The Americana Motor Inn

The Americana Motor Inn was small. It was right off of Interstate 40 (parallel to the historic route 66), and Sonny had always wanted to stay there.

He and his wife, Shiela (now his ex-wife), had passed by it a hundred times on their way to visit Sheila’s parents in Santa Fe, New Mexico. And every time they passed the Americana, Sonny suggested they give the hotel a try. After all, the drive to Santa Fe, NM from Santa Monica, CA was a two day trip, and they’d have to spend the night somewhere.

But Sheila always rebutted the idea. The hotel was too cheap, too kitschy, too close to the highway. Sonny knew all these things, but he wanted to stay there anyway. It looked like fun. It had an astronaut on the patch of grass near the parking lot, a small Elvis Presley museum (“The King” had supposedly vacated the hotel one night in 1971), and a big, colorful, nostalgic sign advertising the hotel’s services to drivers on the Interstate. The hotel’s name, “AMERICANA,” was at the top of the display board, with each letter of “AMERICANA” colored either in pink, orange, or yellow; the letter “I” was colored orange and crowned with a neon star. At night the board lit up and pressed against the sky of dark blue and black, looking like a postcard.

Sonny and Sheila drove by the sign again on their way to Sheila’s parents, but this trip was different than the others, because Sheila would not be coming back to Santa Monica with Sonny. She would be staying in Santa Fe with her parents. After Sonny and Sheila’s divorce was finalized, she decided to move back in with them. Sonny, devastated, asked if he could make the two day trip with her one last time, and drop her off to her parents as a final act as her husband. She agreed. The divorced couple stayed at a spa overnight, with Sonny in one room and Sheila in another. Sheila took advantage of the hot spring connected to the hotel. Sonny did not.

The next day when they finally pulled in front of the Santa Fe hacienda belonging to Sheila’s mother and father, Sonny’s eyes started to water. When Sheila refused his assistance to haul her luggage from the trunk of the car, he full on cried. His former in-laws barely acknowledged him as they helped their daughter carry her bags into their house. Sonny felt like life was over.

The minute he got back on Interstate 40 to begin the two day trip back home to Santa Monica, Sonny called his therapist. They reaffirmed what Sonny already knew: that Sheila was from a different world, that she never tried to fit into Sonny’s world, and that her overall dismissiveness of Sonny’s interests was not a good match for Sonny. After speaking to his therapist, Sonny dialed his high school best friend, his college best friend, and then his brother, and had more or less the same conversation with them as he had had with his shrink.

Sonny was out of tears and puffy faced by the time the sign for the Americana Motor Inn flew past his car. Sonny eyed the highway hotel in his rearview window, realizing for the first time in six years he could stay the night there and not deal with any protest. He got off at the next exit and made his way back to the motor inn that he’d always wanted to vacate for no particular reason, other than it seemed like a fun place to stay.

The sign for the Americana reappeared on the horizon. Five minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, choosing a spot right next to the lawn astronaut he had seen so many times.

Sonny stepped out of his car and made his way towards the lobby, where he would finally book a night at the Americana. He smiled for the first time in two weeks. 

Twilight Days

I recently learned that Ancient EgyptIans had a calendar that is similar to ours: they had a 12 month cycle with 30 days each, and then five “epagomenal” days (or extra days) at the end of the twelfth month to round out the calendar year to 365 days.  These five days were considered to be the birthdays of the gods, and if I remember correctly people would use this time to relax.

In Western Culture, it seems like we unintentionally re-created these epagomenal days by having a week between Christmas and New Years. In my mind, I’ve always called this odd stretch of time between 12/26 - 12/31 “twilight days.”

Typically I don’t like in between stages - waiting has never been my strong suit - but I think the ancient Egyptians were onto something when they took these floating days between the old and new year to chill. Granted my work and life schedule allows, I’ve always appreciated the time between Xmas and NYE to rest. 

I think it’s good to take that time to not adhere to a schedule, to relax, to eat too much, be a little bit aimless; to allow anxiety to fall at the wayside, or to allow anxiety to just be. Despite a crazy year, I have found some peace before 2024 has come to a close, and I hope you do too.

Wishing you a safe new year - I’ll see you with a new riveting blog entry in 2025.  

Wicked Blow To The Ego

Anyone else having a midlife crisis since the release of Wicked?

I’m sorry - let me rephrase. Is anyone else holding space for a midlife crisis that was triggered by the release of Wicked?

I love musicals, and I always dreamed that I’d make a living performing in them. I figured that my hard work and grit would separate me from the pack, and that I’d end up on a Broadway stage. Or on television. Or in blockbuster movies. Well, it didn’t work out that way. I ended up working corporate and odd jobs to pay my bills, and utilizing my free time to write, act, and produce independent projects. All this is FINE, and I’m very proud of the projects I’ve created. But that dream of being in a Broadway show is still there, and it’s still unfulfilled. When I see young women excelling in show biz, I am happy for them but also a little sad. I feel like my calling was missed and that I failed somehow.

Usually I can tune out (ignore?) the disappointment and focus on my own creative trajectory, but this has been near impossible with the release of Wicked. 

I mean, the marketing for this movie has been EFFECTIVE. Everywhere I look is pink and green.  Every brand that’s ever existed has become a Wicked licensee and is releasing an Elphaba or Glinda-fied product. I think about Ariana Grande way too much, and I have opinions on Ethan Slater’s first marriage. 

My obsession with Wicked lives parallel to my disappointment that I did not star in it, or any other number of movies / tv shows / musicals that I would have liked to star in. 

It’s a weird, narcissistic thing to admit that I am disappointed that I’m not a star, but it’s honest. 

I realize other hard-working creatives have to contend with this same disappointment, that our creative paths have not panned out the way we dreamed they would. And I’m wondering if you other creatives out there are fighting off a midlife crisis just like I am. 

Because Wicked has become a trigger for this doubt and disappointment. Whenever an interview with Cynthia Erivo and / or Ariana Grande shows up on my feed (which is often), the same sad questions pop into my head: Am I too old to achieve my dreams? Should I have worked harder to achieve them? Should I just sign up for AARP right now? The answer to all of these questions? Yes. (Just kidding.)

After the sad questions come the egotistical declarations: I should have been the one to dress in pink and float in a bubble. I should have been the one to sing coloratura notes in Munchkinland. I should have been the one to break up Ethan Slater’s marriage. (Just kidding.)

The disappointment I have is not a pretty thing. It’s not something to be proud of, but I’m realizing it’s not something to be ashamed of, either. It just is. And now that I’ve owned up to this feeling, I’ve begun to learn how to deal with it. I’ve figured out that when I spiral, I have to take a step back and stop the Wicked doom scrolling. I have to look at the projects I have created and feel proud of them. I have to make the time to nurture the skillsets I so desperately miss, like acting and singing, and give myself credit for nurturing them.  

And I have to remind myself that fame and success may not come to me by the world’s standards, but they can still come.

My spiritual teacher has a refreshing take on fame which I’ve adopted for myself: being famous means having a passion you develop, and having the courage to go out there and share it. And by putting yourself out there, you become famous. It may be fame with a handful of individuals, but hey, a following is a following. If people will leave the comfort of their homes to see you do your thing, that is being famous. 

And doing your thing may always be a grind: you may always struggle to find venues where you can perform, you may always have to fit your passion around a 9-5 work schedule, you may always be the one to produce your own work… it’s a schlep. But what in this life ISN’T a schlep? And maybe fame by the world’s standards isn’t as all it’s cracked up to be anyway. Just scroll through your instagram feed to see which famous person is being gossiped about now.

So my message to you other creatives out there staring down the barrel of a midlife crisis is this: let’s not go there. Do your thing. Be relentless at it because you love it, not because you need to be recognized. And perhaps most importantly grateful for what you have already achieved. 

In the words of Elphaba, “everyone deserves a chance to fly”, so don’t hold yourself down.