I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was really the Terminator! My adolescent role model from just ten years ago had casually strolled into the shower area of the iconic Venice Beach World Gym on Main Street. This was highly unusual for several reasons, the chief among them being that Americans, as a rule, don’t shower at the gym. Typically—perhaps out of some deep-seated sense of shame, though I can’t say for certain—they prefer to scurry home to cleanse themselves in private, or not. Venice Beach World Gym, December, 1991
Now, being the Terminator that he was, any sense of shame would have been a comically misplaced flaw. Quite the contrary—he radiated a profound air of utter physical superiority.
Admittedly, this was a somewhat inaccurate signal because, to even the least observant eye, age had clearly caught up with him.
In fact, I was the fitter specimen in the immediate vicinity—less bulky, for sure, but decidedly more athletic.
After all, I was about half his age and, physically—though mentally still somewhat adolescent—in my prime.
Still, he was the TERMINATOR!
At that particular stage of my life, the world felt far too small for me. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind that whatever I set my sights on, I could conquer. Fortune held no real appeal; in fact, the reason why I should even want money as a goal remained a complete mystery to me.
What I longed for—what I burned for—was fame. Pure, untainted recognition—that’s all I wanted. I’m sure an extended session with a psychiatrist would have unearthed some deep-seated parental neglect, underlying trauma, or inherent insecurity, but frankly, I didn’t care..
An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
Before the Bee Grenades, Before the Land Rover Broke Down in Nairobi — There Was This.
Before the frostbite. Before the deportation. Before the Wyoming meltdown. There was this—one delusional day in L.A., half-naked in a suit, grinning like the world hadn’t yet filed a restraining order. (The World Was Never Enough – Part 1)
Venice Beach, 1991. No Instagram. No filters. Just a half-naked lunatic with a dream and questionable judgment, accidentally launched into modeling stardom by a gay fashion mogul named Tony. I said no to the talent scout... then yes to the $50/hour half-nude stage job. Because obviously.
This was my first taste of fame — and my brother’s first taste of a motel shower after sleeping in the car. Everybody won. Except my dignity. That didn’t make it back from LA.
Brotherhood, Betrayal, and the Trunk of Doom.
The naive masterminds behind the Great Californian Car-Camping Catastrophe, circa 1991. One had the plan. The other had the backseat. Neither had a clue. (The World Was Never Enough – Part 1)
Here’s the innocent soul we crammed into the biohazard backseat of a budget sedan across California in the ‘90s. Lured by promises of shopping money, he spent nights folded like IKEA furniture in a tuna-scented coffin while we stretched out in the front like narcissistic royalty. His face here says everything: youthful trust, brewing resentment, and early-onset spinal misalignment. We told him it’d build character. It mostly built lifelong chiropractic bills.
My buddy Janek. No further explanation required. Los Angeles, 1991—right before the dream died, the Range Rover broke down, and Homeland Security asked us to leave politely… with prejudice. A moment of style, stupidity, and unearned confidence. (The World Was Never Enough – Part 1)
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