Oh! To be free again

I used to be free. Now I have an agent and a publicist and they occupy the same body. Before this dual edged and very sharp knife entered the drawer, I was a will of the wisp and devil may care kind of guy. Now that May I Be Frank has developed momentum I’ve stumbled into deadlines and commitments. I am supposed to write at least three blog entries a week, twitter, write and respond to emails, etc.

That may not sound like much but it is a challenge to me. I am confronted with the ordinariness of my life. I feel like I’m supposed to come up with funny or wise anecdotes that reflect my daily experience. Well, sometimes life ain’t that interesting. Sometimes when it is really juicy it involves people I can’t mention because it will result in my death or put a physical end to my sex life.

Before the film, or BTF, my agent and I would spend many an afternoon riding in my convertible, top down blasting U2. We would talk about our dreams and the people we love. We laughed and cried and ate. Sometimes when we were in a bad way, I would drive to the bank of the bay, turn up the Latin music and we danced amid the cars and surf. It was wonderful and it is gone.

She did warn me that what we were sharing was special and finite. She said that when the film started moving we would be thrown into the work mode. I only half believed her, but as usual, she was right. I never suspected that this warm and emotionally expressive South American woman harbored an inner German; a Teutonic general yearning to give orders……to me.

“Goddamit Ferrante, where’s my fucking blog entry!! What did you do today? What are you doing now? Don’t you see the connection between success and the number of times you blog?” The only things missing are crucifixes, rulers and the Stations of the Cross.

I started trying to write something clever or philosophical. Fuck it. This is what’s in my head. I doubt it’s what my agent had in mind when she said, “Sit down and fucking write something now!!” My concern is that success will add fuel to my already fiery South American friend/agent. At any moment I expect to start belting out, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.” Make no mistake; she is more like Juan Peron than Eva. I love her just the same.