Bubbles fly into the liquor- and smoke-infused air. And, in certain angles of light, you can even see whispers of glitter shimmering shards of gold and blues. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or it is witnessing another great LA secret coming to an end, but what’s in the audience directly reflects what’s on front. People giving themselves over to absolute pleasure, still asking, after all these years, whatever happened to Faye Raye? You curse yourself for showing up five years late to this party, but still relieved to see the final Floor Show. And somewhere in between, you cannot help but contemplate how the fuck a weird ass show like this can ever make so much sense yet still be among the most popular of cult-classics. And just how much you need this show at this moment?

Why? Because you are sitting in front of a computer, trying to wait for your fucking muse to show up and help you make a deadline. One that could change your life. You believe in the project, but maybe it’s the alcohol from the night before, or the self-deprication you seem to revel in–you fucking masochist–but the sentences you muster only go through a never-ending cycle of redrafts.

No, strike that, reverse it.

See? Even you can’t write a paragraph without second-guessing yourself. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, reminiscing on the memory of how fast the pages would fly, seven years ago, writing until 2am, like clockwork, writing forty-nine pages in 5-days, just for the love of the story. Now, writing has become a marriage that has lost it’s thrill. One that begs to question the commitment. Or has commitment, at this point, been reduced with who is going to be the first to find the door, instead of trying to work it out?

What better way of evading that topic than a commercial break? DING! DING! A text arrives, the perfect escape, especially when it comes under the guise of an “it’s my birthday, let’s get lunch” excuse. Muse is MIA, that bitch, so why not go experience life? Your finger-hover has gone for long enough, go help a friend.

If there is one thing I do not enjoy, it is being alone on your birthday. Two years ago, after submitting my scripts to yet another fellowship, I sat at some dive bar in the Valley, treating myself to a shot and a drink. At the time, they were my only company. So Cheers to solitude. Three drinks becomes the lullaby that coos me to sleep, because the loneliness would only keep me awake. Moving forward, I told myself to never leave no man alone at a bar when it was their birthday. Because that feeling is one I would never want anyone to experience.

After all, you made this choice to be alone. The Voices tell me. You gave up a life, friends, security, just to pursue a possible hapless dream of excuses to write than get a drink. To give up your writing would be to give up your very life. So keep writing, you keep telling yourself. Like some unwritten Disney princess, waiting for her knight, her artist, to manifest her into being.

But the words still remain idle, it seems even muses can go out for a coffee break. Oh, and speaking of break, we’re back!

You meet your old manager for Peruvian food. Where you catch each other up on the horrors of your job, of the life ahead, the Life Apart. All the uncertainty in between empty promises of catching up for a beer. Our friend, the kitchen manager, sat down with us and reminisced on his portion of the Life Apart. Eventually, our conversation strayed into talking about West Hollywood. About how free he feels in that town. About the freedom of American Identity. About the Anarchy of just feeling.

It is interesting to hearing a straight man feel just as free as any other queer-identifying individuals in that city. He revels in watching the small moments. The little pockets where humans betray their true selves, even if for a moment. He recalls watching two Iranians holding hands in public, stealing glances at one another, even kisses, all the while looking to and fro to make sure no one was watching them. It is a raw element that, after years of being conditioned to hate their identities, they still find themselves cautious, paranoid; but, after realizing they are in the Wonderful World of WeHo, they can be what they both wanted to be: in love. In each other’s arms. No judgements. They will not die tonight for their feelings for one another; in fact, they will experience a happier life. Of knowing, for the first time in who knows how long, they are free.


Those words have a certain echo, doesn’t it? There are other worlds than these. Yet, you choose to remain stuck in the desert of disbelief. Convincing yourself, after failure upon failure, you are resigned to believe that they might be right, after all. I mean, why else would you be rejected? Or not have your credits, your hard work, be shown to the public?

And here was another raw human element. Because while they were chatting, you are perplexed by Anarchy. To stop dictating your own writing dictatorship. Let loose to the anarchy of the moment. A pure moment where his words had a power. He might never realize the impact they’ve made, but they continue to echo there. Free. You spend so much time imprisoning yourself. Some self-tortured writer you are, now you’re just getting off because you are straight-up crazy.


So you take a moment, a day, just to escape the prison of your mind, and give yourself over to absolute pleasure. Which brings you back to that club, watching the men and women doing a quick jump to the left. Have a moment, a drink, a step to the right, anything to let the Berlin Walls of your mind crumble. You sing along to the music. Audience and stage actors alike cry, nostalgic of the magic, the eight years of memories, of the glitter, of the audience yelling “Slut!” whenever a busty Janet Weiss approaches the stage. Of the last and final Rocky Horror Hipster Show at the club. Richard O’Brien had a vision, and saw it through, until this show was manifested into a cult-classic. Something that is still definitive after 40 years.

Yet you are still stuck on page one. Stop feeling stuck. Shut the fuck up and get back to writing, bitch. You just wrote 1134 words without stopping. Making progress. Something worth the praise. You did it without stopping. Now let’s see what you can write when you are writing actual story.

It is the anarchy of the moment, after all. In a world full of Janets, be a Magenta, a Frankie, a Thelma, Louise, hell, just be yourself and get shit done.



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