As you may know, I'm using the quiet time while looking for acting work knocking out a rough draft of a one man hobo musical called THE HOBO GUIDEBOOK ( for more information and to listen to the title track, click here) While I was writing and rewriting verses for a song extolling the virtues of fighting dirty, this one popped into my head.
I'm trying to find a way to justify why Gilly became a hobo, and temper some of his silly, lusty behavior with something which shook him as a young man. And then I thought about my childhood, my experiences with Modesto, CA.
Modesto is the perfect place to be a child. Lengthy exposure to its customs and sense of justice makes you angry and hunger for more. Makes you lie on your back and stare at the chipped white popcorn ceiling and daydream about leaving for good and fostering a life infused with vitality, an impolite and demanding need to be heard. That struggle to endure childhood and promise yourself that being a courageous adult in a new city is a possibility, (even when you're poor and don't feel like you're worth a damn), it burns. I spent a lot of time in bed as a kid, full of fantasy, writing scripts for the cosmopolitan life I hoped to live one day.
It's a town where being biracial marks you as a cultural riddle, neither familiar or resonant with the white kids or the latinos. You are your own ethnicity. You grow up strong, or else Modesto breaks you so harshly you give in and you cease desire.
It's a city so anonymous that the white man who assembled the first stirrings of the town was offered a chance to have it named after him, and he refused. Straight up refused. And the locals muttered, "ay, muy modesto", Spanish for "very modest". It stuck.
I'll be the first to tell you that the only reason I'm not living out my days there now is through a combination of three factors, three precepts which I learned long ago are the only way one can be successful for a lengthy period of time:
1)You must be prepared. My parents and teachers raised me to love words, and to read as if books could save you. They were right. They encouraged and helped me constantly as a kid, supporting the artistic endeavors I undertook, teaching me to fight with every last breath for the chance to create things.
2)You must be lucky. And goddamn, I was and continue to be. I'm not a smart or phenomenal artist by any stretch of description, but I was lucky enough to have these parents and teachers and scholarships and to meet other wonderful actors, directors, designers, singers, writers and musicians who helped me grow, gave me work opportunities which let me move on to new and more exciting locales. I was lucky enough to be born a man. Wouldn't have lasted long in this world if I had all the same challenges I had and have now, but was a woman. It's a cruel doctrine of male privilege, especially with the arts. I know this. I do not take it as a birthright. I was lucky enough to finally, after spending a decade tumbling through demoralizing survival jobs, to find a career which complements my acting. It's a pretty fucking charmed life.
3)You must be crazy. You have to remain terminally unsatisfied. Play ends, song's written, story's cooling its heels. And it's done. You're scrambling for the next chance to stitch something together out of nothingness because there's this sharp, wicked truth in your heart which reminds you that you don't really matter. You are an amusement to people, and at best tolerated.
Nobody loves you, because you're the type of person who sings three seconds of a song you're writing over and over for hours until the exact, impeccable wording is revealed. You're the type of person who will drop everything, passport in hand, to work on a project. Nobody will love you because aside from the efforts you spend making things, your mannerisms and personal effects resemble a monk's. You can pretend to care about people, and you may even help them from time to time, but you have a sickness. Ultimately, you are selfish, and any sane person who is filled with altruism, who seeks a broad, well-balanced life, will come to their senses and stop chasing success.
But that's not you.
Nothing gives you as much peace as the endorphins making things does.
**For those who are in Modesto, or a town like Modesto, here's my advice**
This advice is only for those who are unhappy. If living there brings you comfort, love and care, you've already won. If you are unhappy, you need to ask yourself: what can I sacrifice in order to have the life I deserve? The only thing I remember from former Mayor Lang's economics class in high school was the concept of opportunity cost. Essentially, what you lose when making a choice. I saved for over two and a half years in order to have the funds to move to New York City. Damn near broke me in the process. I was crazy enough to do it, lucky enough to be able to do it, and mentally prepared to adopt for a spartan lifestyle all for the ministry of a better future.
Also, know that moving doesn't change who you are. I'm still a pretty plain, humble guy in New York City. I'm still chubby, still dress like an alien just discovering the concept of clothes. I'm still painfully shy when I'm not making things and have to behave with the world. I just get a chance to make more things more often. I get to act Off-Broadway on a weekly basis. Every day is growth and experience.
Here's the song!
lyrics
ive travelled all across this nation
but the one place
ill never shine again
its a whitewashed town
modesto
california
place where you settle
'mong the culdesacs
grey women
ruddy men
chorus
and part of life is lettin' go
grab a shovel
fill the earth
and you dont look back
youre not as brave as you think you were
dont have the strength or the money for a new attack
why are you still breathin'
weight of ruin upon your back
its always modesto
in your heart
second verse
arrived there
with my wife and darling son
held my tongue at the notions
neighbors plied
took a job at the winery
it wasnt fun
my families faces
my only comfort
while the noose was tied
chorus
bridge
ran as fast as i could
when i got the phone call
by the time i arrived
the intersection
choked with glass and rubber
two sheets on the sidewalk waving
in surrender
chorus
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