When life partnersbecome business partners, the going gets rough and tough!

BY MICHAEL ANTHONY

I’m a little bit artsy; he’s a little bit control-alt-delete. My resume reads like an entertainment-adjacent cornucopia, while his marks 20 years of service in the same cubical. I love spelunking up and down the freelance ladder, taking some of the most “interesting” entertainmentcareers.net and Craigslist.com postings that the information superhighway has to offer. He enjoys trekking down the corporate road most traveled, relishing in job security and a killer 401(k).

Yes, when it comes to matters of making money, my mate and I could not be more oppositely polar. He doesn’t judge my need for perpetual stimulation, and I overlook his contentment with monotony. Granted, truthfully, I don’t understand how a man can endure the same 9 to 5, 365 days a year. I’ve been blessed with jobs that starry-eyed dreams are made of: launching an

award-winning blog, working as an assistant joke writer to Joan Rivers, spending a month in the boonies of rural Missouri as a story board editor for a reality show about tricking-out rednecks’ big rig trucks, traveling the world on some foreign tourism board’s dime and interviewing more coked-up D-List starlets than you can shake a basic cable stick at. (Oh, the things I’ve seen, the gossip I could spew… but you’ll have to wait for the tell-all.)

So, for me, it was always safe to assume that my man and I would never, not in a million-dollar years, work together. Yes, our weekday rendezvous would consist of four-course, pro-nesting dinners at home on the couch, with a good bottle of wine and an even better two hours worth of Bravo on TiVo; our daytime rat-race hours would (and should) be spent on opposing sides of the city, our professional paths never crossing.

Until, that is, I got into theatrical producing. Now, it’s one thing to get a producer’s gig at the Ahmanson or Disney Hall; big budgets, wealthy donors and expensive tickets make for easy, breezy financial means. But I didn’t find myself in their hallowed halls. No, the place where I was hanging my artistic cap was a struggling 69-seat black box nonprofit LGBT theater. I was commissioned to cast, direct and star in a one-night charity event with a $0 production budget, no marketing means and a staff of one—myself.

Although I may do shoulder-shrugs at the gym twice a week, these babies can only carry the weight of so much on their own. So I did what any indeed

in-need Hollywood stumbler-and-shaker would do; I begged my best gals, guys and gays for help. Their too-quick-for-comfort responses? “Would love to, but too busy...”; “sounds like fun, but my agent won’t let me touch nonprofits…”; and “sorry, but I’m washing my hair… that month.”

With my little black book out of numbers to bombard, I turned to the one man that, according to Ms. Wynette, was supposed to stand by me through thick and thin, my boyfriend. “Puh-leeeeez heeeeelp meeeee, Pookieeeee!”

His answer was a glib no, until I withheld affection a la Lysistrata; within 24 hours, he came (metaphorically and literally) around.

Our partnership began at a quick clip, with me barking orders and him

executing. I was the brains; he was the brawn. Expertly and artistically, things were getting done, and elements were getting produced (at the cost-effective price tag of $0!). But then the unthinkable happened. He started having ideas… of his own! Maybe my man was thrown off by the title of “co”-producer. I guess, somewhere in his pretty little worker-bee brain, he got the idea that this production was a democratic collaboration and not a dictatorship with my theatrical genius at the throne.

First, it was the lighting plot; then, it was the brand of wine being served in the concessions booth. Next, the costumes, the raffle prizes and the buffet table’s color scheme. But the straw that broke the anorexic camel’s back was his unwavering stance that our lobby music could not consist of all-Britney remixes, all the time. Well, that’s when my inner-pop-princess and exterior-executive-producer lost it: “Speak when spoken to, and go paint the G-damned set!”

Within minutes, I found myself alone, a paint brush in one hand and un-hung gobos in the other. It’s one thing to have a “strongly worded debate” (aka: bitch-fest) with a co-worker, but it’s another to have a demeaning dialogue with your partner in love-turned-biz-partner. I begged, cried and played the “This is bigger than the two of us! It’s a benefit for abandoned gay youth” card.

We finished the project, and (of course) it was a smashing success. (Cosmetology school, watch out! The baby gay-bee’s are a’comin’!) But it was then and there that I learned, post-benefit at 2:30 a.m., as my hubby and I were on our knees, futilely trying to buff spilt Bacardi/Diet Cokes and red wine stains out of the theater floor. For some, co-mingling business and romantic bliss may be a match made in Happily Ever After-Heaven.

But as God as my witness, I’d never co-produce with my man again!

BOYFRIEND MATERIAL

Name: Jarett

Age: 31

Occupation: Talent agent/DJ

E-mail: thepoundpuppy@yahoo.com

Ideal first date: We’d meet at a

casual place where we could talk and get to know each other; throw in a few drinks and a few friends for entertainment. Steal a quick kiss when the moment deems appropriate and see where the night leads. Sunrise over Beachwood Canyon Drive would never be out of the question (hint, hint).

Little-known fact: OK, embarrassing: My face sweats when I eat ketchup. LoL! Un embarrassing: I am a closet romantic comedy fan. When Tom Hanks sees Meg Ryan on the top of the Empire State building holding the book bag with the teddy bear... that gets me everytime—everytime.

Are you, or is anyone you know, Boyfriend Material? Fill out the above survey and send a high-resolution image to Jocelyn.Loren@frontierspublishing.com.