It’s not easy being me, it never was and probably never will be. What compounds the problem is the people around me – mainly my family. Oh sure, they want the best for me. Or maybe it’s what will make them look the best. When things come so easily for them, they can’t for the life of them understand why I can’t follow suit. Heck, I was even lousy as a high school mascot. But striking out on my own and forging a career – are you serious? By the way . . . did I mention that Daddy is worth billions?

Ballad of a Freewheeling Flop

My Name is Morris Bartlett Crimpanfortis V

I was held back a year in grade school because I mismanaged my social media accounts.

Mama wanted me to become an actor or a news anchor or a weathercaster, something to complement by cheerful disposition. I failed miserably. During stage plays I’d lose my place at critical times and start mouthing other peoples’ cue lines.

I miss Mama so.

Daddy is Worth Billions–and that’s supposed to Impress Me?

Daddy wanted me to do something to add legitimacy to the family tree, like becoming an architect or chemist–anything but a politician or lawyer (even though, don’t get me wrong, he relies on the latter two every waking minute of the day). As for Daddy’s lofty aspirations for me, I quickly proved that those wishful dreams were well above my limited scholarly pay grade.

A Writer of Spec Scripts–Who Woulda Thunk It?

What I enjoyed most was writing spec scripts for feature films. During high school, my treatments ran the gambit: the ferry boat captain who sold peoples’ cars while they commuted across Puget Sound; the guy who bred venomous birds that struck without provocation; and the revved up amphibious schooner that roared across boulevards with a crew of daring desperados that pulled off one successful bank heist after another.

Mama wasn’t overly impressed with my literary efforts: I wrote a script about interplanetary motorcycle gangs exploding from the depths of Crater Lake while wreaking havoc on the I-5 corridor between Vancouver, BC and Sacramento.

Other than that, my proudest moment came when I finished the treatment for a soap opera that featured people in a northern California seaside community, who reacted strangely to routine tide changes by inexplicably growing extra fingers. So they had to deal with that irksome condition in addition to all the other aspects of their sorry, sordid lives. Mama failed to see the redeeming value in any of it.

I was a High School Mascot . . . with Issues

As an underappreciated mascot at my high school on the south side of Seattle, I liked to conduct mock interviews in the locker room during halftime of big games. Dressed in my ratty Abyssinian Lion costume, players and coaches would really pitch a fit as I stuck a fake mic in their angry faces. They got so worked up they burst from the locker room and made mincemeat of the opposing team. So I guess it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Upon graduating college with a degree in communications, no one had much of an interest in hiring me. For years I languished, taking odd jobs.

Did I mention Daddy was a billionaire?