My So-Called Life as a Reality TV Schlump

I am notoriously camera shy, to put it mildly. To be fair, it's mostly a vanity issue--and I am not very photogenic. It's not that I think I am unattractive, it's just that I don't think my special "charm" that makes me somewhat aesthetically pleasing gets captured in a two-dimensional frame taken from a split-second of time. Plus, it feels forced, shallow--unreal, really. And so I have developed this obnoxious phobia, whereby I see a lens and become horribly, painfully, sometimes angrily...um...anti.

And so, imagine my shock and horror when, because of Thespian and his family's prolific role in the medical cannabis industry, I find myself in the middle of ongoing filming for a documentary-style, reality television series.

Of course I watch some reality TV shows. The affliction started with The Real World and went on to Blind Date, Miami Ink, American Idol, LA Ink, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Project Runway, So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, What Not to Wear, and yeah, okay, even America's Next Top Model, Rock of Love, Millionaire Matchmaker and The Bachelor. But I refuse to watch any bobbleheaded Housewives of... and Laguna Beach derivations--I have my scruples--because most of these shows play up to, as CBS News so aptly points out, "a hunger to watch people with no discernible talent, no discernible insights, but who are willing, eager to be seen and heard doing... nothing."

I have always said, there is no good reason for me to be on TV. I am a writer; I am mostly in my head, my wit and propensity for verbosity rarely comes out in public speaking situations, unless I am in a dive bar, amidst the slatternly good-natured drunks and creatively minded misfits with whom I comfortably associate. But none of that translates well for television. Not in a way that's suitable for the kids anyhow.

But, here we are. Because I am involved with a man who is immersed in a fascinating subculture that stirs up controversy, I, too, am getting caught up in the marijuana maelstrom...and over the next few weeks, I imagine that I will want to share with you (as I am wont to do) the process of having our lives taped, to find out what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting, um, medicated.

TO BE CONTINUED...

High expectations...

Here's my medical marijuana story...(anybody recognize the "anonymous" person holding their I.D. card in the photo?)

It was one of those stories that I'd really wanted to do well, for obvious reasons--my dearest friends Thespian and Elan have been fighting the good fight in the East Bay med-cannabis movement for awhile now, and have included me in so much of their organization's events, introducing me to the prominent people involved, etc. And, knowing this, my kindly editor gave me plenty of time to work on the piece. So I approached it (I thought) methodically, accumulating pages of notes, stacks of reference material, hours of speeches and interviews, and several documentaries on the subject. But then, as it became closer to the time I should actually roll up my sleeves and get to the writing, I put it off and put it off, somewhat overwhelmed by the mass of info and the pressure of my, ultimately, ever-so-high (pun not intended but appreciated anyway) expectations.

But when it came down to the very LAST few days I could work on it, I got really sick--partially from sharing a vehicle with someone who didn't know he was ill, but more likely exacerbated by the stress of having to undertake such a project with little time and a whole lotta self-imposed pressure. And I did that whole writerly mental-sadomasochistic bit, torturing myself with doubt and worry. I seriously didn't think I could pull it off; wondered if I was even cut out for writing at all.

And how long have I been doing this? Six years is not that long in the big scheme of things, but certainly long enough to know that I will get it done, and it will be fine, and maybe a few people will read it, and then it will be quickly forgotten and it's on to the next deadline.