Brendo Gets Vulnerable
With all the streaming services, it can be tough to decide where to spend your hard-earned dollar. For this reason, I steal Madden’s password for everything. It is economical for me and serves as an ongoing motivation not to punch Madden in his stupid, stupid face.
Luckily for me, Madden is a Star Trek nerd so he springs for Paramount Plus. In addition to all the Vulcan space sex shenanigans, Paramount also has a crazy amount of music documentaries as well as the archive of VH1 Storytellers and MTV Unplugged - a treasure trove of delicious live music performances. As I was watching Duran Duran Unplugged from 1993, I noticed this beautiful and talented backup singer lady:
Since we now live in the world of Google, I was able to quickly learn:
Her name is Lamya.
She is a Kenyan-born singer who has also worked with Prince, David Bowie, and James Brown.
SHE’S FUCKING DEAD! OF A HEART ATTACK! AT AGE 45!
First off, fuck you Paramount Plus! I came to hear “Hungry Like the Wolf,” not be plunged into a mortality crisis. Secondly, I can’t help but blame Madden for this. God I hate his stupid fucking face so much!
To be fair, I may have been primed for an overreaction. This past summer, I entered the final year of my forties. I wouldn’t say this has plunged into a full-on depression per se. By historical standards, this depression has been a low nagging hum in comparison to the deafening dins of existential dread of my youth. Depression has been my co-pilot since around middle school. As a result, I’ve gotten quite good at managing it. Remember when you mopey rookies figured out during COVID that it was a good idea to take a shower and put pants on even if you weren’t going out that day? I had that shit down during the elder Bush administration! So while this bout of the blues isn’t completely overwhelming (and there’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little heads about), my brain has been floating in a bit of moody pea soup lately.
You may have noticed that I’ve been slowing down on the posts (or - judging by your complete lack of reactions, you haven’t!) and there are some practical reasons for this. First, I’ve been working more hours at the day gig, so my limited creative hours have gone toward working on scripts, which take priority career-wise. Plus, much of my comedic energy has been spent on my new(ish)-found love of doing improv. But I’d be lying if I said it was only a matter of time management. For 2 and a half years, I sent at least one weekly Substack with the only exception being the week when LA was literally on fire. It was personally important to me that I deliver original comedy to your inbox every week. But in July, after I wrote a particularly inspired but not all that popular list of haikus about the characters on The Facts of Life, I was struck with one overwhelming thought:
What’s the fucking point?
I’m not the only creative person in history who has dealt with this dilemma. Creativity in capitalism is thorny. For those of you non-artists, imagine this: you work all day at your job you either enjoy or don’t and manage all the annoying and wonderful people and things in your life. You pay your bills and hug your kids and try to be polite to the clueless customer service dude on the phone. You know - life shit. Then, with what remaining energy you have left, you try to carve out enough time to pour your heart into making comedy or drama or painting or carving or singing something. But then - and here’s the fun part - no one may ever see it! You spend hours and years and decades of your precious life into something that very few if any people actually respond to! “But why don’t you stop then?” you may ask. Because - and here’s the fun part - you can’t! It’s compulsive! Stopping creating would be like trying to stop yourself from taking a shit! You may be successful for a short period of time, but without a regular release things tend to get messy.
A long time ago, I came to terms with the reality that I may never make a dollar as a creative person. I’m genuinely ok with it and recognize that it doesn’t reflect the quality of my work. To me, it’s never been about material success. I just want to connect with some audience. So when you’re writing and making films and creating comedy at my level, you can often feel like that just isn’t happening. Sure, you get moments of connection, like film festival acceptances and awards and the occasional general meetings with development executives. But when it doesn’t go anywhere, it starts to feel like one big pointless circle jerk.
I am not complaining, I swear. I am genuinely grateful to live a life where I get to be creative at all. Most people don’t. These are truly first world problems. But there is tremendous pressure in Hollywood to put on a veneer that “Everything is great! I’m so excited about how my career is going! I’m not bleeding from my eyes at all!” And I’m just not really built that way. I’m just trying to be honest about how I’m feeling because maybe it will help me and maybe some other people can relate and feel less alone. Which is the entire point of this whole ‘being creative’ thing, right? Maybe?
Creativity is lonely. If you are being creative right now in any way whatsoever, I think you’re a fucking hero. I want to hear your new song or listen to your podcast or watch your film or read your poem or appreciate your ceramic vulva sculpture. And if you are reading this (and let’s face it - you are), I appreciate you more than you know. You are a lifeline that keeps me connected to the most essential part of me. So… yeah. Thanks, buddies.
Boogie Writes is a completely independent endeavor by one hard-working funnyman trying to make his way in the world today (which takes everything you’ve got.) If you like what you read, please subscribe, support, and tell a friend! Also - do you need advice? Of course you do! Send your queries to brendan@brendanboogie.com with “Dear Boogie” in the subject and get some solid or at least passable advice!