Glory from the brink: an epilogue to the 'Great Seven'

Life is a very interesting journey; every day brings us new challenges and opportunities. Sometimes, in the scheme of things, we get caught up in external distractions, and when this happens, our own objectives can suffer as a result. I write these words based on experience, my friends.

This is an epilogue to the Great Seven.

* * * * * * *

When I was four years old, my mom came down with a mental illness; during an initial episode, I watched as she collapsed on our living room floor. Notwithstanding my young age, this moment was severely traumatizing for me. One day, Mommy was there to take us to the playground, and the next day, she was gone. An ambulance came to take her away – to a psychiatric hospital – that afternoon, as my brother and I were sent to stay with relatives.

Our father was not even 30, and being our sole provider, he was obligated to keep his job. At first, the family was unsure if he would be able to care for us alone. I cried hysterically while several elders debated about the possibility of raising my brother and me; they also wondered if different family members should take each of us. During this period, we spent a lot of time with our grandparents.

Over the next three years, my mother was frequently in and out of psychiatric hospitals. Thankfully, a lot of memories from this period are blank, but some remain; I recall one afternoon in 1989 when Mom was able to take us to see All Dogs Go to Heaven at a movie theatre. (As I type this, tears flow from my eyes.)

In the early 90s, my mom’s condition was largely stabilized through the use of strong medications, and believe it or not, they worked very well; Mom behaved like the woman she was before the onset of her illness. She lived at home, and when we were off at school, she worked part-time at a local college. My dad would regularly travel to Europe and Asia on business, and we generally functioned like a normal family. By 1994, however, our good luck had run its course.

Around May of that year, Dad came down with severe pericarditis – a rare and potentially fatal heart condition. While driving home from a restaurant one evening, he suddenly felt quite ill. Frightened, he pulled into a gas station, got out of the car, and collapsed right there in the parking lot. An ambulance came and rushed him to a local emergency room. Initially, doctors were not sure he would survive, but by the grace of God, he did; regrettably, the stress from all this caused Mom’s condition to worsen.

As the illness returned, she moved out of our home, and into her own apartment. I was very upset, and roughly six months later, I demanded to go live with her. It felt like I was four all over again, only this time, I had to blame someone; accordingly, I did what most 12-year-olds would do, and I blamed my dad for everything.

When I stayed with Mom, I assumed responsibilities that no child should ever have. I made sure that she consumed her medications, and whenever she refused, I would force her to take them. At that time, I really believed I could magically make her all better again. Within a few months – and after officials at my school learned about this state-of-affairs – I was forced to live with my father once again.

A truly awful situation occurred in late 1995. My mom had just been hospitalized, again, and that same evening, a few people joined us back home. I was visibly traumatized and cried, uncontrollably, in our living room as two “friends” – an older family friend, and my own best friend – sat there and laughed right in my face. To them, watching me cry was the funniest thing ever. I was devastated by their actions, and after that night, I was no longer the same person. Shortly thereafter, my devastation began to metastasize into sheer rage.

I was told to march forward and brush everything off – something Dad was always able to do. At school, I saw my classmates in what appeared to be infinitely better situations. They all had two parents and observably normal lifestyles; they also had moms to take them to soccer practice, baseball practice, or anywhere else their hearts desired. I often thought to myself, “What have I done to deserve all of this?” Unable to find any answers, I eventually came to the conclusion that my sorrows were some sort of punishment from God.

As thoughts of this nature crippled my inner spirit, I morphed into a very dark individual. By the age of 13, I regularly drank alcohol, smoked, and dabbled with an assortment of drugs. These behaviors, while entirely idiotic and dangerous, ultimately drowned out my sorrows, and allowed me to feel some sort of demented pleasure; as long as I didn’t have to feel pain, nothing else mattered.

For a brief period, I was able to find one source of joy: acting classes. Granted, I was an impressive singer in elementary school – I even went to a NYSSMA festival, thank you very much – so for me, this just seemed natural. I tried to keep the classes a secret, because I knew that some of the guys at school, along with their parents, would make fun of me for pursuing something less masculine than sports.

Ultimately, acting was very important to me. It freed my mind from the pain and agony of life – without the use of drugs or alcohol. In 1997, I was cast in the musical Gypsy, which we performed at the Gateway Playhouse on Long Island. During the show’s run, my paternal Grandmother passed away; she had been battling cancer for some time, and more than anything else, I really wanted her to see me on stage. Alas, she departed, and was unable to ever see me perform; this ultimately left me crushed. Wallowing in negative anger, I decided to give up acting altogether.

As I made my way into high school, all I cared about was hanging out with my “crew” and making as many friends as possible; this also meant popularity was the lone objective, and so, I was very mean to a lot of people…a lot of people. Administrators, counselors, hall monitors, security guards, students, teachers, you name it.

Halfway through my freshman year, my mom’s sister Florence passed away; born with Down syndrome, she was a special soul, and genuinely loved everyone. It was really sad when she died, and it made me think about the horrible stories we heard from Mom about what it was like growing up. Kids used to make fun of Aunt Florie and call her truly dreadful names. I found myself wondering if the fallout from this somehow contributed to my mom’s own illness. (Years later, I would witness similar behaviors as Sarah Palin’s son, Trig, is ridiculed by imbeciles.)

Mom had just been released from another hospitalization, and the trauma of losing her sister was too much to handle; within days, I learned she had to be re-hospitalized, and for once, I felt entirely bad about it. Unsure of how to cope with this, I merely continued on in my ways.

I was a walking disaster: teachers cringed when they saw my name on their rosters, and anyone that I considered lower on the totem poll, well, let’s just say I wasn’t very nice to them. A lot of people hated me and I didn’t care; as long as “me and my boys” were going to parties every weekend, nothing else mattered.

For all entities involved, thankfully, I didn’t spend too much time in my high school; I was often suspended for misbehaving, and when I wasn’t, I would always find one trick or another to cut school, sometimes for days on end. High school was a never-ending party, and during this era, Dad often traveled around the world on business. As you can imagine, my older brother and I surely had no complaints about that.

Ironically, I ended up developing a rather warm relationship with my Assistant Principal, which made sense, because I was always in trouble – thus, we saw each other very often. Underneath it all, he always knew that I could be a better person, and as a result, he never stopped encouraging me.

Following a customary visit to summer school, I graduated in 2001 by the thinnest thread imaginable. Obviously, I didn’t plan on going to college. “Who needs plans?” I thought. Life is a party: let’s smoke up and play beer pong!

Then, in an instant, everything changed, forever.

* * * * * * *

It’s the morning of September 11, 2001. I wake up about five minutes before 9 a.m. on my friend’s couch; his parents are away on vacation, and several of us stayed over the night before.

The television is on, and for some reason, it is showing a live shot of the Twin Towers; one of them has a mammoth cloud of black smoke pouring out. On the screen, a caption states that a plane just crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I immediately scream out a barrage of deafening expletives, which startles my friends. All of them wake right up.

At 9:03 a.m., we watch as United Airlines Flight 175 flies into the South Tower and explodes on live TV. It takes each of us about ten full seconds to mentally process this. For the next four hours, we remain glued to the television, and watch in shock and horror as events unfold. Subsequently, we learn that a friend of ours – whose uncle works for Cantor Fitzgerald – is frantic because no one in the family can locate him.

This marks a major turning point for me; you see, although this person is technically a friend, I have done a number of truly vicious things to him over the years. As you can imagine, I now feel awful, and accordingly, I do the only thing I can think of: I pray to God.

Sadly, my effort is unsuccessful, and we soon learn that our friend’s uncle is presumed to be deceased. At the funeral mass, I am left without words as I witness his young children cry; they have just lost their father, as I essentially lost my mother years earlier.

Against the backdrop of this, Mariah Carey is going through her so-called “breakdown”. The press is saying truly horrible things, and apparently, the public finds some sick, twisted joy in calling her every imaginable word for “crazy”. I vividly remember the incident from years ago – when I was mocked in my own living room – after Mom was hospitalized for being “crazy”. Some of the anger returns, and I cannot understand why anyone would ridicule Mariah during this difficult time.

As the months progress, I contemplate the fallout from 9/11 incessantly. The world is now different, and I am now different. Like many others, I have a severe crisis of faith, and I often think to myself, “What will happen when I die?”

Scared to death, I consider my life as it stands: it’s 2002, and I’m 19. I don’t have a real job, I don’t have any real plans, and I’m extremely blessed to have a dad that is sympathetic – and very financially secure – so, he continues to support me. I have many close friends that are here for me no matter what; I have a good home, and a family that loves me, and wants me to be successful in life.

I think about how I have intentionally hurt other people – for many years. As this happens, I begin to realize that my entire mindset is faulty, and I finally admit that I have no right to blame the world for my problems. If I continue on like this, blaming and hurting others, what will that get me? Thinking some more, the answer then comes to my mind: absolutely nothing.

I realize I’ve learned something, and ironically, this makes me feel much better. Up until now, I typically shunned education and school; that’s for losers, I thought. A revelation then occurs: maybe inside of me, there is a loser too, a loser that can achieve good grades, a loser that can make his parents proud, and a loser that can go to college and make something out of his life.

That’s really not so bad, now is it?

Back in elementary school, I always earned good grades, and I even did extra homework for the fun of it; true, I made life a living hell for anyone of this affiliation in high school, but I now see that I have a lot in common with them. For some odd reason, I do not mind this at all. Everyone already thinks I’m an uneducated jerk anyway, so what do I have to lose, really and truly?

Dad has just closed on a brand new – and posh – house in Smithtown, Long Island; I’m very excited and inspired by our upcoming move, so I feel like this is the perfect time to apply such standards in my own life. I enroll for the fall 2002 semester at the Brentwood Campus of Suffolk County Community College. While visiting with an enrollment counselor, we review my entrance test scores, and I am immediately shocked by the words that follow.

“You’re a pretty smart kid, Tim. These scores are impressive. Would you have any interest in our Honors Program?”

I think to myself, “This dude must be crazy! Does he not realize who I am? I’m the guy that cuts class and is happy with a D, as long as that means I’m passing.”

Careful to keep myself composed, I decide to go for it, and say, “Sure, why not?”

Evidently, I’m ecstatic the whole drive home and I cannot remember the last time I felt like this. I vivaciously call every close friend to blabber about the good news; they are equally as shocked, but do not hesitate to congratulate me, which makes me feel great. Finally, Dad gets home from work, and I tell him about the big surprise; his response throws me off a bit.

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you consider this to be a surprise,” he says, before concluding, “you’ve always been smart, and you’ve always known you were smart.”

He then jokes, “I’m happier to hear that you’re finally using your brain again.”

As the semester starts, I find a new sense of pride as an Honors Student. I am eager to perform well, and I find myself praying to God often. I start to believe that if I ask God for His help, I will receive it; if I ask for the ability to be successful, and do my part, God will help me. This discovery turns out to be monumental. Several semesters later, I boast a cumulative 3.5 GPA, and have a solid presence on the Dean’s List. This is unprecedented for me.

Come mid-2003, I consider transferring to a four-year university. Who would have thought, me – the guy that literally cut math class about 90 times in one school year – now has a shot at going to a real college. Two universities are the object of my affection: New York University and St. John’s University. I ask around, and gather feedback from friends and family members. Everyone has their opinion, and some are more influential than others. Slightly jaded, I am convinced that I can never get into NYU, and as a result, I decide to focus on gaining admission to St. John’s.

A few months pass, and my acceptance letter for spring 2004 arrives from St. John’s. The university is offering me a hefty merit-based academic scholarship. My dad – who attended St. John’s for law school – is through the roof with joy. Granted, NYU would have been my first choice, but in the end, I am still outrageously excited.

“Look at how far, we’ve come, God. Look at how far we’ve come. Thank you!” I think to myself. As I celebrate my 21st birthday, I feel better than ever.

Unfortunately, I soon realize that St. John’s is not the right place for me; there are nice people here and there, but the campus culture differs from what I am used to, and I find it very difficult to make friends. After one semester, I decide I really want to try for NYU; to move forward, I will have to forfeit my scholarship and matriculation to St. John’s. I will also have to attend Suffolk County Community College during the interim fall 2004 semester.

In the end, I go with my gut instinct, and place all the chips on NYU. Back home – and re-enrolled at community college – I pray to God more than ever; if He will bless me with the opportunity to attend to one of the best universities in the world, I promise I will not let Him down. I continue to pray and pray, begging for God to let this happen for me.

Sure enough, it does.

In December 2004, I give Dad the news of his life – literally – and inform him that NYU has accepted me for the upcoming spring semester in the Department of Media, Culture and Communication. I have been awarded two lucrative merit-based scholarships, which as a transfer student, is highly unusual.

“Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you,” I say, over and over…and over.

Living in Manhattan, I experience personal levels of growth – mentally, physically and spiritually – that I never thought possible. I love my life, and better yet, I know how blessed I am.

Grouped with intellectuals, I feel right at home. In classes, we discuss and apply the brilliant works of Marshall McLuhan, Ferdinand de Saussure, Susan Sontag – and many others – to the modern world. Every course is in a seminar format, meaning that we, the students, are required to contribute vibrant, pragmatic and enthusiastic opinions at all times; this also means that my classmates and I all have a true desire to not only see the world as it stands now, but to also consider how we can improve it down the road. My courses involve media theories and critique, the implications of mass media content on society and culture, as well as the future of civilization and culture based on the ever-changing world we live in. I am truly fascinated, and my grades clearly reflect it.

During the summer of 2005, I forgo a break from academics, and enroll in a study abroad program; I spend several weeks living at NYU’s Villa La Pietra in Firenze (Florence) Italy. It is the most amazing experience thus far. Italy changes me forever: the arts, cuisine, culture, landscaping, language and people – all of it. I am in sheer awe while exploring the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance. As I enter Vatican City and stand at Piazza San Pietro – St. Peter’s Square – I realize how much God has blessed me.

Upon returning, I start a new gig as the summer intern to the CEO of a leading multi-billion dollar Federal Credit Union. Towards the conclusion of this experience, I am blessed to have the opportunity to extend my internship beyond the summer; ultimately, I decide the commute from New York City to Long Island doesn’t really tickle my fancy, and accept another internship for the upcoming year in entertainment public relations.

I begin my senior year at NYU with a 3.7 GPA, and an uninterrupted presence on the Dean’s List. I also have my eyes set on another major achievement: to graduate magna cum laude. My GPA is right on target, but I will have to work really hard to pull this off.

Praying to God, I ask for His blessings and strength. I know I need His help to get through this year: I am enrolled in 18 credits each semester, and on top of that, I will be working almost 30 hours a week in my internship. As you can imagine, this turns out to be a very difficult year; when I am not cramming for classes, I am running around the city to help promote the hottest Hollywood motion pictures. I really enjoy myself, and through it all, I keep good faith in God.

May 2006 is now upon us; I graduate with a B.S. in Communication Studies (Mass Media Concentration) magna cum laude. I receive the Founder’s Day Award, and am named a University Honors Scholar. I also accept my first full-time job – before turning in one final research paper on the ever-changing application of copyright laws vis-à-vis new media.

Who would have thought? Thank you, God!

Given the unbelievable path I’ve walked, everyone I know is overjoyed by my success; the great energy brought out by this cannot be described. It is like sheer ecstasy, heaven on earth, if you will. To celebrate my commencement, Dad happily puts up a very pretty penny, and about 100 guests join us for the party of a lifetime at The Carltun in Eisenhower Park. This is one Saturday that no one will ever forget.

One week later, I am slated to start my new job as an entry-level publicist with an independent, mid-sized public relations firm in Midtown Manhattan. I receive an important phone call before Monday morning rolls around; my boss is on the line to ask if I am game for a major favor. It will require a lot of fortitude on my end.

I say sure, why not? I can do anything I set my mind to.

Come Monday, my first day on the job, I find myself inside the US Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York. I am joined by a colleague from the PR firm, and am told we are here to assist the executive staff of a major US corporation that has filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy. There may be press inquiries, there may be requests for information – from the company’s chief communications officer – anything is possible. I am told to put on my poker face and prepare for anything.

Apparently, I hold up my end of the bargain – and then some. Over the next few days, I find myself attending the bankruptcy proceedings alone, serving as a liaison between major business reporters and the company’s head of communications; in the end, everyone is very satisfied with my work.

Who would have thought?

On June 1, my best friend Paul and I move into a Rivergate apartment on 34th and 1st. With an amazing view of the East River, we are nevertheless very excited to have a place of our own. For the first few months, work is going great; I am getting clients into major publications and everyone is happy.

There is one major problem though: I am not happy, at all.

How could this be, I wonder? Why am I not happy? God has blessed me more than anyone else I know. What is the problem then? In searching for answers, nothing seems to make sense, and I find myself entering a depression. This is not good.

Eventually – and I cannot tell you why, to this day – I decide to start a blog. For no real reason, I think to myself, “Maybe if I start writing, it will help me decompress all the never-ending thoughts in my head?”

My friends often joke that I speak just to hear myself…they also say I have a “sexy” voice…but writing? This is something entirely different, and no one will even hear my patented New York accent, another source of never-ending amusement for all. I decide to stick to my instinct, and I slowly start to write the words that come to mind. The process is slightly odd for me, and above all else, I really don’t want people to think I’m weird. Granted, I have no problem joking – and saying outrageous things – in a conversation, but what if I write something that others misinterpret, then what?

On the fifth anniversary of September 11, I spend the day working from my apartment, and remain glued to the TV, just as I was five years earlier. This time, however, my emotions are far more intense. I literally cry, nonstop, for hours on end. All I think about is the pain and suffering of those who died – and the aftermath of this tragedy for their family members. By nighttime, I decide to take a lone journey down to Ground Zero, hoping it will provide some sort of solace. As I ride the E train back to 34th Street/Penn Station, I feel different somehow.

Writing becomes very important to me; I find joy in expressing myself through words like never before. I also start to care less about what others think, and discover that poetry is a hidden talent of mine. As fate would have it, writing has opened a can of worms, indeed.

My Aunt Mary passes away in October, and I am reminded of how much I miss Grandma; I wonder if she watches over me, and if she is proud. I truly hope so. Several moments later, I’m reminded of something I also lost when she left: my love for acting and singing.

A few weekends later, Paul and I crack open the season one DVD box-set of Brett Ratner’s Prison Break. Both of us are instantaneously obsessed with the show, and I end up playing hooky from work – for several days – because I literally cannot do anything until we watch every single episode. The cast inspires me, but Wentworth Miller and Dominic Purcell do something else – they move me. By witnessing their work, my own ambitions are fully ignited, and I realize I have to get back into acting.

With Christmas approaching, I decide on the ultimate gift for myself: a promotion and pay increase at work. Granted, I am roughly six months on the job – but, I have contributed far above the requirements, and everyone says I am exceeding their wildest expectations. I appreciate their kind words, but my bank account does not.

I pray to God for the strength to confront my boss; he’s rather intimidating, but underneath it all, he shows a great amount of respect towards this 23-year-old. We discuss my proposition, and the conversation is somewhat awkward. A few days later, I receive a personal call from the VP of Human Resources. She congratulates me on my promotion and generous raise – adding that this is swiftest advancement of any employee in the company’s history. I thank her – and God – very much.

Towards mid-December, I find myself auditioning at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts on Madison Ave. It turns out they have an evening program, which perfectly complements my hectic work schedule. The audition goes very well, and I soon learn that I will be offered admission. I realize how amazing this new opportunity is for me, and once again, I’m overcome with joy. Many of the best actors and actresses have studied at AADA – and now I will too. Classes begin in January 2007.

Several days before my 24th birthday, I share my thoughts-of-the-day with Martha Irvine, an AP reporter in Chicago. She is writing a story about materialism and today’s youth. I want to be real, so I offer my true perspective: I discuss my blessings, but retort that I often feel as if something is missing in my life. Up until this point, in my mind, success has always been measured by money – and I know this really isn’t right. Many within my generation also feel this way, so I decide to use this opportunity for good, and discuss the need for us to strive for more than just possessions; I also tell Martha about my choice to attend AADA, because acting has always been a dream of mine.

My story ends up forming the conclusion of this article, and it is syndicated around the world.

Acting classes reinvigorate me, and I know this is my true calling in life; conversely, the stress from my day job – and my newly established love for creativity – has caused me to despise working 9-6. All I want to do is act, sing and write, but my portion of our monthly rent is $1300, and this is one obligation I cannot default on. I begin to feel trapped, and my class mates often recognize this. Several begin to seriously worry about me. On days when I have class after work, I am getting home around 11 p.m. at night. It takes a lot out of me, but the emotional rewards are entirely worth it. Nothing can take me away from this, I believe.

In acting classes, I’m portraying Johnny in Michael V. Gazzo’s A Hatful of Rain and Danny in John Patrick Shanley’s Danny and the Deep Blue Sea. I am fully devoted to the work, and thus, I find myself naturally able to cry as I portray these characters in their respective moments. By doing so, I feel organic and more alive than ever before. I also see how this touches – and moves – my classmates.

I now truly appreciate how beautiful this form of artistic expression is.

In singing classes, I’m amazed to discover that my four-octave voice is still fully in tact, and admittedly, it is rather beautiful. I can hit a High C with ease, and most male singers would kill for this. I wish, more than anything, to be able to use these talents to earn a living.

Summer is now upon us, and acting classes are on recess until the fall. With free time on my hand, another problem – as if I needed it – starts to get the better of me.

You see, in my heart, I have always known that I am not like most of my friends; they are all athletic, which means they are obsessed with sports and women. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it is just not me. This is not to say that I cannot kick back and watch the Yankees, Giants – or Federer vs. Nadal – it just means I long for intense conversations about worldly topics with brilliant people, the way that my “boys” long for ESPN.

It is what it is.

I find zero thrills in chasing girls around bars, and I do not make a good “wingman”. I have no problem with going out and having fun – all of New York can vouch for that, trust me – but, the last thing I desire is a one-night-stand; my mind is just elsewhere. Granted, I am not a virgin, but, unlike most of my friends, I am the antithesis of a “Lady’s Man”. They can – and do – get plenty of girls, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It is just not me. It is what it is.

As I consider my severe lack of encounters over the years, I fear that my friends are going to speculate one way or the other. This scares me more than anything else. I commonly joke about the figurative cobwebs and bats that reside in my pants, and this always generates plenty of laughs.

With summer winding down, I make an unbelievably difficult decision: I quit my day job as a publicist. All of my colleagues are shocked, and they urge me to reconsider. I tell them I cannot; I’ve thought this over long and hard. I need to dedicate my life to creativity – or my life may cease to exist altogether. They try to understand, but I can tell it is a challenge for them.

The night before my last day at work, I do something I’ve never done before: I call Mom and tell her I will be taking the bus out to Queens to visit her at Creedmoor Hospital. It’s her birthday, and she has been staying there for some time. When I arrive at the facility in Queens Village, she is very excited to see me. We talk for a while and catch up; I tell her about my life and I can see she is proud. As I kiss her goodbye, and make my way back to Manhattan, I feel at peace. I’m happy that she is in a safe place, and I’m happy that she is able to find joy in her day-to-day life.

By now, I’ve truly come to appreciate the beauty of artistry, and I know that this is the only way forward for me. I also know that my life story has inspired many, and I feel it should be used to demonstrate that anyone can be anything they really want to be. My first impression is that I should write a book about my life, but I have never done anything of this nature before. Slightly overwhelmed, I try to stay focused and inspired, but I find it impossible. I even decide to take a break from acting in order to stay on track.

Meanwhile, I continue to follow news reports, and start to realize that a major economic collapse is fast approaching; it is late 2007, and other than Gerald Celente, Peter Schiff, and several others, most so-called experts are flooding mainstream media with false assurances that all will be well. It won’t be. Frustrated – yet oddly inspired – my creativity shifts focus, and I find myself preoccupied with writing about politics and financial matters.

At first, the only outlets available are my blog and, ironically, Facebook. For a few months, my approximate 400 friends are bombarded with nonstop postings about what is really happening in the world. Some of them find my rants annoying, and remove me as a friend – they think I’ve completely lost my mind, and am merely parroting wild conspiracy theories. In the end, I’m unaffected by nonentity critics, and simply replace those that de-friend me with new “friends”.

When my bank account starts to channel the spirit of the 1930s, and I realize I can’t keep relying upon the charity of Dad, I bite the bullet and go back to work in a corporate environment. I despise having to do this, but I have no other option for the time being; in making the best of it, I team up with a private organization and spearhead a project that will ultimately result in the formation of a boutique advertising agency. Primarily serving their exclusive interests, the new entity oversees a multimillion dollar annual marketing and publicity operation – I am named President of the agency.

At 25 years old, most people tell me that this is yet another amazing achievement for me, but I feel less certain about that. Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate the complements.

Now that my pockets are well-lined again, I want to get back into acting classes, but I soon learn that AADA has effectively phased out the evening division. Slightly frustrated, I decide to reach out to my former AADA vocal instructor for private voice lessons. At the very least, this is something to inspire me, and she is an amazing teacher – well worth the near $100 an hour for private lessons. We meet for several months at Shelter Studios in New York’s Theatre District.

By the time we wrap up, summer is ending, and I’ve learned to master my vocal skills through classical training. Some may consider this approach boring, but I absolutely love it. I’ve also learned to embrace my lower register; I often aim to only sing high notes, simply because I find it more difficult, and thus more rewarding to produce. In addition, my speaking voice is generally deep, so I want to allow for some sort of distinctness in my singing. Either way, I am able to belt out “The Star-Spangled Banner” and another classic, “The Rose”, in a way that sometimes causes tears to flow from my eyes while I do so. I am also unafraid to admit this and in-and-of-itself, that is a major progression from days past.

September brings the Great Wall Street Collapse of 2008, and as I witness our so-called representatives in Washington scramble to save their own interests – most are heavily invested on “The Street” – I am left feeling as if the US is experiencing a coup in broad day light. Such sentiments continue through the early portion of 2009. Furious, and following the advice of close friends, I finally decide to do something about it.

In early May, I begin writing articles on Examiner.com – mostly pertaining to political happenings and whatnot. The same month, I reconnect with an acting instructor from AADA that also teaches at T. Schreiber Studio; she and a casting director will be hosting an upcoming audition workshop – I immediately enroll in it.

A one-hour pre-workshop session with her morphs into several hours of intense conversation; we discuss many things, and I open up to her about my life. We inspire one another, and in doing so, she introduces me to John Patrick Shanley’s Welcome to the Moon. I instantaneously fall in love with the material, and we decide that I should use the character of Ronny as the basis for a monologue.

In short, Ronny is a very interesting fellow – he is secretly in love with his best friend, Vinnie. The easiest cliché to draw is that this scenario somehow represents a Guido version of Brokeback Mountain, but nothing could be further from the truth. Either way, my instructor tells me that this is one of her favorite pieces; however, it is often difficult to find any males that are willing to bring it to life. I find that regrettable, and in turn, I believe that portraying a closeted gay character is extremely fascinating – for a number of reasons – particularly in this day and age.

This realization turns out to be incredibly empowering; what would have scared me to death years ago, is now chump change. Portraying a gay character? So what! What if people think I’m gay? So what! What if ignoramuses condemn my characterization as revolting, or evil? So what!

I’ve always felt that love is blind, whereas true love is a spiritual phenomenon, it is gender neutral. In my own life, I’ve also been open minded about love, which means that when I finally find it, I’ll be less concerned about the sex of the person I love, and more about the heart that they possess.

It is what it is, and people can say whatever they want; I have bigger fish to fry.

Following an amazing start to the summer, July turns out to be an even better month. One of my best friends – a brother from another mother – gets married, and his wedding is beautiful. As the month concludes, I am blessed with the opportunity to interview trends forecaster Gerald Celente one-on-one; our conversation is scheduled to last for thirty minutes, but I stretch it to almost one hour. He has many impressive comments, and I find myself at a loss with how to properly formulate the ensuing article.

About one week later, I find myself inspired to write an open letter to the Westboro Baptist Church, which has made itself famous for perpetuating truly sadistic acts. On this occasion, I remind the “church” parishioners that God stands for love – and love only. I even throw in my silver dollar on biblical estimations regarding homosexuality, knowing full well that many others will disagree with me. I don’t care, either; I’m entitled to my beliefs, just as they are entitled to theirs.

In early October, I finally publish the lengthy article based on my interview with Gerald Celente. It is a massive success, gaining widespread dissemination on the Internet – and around the world. Based on Gerald’s words, I’m also inspired to pursue something even better: The Great American Renaissance.

One month later, I find myself writing what comes to be known as the Great Seven; the collection consists of seven articles that are written over a seven day period. The work is not pre-planned at all – it just sort of happens; I realize the content is bold, and because of this, some will certainly disparage it altogether. Shrouded with many mysteries, the underlying objective is merely to make people recognize the greatness of God. I decide it is best to never discuss the majority of these respective writings, as it will only lend credence to potential divisiveness.

In the end, I have learned that God lives within all of us – the best of the best, and the worst of the worst. We must choose whether or not we wish to follow His will in our lives. He loves us all, and wants the best for each of us. Therefore, the choice is really simple, but mankind often fails to realize it. You do not have to attend church to have God. All you must do is call to Him with a pure heart, and follow His guidance, which is always bestowed upon us in whatever way God sees fit. The Master of the Universe works in truly mysterious ways, and I trust my life story proves this.

I pray that mankind can eventually advance beyond unadulterated condemnations of homosexuals; obviously, this is a very delicate topic, and believe it or not, I do feel that religious opinions should not be entirely discounted. At the same time, people also need to respect nature – many different species have demonstrated that they embrace homosexual acts – and humans are, undoubtedly, mammals. Even though some prefer to waltz around on a stage wearing makeup, employing leashes, and simulating fornicative acts, many others – heterosexuals, homosexuals, and everyone in between – find this behavior repulsive. Hence, we need to have a renaissance in American mass media content.

Underneath it all, The Great American Renaissance is not just about politics; it is also very much about artistry and media content. We need to return to an era of pure inspiration – in lieu of endless scandals – and, in ourselves, aim to create works that are magnificent in their respective ways. Creativity knows no bounds:

• Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez are artists
• Eli Manning and Brett Favre are artists
• Kobe Bryant and LeBron James are artists
• David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo are artists
• Robert De Niro and Meryl Streep are artists
• Jay-Z and Alicia Keys are artists
• Barack Obama and Sarah Palin are artists
• You and I are artists

Whether your canvas is a football field – or a video clip on YouTube – the bottom line is that everyone has the ability to create something magnificent. Do not be afraid to strive for something that seems foreign to you – this is the only way you can grow.

In my own life, this means that I also must strive for greatness in artistry. Following the completion of the Great Seven, I feel as if it is now the right time to finally write a book – or a screenplay and theatrical play – maybe all of them. If anyone out there would care to join forces, in this project, or any other one, please do not hesitate to contact me. I greatly enjoy networking, and conversing in general.

The bottom line is that the sky is the limit, and the only hindrance to my destiny – and yours – is unnecessary fear. I seem to have progressed past my fears, once and for all. I hope that you can do the same in your life. Although I long for love, when the time is right, and it is meant to be, I know, in my heart, that love will find me. I will embrace the love I find – and cherish it like nothing else.

In the meantime, God bless you. God bless America. God bless the world.

(Photo Credit: Timothy Michael Barello)