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December 04, 2004
Talk about the passion
Last night, I received an unexpected call from an old friend of mine, D. I studied filmmaking in college with the (still there though dormant) desire to be a documentary filmmaker. The school I went to didn't really have a program in documentary filmmaking per se, so I got drunk instead. Despite the fact that the school basically had one vintage Bolex for 60 of us to share and two sticks of gum for editing equipment, I managed to both get a film degree and graduate with my liver more or less intact.
And where does does the budding young filmmaker go to try her hand at artistic fame and fortune? Why Orlando, Florida, of course! Actually, something that no one really tells you about college is that after four years of developing and exerting new-found independence, roughly 96% of college graduates end up moving back in with their parents. COOL. So when C., a girl I knew vaguely from school (who moved back in with her parents in Florida) said her mom worked at Universal Studios Florida and could get me a job in the film industry, I said what the hell, loaded up my Plymouth Horizon, and cruised down there to try my luck.
Turns out C.'s mom flipped burgers as an extra in an episode of Swamp Thing one time, which didn't really qualify her as a good contact for breaking into the film industry. Small matter because C. and I quickly became best of friends, renting a super cheesy, cockroach-infested apartment with forest green shag and a skanky communal pool where guys in Speedos constantly hit on us. It was like living in paradise!
C. landed a job in a bookstore, where she met two cute, funny guys: J. and the aforementioned D. We went out clubbing with these guys all the time, downed hundreds of cocktails, made each other weak with laughter every time we were together, but we weren't getting the one thing we were after: ACTION! And D. always smelled sooooo good. Finally, after weeks of frustration for us ladies, the boys took us in separate rooms and gently broke the news that they were gay...and dating each other! A-DUH!!! That soothed our egos a bit, because of course if they weren't falling victim to our feminine wiles, there had to be a good, preferably biological reason.
D. has been in and out of my life ever since, although it's been over a decade since we've actually seen each other. The last time I saw him, he had moved from Florida to Knoxville and I was driving to Los Angeles in pursuit of a more successful film career and the love of a boy from college for whom I still pined. D. agreed to meet me in Athens because I also pined for the lead singer of R.E.M. and was convinced that if I went there, I would meet him. OH GOD did I love Michael Stipe, that hair, that voice, those lyrics. My heart broke a thousand times just from listening.
Not only did D. meet me in Athens, but when we DID see Michael Stipe the first night out at a bar and I was too nervous to talk to him, D. believed me when I said it was OK, we would see him again tomorrow. And then when we did see him again, at breakfast at his restaurant, and I talked to him, it was amazing. I owe D. big time for not only believing in my crazed stalker fantasy but for making it come true.
I guess the early 90's were a big time for me to love gay boys. D., Michael Stipe and I have all managed to sustain our respective relationships as we've matured and evolved and for that I am quite grateful.
Happy 40th, D. Thank you for the phone call.
Posted by Max at December 4, 2004 12:43 AM