[HBO] and Chill

A few weeks ago my least favorite cousin, Alexis, sent me a Facebook message that read: "No clue why I thought of you, but I did. The rest is up to you." And sent this link for the application process for an HBO writing fellowship for writers from "diverse" backgrounds. At the time, I thought it'd be funny if I just focused on my being short background for most of the piece and then revealed that I'm many ethnicities at the very end. Thinking about it now, it's really depressing that they have to make special exclusive programs for ALL non-white people and ALL women. Isn't that like 93% of people in this country nowadays? We should all get together and enslave the other 7%. Who would miss them and their dance moves? They've had their fun.

How has your background influenced the stories you want to tell?

With all the complaints I have of being a 5’6” male, I must admit it has had at least one advantage. You see, being below-average in height forces the viewer (of me) to feel a sense of pity. It’s just a natural instinct. If you found a kid reaching for a lollipop on a counter that is a bit too high, you’d walk over and help. We’re caring animals. Pity is why I haven't gotten my ass kicked by anyone of average or above-average height, even though I talk an overwhelming amount of shit, which is a result of my insecurity of being short. I know, it’s circular. Last week when I was trying to describe this self-hatred, insecurity, and pity complex to a woman, she replied, “But I have a friend that is your height and he’s no stranger to women.” Yeah exactly, a “friend.” And him being “no stranger” to women hardly seems like Leonardo DiCaprio would be asking to cheat off his test. And come on, I’d rather be a stranger, no woman wants their bicycle seat sniffed by a close friend.

My 5’6” background has definitely influenced the way I write. The main influence, is that I write. I refuse to believe Philip Roth, David Foster Wallace, Vladimir Nabokov, and any other great writers whose books I’ve read half of, are tall people. Because if they were, why would they feel the need to write? Writing is something you do when you’re at home, alone, and you’re at home, alone because you got skipped over when they were picking basketball teams or potential husbands. A few more inches and I’d probably be out sharing ice cream.

If I think about it for too long, which I do because I definitely have the time, I start to wonder why we write at all. If we’re only writing for “[HBO] and chill” that we, ourselves, are obviously not partaking in, why provide such joy for people that just get on with their days without ever picking up a pen or hitting a key? No admittance to a movie theater if you're over 5'9". Go ride a roller coaster, jerks.

Everything I’ve said ignores women because let’s face it, the biggest disadvantage of being a short woman, is being a woman. I wanted to reference Marilynne Robinson above because I’ve actually read a book of hers in its entirety but it would have messed up my “potential husbands” example that I’m still patting myself on the back for. Let me pat, I don’t have much in this life. 5’10” is the average height for a white American male. I couldn’t find an average for all shades of American male. And that’s another thing that has influenced my writing: I’m Filipino, Mexican, and Italian. And short. I hope that's obvious by now.

After I wrote this I was extremely proud of myself. I wrote it in 25 minutes the night before it was due and thought it was just the right amount of weird to catch someone's eye at HBO. Then I went out, got too drunk, and missed the deadline.

By a year.

My stupid ass didn't realize the due date was March 4, 2015. The year of the Wood Goat. But I still thanked my cousin for bringing it to my attention because it forced me to sit down and write something. THEN I realized my logic behind the whole thing didn't make any sense. If the only reason people write is because they're short, and since they're short they're trying to impress someone enough to "chill" with them and their private parts, then how is that an example of diversity? Wouldn't all the writers at HBO reading this be short [white] guys agreeing with almost everything I said? And if that's the case, why would HBO want to bring in people like me?

Not only that, rereading it now makes me notice that I spiraled down a series of bad ideas because of horrible logic. I'm actually getting confused (and beyond frustrated) right now trying to make sense of all of it. I brought women up at the end because I thought, "Well if it's only short guys that write, then why are there women writers?" Another question I didn't answer. Really, I just wanted to say I read a Marilynne Robinson book (she really is the best) and to point out my mediocre "potential husbands" joke (which I am doing again right here) to make sure people noticed and understood it (which I am doing again right here).

This isn't anything new to me. I've started and quit on many, many more essays than I've finished because of an incomplete thought or poor logic. I enjoy being humbled by my stupidity. And I obviously like admitting it.

At the end of the day, and mostly because I'm getting tired and starting to wonder if my explanation of my mistake is illogical in itself, I still wish I would have been able to send this in. I picture a little white guy reading it and thinking, "Well, it can always be worse."

P.S. Sigh.

Hello again.

I don’t have cancer.

If you didn’t know me you might have assumed that my post one year ago was my last because I was diagnosed with cancer. And if you assumed that, you probably assumed that I spent the last year getting treatment, “fighting” for my life, and saying chemo was the reason for my baldness. But this past year was transformative in a different, more positive way.

I am now black.

For some reason, ever since I convinced myself I had cancer, I have been mistaken for being black multiple times and in wildly different ways. It first happened when I was caught eavesdropping on a black couple’s argument about Barack’s presidency.  After much disagreement, they turned to me, noticed I was listening, and asked, “Sir, are you black? What do you think about Obama?” It was the 2nd greatest compliment anyone has ever given me. Even though they had to double-check, I took it as a sign that my Gilbert Gottfried days were over. Then, a few weeks later I was strolling (what is the black people word for ‘strolling’, black people definitely don’t ‘stroll’, they, shit sorry, WE, walk slow, but we definitely don’t ‘stroll’) through Washington Square Park when I was greeted with, “Good morning my black brotha! Weed? Coke?” We all know that black guys use the word ‘brotha’ pretty liberally. I once overheard one of the fake-purse-selling black dudes on Canal St. say, “My brotha over there can help you out.” He pointed to a little 143 year-old Chinese dude that was holding fake Gucci purses. Now maybe I’m jumping to conclusions by thinking he was using the word ‘brotha’ as a term of endearment, instead of its actual meaning, but I would gladly be wrong if those two guys were indeed brothers. The family pictures are probably amazing and I can’t imagine the diversity of the music playlists on road trips. No weed, no coke for this black brotha.

There have been mistaken identities. “Nigga, I thought you was the The Weeknd,” a black high schooler told me. “Do I look like a fuckin’ Canadian?” I inappropriately replied. Then, one of my clients surprised me with, “There is something about your beard that reminds me of Mos Def.” Reminds you of Mos Def? My beard? I guess WE DO all look alike!

My favorite, Hello, Black Guy! encounter happened last week. I was on a B train when I heard the familiar battle cries of a crazy person making his way through a packed train. Surprisingly, the man causing the commotion was dressed in a suit, a real suit, not a suit with a lime green jacket from the 90’s and ball-sweat-stained sweatpants from two humid summers ago, an actual suit that matched and looked relatively clean. He held a book in his hand (I’ll give you one guess as to which book it was) held it up and yelled, “There are too many sissies in this world. Too many sissies. And we all lost our manners! Look at all the young men sitting in seats, letting women stand uncomfortably! We don’t teach our young men manners anymore! Especially young black men! I served two tours in Vietnam and when I came back, I came back to a world with no manners! I don’t want your money! I want your attention! These young black men with their phones, and their expensive sneakers, and no manners! Black men, I call on you to take back your humanity! Impress the world with your kindness! Get up out your seat and offer it to a woman!”

At this point, I think I’m actually making up a bunch of what he said. It’s my translated version of a long speech about black men, respect, and the overpopulation of “sissies” that really had nothing to do with his thesis. As people started to pay more attention, he walked over, pointed at me and then a black teenager standing across the train and yelled, “Now look at these niggas. I can tell you right now, that these black men had daddies in their lives. Men that stayed by their women and taught them respect! They’re standing!” At this point in his monologue, it would have been too difficult, and honestly, too scary to correct him with, “Excuse me sir, I’m actually not at all black. I have been mistaken for Mos Def, it has something to do with my beard, but I’m not black, I’m just standing.” So I didn’t.

This past cancer-free year has been great, disappointing, miserable, and amazing. Besides the Universe’s forced celibacy, I feel like I have hit my stride in New York City. I’m on a mission to expand my sense of humor from height, baldness, and small-dick “jokes” to bigger, more imaginative ideas that will probably be equally as depressing but hopefully really funny. And this whole being black thing is great. Today the black UPS driver I often talk shit with yelled to me, “You look happy today Marty!” “Thanks, I’m out here strollin’ with the dogs. It doesn’t get better than that baby!” Yes, I ended a statement with “baby!”

But I forgot, we don’t stroll. I still have a ways to go.