leave it behind.

This past Friday was the Sister Grim’s final show in LA. It was at the Songbird Cafe in Chinatown, which is a dope little spot hidden inside of a coffee shop. The picture frames that line the walls near the stage are all digital and that night they were filled with broken neon hearts. It was a good turnout and for the loyal “Grimlins” that showed up, Corwin did not disappoint. It was also the longest set he had played, as he rolled off song after song for over an hour. It was the farewell show, but it was also the album release party.

The Death of Young Skinny drops soon and I am legit excited for it’s return. You see, the album was pulled off streaming services a few months ago to get retooled. It was also taken down because Corwin had to recalibrate the band and his big picture. Personally, I thought the album was already pretty solid for a debut he made in his bedroom but then you hear the newer version and it makes sense. Art is always changing, it never stays a certain way. He tinkers and tinkers, trying to make it the best it can be. That’s what separates those who say they want to do something and those who actually do something to make it happen. That’s why he will succeed, in my opinion.

Corwin leaves for NYC tomorrow and I couldn’t be happier for him. As someone who felt he had to escape his hometown — and in a way, his past — I know what a change of scenery can do. It can inspire you to create something out of yourself and it can open doors for you that you didn’t know were there. Hell, if you would’ve told me a few years ago that I would be a lip-syncing front man in a band in LA, I would’ve laughed at you but yet here I am writing a story about just that. I don’t know what the future holds for Corwin and Sister Grim — none of us do, really — but I know that if I had to put my money on someone that could hustle and make something happen,

As for me, well, I’m just happy I got to be a part of something that was bigger than me. I owe a lot to Corwin, I really do. He really did find me when I was in a bad place and he gave me the light I didn’t know I was looking for. I’ll never really know why he wanted me to be in the band. He could’ve asked dozens of other people who he knew better and were more qualified to do it, but for some reason he chose me and I am forever grateful for that. He’s inspired me in many different ways. I’ve gained a lot of perspective from him on life and art, and I think it’s helped me creatively. My approach to it is different now. Watching him, seeing him do what he does, it makes me go wake up, man… you need to hustle.

Since moving to LA, I’ve formed friendships and relationships with people that I don’t have anymore for one reason or another. That’s life, though. People come and go and that’s the way it is, but what matters is what you took away from it. I’ll always relish in the memory of being in the band. One day, if some lady is crazy enough to give me kids, I’m going to sit them around the couch and play Sister Grim’s album. I’m gonna tell them about that time their dad was in a band and they’re not gonna believe me because Sister Grim will have won multiple Grammy’s and topped the Billboard charts. There’s no way their dad was cool enough to be in that band.

Or, hear me out on this, maybe down the road I’ll actually be a producer and get to collaborate on Sister Grim’s next music video. Maybe the Golden Child will make an appearance (I still have the gold jacket, FYI). Maybe we’ll go on Jimmy Fallon and Jimmy will be like Oh, wait, you two mega famous people used to be in a band together? And people will laugh and cheer and it will all be really bizarre and surreal. I hope that’s what happens. Until then, I gotta step my game up. That’s what The Father taught me. I’m gonna miss that dude, but he’s gonna be in a better place… Harlem.

RIP Young Skinny. You will not be missed, but I will miss my buddy Corwin Castellaw. Pour one out for the homie and turn on that Sister Grim for the honeys.

Until next time…

The Golden Child

*Check our the new and improved Sister Grim album, available now for your listening pleasure!*

https://m.soundcloud.com/sistergrimmusic/sets/the-death-of-young-skinny

Everybody wants to be someone but you will never be enough until you love yourself. – Self Doubt Sundays, Sister Grim

In honor of my 30th birthday, I am going to take a trip down memory lane and highlight the 30 nicest things from the past 30 years of my life. It could be a person, a place, a thing or a feeling. These 30 things are the things that have inspired and influenced me, the patches of memories that make up the tapestry of my life, and I’m happy to share them with all of you.

Some of these stories are short, some are a little longer, but a few of these entries will be expanded upon in later posts. If you wanted to hear more of these stories, then stay tuned… they’re on the way!

30. Vegas

The first (of many) times I went to Vegas was last years for my buddy Nick’s bachelor party. We stayed at the Cosmopolitan, which is a great place to check out if you’re ever in Sin City. Out of respect to guy code, I can’t go into too much detail as to why this is included on the list, so I’ll just put it this way: I have never been to a place where the rules of time don’t apply. We had so much fun that weekend it’s hard to know exactly what happened on what day or even what time it was, but it was so good that I can’t even really talk about it. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. It was expensive though, I’m not gonna lie.

29. The Panty Raid at Camp Keystone

Ok, so I’m sure you have some questions about this title, and it’s exactly what you think it is only it’s not what you think it is. Camp Keystone was my first experience at an overnight camp. I was thirteen years old. My uncles went to Camp Keystone when they were our ages, so it was like a passing of the torch in a way. One of them told me about doing a “panty raid” (like the good ole days) and when I brought it up to the guys in my cabin, they were like yes, this is a fantastic idea! Our cabin was nicknamed the Rowdies, so we lived up to our name.

Three of us set out into the woods and over to our “sister cabin” the Hens (or something like that). After an hour of a stakeout, one of the guys (we’ll call Jay) decided to create a diversion that drove all the girls out. Me and this other guy (George) tried to get in but had to bail and that’s when it hit me… by “it” I mean this CIT (counselor in training), who took me down like a linebacker. She got me good, man. I was then tied up to a post outside of their cabin, along with George. They had us hostage for a couple of hours and did whatever they wanted to us, but not in a sexy way: they put their clothes on us, put make up on our faces, lathered us up with lotion or shaving cream, whatever they could find.

Jay managed to get back to the cabin, and while I’ll never know what actually happened there, apparently he begged the other two guys to come help and that’s when our counselor (Damien) burst in, drunk, and gave a Braveheart like speech to get us back. I say Braveheart because, I’m not making this up, while we were tied up I heard Damien scream “FREEDOM” at the top of his lungs while throwing water balloons. That’s when we were rescued. We made it back to our cabin, with some panties in tow… granted, the girls did put them on us while we were tied up, but a win is a win so don’t argue with me.

That was a fun night, man.

28. Sister Grim

A couple of years ago, I met this chill dude named Corwin Castellaw. I had just produced a short film for his brother, Connor, and he wanted to collaborate on something in the future. He pitched me this pretty awesome music video for a song he made called The Meaning of Life. It was a pretty dope concept and the way he pitched it had me hooked, immediately. The resulting shoot was one of the coolest I’d ever been on, but I had no idea where it would take after that.

A few months after the shoot, Corwin called me to pitch me another idea. I figured it was another music video shoot and was shocked to find out that it wasn’t; he wanted me to be in the band, as the frontman. It was really bizarre and took me a while to really grasp what we were doing, but I rode with Corwin and never looked back. I’m really glad I did, too, because those moments where I got to be on stage performing as The Golden Child were some of the most fulfilling and thrilling moments I’ve ever experienced.

(If you want to know more about the story, be on the lookout for my next blog/story Sister Grim Presents: The Untold Story of the Golden Child, coming out in a couple weeks!)

27. Peeing on the Yukie Wall

This may make no sense to anyone that’s not a Freeman, but my dad used to talk about growing up in Wildwood and this wall that was next door. The people who built it were these Yugoslavians who didn’t like the Freeman’s, I guess, so as an act of protest they would pee on what they called “The Yukie Wall”. My dad has told me a lot of great stories, and that was one that always stood out to us, mainly because my brother and I liked to pee on things.

When Ryan and I went to Wildwood for the first time we got to go to the house on Crocus Road, the house where my grandmother raised nine boys (!!!) with only one Maytag washer. We were pretty pumped, for obvious reasons… we wanted to pee on the Yukie Wall. My dad always acted like it was a right of passage of sorts, so we drank a ton of water in preparation for this big moment. In reality, the wall wasn’t that big even though we thought it was gonna be a fortress. Still, there we were… pants down in public and peeing on someone’s walls, all while our dad took pictures of the occasion, probably just as proud of the moment as we were. If you don’t know by now, let me just tell you… it’s a Freeman thing.

26. The Clubhouse

This could be another story entirely and it very well might be (stay tuned!). My stepfather, Allen, and my grandfather built us clubhouse when we were kids as a way for us to smoke weed when we didn’t want to get caught. I’m kidding! That’s what we used it for years later, but his intentions were a lot more innocent. The clubhouse was dope though, no pun intended. It had an A/C unit, a working phone and electrical outlets where we could plug in a TV and VCR (this was 1999, FYI). No matter what we did though, we almost always got in trouble up there.

I mentioned the weed part, but that’s actually not even the worst thing that we would do up there. You see, kids have this tendency to do dumb shit when they’re unsupervised. One of our favorite activities was prank phone calling. The clubhouse not only had a phone, but it had it’s own line. We’d prank call everyone in the school directory — which, side bar: who’s bright idea was that? To put everyone’s name and address in a book and give it to each other? That’s bold, man. So, in a way, it’s not our fault our school didn’t think we’d do that. Right?

Sure, it was always a place we did bad stuff in, but you know what? It’s nice that we had a place to even do all that stuff in and for that, we thank you Allen. I’m sure you’d rather me not thank you for that and thank you for all of the other great stuff you’ve done, but this one was pretty cool.

25. Caroline, my first car

Named after the North Carolina Tar Heels, this baby blue hoopty was my first major responsibility, other than staying alive. It originally belonged to Allen’s father, and after he passed away they were going to give it me. All I had to do was get a 3.0 with no C’s and the car was mine. Easier said than done, however, because of my struggles with geometry. I couldn’t understand it then, still can’t now, and it’s what kept me from getting the car. I’d get a 2.9 and one C, but my mom wouldn’t budge. In fact, she gave me a math problem to solve: If you go to a Coke machine with forty five cents and the Coke costs fifty, are you getting a Coke? Even my dumb ass could figure out I wasn’t getting the car.

When I finally managed to put together good grades my junior year, I was on cloud nine — stemmed solely from the fact that I now had a girlfriend and the car as going to be a necessity. Funny story, I actually locked myself out of the car the first time I took it for a spin on my own. Not a great way to start a relationship, but me and Caroline had a ton of memories together. She sat low to the ground and it made me feel like I was riding around in a space ship. We’d ride around Tampa, listening to Lil Wayne or T-Pain, fuzzy dice hanging in the mirror… man, I miss that car!

24. The Hawthorne House

Ok, so I won’t go too in-depth on this one because it’s the subject of a later story down the road, but anyone that’s ever been to the Hawthorne House knows why it’s on the list. It’s also one of the greatest examples of why we can’t have nice things, but that’s not what this is about. For about two years, this house served as both a place to rest your head if you needed a place to stay and also the de-facto party house. Whether it’s as inside a blanket fort playing Mario Kart or sitting outside the man-made fire pit in the front yard, there was always a good time to be had.

It’s also where my brother and his soon-to-be wife met for the first time, although I’m gonna say how or why even though it’s one of my favorite stories to tell. But that’s why it’s on the list… there are so many Hawthorne stories I can think of that these couple paragraphs can’t do it justice. It was an inclusive house, everyone was welcome and everyone had a story to tell. That’s why I named my “production company” Hawthorne Road Productions, because at Hawthorne we want you to feel like you’re at home. Just make sure you follow the rules of the house!

23. Mia, the wonder dog

I always wanted a dog when I was a kid and my wish came true thanks to my (fairy) Godmother, Nani. She had come back from Miami and with her was the cutest Pomeranian pup that was just for us. We named her Mia, after her birth place. I remember it because that night I had to do a sleep study at the hospital but I really wanted to stay and play with Mia. My mom ensured me that I’d have plenty of time to play with her and boy was she right… for eighteen years, Mia was a part of our family. She was the coolest, sweetest dog you’d ever met. She’d sneak into my room every night and sleep on my bed. As she got older, she’d just hang out around the house with us and watch TV. She was comforting and loving and never gave us any problems. She was an incredible dog and I miss her very much.

22. Vince Carter

For as much as I love basketball, I’ve actually only been to one NBA game in my lifetime. When I was fifteen, my dad got us tickets to an Orlando Magic game but that’s not the best part: I was going to see my favorite player, Vince Carter, in person. For those that know me, I’m the biggest VC fan you’ll ever meet, to the point where my team allegiance is whichever one he plays for (currently, it’s the Hawks, because he’s still in the league at 42!).

Seeing Vince live was everything I expected it to be. At the time, he was playing with the New Jersey Nets, a squad that had Jason Kidd, Richard Jefferson and Kenyon Martin. Orlando had a decent team too with Stevie Franchise and a very young Dwight Howard, who started off the game with a thunderous alley-oop. The game certainly did not disappoint, as the Nets routed the Magic by 25. As for Vince? He put up 36 points, including a smooth baseline slam that honestly made me the happiest kid in the building. It was sensational. He may never get a ring, but he’s a sure bet for the Hall of Fame and if he doesn’t I will start a riot.

21. “Dave”

During my sophomore year at the University of Tampa, I took my first real film class. I had always wanted to put together a decent short and now I had my chance. The only problem was my schedule at work. I had been working at Target for about a year and told them my plan for college. So when I asked them to take off a couple of weeks to prepare for exams and film this short, I figured they’d understand. They didn’t. Instead, they gave me an ultimatum: either show up to work or say goodbye to the job.

I wrestled with the decision for a few days. I thought maybe I can do both, although I knew my film would come out half-assed and I’d just skate by. I talked with a girl in my class, Sylvia, who convinced me that the job at Target wasn’t worth it for my overall goal and she was right. I didn’t wanna work at Target. I had bigger dreams. After class I went to Target to try and get one more chance, but they wouldn’t budge and neither did I. I quit my job and went straight to the Starbucks right next door and wrote my first short film: “Dave”, the story of a masked serial killer who wants to quit his job to become an interior decorator.

It was a really weird concept, but it was inspired by everything going on around me. I was tired of hiding my intentions with the world. I wanted everyone to see me as a storyteller, someone who had ideas and visions. If I kept working at Target, who knows if I would’ve been motivated to tell that story. I didn’t have any equipment, save for a dinky ass handi-cam and a host of friends that I convinced to be in it. It took me a couple of weeks but I finally got my footage and went to edit it down.

I stayed up all night in the editing room at UT with Sylvia, who was also editing her short that I helped her with (shout out to Sylvia, wherever she is. That girl was dope). It was about 5 am when I finally had the cut I liked and it may have been the adderall I had taken (never again), but I was super excited. At this point, I was all alone. Just me and my movie. When my name popped up at the end, I cried a little. It wasn’t any good, but for once in my life I did something I said I was gonna do and no matter how it looked, no one could take that away from me. Even though it makes me cringe a little now when I watch it, I’ll always be proud of what I did. It was the start of something.

20. Zoe

They say you always remember your first love and I’m no exception. In fact, I’m probably the poster child for it, if I’m being honest. That’s why I have to include my first girlfriend, Zoe, on this list. Those of you that know me really well are probably scratching your heads and don’t know how to feel about this, and trust me, I don’t blame any of those feelings. But… there are some people that come into your life at the right moment in time and change it for the better, when you least expect it. Zoe, for all intents and purposes, as that person.

In the summer of 06, I had probably my most grueling surgery. For the weeks I had to wear this cage-like contraption called a “halo” that was screwed into my head. I lost a lot of weight, I couldn’t do anything active — even though I’d try — and I felt out of place. The surgery to take it off was just as bad, as more work had to be done. I missed the first couple months of school as a result. What people didn’t know — because I don’t really like to talk about it that much — was that I was super depressed. It was almost like a form of PTSD, in a way, having to adjust to my new look and snap out of the surgery mindset. I just felt off, so much so that at one point I was slightly suicidal. I isolated myself out at my grandparents house and, among other things, considered never going back to Bayshore. Enter Zoe…

I didn’t know her that well, but she was friends with Ryan and she reached out to me to see how I was doing. We ended up talking for a whole week over the phone and I was shocked to find out she had a crush on me. It just didn’t make sense to me, at that time, for anyone to find me attractive, you know? It was the first time that I felt like someone had liked me for me. She saw past all of my flaws — in my most flawed moment — and legitimately liked me. Had it not been for her, I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened. She’s the reason I went back to Bayshore. She’s the reason I felt comfortable and confident around people after that. She is among the people that have shaped me into the person I am today. She took a chance on me, and I’m forever grateful that she called me that night while I was hitting golf balls into the ocean.

They say everything happens for a reason, and even though Zoe and I had our ups and downs over the years, she’s a constant reminder that I can have nice things and hopefully one day I’ll have that back (not with her, obviously, but someone else).

19. My first basket at BCS

Forget about my missed shots, let’s move on to the one’s I made. If I’m going to be known for anything it’s two things: 1). I have great hands (I really do, ask me about them) and 2). I love basketball. There was a time, however, where I was not good at it (*insert joke from my dad about how I’m still not good at it*). I have been playing basketball since I was five years old, my first games being at the YMCA.

The first time I played basketball at Bayshore was in the fourth grade, during Mr. Keagy’s spring intramural league. I was on the blue team and I didn’t score a basket all season. I promised myself that the next year was going to be different. I was going to score. I practiced for hours on end and when the time came again the following spring, I was ready. I was on the gold team this time and in the first game I hit not one, but TWO bank shots from the elbow (I didn’t call glass but I don’t care, dad). I felt like the next Larry Bird, only I was so excited that I forgot to get back on defense. That was a thrilling moment, but it’s not the best shot I made on that court.

18. Hitting a buzzer beater

Growing up, I was always playing basketball. Whether it was at my house or the Stenholm’s house or at the school, that’s all I concerned myself with. I would shoot hoops for hours, even into the night, imagining that I was on a bigger stage. Every shot was an in game situation and the game was always on the line. I dreamed of hitting a buzzer beater in real life, because those are the best moments. I missed a lot of shots, but I made some, too. However, the best shot I ever made was also the luckiest shot I ever took.

I was a sophomore in high school, starting for the JV team. We were playing our rivals, Tampa Baptist, a team that had beat the crap out of us the last time around. We kept it close and as the third quarter was coming to a close, I trapped a guy at half-court and managed to get a steal. With seconds winding down, I tried to get a shot off but was pushed out of bounds and had to throw it up with my left hand. I didn’t call glass, but it went it at the buzzer and the crowd went nuts. I ran around like a mad man, even though we still had one quarter left to play. We ended up winning the game, thanks to the homie Hussien nailing a 3 with seconds left. It was my best game and also my favorite game to play in. Hell, they wanted to fight us afterwards but that’s because Caleb tackled a dude into the wall with a minute left to go. What a night.

17. Super Bowl XXXVII

My first real championship experience came from my hometown team, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers (even though no one from Tampa has ever referred to it as Tampa Bay). The Bucs have been a part of my life since I was a kid, back when I went to my first game at The Old Sombrero, back when they rocked those ugly orange jerseys. The only thing I remember about those years was that we sucked, and that I fell into a cooler during one of the games (that really happened). I went to other games. We won some, lost a lot. But in 2002-03, magic happened…

Jon Gruden showed up and the Bucs (finally) got past the Eagles and into the Super Bowl. I don’t want to say I 100% knew they’d win, but by halftime it became clear: we were going to win the Super Bowl. As the Bucs continued to beat down Gruden’s former Oakland Raider team 48-21, the excitement in our house during the Super Bowl party was at an all time high. It was a hell of a day. I never thought I’d see the Bucs win a Super Bowl, yet here I was at 13 getting to see something no one in Cleveland has ever seen. We didn’t even go to school the next day, that’s how lit shit was. It was a high our city had never experienced before.

However, as a Bucs fan, I speak for all of us when I say… We traded up in the 2nd round to draft a kicker, only to cut him a year later and (say it with me) THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!!!

16. The 2008 Philadelphia Phillies

Another sports inclusion, another great moment in Freeman history. As I’ve said before in earlier posts, I have been a Phillies fan for as long and I can remember and no one has influenced that more than my dad. He took me to a game at The Vet, during it’s final year, where we almost Kevin Milwood throw a no-hitter. During the summers, he would listen to the Harry Kalas call the games over the radio, something that I now do everyday. He would tell us stories about the 1980 World Series team and Michael Jack Schmidt, the greatest 3rd baseman to ever play the game. I think other than having children, meeting Schmidt has to be the greatest moment of my dad’s life. That’s just how much we love the Phillies.

2008 was a big year for me, with a lot of twists and turns and ups and downs. I graduated high school that year, but that wasn’t even the highlight of my year. That would come in October, when the Phillies made it back to the World Series for the first time in fifteen years. The opponent, to make things interesting for me, was my hometown Tampa Bay Rays, a team that I have never (and will never) call my own. Why? Because before game 1 my dad called me up and said “who ya got” and I answered correctly, because if I would’ve said anything other than “who do you think?” I probably would’ve been cut out of his will.

We watched nearly every game together except for game 5, where the Phils had a 3-1 series lead an were on the verge of closing it out… until a bullshit rain delay postponed the game to the next day. In a weird turn of events, game 5 was going to start in the 7th inning with the score tied 2-2. Luckily, this gave my dad an opportunity to come to Tampa and watch the game with us. He was so distraught he couldn’t even watch the game inside. When Brad Lidge struck out Eric Hinske for the final out, he bum rushed us like we were on the field, too. Honestly, I’ve never seen my dad happier than that night and that is exactly why the Phillies will always have a special place in my heart.

15. The Tar Heel Championships — 2005, 2009 and 2017.

I think I’ve mentioned enough how much I love the North Carolina Tar Heels and if it wasn’t clear before, than welcome to the first of two Tar Heel entries on this list. My love for the Heels stems back from when I was a kid and is because of Vince Carter and Michael Jordan, my two favorite players and Tar Heel alums. Unlike all of the teams that I care deeply about, the Heels usually have the best chance to win something year in and year out. Hell, they recently cut down the nets in 2017, a year after avenging a devastating loss in the championship game (which I still don’t like to talk about). I’ve been able to see the Heels win three times in my life, but the first time stands out the most.

The year was 2005. I was a freshman in high school. I had been a Tar Heel faithful and everyone at school knew that. In fact, it felt like a lot of my friends loved arch-rival Duke just to mess with me. I took those games very serious (still do) and if they would lose a game, I’d try to act like I was sick so I didn’t have to go to school and face the taunts. Then, on April 4, 2005… they did it. I jumped so high I thought my head was going to go through the roof. I wanted to go to school the next day so bad and I wore my Heels jersey under my shirt to show everyone who was boss. It may not mean much to some, but to sixteen year old Shea that was the greatest moment of all time.

14. The ACC Championship in 2007

Ok, this is the last of my sports stories… maybe. Honestly, this one was in competition for the top 10 and it’s very close because of what it involves: the Tar Heels. They won the ACC Championship in 2007 and I got to witness it in person. Usually the ACC holds their tournament in Greensboro, North Carolina but for one year it was in Tampa of all places. It was an incredible weekend that I will never forget, but how it even happened is worth a mention.

The summer of 2006 was a hard one for me because of the surgeries that I had. Usually I would stay out at my grandparent’s house to recover. One day, an old friend of my grandparents named George Levy stopped by to pay a visit. He would always wear this Yankees World Series ring that he got from his friend George Steinbrenner (true story). He was a super nice guy and always had a story to tell. I enjoyed seeing him because of that, but also because we could talk sports. I mentioned how the Heels were going beat his Florida Gators in the National Championship this year and that’s when he told me about the ACC championship in Tampa. My eyes lit up. How could would it be to see them play in person?

A few months later, my mom handed me an envelope with a smile. George had managed to get me tickets to the ACC Tournament. Not just for one game, but the entire weekend in a box suite. Granted, the caveat was it was like some sort of Make A Wish thing, but hey, if I gotta walk around lookin’ like Quasimodo 24/7 for some Tar Heel tickets, I’m all for it. You gotta do what you gotta do, right?

Not only did I get to see the Heels win, I got to see Duke lose in the first round. That was truly spectacular, I have to admit. I took Ryan and Zoe to the games, at separate times, but I was able to get them both in for the championship game. After the Heels beat down other in-state rival NC State, we went down to the court and watched them cut down the nets. That was one of the happiest moments of my life. To add to this great weekend, it was the first time I saw Steven in Tar Heel gear and that was amazing in and of itself became he wasn’t a Heel before that weekend and now he’s a Heel for life. Incredible.

13. Losing my virginity

Now, I’m sure some of are probably going “wow shea, that’s too much information”, however I would argue that it deserves to be on this list. Sex is amazing, probably the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s arguably my favorite thing to do (next to playing basketball) that I don’t get to do nearly as much as I’d like to (I also may or may not be good at either of those things, but you gotta admire my hustle nonetheless). It was also a turning point in my life, all things considered. I didn’t have a bar mitzvah so that night was my coronation as a man (in a way). Plus, these are my 30 favorite moments and if I didn’t include it you’d assume it never happened. The fact that I kept it out of the top 10 shows my restraint. Anyway, moving on…

12. Hawaii

I’ve been lucky and fortunate enough to have the greatest grandparents in the world. They’ve taken me and my family on some amazing trips all across the world. I’ve been to Spain, Italy, Mexico, Turkey and Greece, but nothing has ever stayed with me quite like Hawaii. I was fifteen years old and it was the summer before high school. It was also the first summer of Kanye, because that was the first time I ever listened to The College Dropout, which is my favorite album of all time and easily a top 5 most influential thing in my life. It was also the soundtrack for the best summer vacation ever.

We were in Hawaii for two weeks, the latter of which was spent on a cruise going from island to island. Initially, I was just stoked that the boat had a basketball court because that was literally all I cared about back then. That’s when I met these two twins who played lacrosse and were like, yo, you should come to the Teen Zone later. I’m so glad I did because it was like one of those coming of age movies where strangers meet and become friends for a few days then never see each other again… but we had the memories.

For example, Hawaii was the first time I ever smoked pot (I’m sure someone’s not gonna like this story but oh well, my last post was about shitting on a car when I was 18 so it’s not that bad in comparison). We were docked in Maui for a night and a couple of the older guys were talking about going to find “Maui Wowie”. I didn’t know what the hell that was, but I was down for whatever. We got off the boat and somehow made it to a nearby mall, where we’d ask anyone we saw if they knew how to get their hands on that magical, mythical herb. Soon enough, we found a shady dude behind the mall who sold us some weed and the rest is history. It was thrilling, I had no idea what was gonna happen and I didn’t care because I had such a good time with those other kids. I wonder what they’re up to now and if they remember that week, too…

11. Davis Island

I have always said that Tampa is a great place to grow up and nowhere in Tampa is that more true than Davis Island. It’s a small little “island” that’s connected to downtown Tampa/Bayshore Blvd and it’s like a little town. There’s shops, great restaurants, a friggin hospital with a helicopter, a baseball field, a marina and a tiny airport. My mom grew up on Davis Island. Years and years later, a part of my upbringing would be there, too. When I think of a perfect neighborhood, like the one you see in movies or TV and you think “who lives like this”, that’s Davis Island.

My dad rented a house on Chippewa street in order to come down every other weekend and have a place for us to stay. Even if it was short and sweet, that house was our home. We made some great memories in that little house and made some great friendships along the way. There’s Lauren Copeland, my next door neighbor who’s like the little sister I always wanted, and Will and Morgan Nance, who lived a house down and were just as rowdy as me and Ryan. Every weekend, the five of us would ride bikes, play in the street and always find something fun to do. There was “Grandma June”, the sweetest lady you’d ever meet who treated us like we were her own kids.

I am super blessed to have had that experience growing up — the real way, before kids were all on their cellphones playing Candy Crush and, oh God… I sound like an old person now…

10. My Life So Far — the Script

I’ve been writing in some shape or form since about age six or seven, when I wrote a “play” that I had my family act out at my grandparents house. It wasn’t any good, but I really enjoyed how everyone took me seriously. I wrote a few more and included my cousins in them, and each time I got better at it. Writing used to be a thing that I would never talk about. Hell, I barely told anyone that I wrote in a journal out of fear that someone would find it and read all of my secrets (how ironic is it that I’m writing this now, huh?). I was always encouraged by my grandmother’s friends to write about my life, to tell my story. They story they were referring to is about my life with Crouzon Syndrome. Me, well, I had a different approach…

Ten years ago, I was sitting on my couch and I was upset. My life was in total disarray at that point and a lot of it was my fault. One of my closest friends had moved to California and I didn’t know if I was going to see her again. That’s when I had a plan: I was going to write a show about my life, take the script to California and get it made. It was a story about me and my friends and the crazy shenanigans we’d find ourselves in. I wrote it in two days, without any knowledge on how to actually write a script, and while it wasn’t that great, it was a start. Instead of throwing it away, I decided to hold on to it. I still had a plan for it.

I called it My Life So Far and what’s ironic about that is how many changes it’s gone through since the first draft. My life has changed dramatically since those days and, thankfully, it’s still going. Because of that, my script is always being re-evaluated and re-written. The story pretty much writes itself, even still to this day. It’s also the biggest motivator I have in my life over the past decade because, like I said, I had a plan for this script... I just never thought I’d actually get anywhere with it.

9. The Teaser

When I first wrote My Life So Far, I fully believed that it would be a TV show one day. As the years went by, I changed my tune a little bit. I couldn’t figure out how to make the show unique and stand out on it’s own. That’s when someone pointed out the problem: I left out the part about Crouzon Syndrome. I essentially wrote a story about my life and left out the one thing that makes me different. There was a reason for it, actually. You see, there were times in my life where people said I didn’t have “the look” or that my face wasn’t appealing for an audience. That all changed one drunken night watching the Oscars.

After hearing about “inclusion” and “equality” and “giving a voice to people who have no voices” and “showing new faces”, I had enough. You want a new face? I got you, fam. That’s when I decided to insert myself into my own story and give the people what they wanted (or at least what I thought they wanted). I hedged my bets a little and decided that was going to be my big grad school thesis project: the writer/producer/director and now star of My Life So Far.

Now, the professors at my school thought I was crazy because of how much work I was putting on my shoulders but this was my life’s work… if it all led to this, I was gonna go for broke with it. The shoot ended up being the best production I had ever been on, largely because of the amazing crew I had assembled. They, too, thought my idea was a good one and wanted to be a part of it. That definitely inspired me throughout the week (also the Tar Heels won the championship the day before filming, so I was super excited).

To see the final cut of it on screen at Warner Bros. Studios was a dream come true. Eight years of writing and re-writing, trying and failing, changing the story… that made it special. To finally see someone like me on a screen was powerful (even though it was me and I did technically put myself there on purpose, at the behest of my professors). To this day, it’s the best thing I’ve ever made and I’m so proud of it, even though I’m changing it again because, well, that’s show business baby. But Tommy Shea lives in all of us, and one day (hopefully) he will live on your TV screen.

8. The Documentary

One of the most humbling moments of my life happened because of my life, which is a weird thing to say but it’s true. In 2013, I was asked by my longtime doctor, Mutaz Habal, to do a documentary about growing up with Crouzon Syndrome and I was really excited to do it but he left out one part: he wanted it to be specifically about me. Personally, I don’t mind talking about myself (clearly) but I thought it was weird for me to make a documentary with myself as the subject. So instead, I asked my friends and family to basically tell my story for me over a series of interviews. It was a little long (about 45 minutes or so) and all done on the same handi-cam I shot Dave on, but it got the point across.

I got to show it at the annual Children’s Craniofacial Association retreat that was being held in Orlando. I had been to the CCA retreat the last time it was in Orlando, but this was the first time I’d be going not only as an adult, but as a guest speaker. I wasn’t expecting a lot of people to see it, so I was really surprised when it finished and there were hundreds of people in the room giving me a standing ovation. That really got to me. I never looked at myself as an inspiring person, at least in that way, but that was a day I’ll never forget because of what it did for me: it gave me a purpose in life, especially in terms of telling my story.

And, yes, for the record… this is going to be part of a different story in a couple of months from now. (Stay tuned!)

7. The day I met Layla Bear!

I wrote earlier about Mia the Wonder dog and how much she meant to me and my family. Having a dog was always a big part of my life and after Mia passed, I definitely wanted to get another dog. But as they say, you don’t choose your dog, the dog chooses you. In a way, that’s exactly what happened.

It was my second semester in grad school and one of my classmates had to step aside from a documentary short to tend to family issues. The doc was about shedding a positive light on animal shelters and the benefits of adopting a dog. I volunteered to help finish out the interviews, and we went to the South LA shelter to get our footage. At one point we needed to film B-Roll of the animals and that’s when I met the cutest little pup that stole my heart… a teeny, tiny five pound chihuahua with floppy little ears sat all by herself, scared of all the bigger people.

My mom has a chihuahua named Chi-Chi, who I also love dearly, so I knew how to approach her. I got down on the ground and started playing with her and after a half hour or so, she was laying in my lap. She had this smile that I swear to God melted my heart away in seconds. I couldn’t let this little angel stay here anymore so I got up and told them I was gonna adopt her. The next day, I brought her home and named her Layla, after the Eric Clapton song (not after my god sister, who is also named after the same song, because Nani and I have good taste). It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. She’s a great listener, she loves me unconditionally and she doesn’t shit in the apartment nearly as much as she did before. I have the best dog in the world.

6. Graduating College

I’ve been up against a lot of crazy odds in my life but none bigger than when I went back to college in 2011, at the University of Tampa. I was 20 years old at the time, a community college dropout and going nowhere with my life. That is, until I wrote My Life So Far and decided to do something with it. Film school felt like the right way to learn how to do that. Now, admittedly, I had a few detractors, some even in my own family. Some didn’t think I’d get in (I did). Some didn’t think I’d take it seriously (I did). One person even said no one would ever take me seriously because of the way I look (which has nothing to do with it, but OK) and that I wouldn’t even graduate… man, I wish that guy was at my graduation.

I had people laugh and joke that I was a fuck up, and while they were right to think that way in that moment in time, they had no idea what I was capable of and that’s all I needed. After four years of hard work, graduation day had finally arrived. Granted, I did show up at the last minute — sliding in the room in typical Shea “Better Late Than Never” Freeman. Still, it was everything I could’ve wanted and it wasn’t even about me, if I’m being honest. It was for my family, the people who supported me and cheered me on, those same people who didn’t get to see me graduate high school because of something stupid I did (go read the story!). That day was for them.

The biggest accomplishment of my life was actually first celebrated by myself. I was in my car in the UT parking garage. I loosened my tie and took off my cap. I thought about every dumb decision I had ever made and put it all together for that moment. Then I cried, but a happy cry. An “I did that shit” cry. I pumped my fists and honked my horn… one of the greatest moments of my life, hands down.

5. Cannes

Aside from adopting Layla, the best decision I ever made was to study abroad in Cannes, France for a semester in my senior year of college. It was the first time I had ever been out of Tampa for more than two weeks and it was beyond what I expected it to be like. Cannes is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, probably the best experience of my life. I met some truly great people from all over the world and got to see the Cannes Film Festival up close and personal.

Cannes was a life changing experience. Once in a lifetime. If there were ever a time I could transport back to it would be then, because it was like a dream. There were zero stakes, everyone had a blast and a lot of memories were made. I really want to go back there in the future, but it won’t be the same as those five months. There are a ton of stories I’d like to share from that time, but we don’t have enough space (it’s coming in a later story). Regardless, France will always have a special place in my heart.

4. Bayshore

As I mentioned before in a previous story — “When I Ruled The World”, go check it out! — Bayshore Christian School was a huge part of my life, from age 7 to 19. Most of my memories come from there, actually, but of all of the things I took away from that school one thing stands out: my friends. Some of these people I have known since day one and still keep in touch to this day. Because at Bayshore, we weren’t just friends; we were a family. We were brothers. If I needed one of them, they were always there.

Take Caleb and Garret Stenholm, two of my oldest friends. They lived two blocks from us growing up and we would play basketball for hours on end. We rode bikes to school every morning. We even went on a ski trip to North Carolina once. And during the summers when I’d have a surgery, Caleb and Garret would come by and hang out. So did Steven Poncin and Hussien Shoubaki, EJ Evans and Kimble Mills, and so many others that I am blessed to call friends that I met at Bayshore. They didn’t have to do this, but they wanted to. Because that’s what friends are for (yes, I know… cliched, but get over it, I’m nostalgic right now).

My friends would convince me to get out of the house whenever I had a surgery. Forget how weird you look now, you look weird all the time! Or when I had the cage on my head, Hussien and Steven had this brilliant idea to tie a straw wrapper on it because “Now we gave them something to look at and it’s not the cage”. They always made it easier for me to be me because they never saw me any different and they’d be willing to fight if you thought otherwise.

I’ve always said you’re only as good as the people you surround yourself with and I’m fortunate to have so many great, amazing people in my corner. My friends truly bring out the best in me and it all started at Bayshore. They never once asked me about my face or why it looked a certain way, and they definitely never made fun of me for that (they’d make fun of me for other stuff, but that’s fair game). Honestly, outside of my family, those friendships are the nicest I’ve ever been given.

3. The Freeman/Lopez connection

They say you don’t get to choose your family and even though I had no say in mine, I am beyond grateful that I landed with the two I have. It all starts at the top, with my grandparents, Joe and Mary Freeman and Joe and Stella Lopez. They are the foundations for my life, each of them giving me a blueprint on the life I wish to have one day. So, let’s break it down for a sec…

On the Freeman side, which is a huge side, there’s my dad and eight uncles — Joe, John (R.I.P. to a legend), Mike, Tim, Paul, Chris, Greg and Matt. Seriously, you find me a woman who’s like “yeah, I’ll have nine sons and no daughters, that’s easy” and I’ll find you a liar. My grandmother was tough as nails and instilled that in all of her boys, a rag tag group of Irishmen with personality to the brim. One of my biggest regrets in life is that I didn’t get to see them a lot growing up, but whenever I did it was always a treat and made me realize the lineage I came from. I have a ton of shoes to fill, in that regard. All of us Freeman grandkids do — John Jr., Sara, Michael Martin, Sean Pat, Joey, Jason, Jake, Matty, Rob, Jacqueline, Jess, Jilly Bean and now little baby Mason… we have enough people to field a football team and our grandmother wouldn’t have it any other way, and I know she’s looking down on us with a smile.

On the Lopez side, which is slightly smaller but even bigger in personality, there’s my mom and my three uncles — Joey, Alan and Mark. But at the top… oh man… Joe and Stella Lopez, two of the greatest human beings to ever grace this earth. I am truly blessed to have those two in my life for a number of reasons but none greater than the life the paved for me. They’ve taken me all over the world, they’ve given me security and they’ve taught me a lot. My grandfather is still the coolest dude alive and my grandmother will one day be nominated for sainthood. Not to mention the motley crew of cousins — Mike, David, Jake and Alexis, who are like my brothers and sister not just my cousins.

Then there’s my extended family — my two amazing step parents Allen Rogers and Laurie Land Freeman. It’s one thing to try to convince someone to love you, it’s another thing to convince someone to love you and your two kids. My parents may never have been right for each other, but they found the one’s they were meant for and I couldn’t be happier for that. They have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember and they deserve all the recognition for the amount of time and effort they put into raising us.

Whether it’s the Freeman clan or the Lopez clan or the Grimaldi’s or the Shea’s, I have the best family tree in the garden. They are the reason I get up everyday and try to make something out of nothing, because when the world ends and the dust settles I will always have them by my side.

2. My Parents

Ok, so I’ve talked about these two at length before — go check out “Happy Valentine’s Day” for more on how great they are! — so I’ll keep this short. But honestly, I can’t stress enough how much I love these two crazy people. I am equal parts Tom and equal parts Vanessa, and I am 100% blessed to call them my parents. I have learned so much from them and not a day goes by that I don’t think about them and all they have done for me, but this is a segway for an even bigger thing, the best thing they ever gave me and arguably my favorite thing of past thirty years…

1. Ryan Freeman, the back up baby.

November 16, 1991 is a day I will never forget even if I have zero recollection of it. That’s the day I met my best friend, Ryan. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s shown up in a lot of my stories, including 75% of this post and 95% of my overall memories. You wanna talk about a perfect ride or die sidekick? Look no further than that kid. Not only did he try to copy off every single thing I did growing up, but he was down to fight whoever stepped to me the wrong way. I swear, without Ryan, I don’t know what my life would be like. It’d be a lot quieter, sure, but it wouldn’t be the same.

You wanna know how much I love my baby brother? Let me take you back to the day he was born… My mom was giving birth to him, and my grandfather was supposed to be “watching me”. Not well enough apparently because Little Shea decided the best way to celebrate the birth of his new brother was to pull the fire alarm. In the hospital. No one creates an entrance quite like Shea Freeman, let me tell you… but it was worth it. Baby Shea knew Baby Ryan was worth it, and 28 years later (on MY SPECIAL DAY), Adult Shea wants everyone to know Adult Ryan is still that great.

He’s the only person I share 100% DNA with and he’s the only person that I think truly understands me. We’ve been through everything together. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve even punched each other in the face. Of all the things I have in this world, nothing means more to me than the relationship I have with him and I am so proud of the man he’s become (even if he still can be a little shit at times). Nikki, you took my boy from me so you better take care of him because if you don’t… I will find you and I will reprimand you because that’s my son! Ryan Freeman… the nicest thing I’ve ever had.

So there you have it, folks… it’s been a hell of a ride thus far, and I can’t wait to see what the next 30 or so years has in store. If it’s anywhere near as great as those things, then I have a lot to look forward to.

Until next time…

SF

Happy birthday – the world

Previously on Shit Happens at the Mayfair Apartments, a This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things Investigation…. someone or something took a shit in my apartment hallway and I have no idea who did it or why, but I was still waiting for my landlord to show up and let me look at the security tapes. Anyways, back to the story…

(cue “detective/crime story” music)

It’s been a few days since the shit and run. Moe hasn’t shown up to the building and neither have the cleaners, although they are set to come today. The box still sits outside of my door, taunting me. I put a sign that said don’t look at this, yet the human mind is a curious one. A few people have come by to look underneath, horrified at the contents. I feel their pain.

As of this writing, there has been zero progress in my investigation, however one thing keeps popping up: a few people have brought up a suspect, one that I have not considered for a number of reasons. The full scope of why is not important, but it is important to consider for one reason: karma.

Recently, I had to cut ties with an associate of mine. We’ll call this person Slick. You should never mix business with personal, and I had not heeded my own advice. Something happened, questions were raised and trust was broken. I had to make a decision that I didn’t want to, but needed to for my own good. Slick had to go. What happened is not important, but it is important to note that it happened, if that makes sense.

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from Slick. Not that I care, but it’s hard not to think about from time to time. It’s a little quieter around here, one less person to talk to. Slick would help out around the apartment and has access to the building. Slick never stole anything or broke anything. Well, except for my trust, which caused me to look at things from a different perspective.

I don’t think Slick would do something like this even though the optics slightly point in that direction. For starters, there are people in the building who have seen Slick before, including the security guard. He would’ve said something when he saw me walking in with Roxie. Secondly, Slick is not bold enough to do something like that. The motive isn’t that strong either. It would make Slick look worse.

There’s one other way to figure this out: get into the mind of this mad man (or woman). Think like a shitty person. What would compel someone to do this? If I were a shitty person, how would I do this? What would I eat prior to this? Most importantly, what steps would I take to avoid getting caught? It sounds like a hard experiment, but I have a confession to make… I was once (and probably still am) a shitty person.

(Cue flashback)

The year was 2007. The air was hot, the beer was sort of cold and the boys were having a good time at the pool. Well, except for one boy, a guy we’ll call Greasy. I never really had a problem with Greasy, but some of my friends did. They never wanted to invite him over to the parties, especially my buddy who we’ll call Buddy.

Buddy’s grandmother had a pool that we would use to throw parties every weekend. They were always a lot of fun and some of the best times were had by that pool. Greasy was never invited, and that’s because no one could trust him. He was a snitch. He’d sell you out to get himself out of trouble, and that didn’t sit well with a lot of people, especially Buddy. That’s why Greasy was never invited.

Well, Greasy didn’t take to kindly to that, and long story short, Buddy was asked not to come back to our school for the upcoming Senior year after the school heard about our shenanigans. We all know who did it. Needless to say, Buddy was pretty pissed. We all were. Buddy could still graduate, but it had to be somewhere else. This didn’t sit well with some of us.

I was hanging out with three of my friends we’ll call Red, Blue and Green. We were waiting for Buddy to get to his grandmothers house when we had this idea: we should do something to Greasy’s car as retaliation for him snitching. We were no strangers to this idea as we had done it before. Egging cars, wrapping them in cellophane wrap or drawing penises on the windows. They were easy to clean, but obviously we were assholes. Greasy, however, was an asshole for doing that to Buddy. It was settled.

As we waited for Buddy, we drove to a store and got our supplies: latex gloves, silly string and those dissolvable dish washer packets. The plan was to put one in his gas tank. Yes, it was insane but we were making a statement. Luckily for us — and for Greasy — I recalled that we had to open the gas tank from the inside of the car, bringing our idea to a halt… only for a second, though.

We stood outside of the house with our supplies but no idea. Everyone was pitching ideas, except for Green. He had to go to the bathroom, pretty bad actually. That’s when I realized I was a sick genius… “Green, how bad do you have to go to the bathroom?” We all put on our gloves and I handed Green the plastic bag from the store. You can figure out the rest from there.

There we were, strutting down the street armed with silly string and a bag of shit. Greasy‘s car was sitting in the driveway. We had to act pretty quick. I’ll spare the details, but we basically turned Greasy’s car into a Jackson Pollack painting. You could put that car in the MoMa and let people interpret what the meaning is. It was a work of art.

The next morning, we triumphantly told Buddy what we had done and while I’m sure he appreciated our act of loyalty, he wasn’t happy that we did it and his reason was simple: Greasy was going to think the he took a shit on his car. We didn’t think about that part. A few minutes later, I get a call from Greasy: Hey man, this is going to sound crazy, but do you know who shit on my car?

Buddy’s inclination was correct: Greasy accused Buddy of everything and went as far as saying that he was going to sit on top of his roof with a paintball gun for the rest of the week. He never did figure out who did it, and that’s because he was too busy focused on the wrong guy. In reality, he was talking to the mastermind behind the idea: me.

I know. I’m a shitty person. Am I proud of that story? A tiny part of me is, I’m not gonna lie but I’m not proud of myself. Would I do it again? No and if I had to do it over I probably would. Whether or not Greasy deserved that, it’s pretty gross in hindsight. Now, like an act of karma, I have it happen to me. Whether or not I deserved it doesn’t matter; clearly, I had it coming. Just like Greasy.

Thinking about what we did to Greasy got me thinking about Slick. Sure, that might be the first and most likely suspect. It’s also too obvious. In the case with Greasy, I was considered the least likely suspect and that’s how I got away with it. What if Slick had someone else do it to keep the heat away? What if the person who did this was nearby the whole time and I never saw it coming?

As I write this, the shit is now finally gone. Moe has also made his first appearance in the building since the incident. I approached him about looking at building security tapes, but he wasn’t budging. “We can’t place blame on any of the other tenants.” That, however, is not the issue if I notice someone that shouldn’t be there.

If Slick did send someone to the building, it would be someone that I wouldn’t expect but someone that had to be nearby. If it were someone that I recognized, I could then at least have something to work with. The only problem is the amount of time that has passed since that day. Moe continues to deflect my requests to look at anything, reiterating that the footage is practically gone.

Or a new theory: what if this was Greasy, himself? What if Greasy came all the way out to Los Angeles, tracked me down and waited for the right moment to carry out his master plan, twelve years later? His motive is solid and I would never see it coming, except for right now because I’m acknowledging it’s a possibility. I’m not stupid, you know?

Or maybe I am… maybe I’ve had a little too much to drink. What else am I supposed to do? I have to crack the case before the case cracks me… Mike stands behind the bar, shrugs his shoulders and pours me a little more whiskey…

“Forget it, Shea… it’s Hollywood…”

And just like Chinatown, that’s how our story ends. Sort of. That’s technically the last scene in the movie, but that movie is much better than this story and Jake Gittes actually solves the case. It doesn’t matter, though, because much like that movie no one will be brought to justice.

The investigation is going nowhere. The leads I do have are not helping, the evidence is gone or never was there to begin with, and most importantly, my hallway smells like shit. There’s also a stain in the carpet that will forever serve as a reminder. A reminder that some people do shitty things. A reminder that I, too, did shitty things and maybe I’m not as innocent as I make myself out to be. If I was targeted, then I have to admit it worked on a psychological level. I’ll always wonder how it happened and why, but one thing I know for sure: I’ll never figure it out.

I spoke with the security guard who was watching the building that Saturday. When I brought up what happened, he seemed confused. I explained, in greater detail, how someone may have taken a shit and left a bloody tampon on top of it. I asked him if he had seen it and if he knew who did it. He laughed and clearly had no idea what I was referring to, but he said it sounded like a pretty funny story.

He’s right. He’s bad at his job and should’ve been watching the building, but he’s right. At the end of the day, it is pretty funny or at least over time it will be. And I’m 99% sure it’s not Slick, either. For all I know, it could’ve just been a homeless dude that mistook the hall for a Jack in the Box bathroom. It also could’ve been a dog. Recently, Layla pooped in my bedroom and it made me rethink my investigation. She’s a good girl, but she’s sneaky.

I’m no Jake Gittes. I may not be that good of a detective — granted it’s not my fault my landlord doesn’t have adequate security measures — so I’m closing this case. For now, at least. Because if there’s one thing I know… shit happens and it can happen again. Like I say to Layla every time I leave the apartment… Stay woke, puppy.

Until Next Time…

SF

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. – Socrates