In fact, Dad moved us to a whole new neighborhood where I could start afresh at a new high school. He never said that's why we moved, because I had told Mom about all about the shame I was experiencing over the whole queer issue, but I appreciated what he did just the same.
My Dad speaks with actions not words. It's one of the things I've come to love and admire about him. Especially compared to the people in Hollywood I've meet who kill you with kindness with words like, "Not for us. Too similar to a script we already have in the works, but good work! Best of luck!" when they really mean, "Never call again and crawl back under whatever rock you came from."
Dad never says he's sorry for anything but shows it in things he does. I'll never forget him buying me a piano, a drafting table, art lessons and, yes, even showing me how to draw faces of women. Yes, as it turns out my dad showed me he is an artist too.
My dad is amazing. 8 years ago he became one of the oldest heart transplant recipients in America. And his extra life has given us time to heal our wounds. So healed it's allowed me to write this blog without fear of strangulation.
"Is it Dad mellowing or the new heart changing him?" my brother Fred and I sometimes wonder. I've got the rough draft of screenplay Dad's story inspired called "Holder of the Heart" in the computer here somewhere.
When I came to Hollywood 7 years ago I thought having 6 screenplays (only 2 would turn out to be worth a damn so I'd write 6 more in LA) in my arsenal would make Hollywood a cake walk for someone with my, money raising, sales and marketing skills.
Wrong. Not knowing it's really about packaging projects with stars and directors, stars and directors you have no access to without the money first in the bank -- and how the hell do you get the money in the bank without stars?-- would almost cause me to starve to death - great way to lose weight - with Tom Sizemore going ballistic in the apartment over my head.
More on that next blog.