MYSTIC RADIO® with Robin Alexis raises humanity from the dead with Emmy Award-winning television writer/producer David Isaacs

Submitted by Robin on Fri, 05/15/2009 - 17:15

So who is your ANGEL? If it wasn't for my husband, Bob Bordonaro, I would probably be DEAD right now. For more of the gruesome details you can read my book, "Robin's Song, Treasure Your Soul's Wisdom", but this blog isn't about how Bob Bordonaro is my angel. It is about how he is Emmy Award-winning television writer/producer David Isaac's angel. Without Bob's influence in David Isaac's life we would not have experienced such wonderful shows as MASH, CHEERS, FRASIER, MAD MEN and more. Read this excerpt from the book RAISING HUMANITY by Robin Alexis and 22 Storytellers. The following story is about David’s moment with a parent that affected his life. Through the intense synchronicity and abundance of his life circumstances, David saw the value in accepting the promptings of the inner voice. David created a life not only for himself, but also for thousands of televisions viewers.

Let David Isaac tell you how Bob Bordonaro is definitely one of his angels. And before you all read it, David Angel, says hello....

Remember That You Matter
By David Isaacs

For the past thirty years, I’ve made my living as a comedy writer. I’ve had the privilege of working on some of the best sitcoms of the past few decades, including MASH, Cheers, and Frasier. To participate in any one of those hits would be a lucky stroke for a writer; to take part in all three makes me pretty sure that someone up there must be on my side. A gift for writing is obviously part of my success, but I can’t help feeling that fate has been especially kind to me. My career has been a series of fortunate chances that I’ve had the good sense, sometimes in spite of my fears and misgivings, to take.

I’ve never been what you would call a confident or self-assured person. Never had the kind of ego it usually takes to make it in Hollywood, that mythic town that chews up psyches far stronger than my own. I’ve had serious bouts of depression, a couple that might be termed clinical. But somehow, despite feeling ill equipped to break in, let alone make it in ‘the business,’ I’ve had a career that’s lasted longer than most. I can only attribute that to some vague sense of my purpose in this world. A feeling that I was meant to be doing the work I do, living the life I am. As simple and as unsophisticated as it sounds, that thought has had a profound effect on me at the most crucial times in my life.

I’d always been attracted to the absurd worldview of comics, such as Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, Jonathan Winters, and Robert Klein. They were my idols growing up. I listened to their albums, stayed up late when they were on “The Tonight Show,” watched their movies, and read everything I could about them. Most importantly, I identified with them, their separateness and their ability to observe some incongruity and turn it around until it was funny. I recognized that talent in myself and the genuine reward of getting a laugh and how it immediately gave you an audience and, with that, acceptance.

I grew up in Miami as an only child in what is probably a typical only-child’s dysfunctional family. My parents had what most people would call a long successful marriage, but there were great stresses and times when things looked pretty bleak. As the sole child I felt their love, but also their day-to-day frustrations with their life and each other. In many ways, I was the bridge between them. The reason they stayed together. I think my lifelong aversion to any kind of conflict comes from trying to keep a steady balance in the house and making sure never to stir things up.

Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get away from that pressure, but at the same time we become comfortable with what we’re used to and it was hard to pull away from being their child. My dreams were to leave Miami and make my way to New York or L.A., where I would become a comedy name. They were wonderful dreams (many featured me out on the town or in the bedroom with hot women who were dazzled by my quick wit), but they didn’t prepare me for the reality ahead.

I attended college close to home. For me, it was a blur of uncertainty. I took film and TV as a major, but I found little that inspired me and, even when it did, I underachieved. I got a ‘C’ in my only screenwriting class, and if that’s not personal irony, I don’t know what is. I graduated with a mediocre GPA and faced the real world with only the assurance that I had to be out there eventually. I still had my dream, but New York and L.A. were far away and the idea that it was time to go made actually going a lot scarier. What used to be the ‘Emerald Cities’ became dark and foreboding places.

Lucky for me (that phrase pops up a lot), I had a good friend named Bob Bordonaro, who had already moved out to L.A. Bob has been like an angel on my shoulder, always there at a critical juncture, as if he were around to guide me. Maybe we all play those parts at some time in our friends’ lives, but Bob’s timing in mine has been uncanny. You might even say heaven sent.

He began to call from L.A., telling me how great it was out there. It was everything we’d talked about and more. He told me I should pack up my few things and drive out. It sounded great and I wanted to go. I’d get all pumped up, but in the middle of the night at about 2 a.m. (which to this day I call my ‘hour of doubt’); I’d chillingly review all the reasons not to go. No money. The loneliness of a big city. All sorts of unsavory people preying on you. (The last one I was right about. It is, after all, L.A.)

My parents weren’t particularly encouraging. “What are you going to do there?” is one of those bigger existential questions that can get under your skin. So, I kept putting it off. I had a job in Miami that was at least putting some walking-around money in my pocket. Why give that up? Still, I had a nagging feeling that I belonged in L.A. and that my life almost depended on me going. Not in any dangerous sense, but more that I had no purpose remaining where I was. That soon I would be lost, even living near my own home. My destiny was calling me. Not real loud, but enough to get my attention. I decided to heed the call. I packed up my things and said a very emotional goodbye to my father. Suddenly, we had to deal with a farewell we had both put off.

I drove to California and found it tougher than I ever imagined. L.A. is an exciting town at first sight. It is a bright city full of young, good-looking people. But, it’s also as sprawling and lonely as the songs say – I’m thinking of “It Never Rains in Southern California,” not “I Love L.A.”

Six hundred dollars in life savings didn’t last long, even in the early seventies. I lived on Bob’s couch for weeks and made the rounds looking for jobs in ‘the business,’ of which there were none. I wanted to get involved right away in comedy, but was not confident enough to try stand-up. Avoidance of conflict being a big theme for me, putting myself up on stage in front of hecklers never seemed to be a wise choice. I believe we all need the courage to overcome the fears that cripple us, but I also believe we’re entitled to one free pass in life and I took mine when it came to stand-up.

I got odd jobs and made enough to move into a one-room efficiency. That’s my lyrical way of describing a sink, a toilet, and a bed. Like a thousand other young people who had come to L.A. to find themselves, I started running out of hope. I talked to my parents about returning to Miami and I was sure my father would immediately lay out the ‘Welcome Back Home’ mat. Instead, he told me to stay put. There was nothing for me in Miami.

His words surprised me. Not so much the advice, which was sound, but that he had echoed my earlier instinct. I had never said anything to him about my future not lying at home. I felt it would have hurt his feelings at a sensitive time. But there he was saying the same thing I’d been thinking. I knew that in his heart my father wanted me nearby, but he was telling me to stick it out. His selflessness inspired me and I was more determined than ever to make a name for myself in comedy, even if I had no idea how to do it.

Once again, “my guide” Bob appeared with a means to my end. Bob and I had both joined the Army Reserves during college. A great many draft-eligible men had taken the same route during the Vietnam War. When Bob moved to L.A., he transferred to a new unit, a public information detachment. It was made up of some very talented soldiers (and I use the word soldier very loosely here), who had day jobs as reporters, on-air newsmen, and disc jockeys.

When I arrived in town, Bob got me into the unit and it was a turning point in my life. During a reserve camp in Colorado, I met Ken Levine, a very funny guy who was a Top 40 jock in San Bernadino, California. He spotted me reading a biography of George S. Kaufman, the famous playwright and a hero of his. Needless to say, we hit it right off and found that we had a lot of comic icons in common. We both talked about wanting to write comedy screenplays or TV shows like “MASH,” which had just premiered. The problem was both of us were a little unsure of ourselves when it came to the craft of writing.

A good screenplay seemed like a daunting task (we weren’t wrong about that), especially working alone. We decided to team up and tackle something together. The thought was a good one, but the logistics made it tough. We both had day jobs and Ken’s was out of town. We had to meet nights and Sundays. It was tough going and our first works, of course, were rejected.

We had no contacts to speak of, but we did have each other. Even when the days without rest piled up, we knew we could rely on the other person for motivation. With a few years of hard work, we sold our first script. It was an episode of “The Jeffersons” that was completely re-written by the show’s story editors, but we had a sale. We were on our way . . . to the unemployment office.

After our first script, we found an agent to represent us. We quit our day jobs to write full time, but no more assignments came for six months. The initial high had long worn off and we found ourselves desperate for work to the point where Ken was ready to take a radio job that would move him far enough away that writing together would be impractical. But then, out of the blue, our agent called with one of those big break Hollywood stories (a little hyperbole).

The agency that represented us also handled the producer of “MASH.” As a favor to the agency, he read one of our scripts and liked it enough to bring us in for a pitch. MASH was a show I could only dream of writing. He filled our arms with research about the Korean War and we returned with scores of ideas, one of which he liked. Still, he had his doubts about us. Whether it was our age or lack of professional experience, I guess our eagerness overcame him and he gave us a shot to turn our idea into an episode. We came through and he gave us another assignment. We were full-on writers.

No doubt, we worked our butts off to take advantage of our opportunity. To this day, I don’t think Ken or I would have had the chance to write “MASH” if either of us had gone it alone. Nor would we have been as proficient had we not spent time in the military, not in combat thank God, but experiencing Army life firsthand.

In that sense, we were ahead of other comedy writers our age. We were lucky to have found each other, but I’ve never believed it was just dumb luck. We were guided there by the actions of friends and family, but also by the faith, however weak at times, that we were on a path to our own true destinies.

But, there are always stumbling blocks. “MASH” gave me a good career foothold, but it also brought me new insecurities. I started to wrap my self-worth in my success as a writer. I began to enjoy the writing less and less and worried all the time about the work not being good enough. I stopped feeling funny. Generally, this is a bad condition for a comedy writer.

I put such pressure on myself that I eventually crashed and fell into a crisis of spirit. A fancy way of saying I was deeply depressed. I’d been in these periods before, but never like this. I could not shake the feelings of hopelessness. Trying to write my way out of it only made it worse.

I went back to Miami for the first time in years, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I was almost thirty years old and back with my parents. Not the healthiest of situations, and yet it was a side trip I needed to take.

My father and mother tried their best to understand what I was going through, but they had no background to help me. Their talks and pleas could not break through the darkness. When you’re in a depression nothing much makes sense.

One morning as I lay in bed, my father came into the room. He didn’t ask how I was feeling for the hundredth time. He didn’t try to give me a pep talk. He didn’t try to impress on me again that worrying would ruin my health. He just sat down on the edge of my bed, looked at me and said, “Everything is going to be okay. You matter.” Just those words. No explanation. Nothing more. Then he got up and left the room.

My father was never a man of few words and rarely succinct in his thoughts. But at that moment, when it counted most, he summed up the problem in two short sentences. He was telling me it was all right to be who I was. Success, money, possessions, respect, fame, and accomplishment are all fine, if they don’t get in the way of finding meaning in your life.

I first chose my path because it brought me joy and purpose. If I lost my way because I was too busy trying to prove my worth, then I had to go back to enjoying the writing for its own sake or I would stay lost. That’s a lot to get from “Everything is going to be okay. You matter. But it quickly became clear to me that’s what he meant. Even if it wasn’t what he meant (I never asked him), his words brought me the message. I’ve never forgotten that moment. When I lose my way (and it happens almost weekly), I can remember it and begin to center myself again.

I’m 53 now and I have a wonderful wife (Bob introduced us, if you can believe that) and children. Fifty-three is an age that’s usually last call for comedy writers. But I’m still hanging in there and getting great enjoyment and blessings out of the work. The late nights in re-write rooms take a bigger toll then they did when I was in my thirties, but I still enjoy the company.

My greatest blessing is my children. No accomplishment, no award, no recognition can compare with the sense of peace they’ve given me. If the first half of life is career and making a reputation for oneself, the second half is about seeking meaning. My children have brought that and centered me in a way I never experienced before. In short, their very presence made me more selfless, and that I think speaks for itself.

Another joy and meaning I’ve discovered is teaching up-and-coming writers about the craft, guiding them along their own path. Not to get all Lion King, circle of lifey here, but I’d like to give back a little to young folks who remind me a whole lot of me. Not all of them will be as lucky as I’ve been career-wise, but if I can help just a few follow their own dreams, then I’ll know till the end of my life that my father was right… I matter.