Another "Focus" Sample

Here's another sample from my "Focus" column. Enjoy.

There have been many actor/director collaborations during the history of cinema that have resulted in great and lasting works in the beloved medium. A notable example that comes to mind is the collaboration between director Martin Scorsese and the actors Robert DeNiro, and Leonardo DeCaprio. There are many others and this is just one of the multitude of examples that one might choose to cite.
A lesser known example of this type of collaboration, resulting in much tickling of the funny bone over the course of nearly a dozen films, would be the collaboration between director Blake Edwards and the late Peter Sellers.
Beginning in 1964 with “The Pink Panther” and continuing until the 1978 film “Revenge of the Pink Panther”-released less than two years before Seller’s untimely death from a heart ailment-these two unlikely partners in crime unleashed a string of comedies that continue to live on in the hearts of film fans everywhere. In fact, the influence these two had on each other’s work was so strong that director Edwards even went as far as to string together another entry in the “Pink Panther” series strictly from outtakes that Sellers had left behind in an effort to keep the magic going. Even though that latter film, “Trail of the Pink Panther”, didn’t work it was still an admirable attempt on Edwards’ part to acknowledge the creative impact they had made on each other during the years they had spent working together.
Most everyone is familiar with the series of “Pink Panther” films they collaborated on but not everyone is as familiar with their 1968 effort, “The Party”, the only non “Pink Panther” film they made together. Like so many other great films it was largely ignored during it’s initial run only to find another life on cable and video. In fact, when the film was released in 1968 it played in the Charlotte area for less than a week according to my research. If you haven’t seen the film, you owe it to yourself to find it.
If you are one of those who enjoyed the slapstick goings on of the series of “Pink Panther” films, then you’re certain to appreciate the onscreen antics of “The Party”. “The Party” tells the story of a bumbling Indian actor named Hrundi V. Bakshi, played by, who else, Peter Sellers. During the early scenes of the film, Bakshi single handedly destroys the entire set of the picture he happens to be working on at the time. He is immediately told by the director that he’s ‘finished’ and will never work in pictures again. His accident on the set is immediately reported to the head of the studio who absent mindedly jots his name down on the wrong piece of paper, which coincidentally happens to be the guest list for a chic Hollywood party the Hollywood mogul’s wife is in the midst of planning.
The rest of the film is a wildly improvised-the film’s actual script was only 63 pages- of side splitting sight gags as the clumsy Indian actor inadvertently wrecks the party and everything connected to it during the space of the film’s ninety nine minute running time.
As I mentioned earlier, the film was largely improvised and this was the desire that Edwards and Sellers had from the moment of the film’s inception. To accommodate the improvisational nature of the film, Edwards even went as far as to arrange for a TV camera to be mounted on the film camera for instant access, a revolutionary process at the time.
Throughout the film, the cast seems to be having a great time and enjoying themselves but this certainly wasn’t the case during the film’s production. Although this was the third film that Edwards and Sellers had collaborated on at this point, it was a well know fact that, on a personal level, they simply could not or would not get along. Much of this can be attributed to the mercurial temperament of star Sellers. During the film’s shoot, relations between the two men eventually deteriorated to the point that Sellers refused to take personal direction from Edwards and would only communicate via notes that were sent out from under his dressing room door. It’s a true testament to each man’s talent, and the exceptional supporting cast which includes Gavin McLeod (“The Love Boat”) and French pop singer Claudine Longet in her only starring role, that the film turned out so well. In fact, the film turned out so well indeed that it’s been documented in more than one Elvis Presley bio that this was his favorite film. And if it was good enough for the ‘King of Rock N Roll’ then maybe there’s something to it.

“The Party” is available on DVD from MGM Home Entertainment

It was twenty years ago today.....

I'm the type of person who remembers names, dates, etc. with little to no effort. I'm also a very sentimental sort of fellow. Sentimental to my own detriment at times. Anyway, I was thinking about where I was twenty years ago today and how much my life has changed in the ensuing two decades that have passed. I now have two wonderful children that I could not have fathomed all those years ago and yet I still sometimes long to do it all again. To go back to that time and place and to see those people again just one more time.
March 30,1988 was a very exciting day for me. I was a senior at my high school with only two months left before graduation. I had been somewhat shy for most of high school days but during the last several months of my senior year I had begun to come out of my shell and do the social networking thing. I made lots of friendships during the last three or four months of my senior year but there was one thing I could not seem to get no matter how hard I tried. That one thing that I wanted so desperately was the love of a girl two grades below me.
Her name was Wendy and our paths had crossed for the first time back in January of 1988 in my library science class. I had spotted her on the couch softly crying. She was strikingly attractive with the classic combination of blonde hair and blue eyes. This was her first year at our school. She had moved to our town with her mother and brother at the end of the previous after being raised and bred in some northern town I can't recall the name of. The reason for her sadness was a combination of homesickness and some cruel remarks that had been made in jest regarding her northern accent. It was more than she could take and she had broken down.
I sat down beside her on the couch in our library. We talked for a moment or two and then she left. I had tried to make her feel better and she seemed to be in better spirits when she left. During the next several days I found I couldn't get her off my mind no matter how hard I tried. I knew in my heart of hearts that a girl like that was simply out of my league but you couldn't convince a romantic fool like myself of this.
Imagine my surprise when I found her sitting at my kitchen table along with my sister and my next door neighbor some three days later. As luck would have it, my next door neighbor had developed quite a friendship with Wendy unbeknownst to me. It wasn't long before I began my daily ritual of interrogating my neighbor to keep myself up to date on Wendy's love life.
Through my next door neighbor I found out that, no, Wendy did not have a boyfriend. I also found out through my neighbor all about Wendy's likes and dislikes. Especially her musical tastes, which I'll come back to later.
In no time at all I mustered up the courage to get my neighbor to deliver a note to Wendy. In the note I simply asked if she would consider going to the senior prom with me. She promptly replied saying the thing was she would not be going with anyone that year, but thanks for asking anyway. Well, that was my first plan to win her heart and it had surely backfired. Back to the drawing board.
Her visits to our house became more and more frequent. I became so enamored with her when she was visiting our place I found I couldn't even hold solid food down. I had been slightly overweight before I had met Wendy and, up until meeting her, had paid little attention to diet. With my appetite dwindling more and more everyday it wasn't long before the pounds melted off. I went from 178 pounds/36 inch waist down to 138/32 waist in just over a month and a half. Later on I would credit her with inadevertently getting me to come out of my fat coma and start keeping myself in shape but at the time I gave no thought to that. I just knew she was wrecking me emotionally. I was so smitten with her and there was nothing I could do about it.
It didn't help matters that one of my coworkers at my part time job lived in the apartment next to hers. There seemed to be some connection to her everywhere I went.
It wasn't long before I came up with a plan. I knew Wendy loved the group Aerosmith. Aerosmith was in the midst of a monstrous comeback after nearly a decade spent in an alcohol and drug induced stupor and their tour was selling out everywhere they were going. They were clean, sober, and had a massive hit on their hands with the song "Angel". Of course, it goes without saying that the lyrics to the song pretty well summed up my feelings for Wendy at the time but I digress. The point of the story is that Aerosmith was on their way to the Charlotte coleseum and would be performing there on March 30, 1988 with their opening act, White Lion, another favorite of Wendy's. My plan was now complete.
My plan was to buy three tickets to the show. One for Wendy and I and another ticket for my neighbor. I assumed Wendy wouldn't consider it a date if my neighbor tagged along and the drive down to Charlotte would provide the perfect opportunity for the two of us to get to know each other better in a non pressure situation. Along the way, I would try to win her over with my personality since I felt that I most likely wasn't up to her physical standards and I felt this was my only chance of wooing her.
My neighbor agreed to buy her own ticket and she ran the plan by Wendy. Wendy agreed, I went down to purchase the tickets ($17.50 each back then and a lot of scratch for a 17 year old, minimum wage kid) and we were all set to go on that Friday. I even talked my mom into writing a note to get me out of class early so I could slick up my dad's 1977 Chevy Silverado that I routinely drove to school.
That afternoon, after fininshing the wash job on my truck, I walked outside as the school bus deposited my neighbor in front of her house. I could tell by the look on my neighbor's face as she got off the school bus she had bad news to report. I had known in my heart all along that my plans would somehow be thwarted before they ever came to fruition and this was the confirmation I was waiting for. No, Wendy wouldn't be able to make it. Her brother had a fever, her mother had to work, and there was no way out of her babysitting chores. Later on I would find out that Wendy had, in reality, stayed home to partake in some underage consumption of alcoholic beverages with a notorious party girl from our school she was known to sometimes keep company. This was where the truth of the matter lay but again, I digress.
As for me, I was heartbroken and beyond depressed. My neighbor quickly came up with a plan to invite our neighbor from across the street and the three of us went on anyway. We even stopped off and had dinner along the way. We had a nice enough time, had a few laughs on the drive, and listened to pop tunes on our journey. I can remember hearing "Rocket 2 U" by The Jets in particular. And the concert itself was a pleasant diversion. It was my first experience at a rock concert and, being the naive and sheltered small town boy I was, I saw and smelled things (I'm thinking of the open smoking of weed in a public place here) I had never experienced before. It was fun enough, I just wished Wendy had been there on that night some twenty years ago.
As for me, the answer to the question is, no, I never did get a date with Wendy. Probably for the best. Had we dated, gotten serious, and married it most likely would have ended in divorce. You know, the old mixing oil and water thing. She's married now and moved on. She left our town the next year and moved on to Salisbury, though she still used to come and visit my neighbors for years after she left on weekends. We even used to see her at our place from time to time. She was always pleasant enough but you could tell she probably thought I was pond scum. I'm told she still lives in Salisbury and she's still pretty as ever. At least that's what my neighbor says.

A sample of my column from the "Focus" newspaper

Recently I've begun writing for an entertainment newspaper that runs out of Hickory NC called "Focus". The following is a sample from this week's column.

In the past several years a new film genre has arisen. I have dubbed it the "Subtle Horror Film". Basically what happens is that the film takes place in a somewhat ordinary setting, adding layer upon layer of menace in the plot, until it all reaches a fever pitch. It then usually culminates in a horrific plot twist that totally changes everything that has gone before. Some recent examples of this types of film are"The Sixth Sense" and "The Others"(similar title no less). I don't know if any of today's crop of filmmakers have seen Robert Mulligan's 1972 film "The Other" but they certainly owe alot to this landmark film. "The Other" is a film that I grew up with, so it may be hard to give it a fair critical evaluation. I originally saw the film on the CBS fridaynight movie sometime in 1977 while spending Friday night at my grandparents' house and even though I was only six years old at the time, I immediately knew that I somehow had struck cinematic gold. The film starts innocently enough and the first half hour plays like an episode of "Little House" or "The Waltons" and it basically follows the exploits of a pair of twins who seem to always be around when tragedy strikes on their Connecticut farm. But there's more than meets the eye here and to reveal any more of the plot here would be a real disservice. Suffice it to say that by the time film is over two things will have happened. 1)You will be disturbed. PERSONAL NOTE: It wasn't until viewing the film some fifteen years later that I fully understood theimplications of what took place in the chilling final half of the film. (2) You will want to discuss this film with the first person you bump into who has seen it. This is a great film and for better or worse it (like a few other films) has truly helped to shape my likes and dislikes in films.I must also make mention of the technical credits. Robert Surtees incredible camerawork is a bag of tricks unto itself. Jerry Goldsmith delivers an outstanding score and Tom Tryon wonderfully adapted hisexcellent 1971 bestseller into one of the best examples of how to faithfully translate a book to film. Last but not least, the greatRobert Mulligan whose eerie staging of certain sequences should have earned him an oscar nomination. Unjustly forgotten when released in May 1972, do yourself a favor and see this horror classic.

Small Town Observations

As I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere in these blogs, I've lived in the same small town that I grew up in all of my life. I didn't intend for it to happen this way. As a young man in my early 20s I had an incredible desire to leave my small town and have some life experiences. What happened you might ask? Well, at first I was afraid to leave and venture out into the great wide open with little to no marketable skills. It didn't help matters that my father threw cold water on the idea of my leaving any time I would bring it up. Looking back on things, I now realize that it was my father who was the scared one. He was afraid of my leaving because he hates to travel and most likely would not have come to visit. Especially if I had moved to Southern California, which is where I wanted to go in the first place. I mean, if you're any sort of serious movie fan, and I always was, then you simply have to go to where the movie business is. Instead of going and living out my dreams, I became romantically involved with someone, got married, and watched the dream of my marriage eventually turn to dust. Meanwhile, my father got what he wanted. I stayed behind and I've never been no more than a twenty minute drive from him in the last 13 years. I fathered two wonderful children along the way, whom I love very dearly. Now they live 80 miles away with my ex wife. I live in a typical, lonely guy, one bedroom apartment. I have traded in my hopes and dreams somewhere along life's highway for this life of solitude in my smalltown. My town offers little to no opportunity in the career department or in the romance department. I suppose that's why I've held mostly disappointing, menial jobs that I'm overqualified for during the last 15 years or so. Not all of them have been bad but none have been what you could call fullfilling. They pay the bills and that's it. Well paying, dead end jobs. And of course, I shouldn't even mention the fact that I haven't had a date for the last year. Need I say anymore about that. For someone who has so much to offer a good woman that's a real shame. The pain of the disappointment in my life is so intense that it's the first thing that strikes me when I get out of bed. I seem to always wake up with a sinking feeling. I feel absolutely powerless to change my situation because changing things might limit the amount of quality time I can spend with my children. My children come first and foremost and so I've learned to live with the pain of disappointment, unfulfilling jobs, a family that doesn't understand me, and a love life that's a joke as a trade off for my two beautiful children. Still, the pain is too much sometimes and I don't know who to turn to or where to go. I pray every day that someone special might come into my life so I might have one to share my life with but nothing ever changes. My life just seems like an endless journey to nowhere most of the time but I'm still thankful for what I do have. I'm just curious to see if it will ever change.

I'll talk more about life in the typical small town and why it's not for me next time.

I'm related to whom?

Something happened to me yesterday that happens to me every so often. Actually it's something that's been going on for most of my life but since I live in a small town I guess I've always taken it for granted that this type of thing occurs everywhere. As I've gotten older I've come to discover it's a thing that's strictly unique to the south.

Yesterday, I was having a conversation with a family member who is very near and dear to me. This person will go unnamed in this column so as not to embarass the guilty party should they read these musings. I suppose they will know who they are anyway but I digress. As I was saying, this person mentioned to me they had recently discovered that my family was related to someone whose namesake appears on a major building in our small town. Specifically our local concert hall which is technically known as the 'Citizens Center'. I was taken aback by this piece of information that was being passed on to me. The first thing that crossed my mind was 'Why should I care?'. Instead of saying just that, however, I feigned interest so as not to be disrespectful to the member of the family who so enthusiastically relayed this useless piece of information to me.

I love my family. Don't get me wrong about that one, but when I say I love my family I'm referring to my children, my parents, my siblings, and, perhaps, a few choice aunts, uncles, and cousins. Beyond those previously mentioned I have zero interest in who I'm related to. Frankly, I don't give a frog's fat ass if I'm related to someone who has some small town building named after him. If I didn't have a close and personal relationship with him at some point, I just don't care. That may sound selfish but that's just the way it is.

The truth is that I get this alot in my corner of the world. When you meet someone in my town they don't ask you about yourself, your accomplishments, likes or dislikes. The first thing they usually ask you about is if you're related to cousin so and so or did you know such and such person who shares the same last name as you.

For many years I assumed this was a natural thing and then a while back I was having dinner with a friend of mine who was born out in the midwest, took a job here and stayed for 27 years and has since moved on. He told me the first piece of conversation that came up with many of the people he had met in our town over the years was the inevitable mention of who was related to whom. He said that he had determined it was simply a symptom of a small mind to some degree. I'll have to second that emotion.

In the scheme of life why does is it really matter who you're related to? In my opinion, the family you're born into is nothing but a fluke anyway. I simply find it hard to believe that the family one is born into is predetermined. The place you're born in and the people who are your caretakers is based more on luck than anything else. I don't know why people have such a hard time acknowledging the role that luck plays in life. It seems some people do. As for me, I would rather have deep, intellectually stimulating conversation any day of the week. Discussing whom a given person is related to is about as far removed from thought provoking conversation as I am from playing football. I suspect it's yet another symptom of life in the south but maybe not. All I know is that I'll always have zero interest in what's ailing cousin so and so and, even though I may pretend to be interested, the truth is I could probably care less.

Story of a Life Chapter One

(Preface) I see that as of today not one person has evaluated any of my musings. I guess I'm as popular on the internet as I am in real life. I shouldn't be surprised as this seems to be a pattern in my life. For the last several years my life has seemed to be an endless journey headed to nowhere with very few surprises. Lately, I've been wondering where I took that wrong turn. With that in mind I decided I might use this blog as a way to tell my life story. The creative writing class I'm taking requires me to blog at least once a week so why not turn it into something useful. I've been trying hard to come up with things to talk about for the past few months and it seems that using this forum as a way to chart how I got from there to here might be something that someone might actually want to read sometime as opposed to the crap I've been posting up to this point. Anyway, for anyone who knows me and wants to know my life story here it is, told in my own inimitable fashion.

The Story of a Life
by
Adam Long

Chapter One

I 've often heard that the great cartoonist, Charles M. Schulz, used to tell people quite often that his greatest talent was living backwards. Those who knew him well have often said that if he could have had anything at his disposal he would have loved to have had a time machine to take him back to where it all began.

I've often felt the same way. I am fully aware that it's not a good thing to live in the past because you miss so much of life in the present. Still, no matter how hard I try, I find myself living in the past much of the time. My mind drifts back to the times of my life when opportunities stretched out in front of me like so many miles of open highway. To simply say that I'm nostalgic would be the understatement of the year.

I was in a very sentimental mood one afternoon several years back when I decided to pull some of the local newspapers from the days before, during, and following my birth on August 1, 1970. I wanted to see what was happening on the national level and around my hometown of Lincolnton, NC.

On the national level, the veteran newsman Chet Huntley was signing off on his last broadcast.
Also, some containers of turpentine had been mislabeled as castor oil and several people had nearly died as a result after ingesting the turpentine.

A curious five year old boy named Dennis Glen Simpson had just turned five on, July 31, 1970, the day before my birth. Dennis resided in the small town of Belmont, several miles Southwest of Charlotte. This little five year old boy was attempting to cross highway 74 over several lanes of traffic when he was struck by an oncoming car driven by one Dennis Michael Crews. The car skidded ten feet but to no avail. The boy was thrown into the air and died instantly. I can't help but wonder where his parents were or if his family thinks of him after all these years. He would be exactly five years older than myself. I wonder what his life would have been like had he lived.

The movies would become an important part of my life over the years so it's interesting to note what was playing in theaters in our area at the time. The Village in Gastonia was playing "2 Mules for Sister Sara" at 5:30, 7:30, and 9:30 and coming August 5 was "Airport". The Webb in Gastonia had two movies that were more to my taste, "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls" and "Myra Breckinridge". The Belmont Drive in had "Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice" and Diane 29 in Besemer City had "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid".

The events leading up to my birth were almost as difficult as the birth itself. A terrible storm rocked the area and the road that my parents usually used to get to the old site of the Gaston Memorial Hospital were washed out. My dad was doing the driving as he usually did and somehow found a way to navigate through the treachorous condtions and get my mom to the hospital.

The doctors had told my mom that her due date was July 7. As it turned out, mom had to wait for nearly another month before her water broke. On August 1 at around 11:30 in the evening, and after quite a few hours of labor I might add, I was on my way to making my grand entrance onto the stage of life. My birth was physically difficult for my mother and my father was greatly concerned about her. Luckily, after several days she snapped back to her old self and was allowed to go home.

My dad always says that I was angry the first time he ever laid eyes on me and I've been angry about one thing or another ever since. That is true for the most part. I'm very intense by nature. Always have been, always will be. There's no denying it and if you can't beat it, then join it I say.

Story of a Life Chapter One

Story Feedback

Hello again. I'll get on with the news. I posted my original work of fiction for class on Monday so that it could be evaluated on Thursday. Well, the class pretty much stomped me like a narc at a biker rally. Practically all of the feedback was of a negative nature so I suppose that there must be something to it. I'm starting to wonder what made me ever think I had talent for writing anyway. Once again I have those nagging feelings of being in a place where I don't belong. One person even went so far as to insinuate I was not very well read and should consider reading more fiction. That was a punch in the gut I really didn't need I suppose but it's not totally unexpected. I know that as an artist you must not be too sensitive to criticism but I've also heard that if everyone gives you negative reviews there must something to it as well so I don't know.
Anyway, I suppose I'll keep going and doing the best I know how. Maybe I should try screenwriting. Dialogue and plotting seem to be my specialty anyway. Prose just doesn't seem to be my cup of tea.
I was hoping the class would provide some sort of moral support that might inspire me but that hasn't happened either. The class seems to be divided into two types; those who won't talk at all and those who don't want to talk to me. Believe me when I say I've tried to strike up conversations with classmates on more than one occasion but they seem to go nowhere. I'll keep going as I've said but I can't honestly say my heart is in it at this point but maybe my opinion will change. We'll see. If it doesn't I must say that I'm more than used to my share of disappointments.

Celebrity Death

Full confession: I'm a Howard Stern show fan. I know there are many who hate the words "Howard Stern" but hear me out. I think there are brilliant observations on life that are touched upon on a daily basis on this show if people could just patient enough to get past the sexual content of the show.
One recent example of the outstanding observations that are made on the show by Howard and his staff is a comment made by co-host Artie Lange. Lange is an excellent comedian with keen observational abilities. A guy who had called into the show and had written a song for Howard to be used at his upcoming wedding had died very suddenly when Lange made the comment that when someone who was well known died he always liked to be the first one to tell his friends and family. He said that he liked to be the first one to know just so he could get people's reactions.
I've never admitted it to anyone nor have I ever heard those feelings articulated before but, as much as I hate to admit it, I feel the same way. When someone famous dies, I also like to be the first one to tell others about it to see what their reaction is.
This was never more true than when Heath Ledger died recently. Now, I'm really sad to hear that he died. He seemed to have so much promise careerwise and I'm truly sorry for his family but when I heard it I couldn't wait to get to the phone so I could tell my ten year old daughter as we had watched a trailer for the new "Batman" flick only two days earlier. I wanted her reaction and I wanted to be the one to tell her.
Another thing about celebrity death that bums me out is when celebrties that you grew up with start passing away. Roy Scheider is the latest case in point. He was a brilliant actor who delivered what I believe were four of the greatest performances from the 70s. "Jaws", "All That Jazz","Sorcerer", and "The French Connection". When people like Mr. Scheider pass on, it reminds us that we are getting older, and that one day all of the people who made our essential pop culture list as a child will also one day be gone. Time moves on and I really hate it when we lose those who meant so much to us but it is nice to be the first one to know when it does happen.

Single in a small town (Part One)

It was last Sunday morning when I decided to make the trek to the church that I've called my home congregation for the previous three plus decades. I had not attended my home church for the past several weeks for various reasons. The main reason was that I had had somewhat of an epiphany during the last week of 2007 which had lead me to make the decision to give my home congregation a rest and try visiting with a neighboring congregation where the majority of my family attends.
I sat down at one end of the table in my sunday school class, in between two members who have been happily married (my guess) for quite some time. The two women don't acknowledge me for at least five minutes. They continue to talk over me, acting as if I'm not even there, involving themselves in some meaningless and frivolous conversation. After five minutes of this, the woman on my right stops long enough to pat me on the arm and say something to me and then continues once again to talk over me until the class starts. No one else acknowledges me at all. Not even when the class is over and I make my exit.
The moment leading up to all of this had been when I found myself totally alone at the annual Christmas Eve candlelight church service. During the Christmas Eve service I had been forced to sit alone while happy couples with their perfect little families sat all around me. There didn't seem to be another solitary soul in that church on that Christmas Eve night who looked to be as alone as I felt. If they were they were doing one hell of a job hiding it.
I felt then like I do just about everywhere I go these days. With that I mean that I felt totally out of place and unwanted. Of the 200 or more people who were there that night, none of them made any effort to erase my doubts and fears and welcome me into their celebration of the holidays. Instead, I sat there and remained the social pariah that I felt myself to be. My children were eighty miles away with their mom and the rest of my family were doing their own thing with lovers, spouses, friends or what have you. I could have gone with them I suppose but would have been the fifth wheel. I, on the other hand, couldn't have found a lover or a friend that night if my very life had depended on it.
I'm digressing I know, so let me get me back to the subject of the one person in our congregation who best sums up my feelings of anger and contempt for this small town trap that I seem to have been born into. I had broken up with my girlfriend eight months earlier due to the fact that we simply wanted different things. She was a good person but there were many things that our relationship was lacking so I had decided it was best that we just cut our losses. I cared for her and would never have purposely hurt her but I felt it was for the best. We had remained friends even after the breakup and now eight months later she was taking a job in a town that was two hours away. One of her close friends, who also happened to be a member of our church, decided to give her a going away party. It was no surprise that members of our sunday school class would be invited since we had been introduced by that same class at a party.
This one person is a regular in our sunday school class and when I arrived at the party I found her in a group on the opposite side of the room from my ex-girlfriend. After speaking to my ex, I decided that I would go over and try to speak. I had no more than gotten the word hello out of my mouth when this unnamed and very self absorbed person loudly announces to the group that they should move into an adjoining room where the fireplace is located because it was warmer there. The woman never acknowledged my presence and then proceeded to lead the group into the adjoining room while I was literally in the middle of completing my greeting to the group. Talk about rude. After leading them into the adjoining room she then proceeded to tell the group about how well her daughter was doing in college and how she had applied for 10 or 12 jobs while she had been home from college and yada yada yada ad nauseum. I stood there speechless and very hurt. The aforementioned offender was so clueless that she has yet to realize how rude she was. I simply told my children that it was time for us to be going.
This woman, unfortunately, represents the majority of the people I come into contact with in this town that I seem to be a prisoner of. I was so disgusted with her that I skipped sunday school so as to avoid being in the same room with her. When I did decide to return I was greeted with the aforementioned experience of the two chattering women talking over me. This is what I seem to have to look forward to these days. It's been almost ten months since I've had a date. Sometimes I have to wonder if lonliness has it's own scent. Maybe people smell my loneliness and feelings of isolation and being misunderstood. Maybe they're afraid that it's contagious and that if you get too close to a lonely person, everything and everyone that you love will disappear from you.

Friendships

This is a post that I originally intended to run last week but computer problems prevented me from doing so. You see, I'm taking a creative writing class and we're supposed to blog at least once a week. I've been making a conscious effort to keep up with it and I hope the lateness of this post isn't held against me. As I said, it was something that couldn't be helped but we'll see what happens.
I was originally going to post a blog featuring some of my random observations regarding celebrity death in light of the recent and shocking death of Heath Ledger. In the midst of getting my thoughts together on that subject I decided to take on another one instead, the subject of longterm friendships. I promise (or maybe it's a threat) to follow through on my feelings about celebrity death at a later date.
What made me think of friendships you might ask? Well, for one thing I don't have many of them. I've spent my entire life trying to connect with the world and making new and lasting friendships but as each year passes by it seems that the world needs and wants what I have to offer less and less. This may not be true in reality, it could be just the way I see things but nevertheless it is the way I feel.
I'm a loner for the most part but not by choice. Even though I have a few frienships I still feel isolated and out of place most of the time. Maybe I just have a chemical imbalance or something. Maybe it's because my love life is a joke. I really don't know. It's not that I hate my own company or can't stand to be alone. On the contrary, I enjoy solitude to a certain degree but I feel there has to be a balance or else one may lose their zest for life. I've heard some folks say they fear solitude even more than death and even though I can't quite say that I share the sentiment I can certainly understand it.
Now, back to the subject of my friends. I have three friends that I see on a fairly regular basis and all three of these folks have one thing in common. I've known all of them for a number of years. Two of them I've known almost twenty and one of them I've known for twenty six.
There is something nice about friends who have known you a long time. There is an unspoken history of memories and shared experiences that you draw on when the present world starts to get you down. My friend David was eleven years old when I met him in the fall of 1982. Now we are fast approaching the big 40. David and I have a lot of history beginning with our days in junior high school and continuing on through high school. We continued to be friends until our five high school anniversary and then we lost touch. Fate threw us a curve when we wound up at the same traffic light on a gloomy looking November Sunday evening late last year. We pulled over, exchanged numbers, and have been in touch ever since. Hardly a week goes by when we don't touch base and usually we wind up taking in a film together at some point. It's true that our lives took somewhat different turns and yet I've always treasured our friendship. I always felt like he was the brother I never had all through our school years together and even though time has passed and we have changed, our friendship still feels the same. It's nice to have friends like these.
And then there's my friend Sam and my friend Tara. They both serve their purpose in my life and have been with me in some way, shape, or form for nearly two decades. Sam loves exercise and cheesy pop music while Tara is big fan of intelligent cinema. These two individuals allow to indulge my passions on these subjects, something that I was never able to adequately accomplish with my family.
I'm not sure what I'm trying to say other than the fact that it seems harder to make new and lasting friendships. So maybe if the world is so plugged into technology that it's forgotten how to listen, maybe having friends that share a history is the best we can hope for.

Sports and me

Well, this is that time of the year when everyone seems to be all excited about the outcome of the superbowl. Everyone, that is, except me. Now, make no mistake, even though I consider myself to be a sports bigot and also a red blooded american male, I don't personally hold it against someone if they take an interest in sports. Different strokes for different folks as the old cliche goes but, frankly, I'm so sick and tired of being asked what I thought about such and such game and who won the aforementioned game that I just felt I could not hold my contempt about it all inside anymore. Just think about it. How would you feel if I asked you what you thought about the latest Brian DePalma film or the latest Tarantino flick. It would be crazy to assume that everyone that I ran into knew who Brian DePalma was or obsessed about Tarantino's next film project as much as I do and, yet, that's what it really boils down to. Just because the majority of Americans watch sports religously doesn't mean that all of us do and I am sick of people assuming.

Why do I have such contempt for professional sports you might ask? Well, there are several reasons. The first one that comes to mind is that sports are almost singlehandedly responsible for lowering college academic standards. In our country, you can be as dumb as a rock but if you can effectively throw a pigskin across some field resembling a cowpasture or stuff a ball into an oversized macrame basket you can pretty much be assured that you'll get to go to college. Believe me, when I tell you that the big men in charge will find a way if you show athletic aptitude. On the flipside of the coin, I've met many brilliant people in my time who had to forgo college simply because their grades didn't meet certain standards or they were financially strapped. And it's a shame because many of these people deserved to go and couldn't because they weren't able to throw a ball or were the last ones chosen when picking sides for Basketball.

Another reason for my sports bigotry goes back to the holiday celebrations I had as a child. It seemed that nearly every one of those celebrations was tarnished at some point by the 'big game' which always managed to keep the adults from engaging in any meaningful or intelligent conversation other than what was going on with the game that was being watched on the tube.

I'll make a full confession. I've never seen any type of sporting event in my entire life from start to finish, nor do I have the desire to. People will always complain that they hate sitting through a three hour movie and yet they'll sit through a thirteen minute football game that's stretched over to four hours on any given Sunday. Call me intellectually shallow but I just don't get it. I'll take the three hour movie anyday. At least I might experience some emotions besides jumping up and down in front of a plasma tv screen in my living room. Even though you may not know who the eventual winner of the game might be, the games are always played out in the same predictable fashion. There's no real excitiement there for me and I suppose there never will be. Now perhaps if something unpredictable happened occasionally-like a bleacher collapse at the football stadium for example-I might actually watch. As it stands, though, I believe I'll stick to my three hour movies and try to ignore the hysteria that's bound to ensue when the superbowl happens again this year.

The Girl I Knew Somewhere-a short story

The Girl I Knew Somewhere


It wasn’t a real sugarcane field. I’m talking about the field that’s in the picture. It was merely a simulated sugar cane field that served as part of a museum exhibit. It was put together to teach children about the processes of harvesting sugar cane. We were there on this summer day in 1982 because my aunt had thought it would be something different and fun to do on a summer ’s day. The two boys standing on my right side are my first cousins and the girl on the left is Kim. This is the only photo I have of Kim and the only tangible proof I have of that magical summer we spent together some twenty six years ago, the summer when I first learned about love. I have the photo in my hand now. Her plane is due to land in the next few moments and when we see each other for the first time in over a quarter of a century, I’ll be anxious to know what she remembers about that day.
As I sit here anticipating our reunion, my mind keeps drifting back to that earlier time. It was in the spring of 1982 when my parents were first approached with the idea of having me come to stay with my aunt and uncle at their house in northern Virginia for a period of six weeks during the coming summer. My mother’s sister and brother in law and their two boys were in their fifth year of living in this Washington DC area suburb and they had extended the invitation for me to come and stay with them. They had moved here in 1977 because my uncle had received a promotion in his job. Now he was working at the Pentagon in Washington.
My mother had had no problem with the idea of my going to stay with my aunt and uncle. She was the more open minded of the two when it came to my parents. It was my father who had the problem and this came as no surprise. At first he had said he would have to think about it but I knew it was not in my father’s personality to be open to such a suggestion. My father had never done anything of this sort when he had been growing up and, although he would never admit it, he had lived somewhat of a sheltered life as a child. He had always lived in the same small town his whole life, the town I had grown up in, and all of his relatives had lived within driving distance of his childhood home. As an adult, he had clung to the old fashioned notion that families lost something when they moved away to pursue a career and it was evident to me even as a child that he held more than a little contempt for those who moved away from their roots and tried to start new lives.
It came as quite a surprise when, after several weeks, my father made the announcement that not only would he would allow me to spend the summer with my aunt and uncle but he would also send me with fifty dollars in spending money. It was the most cash I had come personally been in contact with during my first eleven years.
My parents made the trip up to Northern Virginia with my sisters and I in tow. The plan was that my family would stay for a week and then I would remain with my aunt and uncle for the next six weeks.
I had always thought saying goodbye to my family would prove difficult but the truth was that it went much easier than I ever could have imagined. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my family or that I wouldn’t miss them. I was just so preoccupied with the realm of possibilities the summer might bring that I was too excited to think about the sadness of separation.
Among the many possibilities that were swirling in my brain during that time, none was more remote than falling in love. I would be turning twelve years old in less than two months and, with the exception of several disappointing elementary school crushes my experience with members of the opposite sex was limited. Unbeknownst to me, this was all about to change as fate had other plans for me.
During those dog days of summer in early June, our mornings were spent at the local swimming pool. It was a private pool, but luckily my aunt and uncle had a membership and we could come and go as we liked. My cousin Stewart usually took swimming lessons in the early morning and after the swimming lessons were finished, the pool was open to anyone who was a member and chose to swim.
Stewart was three years younger than me. His older brother Alex, who was the same age as myself, often teased him about a girl he had a crush on. Her name was Kim. Kim’s mother brought her and her brother Dustin to the pool practically every day. As it turned out, Kim’s mother and father were also close friends with my aunt and uncle so it was no surprise that Kim’s mother and my aunt usually spent their time talking together while all of the kids frolicked in the pool.
As an eleven year old boy, I was very insecure. I found it hard to talk to girls without trying to put on some act that would make a lasting impression on them. My ‘act’ during the summer of 1982 was being funny. I had developed a knack for doing spot on impressions of the current president and many of the ex presidents. I took this to the next level and began doing impressions of family members, most notably my younger cousin, Stewart. When I started doing the impression of Stewart, it wasn’t that I was trying to impress Kim but that’s what eventually happened. Kim confided later on that she didn’t really like me until she realized how funny I was. Maybe I was on to something, I thought.
As the summer rolled on, Kim and I saw each other more and more. As we started spending increasing amounts of time together, it became evident to both us that there was something special between us. It wasn’t something that we discussed and we didn’t have to. We just knew.

Everything has to end and I knew that my time in Virginia was finite as well. I was to leave on a Saturday morning in early August with my aunt and uncle driving me back home and staying for a visit at our home. I knew that it might be a long time before I saw Kim again, if ever. Kim and her family were temporarily living in a condo while their new house was being built. Their condo was only a mile from my cousin’s house. I made the trek on foot on a Thursday afternoon to say my goodbyes with a sizeable lump in my throat. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and I presented her with a coffee mug that was inscribed with her name. She in turn presented me with a plastic bag containing decals that spelled out my name, which could be ironed onto a t shirt. I never put them onto a shirt. I have them to this day in the same plastic bag that she put them in.
The journey back home was the most painful thing I had ever experienced up until that time. It was a constant struggle to choke back the tears and keep my voice from cracking when I spoke. I had to be careful because I knew that my cousins would laugh if they saw me cry. I couldn’t let anyone know how much I was hurting. Everywhere I looked I saw something that reminded me of Kim, our time together, and the closeness we had shared. The sense of loss was incredibly profound. It was then that I realized what love really is and how much I had loved this girl that had come into my life.
We wrote to each other for the better part of the next year and then, for some unknown reason, I stopped responding. Maybe I just got lazy. I don’t really recall. All I know is that I just stopped writing but Kim was never far from my heart.
I had always fantasized that one day I would move to Virginia, reconnect with her, and marry her but that was just a school boy fantasy that I created to ease the pain. In reality, I married in my early twenties and found myself a divorced father of two by the time I had reached my early thirties. I quickly learned about the harsh realities of life.
Twenty five years to the month that I had received Kim’s last letter, I found myself on a business trip in northern Virginia. I took a trip to the old neighborhood where my aunt and uncle had long since moved on. The feelings and emotions all came rushing back as I saw sidewalks we had walked on and places we had been. I knew then and there that I had to find out what had happened to Kim.
While on my business trip I also visited my aunt and my uncle. The conversation eventually came around to the summer of 1982 and what a wonderful time it had been. It was then that my aunt told me that she had been surprised to find out Kim had never married. It seemed that Kim’s mom still sent postcards to my aunt and the last one had mentioned how Kim had broken off an engagement. My mind started reeling. I asked my aunt for Kim’s mother’s address and I wasted no time in getting in touch with Kim.
As it turned out, Kim remembered me fondly and we emailed back and forth for the next several years. It’s now been four years since we reconnected and now the fates have brought us back together again as I anxiously await her plane. So much water has passed under the bridge. The world was younger when we knew each other then and a lot more innocent. We were more innocent too. What will things be like for us now? I ask myself as I anxiously await her arrival. No one can say for sure but I can’t wait to find out.