Prologue
My mom’s voice rang in my head like a broken record on repeat: “You’ve got to stop living in a fantasy world.” And yet, there I was, standing in the middle of what felt like a production gone horribly awry, staring at a kid who looked like he just escaped from some punk rock Día de los Muertos afterparty. His mask, clearly a DIY masterpiece of chaos, covered most of his face, but his energy? Oh, that was pure crazy!
He laughed—a wild, cackling sound that would’ve made the Joker jealous—as he shook a can of spray paint like it held the meaning of life. Hisssss! went the can as he sprayed paint into a cup, inhaling it like he was auditioning for the role of “most reckless human alive.” Then, as if he hadn’t already won that title, he turned to me, his eyes glinting with a kind of “watch me set the world on fire” vibe, and proceeded to spray a thick layer of paint across his face and hands.
I stood there, frozen, somewhere between are you kidding me? and is this my life now? Dumbfounded doesn’t even begin to cover it. Reality may not be charming, but let me tell you, it is weird.
Across the street, The El Portal Theater loomed like an omen of my misfortune. Everything I had was gone - stolen as I slept. Tears burned my face as I stared into the sea of North Hollywood commuters on their way to work.
The luxurious apartment where I once lived, just a few blocks away, seemed like a distant dream. I thought about my friend Victoria and me toasting champagne, basking by the pool, and jet-setting off to exotic destinations. Less than a year ago, my life had never been more glamorous. But that was then, not now.
Now, I’m like a real-life Les Misérables character, roaming the streets for weeks. The loneliness is crushing. Wherever I turn, there’s silence from the people I used to consider my friends. The few who answer my calls spew excuses and refuse to help me. Those genuine bonds? Poof, gone. It seems like everyone’s following the same script, eagerly waiting for my exit. The stage is set, but why has no one taken the initiative for a heartfelt check-in? Seriously, the least they could do is pretend to care!
My life has always felt like a thrilling musical, with each moment charged with the intensity of a dramatic scene, just waiting for the next show-stopping number. I have played many roles - a dreamer, an artist, a performer, a waiter, a producer, a husband, a director, and a father. My entire life has been one big happy musical. But now, all those parts of me seem to fade away as I am reduced to just one label - an addict. It’s as if this one word has overshadowed my entire identity. My character, my life, and the battles I’ve fought are all lost in the simplicity of one word. I used to love changing things up, reinventing myself like a cat with nine lives. But now, I feel stuck in this never-ending cycle and can’t keep up anymore. This was not the happy musical I once played in my head.
“Hey! You got a cigarette?” A gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see the spray-painted street kid with messy hair and a crooked smile.
“Sorry,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite crying.
“Fuck you,” he said dismissively, shuffling away to pester someone else.
When did it all go wrong? Was the relentless gaslighting and manipulation from those I once trusted steering me into this mess? Or was it my own naivety and blind trust in others that landed me here? Was it all drug-induced, or should I blame Grindr for this disaster? Or myself? I had no clue. But as I sat there on the cold sidewalk, the weight of my circumstances crushing my spirit, I knew one thing: I was done. It was time for a plot twist in my own tragicomedy.
“Hey, Erik!” A familiar voice called out. Turning around, I saw Georg “The Swede” Johansson approaching, his face hidden behind his dark sunglasses.
“Georg?” pronounced Gee-Ork. “ What are you doing here?” I was surprised and slightly relieved to see my old neighbor – Even though I’d previously ignored literally running away from him last week when I saw him in Hollywood.
He offered a hand to help me up. “You look like you could use a friend.”
“Oh my God,” accepting his help and standing on shaky legs. “I don’t understand why everything’s gone so wrong.”
“Sometimes, life throws us curve balls,” Georg said in his thick Swedish accent. “It’s up to us to decide how we react.” Really, Georg? Since when did you become a wisdom master?
“React? This has all been a nightmare I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try.”
“Your decisions led you here. But they can also lead you out,” he said.
“Out?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. The idea of escaping this nightmare seemed impossible.
“Trust me,” Georg said, “Just stop fighting it. You need to get out of here, man.”
My hand hovered over the spray-painted payphone. Dialing my Mom’s number was all I had to do. A feeling of dread crept over me as memories of what I’d been through ran through my mind, and I found myself blaming her. But was it really her fault, or was it mine?
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Chapter 1: Willkommen
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Now, hopefully, I’ve got you hooked with my flash-forward opening chapter. If not, I might need to add a car chase or a dramatic fainting scene—your call. But for now, let’s hit rewind and start at the beginning. My story doesn’t really kick off with a punk in a spray-painted mask (though, admit it, that was a fun detour). No, it truly begins when I decided to pack up my life and head back to Lalaland.
This decision came after a year—yes, a full, soul-sucking year—of doing endless three-hour drives between San Luis Obispo, affectionately known as SLO, and North Hollywood, or NoHo if you’re cool, which I was obviously pretending to be. Picture it: me, white-knuckling the wheel, alternating between eighties songs and Britney Spears playlists, wondering how many trips it would take before my car decided to stage a coup.
My decision to move back to LA was a cocktail mixed with a twist of fate and a splash of chaos. Less than a year after my fairy-tale wedding, my husband pulled a Houdini act after a series of lies and a bank account heist from my theater company. Then, Victoria, my rich “girlfriend,” blew my mind by revealing that my San Luis Obispo family home was going up for sale—before my mom even told me! This might not seem like a big deal, but my mom had convinced me to move into her guest house when my depression levels were off the charts after my husband “left.” It made sense my mom wanted to move closer to my sister in San Diego, who had finally popped out a baby, but finding out from Victoria instead of my mom stung. Dealing with all this upheaval and battling the blues, Victoria graciously opened the doors of her swanky mansion, where I lived it up in style (the east wing) and partied like there was no tomorrow. I mean, who doesn’t love a good party? But then the universe decided to double down on me—my beloved Unity Theater/Church, where I staged my shows and made my money, was listed and sold, leaving me and my company homeless. Perhaps this was a sign of foreshadowing?
On top of that drama, my “son” Jason, from the Big Brothers Little Sisters program, got whisked away when his Grammy laid down the law because I didn’t toe her line, leaving a Jason-sized hole in my heart. It was all too much, right? Just writing it seems nuts and should be a book all in itself. Maybe someday it will be.
With everything that was happening, an undeniable pull drew me back to LA, a city I had missed during my nine-year stint back in SLO. The decision seemed almost made for me on New Year’s Eve when I innocently asked Victoria if I could host a small gathering at her place while she was away. Little did I know, what started as a cozy get-together with just four of us would turn into a full-blown party, with a guest list that seemed to multiply faster than a Gremlin in a rainstorm, thanks to my friends inviting a few of their own. Before I knew it, fifteen people had descended upon Victoria’s house, transforming it into a bustling hot spot for a New Year’s dinner party.
Although I can argue it wasn’t entirely my fault (and I did, but hey, it was New Year’s!), Victoria saw it differently. She claimed to have watched and listened to the entire evening unfold via the cameras in her house. So, feeling betrayed by what she thought was a secret plot, she informed me it was time to find a new place to live when she returned home.
It was like a comedy of errors all happening simultaneously. Still, I somehow managed to snag a cozy two-bedroom penthouse (okay, the top floor) all to myself on Magnolia Boulevard in North Hollywood. Despite Victoria giving me the boot, she surprisingly pitched in to help me shop and set up my apartment. We did it well cause I had money and a lot of company credit! Maybe she realized she was a tad hasty in her judgment, maybe she rewatched her spy footage, or perhaps she wanted more action as she was hot and heavy over some man up north. Still, it signaled the time to leave SLO behind and give up my even local celebrity status to become a small fish in the ocean that is Los Angeles.
My new apartment, “Living @ NoHo,” was just two blocks from the fabulous El Portal Theater where Kelrik (my sister’s name, Kelley and mine combined) Productions, my theater company, was really making waves, pumping out magical and award-winning shows left and right from Pinkalicious to Sweeney Todd. We were on our second season in LA, producing five shows in ten months…. That’s a lot! My friend called me the “Fast Food King of Musical Theater,” which is supposed to be a compliment. I dived headfirst into LA’s theater scene, partnering up with my cohorts Kristin, Sam, and Scheana. Together, we scooped up awards and accolades like they were going out of style—seriously. And the money was flowing pretty nicely for theater, which is always a gamble.
With all the success I was enjoying, it was impossible to ignore that my personal life was pretty much on life support. Flat-lining! Apart from the endless happy hours and brunches, my idea of fun was driving down the street to Universal Studios and squeezing in a few adrenaline-pumping rides.
When my Italian cousin Francesca and her boyfriend came to America for a few weeks, I gave them the ultimate American Dream tour. We explored everywhere California had to offer, from the sunny shores of San Diego up the coast to the scenic beauty of San Luis Obispo. We hit every amusement park, lounged on picturesque beaches, and strolled through the iconic Walk of Fame and glamorous Rodeo Drive.
Watching Francesca and her boyfriend all lovey-dovey painfully reminded me that my love life was, well, non-existent. Seriously, none! My social circle was so small it could suffocate—just me and my girls. As they got ready to leave, I couldn’t help but think about my bedroom situation. Let’s just say it was experiencing a drought of biblical proportions. Since my husband’s abrupt exit ages ago, there’s been zero action. I needed some love—or at the very least, some decent sex. For any gay man, a dry spell like this? It’s a full-on emergency!
But as I stood on my apartment rooftop, gazing dreamily at the sky, the irony hit me—I was exactly where I needed to be. Los Angeles (well, North Hollywood) had a funny way of reminding me that, despite the lack of romance, this city always felt like home.
A voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to find an attractive guy roughly my age (or so I guessed—I’ve never been great at that). At 39, I could still pass for early 30s, which was a godsend because who wants to admit they’re getting old? My youthful appearance was a blessing for warding off wrinkles but sometimes a curse for commanding respect.
The guy leaned casually against the railing. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, nodding.
“New around here?” he asked, a friendly smile spreading across his face.
“Kind of,” I admitted with a shrug.
“Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” he said warmly, extending his hand. “I’m Jake.”
“Hey Jake, I’m Erik,” I said, giving him a firm handshake. From there, we just started chatting it up…. Lots. As we chatted and chuckled, the topic somehow shifted to dating. I hesitantly admitted, “I haven’t been on a date in ages. Work’s been keeping me busy, so I haven’t had time for my personal life.”
“LA is full of opportunities to meet someone,” Jake reassured me. “You on Grindr?”
“Not really,” I said. “I actually got the app to spy on my husband after he ‘disappeared.’ The truth is, I did have it, but the picture I used wasn’t me. I basically trolled him to see just how much of a player he really was.” I smiled. “But honestly, I haven’t had much sex since then.” I laughed, immediately wondering why I’d just blurted that out.
Jake looked surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, “But don’t worry, if you’re interested, there are plenty of guys around here. It can be unpredictable, but there’s plenty of dick in the neighborhood.”
I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hope as I thought about what he said. “Happy Grinding!” he said with a smile. I’m sure I’ll see you on there.
I took out my phone and began re-downloading the app as I returned to the apartment. With my finger poised over the screen, about to plunge into the world of Grindr, I couldn’t shake the thought: Would this be the answer to fulfilling my desires and finding the connection I longed for?