After a screening, we always have the audience ask questions. Some of the questions are funny. I was once asked to turn around because a woman wanted to see my backside. I asked her what she would think if a guy asked a woman in my position to do the same. The audience giggled nervously. I, of course, acquiesced and did my best Project Runway pirouette to high pitched hoots and whistles. Another woman asked, “Since you lost so much weight, do you, like, have, like, folds of skin hanging from your stomach and, like, if you do, would you consider, like, having them surgically removed?” This was asked in front of 160 people. Maybe it’s just me, but I would not have the testicular fortitude to ask either of these questions to someone privately no less in front of a crowd. But, hey, that’s just me. Maybe I’m just prudish that way.

People also make poignant remarks and ask heartfelt questions. Last night, a lovely young woman about 20 years old approached me after most of the audience had left. She looked into my eyes and wept. I took her hand and she continued to silently weep. I embraced her and she said thank you. She never told me the meaning of her tears. Sometimes the pain is too big for words. Maybe the most important thing to do is to hold a safe space for someone to express their sadness. For a moment we took the same breaths and held each other in wordless compassion.
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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.
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I feel like I’m going nuts. I just saw the movie Nine. Daniel Day Lewis renders a wonderful performance of an Italian in the midst of an operatic midlife crisis. The British and Scandinavians have drama. Italians have opera. In one scene, Lewis is driving in Rome and describing his panic attacks to his mother, Sophia Loren. “Mama, I don’t understand what is happening to me. I can’t think, I can’t write, my chest is tight and pounding. I don’t know what’s wrong with me” A giant weight was lifted. In that instant I was absolved of my craziness. I am not alone. Even guys seemingly together feel this way. Thank you Jesus.

What exactly is a midlife crisis anyway? The term was first used in 1965 by Elliot Jaques, a Canadian psychologist. He describes it as a period of profound self doubt experienced during the so called middle years. This self doubt is generated by a perception the passing of youth and the commencement of old age. This is when some guys throw any sense of shame out the window and engage in behaviors that make me feel defensive about being a man in my fifties.
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New York was freezing this weekend. I grew up with those frigid winters. Whenever I have the pleasure of strolling through the Arctic Apple, I am reminded of why I live in California. Here in San Francisco people start to wear gloves when it’s 55 degrees. It was 10 above zero one of the nights I was smart enough to stroll down Times Square. Fortunately, my ears didn’t snap in half.

The reason for my visit was to see my mom and my sister. My mother lives in an assisted living home in Vauxhall, New Jersey. My brother had a big house and she stayed with him for a while. She prefers living on her own so she moved to Mountain View Terrace. It’s a nice place. The staff is attentive and the social director arranges activities ranging from bingo to American Idol competitions. It reminds me of the facility where Tony Soprano put his mother. I think that was during the second season.
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May I Be Frank is now controversial. Although I have tried not to be, at times I’ve been annoying, aggravating and inappropriate. It appears that I’ve stumbled upon yet another way of rubbing people the wrong way; my blog. We have been screening the May I Be Frank around the Bay area since May of last year. My guess is that around 2000 people have seen it. Some have viewed it several times. We are now aggressively promoting the film. Since January we have launched a new website, signed on an agent and, our Goddess in residence, Maritza Schafer, encouraged me to start blogging.

Quite frankly, even the word blog bothered me; too many hard consonants and too few vowels. My first challenge was wrapping my head around the possibility that somebody would actually give a shit about what I wrote. I was further advised to, “Just be yourself, write what you talk about.” Easier said than done. When conversing there is an energy exchange, the dialogue is self perpetuating. While in the midst of conversing, one is free from pondering the notion of the millions that could conceivably read about your innermost thoughts and feelings. Obviously, there is a conflict of reasoning here: “Why would anybody want to read this crap,” as opposed to, “My God, I could be criticized by millions around the world.” Clearly, I have a rich inner life.
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