Life imitates Art…or is it the other way around? (Part II)

The truth comes out
For me, the turning point of the play was when Serge responded sarcastically to Marc’s assertion that he “didn’t have the right” to have such an opinion about the white painting.

(Partially paraphrasing…)
“Oh, I was unaware of the extent to which you own me, Serge smirked.
“Of course I own you,” Marc asserted. “Friends need to be chaperoned, otherwise they'll get away...”

Marc went on to explain (again paraphrasing) that he simply could not abide the fact that his friend, the one whose purpose was to validate his own existence, could possibly turn to an ideal so foreign, so opposite of the sensibilities that he had. It was clear that Marc considered the gift of individuality to be granted only to himself. If his friends exerted opposing sensibilities, it would be simply unacceptable. He would not allow his world to be compromised in this way.

He wasn’t smiling when he said it. The audience grows silent. Somehow the joke is no longer funny. Suddenly the viewer is forced to form an opinion. Does Marc "have the right" to feel this way about his friend’s choices? Laughing off such overt self-centeredness was no longer an option. This wasn’t George Costanza asserting that he has “hand” in the relationship. This was a moment of abject frustration, forcing Marc to be frighteningly honest, revealing a sad side of human nature that we all should guard against falling prey to.

According to my personal observation, the number one target of Seinfeld’s satirical bow is the self-absorbed, mercenary nature of modern society. How often is our attitude based on “what’s in it for me?” instead of doing something for someone without outward reward or recognition?

How often do we join Marc in assuming that our friends “have no right” to change, grow and/or pursue interests which differ from our own?

Marc is so ridiculously mercenary in his opinion of Serge’s position about what is important to Serge, that it actually is comical — and sad. The question is how close to home does it hit?

Still too close for comfort
So how does this relate to my previous friendship-related stories? When I first decided to write about the play, I thought it interesting in terms of how much differently it posed the concept of friendship than what I’d just again experienced in re-connecting with my old friends in California. The unassuming nature of Bee, the always unsolicited random acts encouragement from Cindy. These relationships, I thought at first, are miles from the petty, controlling calculations revealed by Marc. What a wonderful foil with which to talk about how wonderful my friendships are. Once again, "Geeze Louise, I’m glad I’m not like that guy!"

Yet upon reflection of the play and thinking about how to describe it, more and more I was reminded how many times I have in my heart of hearts thought and responded so much like Marc.

I thought about the way I felt toward my friend Skeez, in the wake of our friendship’s all but complete atrophy in the years soon after he got married. How dare he suddenly not have time to hang out with me? Even more, how dare his wife restrict my access to the friend who was my constant companion for years before she even knew he existed?

And that wasn’t the only time I’ve been stupid enough to have those kind of petty thoughts. There have been times even recently that I’ve caught myself feeling jealous and hurt about friendships that inexplicably die off, regardless of my attempts to revive them.

The fact of the matter is that people and their circumstances change. Sometimes they take you along, and sometimes they don’t. Most of the time it’s nobody’s fault. It just “is.” Unfortunately I don’t always want to accept that.

Am I the only one who is that shallow? I certainly hope not — not that I’m looking for company, mind you. I’d really just like to forget that such a notion has ever existed in my head. I’d much prefer that the person I try so hard to portray on the outside is always the same inside, instead of the selfish, bitter self-serving twerp that still rears his ugly head from time-to-time, just beneath the surface.

But sometimes I do need to be reminded that he still exists.

And sometimes opportunities to peel the onion* a few layers deeper show up when you least expect them.

The climax of Art, interestingly enough is a happy one. Marc’s indignation is assuaged by Serge via a somewhat symbolic, yet meaningful gesture. The true tragedy in my opinion is that the wrong person acquiesced. Sure, we’ve all known a few “Marc’s” in our lives, and we also know that most of the time they’ll never allow themselves to be so introspective to be able, let alone willing to see their own shortcomings. So sometimes you just have to take the good with the bad and be the "bigger person."

But I think the most important thing I was reminded of is that I can’t worry about trying to make other people change — I can only strive to be honest with myself — and always be the best that I can be.

And that is an art unto itself



finis

*Peel the onion is a registered catch phrase of Inanna.
©2004. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Life imitates Art…or is it the other way around? (Part I)

Mixed bag
After a month-long series of posts centering mainly on the subject of friendship, I was rather in the mood to talk about something completely different, but life seems to be unwilling to allow me to move away from the subject. Things keep pointing me in the direction of pondering the gifts and the curses associated with the establishing and maintaining the relationships that add to the enjoyment and meaning of our lives on this planet.

A week ago last Saturday I had yet another moving experience that I initially received as one thing, yet upon delving deeper and searching my own heart about it, determined that the message said something else entirely different. The whole experience really gave me pause.

I’ve been sitting on this story for several days now, partially because of the shaking that I received from my little wakeup call. I took my first intentional weekend off from blogging and writing in general since beginning my new obsession nearly six months ago. It was good to get away from it for a bit, although I’m eager to get back into writing now. However from here I’m not quite sure which direction my blog will be taking in the short term.

But for now, this post will cover a number of topics, based upon a single subject, my daughter's play. This post will be nothing like I had originally planned when I began thinking of writing it over a week ago. However it was originally intended to be a tribute to my daughter Amy, and still will be. The difference is that her involvement in the events of this story have done a lot more than just making me a proud Poppa.

Cue me in, willya?
A week ago last Saturday Michelle and I traveled to Chattanooga, TN to have dinner with and attend the latest UTC Theater production with which Amy is involved. This would be her first major involvement in stage managing a play in college, and the first play we’d seen in which she was not an actor.

She has said ever since getting her first experience as a director’s assistant in her freshman year of high school that she enjoys the behind-the-scenes working of theater nearly as much as acting itself. I would be neither disappointed nor surprised if she ended up pursuing stage management or directing as her primary focus in the future. She is a tireless worker and obviously has the respect of all her peers in the department.

Until we got down there and spent some time talking with her, I never really knew much about what a stage manager did. I assumed it was someone who simply kept things moving behind the scenes and assisted the director.

Wrong, greasepaint-breath!

That which the title connotes is in fact the job description. The stage manager is the director during the play, communicating with the actors, as well as the sound, lighting and props personnel, and delivering them cues as to when to perform their functions. Amy explained that the actual Director of a play does all of their work prior to the production’s opening, and oftentimes, in professional theater settings, doesn’t even stick around beyond opening night. It is the stage manager’s task to take the feel and design the director creates for the production in pre-opening rehearsals, and put them into action during the actual performances of the play’s engagement.

So in other words, Amy was The Man for this play. And she did a phenomenal job.

Art
The production was French playwright Yazmina Reza’s multiple award-winning Art, which in addition to garnering numerous European theatrical awards, in the U.S. won the Tony Award for Best Play of 1998. Being the theater maven that I’m not, I of course had never heard of it.

The play was very funny, uproariously so in some parts. It was a 90-minute, single act performance with only three actors and not more than three or four set changes. The minimalist set was altered only slightly to indicate a change in locale, usually with the switching out of a picture via a revolving panel on the main wall. So the effect of the subtle lighting and prop changes were very important in reflecting the shifts in mood and focus as well as delivering the impression that the scene has changed to another location. There are frequent points throughout the play in which the actors speak their thoughts directly to the audience beneath a spotlight. Amy’s crew appeared to be "spot-on" in all of those transitions. I was thoroughly impressed and proud of her as always — that, I rather expected.

What I didn’t expect was the effect that the play would have on me.

Being completely unfamiliar with the production I went in with a completely open mind — and proceeded to get it completely blown.

Art is a play about its namesake, or so it seems, until about sixty minutes in. It is set in modern-day Paris and centers around three 40something men, who had been lifelong friends until a certain divisive element is brought into their midst — a four-by-five-foot white painting. The play is regarded as and has won many awards as a comedy — much to the chagrin of its author I would later find out.

It has been said that art is akin to pornography in that while it’s impossible to completely define, people are confident that they know it when they see it. Art is capable of sparking such emotions that it rightfully should be added to the popular saying, along with politics and religion as one of the things that shouldn’t be discussed at the dinner table.

In the setting of the play, the definition of what is a “work of art” and what is “a piece of shit” is merely the surface decoration for the real subject at hand: “what is friendship?” and the proper expectations thereof.

After having spoken to someone who actually saw the Broadway production, I really wish now that I could say the same. The three actors playing the lead roles of the Tony Award-winning production were Alan Alda (of the M*A*S*H TV series), Victor Garber (noted character actor of stage and screen) and Alfred Molina (who brilliantly portrayed the tortured “Dr. Octopus in the recent Spider-Man 2 movie). It must have been spectacular. But that's not to diminish the performance of the three young men in the UTC production. They performed their roles extremely well — a daunting task considering the sheer amount of rapid-fire dialogue and length of scenes in a 90-minute one-act play. However it was difficult to watch three boys my daughter’s age and believe that they were forty years of age. Still, the job the UT Chattanooga drama students from pulled off was brilliant, and provided a thoroughly enjoyable experience for the audience.

The plot revolves mostly around two of the three men, Serge and Marc. Their friend Yvan (pronounced Ee-vaughn), the stationery store clerk, is the least sophisticated of the group. His lovable buffoon offers no pretense of class or position. His meek demeanor and comical quirkiness is a perfect counterpunch to the highly charged white-collar testosterone being spewed between the story’s other two characters.

The conflict between Marc and Serge centers on a painting by the renowned modern artist “Atrios,” which Serge has proudly purchased for the not-so-modest sum of 200,000 Francs (about $40,000 U.S.).

Serge, a dermatologist and nouveau aesthete claims that the painting “resonates” with him. He is obviously pleased with himself in making such a bold statement about his enlightened sense of sophistication.

Marc is an aeronautical engineer, a practical, down to earth man. As a traditionalist and not necessarily a fan of modern art, he initially thinks the purchase is a joke. Upon learning that it is not, he is incensed and can’t believe that his friend could throw away so much money on “this white shit.”

Yvan is caught in the middle as each of his friends individually attempt to win him over to their point of view. To make matters worse (and infinitely more humorous), he injects his own emotional meltdown into the mix, fretting over the crisis between he and his fiancée’s feuding mothers (and stepmothers) who are arguing over the wording of the couple's wedding invitations.

The spirited dialogue between the three rightfully evokes a lot of laughter from the audience. Everything is over-the-top, which is what makes it so funny. However I found that I was no longer laughing once Marc revealed the true source of his distaste for Serge’s decision. It was at that point that the play became much more than a comedic romp, suddenly morphing into a poignant study in human behavior.

In the lion’s share of the play’s dialogue to that point, Serge and Marc had engaged in a largely circular argument about the painting’s merits or the lack thereof, punctuated by the lighthearted diversion of Yvan’s melodramatic pre-marital crisis. However near the end we find out what it is about this whole episode that has really bothered Marc. The answer presents a darker side of friendship that many of us are guilty of if we’re honest with ourselves (and if you’re never felt this way, you’re a better person than I). As soon as I recognized it, I knew I wanted to write about it. I also knew that I wanted to know more about the playwright.

Reza’n my awareness…
In doing some research on the play and its author, Yazmina Reza, I found a lot of reviewers comparing the pace and humor of Art to that of Seinfeld. And while I agree that the play has a comedic bite reminiscent of the TV show, I would strongly suggest that the playwright’s intent is far different.

Seinfeld is a farce, and we gladly recognize it as such — that’s why it’s so funny. Co-creators Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David took all the foibles of pop-culture young America and beautifully exaggerated them to excess in the characters of the show. It’s hilarious. Why? Because everything that Jerry, Kramer, George and Elaine think and react to is an attitude with which most of us can identify. And because they’re so exaggerated, we can laugh at the comedic value for its own sake. After all, “I might be bad, but at least I’m not that bad, right?”

However something tells me that Reza isn’t a big Seinfeld fan. I was glad to have discovered a lengthy interview from 2001 with the playwright by an entertainment columnist for the British newspaper The Guardian. The interview was conducted in light of Reza’s current play of that time, which followed Art by five or six years. The columnist seemed surprised, almost devastated by the dark, brooding Reza, who has more than once expressed that she was disconcerted by reviewers’ characterization of her work as purely comedic.

“My plays have always been described as comedy but I think they're tragedy. They are funny tragedy, but they are tragedy. Maybe it's a new genre,” she explained in the interview.

“Why is Art a tragedy?” The interviewer asked.
"Because it is a break-up of a friendship, a rupture between people ... it's a heartbreaking play if you read it," Reza commented.

Now I am hopefully a long way from being a culture snob, but that statement didn’t surprise me a bit. I completely “got” that Art is ultimately a tragedy. That the majority of ten or so reviews I read completely missed that point is just as tragic; perhaps even more so.


Next: The truth comes out

LA Stories (Epilogue)

Fusion
As I’ve mentioned previously, I made two trips to Southern California this past spring/summer. When I began planning for them, the one thing that was at the top of my list from the moment the determination was made to go, was to figure out a way to hear Brian Hughes while I was there.

Brian is a Jazz guitarist, and is one of my very favorites. His genre has undergone numerous changes in description over the years, morphing from what was originally called “Fusion” (i.e.: a fusion of jazz and rock styles), into “Smooth Jazz” to what is now being called simply, “C-Jazz” (the “C” standing for “contemporary”). Now lest any of you latent Jazz aficionados take me to task for comparing Fusion with Smooth Jazz, please allow me to note that I worked in the Jazz Music business for eight years and yes, I do know the difference. In the 70s when Fusion got its start with Weather Report, John Scofield and Pat Metheny, Fusion was “out there,” “experimental” and “fresh.” As more and more artists adopted it, if became less so as it became mainstream. By the 80s, it had lost the Fusion tag and gained the somewhat nebulous moniker of “Contemporary Jazz,” which covered everything from Metheny to Natalie Cole. Artists such as George Benson, Al Jareau, Kenny G, David Benoit and Yanni made Contemporary Jazz, “Pop” music for almost a decade. And while all are fabulously talented artists, that inevitable homogenization for the masses transformed what was originally a spirited, edgy genre into largely toothless, formulaic elevator music. And in picking up that tag it has now been all but eliminated from consideration for exposure on a national scale. Jazz radio stations are few and far between on the radio dial in most areas of the country. I had to subscribe to XM Radio just so I could hear it here in Nashville, where only a single weak college radio station plays any kind of Jazz as part of its regular format.

It’s a damn shame, because it was my favorite music by far, and still is. How ironic that I would be completely cut off from it by moving to “Music City.” This place is an absolute Jazz desert. There is some of it here in obscure, often expensive dinner clubs, but it’s neither as accessible as I would like, or am willing to hassle with.

My absolute fave artist is Pat Metheny. He is one of the pioneers of Fusion and he never sold out. He’s still making awesome music (and is touring at the beginning of next year — I can’t wait!). So where does Brian Hughes come in? He’s a Metheny clone.

Now I don’t say that to cast any aspersions on Hughes’ talent or originality, because the guy is an ace. But his style is rife with unmistakable Metheny influences, and although the purists don’t like it, that’s what I love the most about him.

Brian Hughes is a Canadian native. When I worked for the record company, we signed a license agreement with his original Canadian record label to promote and market his only previous album in the US, which I worked on and immediately fell in love with. Unfortunately I left the company and moved to Nashville just before his second release, which also included a US tour. I never got to meet him but apparently he knew who I was, as I would learn several years later. In 2001 I discovered his web site and e-mailed him telling him how much I enjoyed his work. He responded saying that he did indeed remember my name in association with the work I had done on that first release.

It was during those exchanges that I discovered that he had moved from Toronto to SoCal, and did a monthly gig in Seal Beach, about five miles from where I used to live. I was determined that some day when I was in California, I would go hear him play and finally get a chance to meet him.

I really wanted to do it on the first trip Michelle and I made this past May, but he wasn’t playing during the time of the month we were there. So I thought I’d get the opportunity to “catch him on the flip-flop” when I returned in August. I saw from his web site that he was indeed going to be playing locally while I was there. But of course, as my luck would have it, it was the same night as my reunion.

So I determined that I would set aside the desire I had to see Brian Hughes. There could be other opportunities to see him in the future. There would only be one 30-Year Reunion. But I decided that I would leave the door open to maybe sneak out a little early and catch the tail end of his set, which was scheduled to run until midnight Saturday night.

As I said at the beginning of the Reunion story, I really wasn’t going back to see particular people. If Timmy and Laurie hadn’t been there, I’m sure I would have been disappointed, but the evening certainly wouldn’t have been a total loss. I was going back to recapture a feeling; the feeling I had walking across the grassy “quad” on a bright autumn day. The feeling of seeing passersby recognize me and smile; the feeling of belonging that my high school experience gave me. All I really needed was the crowd. What I got was actually much more. I can’t say that I’ve ever really “owned” a room before — that’s just not my personality (nor would I want it to be) — but that night I think I was close.

As things were already starting to wind down after 11:00, I knew I could stay another hour or two and still have people to talk to, but I decided I’d done what I wanted to do. The only people I wanted to see but didn’t, were a few who didn’t show up at all. I figured I still had an opportunity to make this night of personal joy and satisfaction complete. So I headed off to Seal Beach, to try and catch the end of Brian’s show at the Italian restaurant where he was playing.

I don’t think I hit more than two red lights the entire way.

As I got out of my car, I could hear that unmistakable sound wafting out to greet me in the parking lot. I walked into the restaurant’s bar area and on the far side of the room, on a small stage set up in the corner, Brian and his other four band members were jamming. The room was packed. I scanned around I couldn’t believe when I spotted a solitary, vacant table in the corner. It was about five feet from the stage. I briskly side-stepped through the room and seized my prize perch. There might as well have been a placard on it that said, “Reserved for AJ” — that’s how perfect it was.

I glanced at my watch, it said 11:48. I figured I’d arrived in time to take in two more songs, maybe three. From several feet away, a waitress smiled in my direction, I nodded. She came over and leaned in as I ordered a beer. Before I knew it she was back, and I just sat back and let the music have its way with me. Brian was jamming, his band, all of whom were extremely tight, were doing their thing, and I was in paradise. All I would have needed at that point were beaded cornrows and a pair of wrap-around shades to pass myself off as a white Stevie Wonder. I was smiling, with my eyes closed, swaying to the sound. Man, I can’t even describe how good I felt at that very moment.

The ride to paradise was a relatively short one, but it sure was sweet.

Following Brian’s final song and fittingly, my favorite of all his tunes, “…And Dreaming,” I went up and introduced myself to him. We talked for about a minute and then I shook his hand and headed for the door. Before leaving the building I decided it appropriate to answer’s nature’s call, with the restrooms just adjacent to the bar’s entrance, which was also right off the restaurant’s main foyer.

When I came out I noticed that right next to the door, Brian had a table set up offering his CDs and other merchandise for sale. Standing behind the table was a very pretty petite blonde woman. It suddenly dawned on me who she was. It was Pamela, Brian’s wife and promotions manager. I had corresponded via e-mail with both she and Brian off and on since discovering their web site back in 2001. I extended my hand and said, “Are you the lovely Pamela?” Her eyes grew wide as, looking a little embarrassed she responded, “Yes I am! Hi! And you are…?”
“AJ…from Nashville. I used to work for the Record Company. I had e-mailed you guys about my coming out for my class reunion, and I was hoping to get the chance to come see Brian. Unfortunately it was tonight as well, but at least I got here in time to catch the end of his set.”

OH, AJ!” Pamela said excitedly as she made the connection. “I remember you e-mailing Brian! Did you want to buy a CD so he can sign it for you?”

I let out a mild groan as I glanced down at the hand-written card that read, “All CDs, $15.00,” and said, “I only have a ten.”
“Hey, I tell ya what,” she said in a friendly tone. “The guy who just walked out the door gave me a twenty, and he didn’t want his change. That'll do!”
“Great,” I said. “…Are you sure?”
“Absolutely!” Pamela smiled as I happily forked over the bill.

She handed me a silver metallic paint pen, and pointed to her left. “He’s standing right over there,” a fact to which I had been completely oblivious.
“Thanks so much!” I smiled.

Another fan was just finishing his conversation with Brian as I walked up. “Man I just want to say how great it is to finally meet you,” I said.
“Same here, AJ,” he smiled as he looked down to autograph his new CD for me. It was then that I received another in the already generous helping of sugarplums for the psyche that evening. I realized that as we were standing there talking, I was looking at him eye-to-eye.

Whoa! Dude’s a shorty just like me! Now THAT’S serendipity, bay-bee!

We talked about his recurring schedule of dates there at the restaurant in Seal Beach. “It’s not set in cement, but I don’t expect it to change anytime soon. This is a real good venue for us. Like playing here,” he said.
“Then I definitely will see you again sometime soon,” I said, smiling.
I shook his hand, waved to Pamela and headed out the door. Only now, I was certainly taller than Brian Hughes by at least a couple inches…

What a fitting end to a spectacular night. The fusion of a night of good friends, and great music had solidified this day in my mind forever.

Journeys
This has been a lengthy, but extremely fun series for me. I’ve taken the liberty to allow myself diversions in between these parts to really search through the events of my recent weeklong trip to California, and hold up even seemingly insignificant things to the light of personal scrutiny. That, as if you hadn’t guessed, is my bent. Thanks to all of you who endure and even enjoy that about my blog.

And again, the questions I mentioned at the beginning? Those are easy to answer now.
• Who am I really? A really happy guy.
• Where do I stand amongst my peers? In a position high enough to be recognized, but low enough to keep the pressure from robbing me of my joy.
• What does that standing mean, and why? Only that I’m free to be the one person I’ve always wanted to be…ME. Why? Because that’s all that really matters.



finis

LA Stories (Part X)

Redux (continued)
When planning my trip to California, I arranged my schedule so that my 30-Year High School Class Reunion was at the end of the week. It would be the crowning event of my trip, and I anticipated having a great time to wrap up my weeklong vacation.

Ten years ago I didn’t know what to expect. My 20-Year Reunion was a whirlwind that completely took me by surprise. Of course I had looked forward to it as well, but didn’t realize how much people would have changed; how much more accepting and mature they would be. I half-expected the “soches” to still be “soches,” rather than mature adults, genuinely happy to see everyone, not merely just the friends they hung around with.

I couldn’t believe the reception I got back then. People who I hardly knew and/or who had never given me the time of day were gleefully approaching me to say how good it was to see me. And not only me, it seemed that most everyone was being receiving equally well by all, regardless of the social “caste” they were in back in school. Of course most people gravitated towards those they were the closest to, but I was careful to note that the wallflowers were few and far between. Most of them appeared to be the spouses of my classmates who rightfully wished they were back at the hotel watching TV.

The theme of the 20 seemed to be all about displaying success. The sheer volume of the number of people who brought their wives or husbands resulted in a huge turnout. From a graduating class of over 900, I would guess the attendance conservatively at around 400-500. Everyone was dressed to a tee. No need for cosmetic surgery at that point, although some of the guys were already well into losing their hair; today’s advancements in hair-replacement surgery might have served them well. At the time I felt as though I held my own with most of the men. Now at the 30-Year Reunion, I would come to find that fortunately I was still at the front of the pack, according to my peers.

Latter first impressions
I was running a few minutes late when I pulled into the parking garage of the Westin Hotel on scenic Ocean Avenue in Downtown Long Beach. I was nervous in anticipation and unable to shake the nagging fear that in neglecting to double-check my invitation (which I had also neglected to bring with me), I may have gotten mixed up on the name of the hotel. It was the Westin, wasn’t it? Or was it the Hilton further down the street? Already heading down the parking ramp, there was no time to rethink. I was committed to find out.

As I took the elevator from the subterranean parking garage up to the lobby, I realized that I had no idea where the hell I was going. I found myself looking around for someone to ask when I realized the tall man in an expensive-looking suit, who had been standing beside me in the elevator, was doing the same thing. Then I recognized him as if he’d just taken off a mask. He was a former member of the basketball team, a jock who I knew only as a fellow passerby on campus or in the locker room. He didn’t remember my name and I didn’t remember his, but we both smiled broadly when we realized that we knew each other’s faces.

“You looking for the Reunion too?” I asked. “Yes I am,” he said nodding.

I spotted the concierge desk and we walked over to ask for directions. The attendant told us the reception was on the third floor and pointed us toward the escalator that would take us there. As we stepped into the escalator the tall man turned and said, “You were on the gymnastics team right?”
“Yep,” I grinned. “And I remember you from basketball, right?”
“That’s right — man, you don’t look like you’ve changed a bit,” he answered.

We continued to make small talk until we reached the top of the second escalator and began to hear the buzz of conversation coming from the reception area where our group’s cocktail hour was already underway. We wished each other well and individually dispersed into the crowd. This guy I had been talking to is a prime example of someone who would have never even stopped to talk to me 30 years earlier, regardless of whether he knew who I was or not. And just as I had experienced at the 20-Year Reunion, I was again reminded that time does change people. We all do eventually grow up in more ways than one. That surprising warmth I had experienced then carried me along for ten years in anticipation of more of the same. Now the time had come, and I wasn’t disappointed. Only this time it was even better.

Mr. Stillthesame
As I approached the reception area I stopped to register at the table that was set up out front, displaying name badges and the free commemorative “Memory Books” that had the names and addresses of all registered attendees. Of course the deluxe version, with the professionally photographed pictures and candid shots from the evening’s festivities (the one everyone really wants), was $30 bucks, and would have to be paid for separately.

As I was affixing to my shirt the name badge (which also bore my senior yearbook picture), I looked up to see Joan and Rick standing just a few feet away. They were both members of the Reunion Committee, and had been instrumental in making this event happen. Their eyes grew big as they approached and greeted me with hugs and handshakes. I don’t believe they were “together,” but just happened to be talking when I had walked up. With the Olympics having just concluded (Closing Ceremonies were going on that very evening), the Paul Hamm gold medal controversy was fresh on everyone’s minds. Rick immediately asked my opinion of it, and he wouldn’t be the last one. At least a half dozen people that evening would later tell me that they thought of me when all that mess was going on, wondering what I thought about it. I have to admit that really made me smile.

Rick and I had a long history. We went to separate schools during our junior high years yet often saw each other at a centrally located neighborhood city park that we both frequented, playing pick-up basketball, baseball or just hanging out. Rick was kind of a hybrid surfer-tough guy back in those days, and I remember well how he used to make fun of my size. He never picked on me physically, but I was always uneasy when he and his friends would come around.

Later on in high school, Rick went on to play football and became a fairly well known social jock on campus. As my star began to rise in gymnastics, he suddenly began to recognize me as a peer. His was a friendship that grew as much as with anyone I knew from that social strata, and I had always felt pretty good about it.

Joan, on the other hand, was a former cheerleader, and the primary organizer of both the 20 and 30-Year Reunions. In high school she was an unattainable beauty and was still stunning 30 years later. Although I can’t remember ever having more than just a “hi” conversation with her back in the day, I would get to know her years later. In the spring of 1994 when the 20-Year Reunion was being organized, I learned that she was taking the lead as the point person for the event. I contacted her for details and offered my services to design the cover for the “Memory Book,” which she enthusiastically accepted. So my friendship with her was completely generated via the class reunions.

Joan was the emcee for this evening and would later do her duty to embarrass me in front of the entire crowd.

After the cocktail hour, we were led into the adjoining dining room for a decent, but predictably unspectacular banquet dinner. At my table was one person I only knew by face, a few I didn’t know (or recognize) at all, and flanking me, two that I knew very well (and was quite relieved to see that they showed up). Timmy was a fellow former gymnast (one of only two other former teammates who came), and Laurie, with her new hubby, was kind of our unofficial gymnastics team manager. She was always around during practices and never missed a gym meet. She and Tim had become best friends over the years and had also come to the 20-Year Reunion together, although they’d never been romantically involved (to my knowledge anyway).

After dinner, Joan grabbed a mic and addressed the room. “Can I have your attention. Would the following people please come forward…” She called off three names. The last one was mine. Nervously I stepped to the front of the dance floor parquet at the front of the medium-sized dining room, wondering what the hell I had in common with the other two classmates, a man and a woman, — neither of whom I knew — although I did recognize the woman’s name, Penny.

Standing behind us, Joan announced, “It is the opinion of the Reunion Committee that these three people have changed the least since high school. And now we’re going to have a show of applause to determine who is officially “The Least Changed” person in our class.”

“Oh my gawd,” I thought. “I can not believe this.” It was a good thing I wasn’t wearing red, because I surely would have disappeared before their very eyes at that moment.

Joan stood behind the guy at the end of the row to my left. Cheers. Then she stepped behind Penny. More cheers — quite a few more in fact. Finally she stood behind me. Again, a lot of cheers, but I couldn’t really tell how many by comparison. To my relief, the winner was Penny! It was nice to be recognized, but to be voted better preserved than a cute, petite woman was one distinction that I really didn’t care to have. Later on, people would tell me that they thought I came in second. One guy joked that it was the gray hair in my goatee that held me back. “Damn,” I quipped. “I knew I should have brought my Grecian Formula 16.”


Tablemates: Right to Left, one of my former gymnastics teammates, Tim, yours truly, my good friend Laurie and her new hubby Fritz.


This is rugged-looking dood is Phil, an erstwhile local rocker who I’ve known since Junior High. He would later come on to help me coach our sons’ Little League baseball team back in 1991. We had a great season, finishing 2nd out of 25 teams in the city. Another really good guy.

The rest of the evening was a wonderful jumble of memories. While at the 20, everyone seemed to be determined to show how successful they were, the 30-Year Reunion took on a much more relaxed tone. It was almost as though we were all just glad to still be alive. The false aires seemed to be at a minimum, with several guys showing up in casual shirts and jeans. The atmosphere was relaxed, but the conversation was still filled with excitement. Everyone seemed to be as enthusiastic to talk with me as I was with them. I cavorted with all the old football jocks and they actually seemed glad to see me. I spent a few minutes with Dan, the other of my fellow gymnasts who attended, along with his wife. We exchanged photos of our families. I was dumbfounded by the images of his five daughters who all looked as if they were on their way to a Vogue photo shoot. There must be something in the water in Southern California.

Making a late appearance (and smartly skipping that ho-hum dinner cuisine), I was delighted to see Steve and Shirley, high school sweethearts, who were married a year after high school. Shirley was the one cheerleader that I always considered a good friend, even from before my entrée into “Jock Society.” She looked absolutely terrific, and when I told her so, she coyly quipped, “Yeah, it’s amazing what an augmentation can do for a girl.” I rolled. Her husband Steve, the captain of the football team, but as nice to me as any other jock had ever been, looked fantastic as well. This was Mr. and Mrs. King and Queen of the Reunion, and for me, it just wasn’t possible to do anything but marvel in their presence. This was a couple you just couldn’t help but like, and it just felt good to see them still so happy together.


Again, my primary reason for this second SoCal trip of 2004 was to attend this 30th High School Reunion. Here are a few of my former classmates who made the trip worthwhile. Most of these folks I have really only gotten to know well *after* high school when I started attending the reunions. Here the two folks to my right are now among my best ex-high school friends, Steve and his wife Shirley; the football god and his cheerleader girlfriend who got married right out of high school and have been going strong ever since — sort of an oddity for SoCal, but two of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet.


The fellow on the far left, Ted, was the most talented illustrator in my class. He was someone I was always envious of because I figured he would actually be the one who would go forth and make a living out of what *I* wanted to do. Today he has a successful construction company and I’m a web designer. Go figure.

And if the guy in the middle looks familiar, his twin brother is second from the left in the previous photo. They were both a couple of crazy mo-fo football players, and a helluva lot of fun to hang out with. That much at least hasn't changed about them.

I even received a casual flirting gesture from a woman named Ruth, who was one of the folks who sat at my table. It was one of those party conversation-type situations we’ve all experienced, in which you sort of roll off of one group of people and into another to begin a new conversation. Ruth and I were standing a few feet from each other involved in separate conversations. I looked over to see her now unoccupied and glancing in my direction. As she took one large sidestep toward me she said, “I…think I’ll stand over HERE…next to AJ…’cause he’s cute! I went on to tell her how fabulous she looked as well and we chatted for a minute or so and moved on. I’m not very used to getting complements like that, so it kinda made my night, and what a night it was.

Sermonette
You know, I’ve been writing this story kind of on the fly, with only a few mental bullet points as my outline. But the first half of this story that I posted yesterday has generated some comments that I want to non-specifically address here.

I fully understand that I am not in the majority when I say that my memories and experiences of high school were among the most special of my lifetime. I was thinking of this last night when I began to formulate the flow of my story. There’s is a reason that out of a graduating class of over 900, even 30 years later, that only 150 people would make the effort to attend this reunion. And I believe even that many showing up is a tribute to our school. And while there are certainly extenuating and discriminating factors that would preclude many from being able to attend, the fact of the matter is that there are probably more people whose high school experience was not as positive as was mine. If that is your story, I do not mean to rub my experience in your face. However I do think those who dismiss idea of going to a reunion because of the immaturity of the people they went to school with should consider one thing: People grow up — they really do. I saw it at my 20, and I saw even more of it at my 30. However I can only speak from my experience, and certainly not in absolutes

I recognize that my self-image, my station in life, and social experience has played a tremendous role in my perception of high school and the people I attended with, as it does everyone else’s. However if you’re one of those still hung up on how people acted towards you back then, I would challenge you to consider something. If you are not exactly the same person that you were in high school, why would you expect that others would be? If you have grown with your life experience, risen above your petty tendencies, and benefited from the maturity of years, wouldn't you assume that others have made the same discoveries? Think about it.

The cross-section of personalities and socio-economic types that gathered at my 30-Year Class reunion was as diverse as the day is long. Jocks, cheerleaders, geeks, ne’er-do-wells, cruisers, surfers, stoners and Jesus freaks all came together. The one demographic that seemed to be missing however was the losers — there just weren’t any. I really tried hard to find someone who looked like they weren’t having a good time, but I just couldn’t.

An early au revoir
As I made my way throughout the crowd, and said hello to everyone that I wanted to see, I had one eye on my watch — certainly not out of boredom — but due to a conflict in schedule that I was hoping to at least partially overcome.

At 11:15 PM, I reluctantly prodded myself to make my final good-byes. I found my way over to Joan, kissed her cheek and thanked her for again leading the wonderful effort in planning, arranging and hosting another very special class reunion. “Seeya at the 40” I smiled.

I gave a couple guys the high sign as I headed out the door. I had 35 minutes to get all the way across town for the grand finale to my magical evening.


Next: Fusion (Epilogue)

LA Stories (Part IX)

Redux
While I may not actually be saving the best part for last, my 30th High School Class Reunion is indeed the reason I made the trip to California in the first place. I had a great time, and the evening did serve as a fitting snapshot of my entire weeklong experience.

Like most (and who knows — maybe all) people, from the time one reaches early middle age, a tug-of-war ensues within the psyche: Who am I really? Where do I stand amongst my peers? What does that standing mean, and why?

If you believe in a higher spiritual authority, in whom you have faith to guide your destiny, you may either feel your life is blessed or cursed, but you really don’t have a choice but to accept it for what it is.

Alternatively, you may believe that life is all about you, and that you create your own destiny. In that case, by the time you reach your late thirties, chances are you’re either convinced that your “shit don’t stink” or you’re nearly incapacitated by the smell.

All these things play a huge role, in my opinion, in the decision one makes whether or not to accept the invitation to attend a high school reunion.

Reunions are all about reaffirmation. The reaffirmation of seeing old friends, the stepping back in time to a simpler, less stressful point in life. Even if you weren’t the most popular kid on campus, if enough people are going to be there that you really want to see, it’s worth the trip. The reaffirmation of being involved is activities, service groups, cliques, social clubs; any number of things that served as your touchstone of the high school experience. Reunions aren’t just for the “soches,” but for anyone who felt they belonged to anything or anyone in high school.

As for me, it wasn’t necessarily about seeing specific people, I was going back to capture the feeling that I knew would be there; a feeling that has been somewhat foreign to me over the past 10-15 years.

High school was the first victory as a would-be man that I would enjoy in my life. It may still have been the sweetest. It is where I learned that the system can be beaten, and is my touchstone, my reminder that it can be done again.

But it wasn’t easy.

Breaking Barriers
As we all know and have experienced, the playing field is not level in high school. At this point in our lives, we generally come into our first group encounter with quasi-adulthood supplied with only the physical gifts acquired from our parents as the calling card to announce our arrival.

To those fortunate enough to be inherently beautiful, tall and strong, the advantage was obvious. They were the ones everyone wanted to know, the ones whom you either adored and wanted to emulate, or hated for just being alive.

Then there were the kids like me; not necessarily a social outcast, but definitely at a disadvantage. I was pretty popular in Junior High, using my exposure and involvement in service clubs and student government as my vehicle for overcoming the fact that I was embarrassingly small, even at that age.

When it came time to move up to the next level, whatever social gains I had made in junior high were all but cancelled out by the fact that I was one of a relative few of my classmates to move on to the school my neighborhood was zoned for; one disadvantage of living on the outskirts of a zoning boundary in a city with five high schools.

Nobody knew me and I knew nobody else. I was starting from scratch in an environment three times as large and infinitely more competitive. To make matters worse, the growth spurts that most boys experience in their early-to-middle teens never happened quite happened for me. I did go from 4-foot-9 to 5-foot-1 between 9th and 10th grade, but would grow only three more inches from that point on.

That point couldn’t have been driven home any more clearly than when, on my first day of high school, I was walking across campus and a very tall guy (who I’ve always assumed was a senior) was walking the opposite direction. He reached out and stopped me, planting his left hand on my left shoulder. I was a bit startled as I looked up to see him glaring back and pointing his right hand westward, announcing loudly, “Hey! Jefferson’s that way!

You see, “Jefferson,” was another Junior High School a few blocks away.

Fortunately the barrier of my size was something that I was actually able to use to my advantage when I discovered gymnastics and excelled in it. I placed in both League and State Finals my junior year and won both my senior year. I took my place amongst the football and basketball jocks in campus society and wore my letterman’s jacket proudly.

Being the “Little Jock” might have gotten me into the party, but I was still never invited into the inner circle. But I can say that it never really bothered me. Just to belong to the extent that I did was more than enough. I had my own friends, in addition to the nod from the “beautiful people.” I had come a long way from “Jefferson’s that way!”

Appearances
My social standing notwithstanding, after high school my experiences in life inevitably led to my asking myself those questions of personal consequence I mentioned earlier. The early answer to the question of, “Who am I really?” was simply, “I haven’t a freaking clue…and I’m too busy to try and figure it out right now, thank you.” I had dismissed my 10-year Reunion out of hand, for both the fact that we couldn’t afford to spend the $50.00 or whatever the cost of the ticket was, and because while it appealed to me, it was just too soon. There was no real personal draw at that point.

The 20-year Reunion was a different story however. We had recently moved to Tennessee and I was pretty happy with my life. My business was doing well and we had just bought our first house. At 38 years old, I was finally beginning to feel like a grown-up. The “Who am I” question was beginning to be answered, and I wanted to see my old friends again.

I was able to arrange to make the trip in combination with some other business I had to do in California so as to make it at least a partial tax write-off, so it all worked out pretty well. Michelle didn’t care to attend, since she didn’t know anyone I went to school with.

I had a great time and the charge I got from seeing my former classmates was such that I knew I had to come back for the next one.


Next: Redux (continued)

Can We Tawk?

Just one more mini-post
I will be getting back into (and hopefully finishing) my "LA Stories" series tonight, but I just wanted to make a few stream-of-consciousness points today because they've been on my mind.

• I really appreciate you guys. The discussion and flow of positive comments you've all contributed here in the last month have been awesome and extremely gratifying to me. Thanks to all of you for your input.

• A few of us are going through struggles right now on a number of fronts. Some have been expressed that via their respective blogs, others through e-mails or both. Let me just say that I am extremely proud of our community for it's willingness to offer itself for help and encouragement to anyone who needs it. I'm grateful to all who were there to encourage me last week when I was so horribly down. And I'm equally grateful and glad for the opportunity to return the favor.

• Is it me or did someone put Benedryl in the coffee this morning? I'm about to fall asleep here at my keyboard. That’s on my mind too. Must be the change of seasons, the alignment of the stars or some other metaphysical event. I need a nap.

• I'm a very happy man right at this moment, and you guys are largely to blame...Thank you.

I Dream of Bloggie

If only I really remembered my dreams
This is a quick entry spawned by my third consecutive night of having a blog-related dream. I wish to heck I could remember the rest of them, but recently I became aware of the fact that I've remembered practically nothing about my dreams for several years now.

I have no substantial recollection of the dreams I had Sunday and Monday nights, only that they involved either my blog, my blogger friends, or both.

However the one I had last night, I was mindful enough to get up this morning and jot down a few notes about. I was out at some kind of reception with a bunch of people I seemed to know. Dad and his new wife Helen, were there as well, but they insisted on bringing along a friend who was by all that I could perceive, a loud, obnoxious man in drag who walked like Norm on Cheers but sounded like Gilbert Godfried.

As I walked around talking to people I would tell them about my blog and how writing it has changed my life. This "thing" kept following me and drawing attention to itself, purposely disrupting my conversations and embarassing the hell out of me, saying things like, "Is this the beer swilling convention, or did I get the wrong place again?" A few people would respond with a nervous chuckle, then everybody would stare at me sternly and move on.

I have no idea if it means or represents anything, but I sure felt embarassed when I woke up. Guess it could have been worse. At least I wasn't naked or paralyzed...

Et Cetera Addendum

Intimacy or Over-Exposure?
I was thinking about yesterday’s blog and decided I wanted to expand on something that actually occurred to me as I was writing it (I really love when that happens), which I briefly alluded to in the story.

I’ll admit to being somewhat of a dramatist when I write, especially at the end of a post. Hopefully it doesn’t come off as too cheesy, but hey, I’m a sentimental fool as I’ve stated much more than once. What I mean is, I like to leave both the reader and myself with something to think about in relation to the topic of the story. The second half of yesterday's story was about another one of my friends, Az, and how our friendship has actually increased over the years, despite the fact that he lives in California and I live 1500 miles away in Tennessee.

I indicated that until recently, my first inclination is to lament the fact that I have very few close friends here locally. Since moving to Nashville, I have never been able to develop the closeness, which was the hallmark of so many of the friendships of my youth and young adulthood. It was frustrating, and I felt that way for a very long time. I was pretty depressed about it, actually.

However now I look around me, I look at the subject of about 70% of what I write about, and guess what — all I see are friends. I’m still on an island, but now it’s almost as if the ocean surrounding me has dried up, and I can step off in any direction onto dry land and travel to be with my friends. This is nearly as much a physical reality as it is a figurative one for me.

Physically, the fact that Airline travel has actually gotten cheaper, along with free long distance cell phone plans has made what was once prohibitively expensive travel and communication with my family and old friends feasible once again.

Figuratively (so to speak) the Internet has made phenomena such as e-mail and this blog community a reality, and a true means of establishing and nurturing friendships. We’ve had varied flavors of this same discussion before, but while there certainly is greater risk of deceit under the cover of cyberspace, the reverse is true as well. Online friendships can hold the possibility of true honesty and self-disclosure, ergo, true friendship, because the physical obstacles that might inhibit otherwise normal interaction are removed.

I guess the point I was driving at, as it relates to me and the realization I had when writing my blog yesterday, is that I need to change my way of thinking. There is so little that can now stand in the way of communicating and being communicated with. There’s no reason for any of us to ever be without friends, whether they are newly established or revitalized lifelong relationships, which had been neglected via barriers of time, distance or both.

The reference to George Bailey and It's a Wonderful Life is one that I think can apply to all of us. We can all be “the richest man in town” if we recognize and nurture the friendships we have, as well as the potential to make more.

I wanted to throw out the topic for discussion here. I’m anxious to hear what your opinion is and how your relationships have changed with the onset of technology over the past 10-15 years. Is it a blessing or a curse? What about your “online friendships? How “real” are they? How much do you trust them? Are they worth the risk? Does the potential for fraud negate their benefits?

Am I full of crap?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

Talk to me people…

LA Stories (Part VIII)

Et Cetera continued (yep, there’s more…)
Finally, the last of my “short stories” (yeah, right).

• Pier group
As I mentioned in Part I of this series, on Friday of my SoCal trip, I traveled to Santa Monica to have dinner with fellow-blogger Michael. I got into town a couple hours early to beat the traffic (and because having already had lunch in Burbank with my old boss, I didn’t really have anything better to do in the meantime). So I took in the sights in and around the world-famous Santa Monica Pier, just a few blocks down from the restaurant where I would later meet Michael.

In a small, well-shaded park adjacent to the pier, I sat and wrote about my impressions of what had already been a fantastic week. These were the notes from which I reconstructed much of this Et Cetera portion of the series. As of the time of this writing, only one month later, I now recognize how important it is to always have some kind of notepad or other means available to record the events that go on around me, if I ever intend to write about them. About 80% of what I had written in my notepad, is now only, either fuzzy or has completely flown out of my head. So I am really glad that I did take the time to spend those two and a half free hours writing, instead of checking out bikinis (not that I would ever do something like that…right Michelle?).

Most of what I wrote were just notes that I've expanded and transcribed in this section, but for the purposes of this final anecdote I’ll tell it exactly as I wrote it, sitting on the bench.

8-27-04
I’m sitting here writing this at a park bench on a bluff adjacent to Santa Monica Pier. Since I sat down at 5:00PM, the adjacent portion of the bench on my left has featured two different tenants. The first was a pair of young Filipinas who sat down to cool their heels while their boyfriends went down to check out the pier for a few minutes.

I wasn’t paying too much attention to what they were saying until they began critiquing the fashion sense of the other women walking by. “Oh she is not wearing those shoes!” One of them said. Pretty funny stuff.

A few minutes after they left, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a handsome, clean-cut, but obviously over-tanned man, walking toward my bench. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties and carried two large, tightly stuffed duffel bags, one of which was the size (and appeared to be the weight) of a heavy punching bag. As he approached and I got a better look at him, it became apparent that he was homeless. However he seemed to have a greater wherewithal than most of the others who dotted the little beachfront park. He appeared to be in a different station than the rest. Diagonally across his back, he carried the larger duffel bag. And when he slung it off of his shoulder, it made a resounding thud on the bench next to me, indicating how heavy it actually was.

I didn’t really look up, but kept on writing. However, after a few minutes I became aware that the man was nowhere to be seen, but his bags were still sitting next to me unattended. I looked up and briefly turned, searching around to see if he was anywhere in the vicinity.

I have to admit that my initial reaction was a brief moment of panic. I flashed back to the previous Tuesday afternoon at the airport in Nashville. An unattended piece of luggage left near my flight’s gate check-in counter elicited an announcement from the attendant, asking for the owner to immediately come and claim the baggage, or it would be confiscated by airport security. And for a brief moment of stupidly unwarranted hysteria, I found myself imagining that I was sitting next to some terrorist’s bomb. It is a sad thing indeed that post-9/11 realities have done such a number on us, making us so suspicious, and replacing the healthy wariness of the unknown we should all possess with this abject distrust and paranoia that now seems to permeate our collective psyche.

Only seconds passed, but it seemed much longer. The homeless man was actually standing nearby, but out of my field of vision. He saw me looking around, and possibly sensed my concern as he rushed back over to the bench, apologizing for leaving his bags unattended.

He explained that the strap from the large bag was starting to wear a hole in his shoulder and that he just has to set it down for a few minutes. He went on to say that his two parcels weighed 45 and 85 pounds respectively. I smiled and told him that I could understand why his shoulder was hurting.

He then began engaging me in small talk about being homeless. He was very matter-of-fact about it, with no apparent tone of shame or anger in his voice.

“For someone who is homeless, I’m pretty lucky to be here (in Santa Monica),” he offered. “The shelters provide you with a place to shower and shave and the churches and city programs feed you pretty good too.

“Now I don’t plan on being this way for very much longer — I’m trying very hard to get back on my feet and get myself out of this — but if I was a person who chose to make this a way of life, this is the place I’d want to be.”

I smiled and said it’s good to have some options. He nodded and returned my smile. He never asked me for money, but he did inquire about my notepad and the scribbles that now covered three entire pages.

“Are you a writer?” he asked.
“It’s just a journal,” I replied.
“That’s a good idea,” he nodded. “I wish I’d done that.”
“Well until recently, I never had either. It’s never too late to start,” I said.
“Hmmm…guess you’re right,” he nodded again.
“It’s good to get stuff out of my head and written down…to make room for other things,” I offered lightheartedly.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I know what you mean.”

During our little exchange he was preparing to continue on his daily trek to who-knows-where-by-the-sea. He hoisted the large duffel bag from the bench beside me and pulled the carrying strap over his right shoulder so that it again lay diagonally from his right shoulder to his left side.

“Well it’s time to move on,” he said as he grabbed the other bag with his left hand.
I reached across my body to extend my right hand up to him. As we shook hands firmly, I looked him in the eye and said, “Best of luck to ya, man.” He grinned and nodded, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“And good luck on your writing," he said as he walked away — as if he knew all along that it wasn’t really just a journal after all.

• Az
That’s Az, as in smartazz, dumbazz, and/or pain-in-the-azz. And of course, it’s not his real name, but a shortened partial sound of the name of a band he founded years ago and still dabbles with on occasion today. Az is my friend; one of my best friends, actually. And the real reason I’ve chosen to call him that is for no other reason than to make ass jokes. I think it’s funny, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

And what’s great about Az, is that if he ever reads this (and he may very well be reading it now), he would think it’s funny too. That’s the hallmark of our friendship for me. Az laughs. He laughs his azz off, actually (sorry…couldn’t resist). Most importantly, he laughs at things that *I* say, and always has. That in of itself puts him kinda high up on my list if you know what I mean…

Az is what you might call, an uninhibited person. He knows no shame. He has a goofy sense of humor that’s identical to mine. Yet all the while he’s soft-spoken and unassuming. He carries himself with such class, it’s hard to remember that underneath that thin veneer of dignity lies the soul of a total goofball.

He is an extremely talented musician, which is the real reason we became friends. Back in the days when the band was together, I was unofficially commissioned by Az to design the album cover for their first record (an LP — this was long before CDs were around). Prior to that point, I knew him casually as another childhood friend of my former roommate, Dee. Az, like my other common friend, Bee, played in Dee’s rock band in high school. So although I knew him, and liked him, at first I still never pursued getting to know Az, because of the fact that he was “Dee’s friend.” It wasn’t a conscious avoidance, just nothing I ever really considered — until he asked me to do the album cover.

Unfortunately the record deal fell through, and the album cover never made it beyond the pencil sketch stage. But the friendship that began from it has blossomed into something much more valuable than a piece of artwork could have ever been.

Az has actually become a much closer friend since I moved to Nashville. For some reason, I just always made an effort to see him during my semi-regular business trips to SoCal throughout the 90s. We shared some difficult circumstances with our marriages for a period of time, and the conversations we had seeking to encourage one another really sealed the friendship we now enjoy.

During my first of two trips I took to California this past spring/summer, Michelle and I stayed with Az and his family for four nights (albeit not consecutively). He offered his home to us as a base of operations for our travels up and down the California coast. We had a great time getting to know his kids, who were just babies when we left for Nashville.

Az’ wife Katy and Michelle really get along well, so the friendship, while decidedly stronger between us boys, is not completely one-sided.

To make things even better for furthering our friendship, the company Az works for recently acquired a few clients who are local to the area of Greater Nashville in which we live. So on two other occasions this past year, Az has been able to come and visit in my neck o’ the woods as well.

You know, something just now occurred to me. I have for years lamented the lack of friends I’ve had locally since I left SoCal. And yet, as I’ve written my blog for the past couple months, practically all I’ve been talking about is how many great and wonderful friends I have and have had (and I still haven’t even written about my very best friend yet…sheesh!).

I’m realizing how weak my argument really is, and it’s just a matter of taking the time to really look at yourself to recognize just how rich you are.

George Bailey ain’t got nothin’ on me…


Next: Redux

LA Stories (Part VII)

Et Cetera (continued)
I don’t know if I would admit to being a full-blown ham, but I’m close. I certainly don’t mind being noticed, but I generally tend to go about it on the low-key side of things. Some people aren’t quite as subtle.

The following are a couple more airport stories along those lines; one involving myself, and the other featuring a person I observed.

Let's pick up the story again at Nashville International Airport on the front end of my trip to California. To this point, my airport experience had been pleasant, but not necessarily fun. That would soon change, however.

• Angels flight
Following my conversation with the woman on her way back home to LA from a family wedding in Alabama, I went to a nearby snack bar to ask directions to the nearest ATM. I had run myself out of time packing and hadn’t been able to stop to get cash for the trip.

After getting my cash, I was walking down the concourse back to my gate. I looked ahead and couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I was having a vision.

I saw Angels.

Oh…no…not that kind. I just saw a couple guys in Anaheim Angels baseball jerseys and caps — although in Nashville, that’s almost as rare as catching a glimpse of an actual cherubic being. As I got closer, I realized that the two appeared to be a late thirtysomething father and his adolescent son. They were sitting on opposite ends of a long bench that lined the outside of the gate waiting area. It was obvious that they were just cooling their heels, waiting for the call to board the same flight as mine. Now, I could have just walked up and introduced myself as a fellow Halos fan, but that would’ve been too easy.

I’m generally a good judge of whether or not someone has a decent sense of humor just by looking at him. The Dad was a husky Hispanic man who didn’t actually look all that friendly. I thought I’d have better luck with the kid, a fresh-faced 14 year-old. They were just kind of hanging out, sitting about ten feet apart, taking in the scenery.

I nonchalantly walked up to a position about four or five feet in front of the bench, in between the two of them and deliberately violating what most people would consider their “personal space.” I set my suit bag and smaller carry-on duffel bag down in front of me, only a few feet from the young man seated to my left. I never made eye contact but knew that I had his attention. I was so close to him that he had no choice but to be actively wondering what the hell I was doing.

My duffel is actually a nice, medium-sized gym bag. It has a zippered half-moon shaped front opening and is nice and deep on the inside, capable of holding a lot of stuff.

I kneeled down and casually began unzipping the bag, which I had positioned so that the open side was facing the kid, whom I knew was watching my every move. As I lifted the open flap, revealing my bright red Anaheim Angels cap, I looked up and smiled at the boy, who broke into a grin from ear to ear. A few feet away, his Dad had been watching as well. As I glanced at him he started to chuckle.

“I just had to come over and introduce myself,” I smiled. “You guys are the first Angels fans I’ve met in this town in the 12 years I’ve lived here!”

The Father extended his hand and introduced himself and his son. “I’m Joey and this is my son Jay,” his friendly smile belying his rather rough-looking face. Naturally I was curious as to what they were doing in Nashville wearing Anaheim Angels garb. Turns out Joey and his son live in Anaheim and are Angels season ticket holders. As a sort of tradition over the past few years, they follow the team on one short roadtrip each season. They were now on their way back to SoCal after following the team on its two-city road trip to Tampa Bay and New York. And they had made this trip even more special. Following the three-game series at Yankee Stadium which the Angels swept (sorry Michael), they took a day before heading home to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. I was really excited for them, because going on a roadtrip with my favorite baseball team is something I have always dreamed of doing with my own son, not to mention visiting the Hall of Fame. So needless to say, I was getting more jealous by the minute as Joey described the great time he and his son had together the previous eight days.

I mentioned that I was going to be attending two games that upcoming week and Joey suggested the possibility of getting together (the opportunity really never presented itself; but maybe next time...). I continued talking with my fellow Angels fans for about five minutes or so. Joey was really cordial and Jay seemed like a really nice kid. It was great. Finally we said our so longs and I wandered over near the gate desk. People were beginning to line up in anticipation of the boarding call. After a few minutes the woman at the desk announced over the intercom that there had been a gate change for our flight (likely perpetrated by the previous Chicago flight’s rescheduling. We were asked to please move to a different gate, which of course was at the far end of the concourse, about 100 yards away.

Everyone let out a collective groan, but quickly picked up and began moving briskly en masse down the concourse in anticipation of acquiring the best spot in line as possible (remember this is Cattlecall…er…I mean, Southwest Airlines we’re talking about here).

It was a hassle to be sure, but amusing as well, to observe this sea of humanity moving as one, trying not to be obvious in the fact that they were all racing each other for a good spot in line. Reconvening at our new gate we waited another fifteen minutes before they finally allowed us to board the plane.

I ended up being among the last group to board, so I knew I would be stuck in the back of the plane. I was pleasantly surprised to see Joey and Jay occupying the window seats of the two back rows. Joey offered me the aisle seat, which I happily accepted. Needless to say there was no lack of conversation between the two of us for nearly the entire four-plus hour flight. Now I know that it probably makes little sense to anyone, who has never been alone in their allegiance to a sports team, as I have been with the Angels, particularly throughout the years since I moved to Tennessee. But it was truly a treat to talk to another fan as into the team as I am.

It made for a very good beginning to what was to be an incredible week.

• If only I’d had my camera phone…
The return flight home on Monday was just as pleasant, although not quite as eventful. However the security checkpoint did provide one pretty amusing anecdote.

I have been fortunate enough to only have gone through the increased airport security a half-dozen times since 9/11. Each time has been a pretty smooth experience, with no pat downs, wand sweeps or strip searches. My flight home from LAX was no different. I’m sure the woman who was behind me in line wishes she could have said the same thing.

She was a tall, beautiful blonde in skin-tight clothes that quite illustriously highlighted every curve of what appeared to be the best figure that money could buy. And perchance she wasn’t getting the message across well enough already, her tight-as-a-tourniquet crop-top offered the following suggestion, emblazoned in bold letters across it’s bountiful bodice:

Take A Picture…It’ll Last Longer.

It was obvious that this chica wasn’t interested in drawing any undo attention to herself. I’m sure she just abhorred the idea of causing a stir or something. She obviously wanted to just get through the checkpoint and to her gate, slipping unnoticed and anonymously into the airport terminal crowd. So I’m sure that she was just mortified by what happened next.

Without incident, I came through the metal-detecting frame under which everyone has to walk as they pass through security. I was at the end of the counter, gathering up the items I had placed into the plastic bypass tray — you know, the one you hand to the attendant containing your pocket belongings and other things that shouldn’t be scanned, like my camera, which already had film loaded into it. I was quickly reloading my pockets and carry-on bag, when I heard the buzzer go off on the metal detector; then again; then a third time. The woman kept setting the alarm off as she passed through. I grinned at what was (for me anyway) an amusing scene. It didn’t matter how much stuff she took off — first her little jacket, then a bracelet and rings, then her shoes. That buzzer just kept going off.

At this point people were starting to go around her and on through to get to their flights and I didn’t want to hold up the line. But I’m sort of kicking myself now for not cashing in on the irony of the moment and grabbing my camera, which I could have easily done, to take a picture, in accordance to her “mandate.” It was such a classic blog moment! If I’d had a camera phone, as I do now, I certainly would have captured it.

But I didn’t want to be obvious, so I gathered my bags and moved on before the woman’s mystery metal was discovered. As I walked away I remember wondering if perhaps they’d re-calibrated that metal detector to scan for silicone, but then I quickly dismissed that idea when I remembered how close LAX is to Beverly Hills — and of course that wouldn’t make a lot of sense, now would it?

I just hope she didn’t miss her flight before they figured it out. I’m sure it could have been a lot of things, but if I were a bettin’ man, I’d lay money that the culprit was the 12-guage underwire in that boulder-holder she was wearing…


Next: Et Cetera continued (yep, there's more...)