Patrick was the third friend I made when I went to film school in Florida. We formulated a supergroup in our lighting class, consisting of him, myself, Kevin, Tyler, Will, and the occasional Drew. This was where the infamous Kevin Klap was born. We built him up to be the Chuck Norris of our group, although Kevin hated it, which made it that much more necessary to continue. We would clap whenever his name was called in roll, and soon it escalated into entire classrooms doing standing ovations and confetti being thrown. Do something often enough, and people will participate. Patrick had even been inspired to write a semi-rap song about Kevin, which we subsequently made a music video for. Being in film school and all made it a given. Patrick loved comedies, but he loved music much, much more.
Here’s my story, it’s sad but true.
Misty was my first girlfriend. We were together seven years. She cheated on me six times. I never loved her.
Shane used to have long hair. I remember seeing him constantly rockin’ it back early on in the days of film school. That’s why I started talking to him. I felt that us long-hairs oughta stick together. He was surprisingly shy, however. Either that or he was taken aback by this random dude he barely knew just waltzing over and talking to him like they were old buddies. Shane and I had a very casual sort of friendship during our time down in Florida, and I was honestly surprised when he joined up with myself, Jordan, Chris, Scott, Carlos, and Brooks in the NYC movement.
Shane had a great vocabulary. I found that I could sit and listen to the way he talked for hours. Often that’s what we did in many nights grilling out on Carl’s roof. Shane was always willing to stay late in the night while we discussed light philosophy in the midsummer night’s breeze. I regret not drinking until he was on his way out. Shane would have been a great drinking buddy. He was also ready and willing to give his opinion on matters at hand, regardless of what other people thought. I found that admirable. For a half year Shane, Chris, Jordan and myself all worked at a place doing closed captioning for music videos, which I personally still think of to this day as the single greatest job I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot. Shane and Chris worked second shift. Jordan and myself came to change guards around 11. For some unknown reason I was able to complete an astonishing amount of music videos per night, which led to me feeling like I could slack off a little, which turned into a lot. One night I decided that my sexual urge had gotten the better of me, and the strip club a block away from work was just too damn tempting. I arrived, clocked in, and told Jordan “I’m gonna go down to Ray’s and get some pizza.”
Alex just showed up one day. That’s not really a negative comment, just a plain one. One day he wasn’t in my social circle of friends, the next he was there, plain as day and offering input as if he had been there from the start, and that was okay. His musical knowledge combined with his wide vocabulary put me in instant awe, and I loved to hear his opinions when it came to most anything. The best thing about Alex was that, despite his clear intelligence, he was totally fine with being involved with all our childish antics.
I love fireworks. I buy several hundred dollars worth every year and use them throughout the whole month of July. This has (obviously) caused several problems. One of which being a night when I was trying to figure out what to do with my leftovers. They sat in a box in my living room of the apartment I was residing in with Alex, Chad, Nolan and Jordan all surrounding it. They examined my random assortment, stumbling across a pack of Little Dynamites, which was literal. I’m not sure which one started it, (It may have even been me) but soon everyone was lighting and throwing them at each other. Harmless little pops were made and everyone jumped when one was thrown. I walked into the kitchen to fill my cup with ice and when I returned Alex had one in his hand. He lit it and tossed it to Chad, who deflected it with black cat-like reflexes. Unfortunately, the little stick of dynamite bounced right into the box.
Matt frequently came and left from my usual group of friends. He was like a quirky guest star on a seasonal sitcom whom you always loved and anticipated their inevitable return, no matter how short-lived it may be. I suppose he could be thought of as the Uncle Leo to my Seinfeld.
I frequented his house often, and during his final year of high school we were inseparable for much of that springtime. We engaged in several juvenile antics, such as pointless scavenger hunts where we had to get ourselves kicked out of a gas station, and late night cruises about town in his hot little 1976 Buick Skylark. I’m not a car expert, but damn did I like riding around in that thing. I often caught him washing it (Top down is the only way to wash, he would say.) in his front lawn, shirtless and soapy.