It was the day, it was the time. The flyers in the paper told us where to go. The news reporters waited in the dark.
And then the crowd rushed forward. To the TVs, the laptops, the very limited selection of the very latest gadgets.
And he was first.
But he didn't seem to want to pay. He wanted make conversation.
At 4:32 in the morning.
He was stalling, not wanting the transaction to end.
Behind him in line, hundreds of sleepy shoppers grumbled and cursed him.
And then he reached into his pocket and took out a bright orange wallet.
And he withdrew a handful of cash. And he paid.
And the crowd was strangely quiet, suddenly noticing the man's bright orange hair. And his glowing orange pants.
What kind of crazy man carries a bright orange wallet? And wears glowing orange pants accessorized to his bright orange hair?
Clearly someone who marched to the beat of a drummer no one in their right mind would ever hear.
And he turned towards us, his eyes glowing with the madness of an idea that none of us wanted to know about.
We turned away. All of us.
Because, clearly, that man was insane. That sudden realization washed like a rogue wave over the crowd. The crowd who'd gotten up in the middle of the night for a $250 HD TV or a $300 laptop or one of two Viking Stoves that were being sold for $199.99.
There was an author. He struggled for years writing novels that no one read.
Then, on a foggy night with a full moon out, he took a pen name. And started churning out short stories. Simple, witty, memorable pieces. Quick reads. And always centered around a tragic love affair.
And as the stories grew more and more popular, Hollywood came calling. Six of the stories were turned into movies. But the movies were all horrible and the author took his name off the credits of all of them.
Nearly all the stories were narrated by broken men, devastated by heartbreak and unwilling or unable to come to terms with their pasts.
For years, the author avoided interviews, until he learned he was dying and finally agreed to talk to the press.
The question they all wanted to know was how he could write such memorable and completely different women -- each of whom managed to break his narrators' hearts in completely different ways.
And each time he admitted that he had no special gift for female characters. All the women were the same woman. The one who'd broken his heart in a million pieces. The one he pretended he'd forgotten.
The one who haunted him every day of his life.
Because he thought that maybe, if he just talked about her, he could finally break free of the hold she had on him.
And it might have worked -- except that each of the interviews and articles ran long and had to be cut. And in every case, the fact that the different women were all the same was edited out before publication.
Longtime readers might know that I have a soft spot for the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race.
The last several years, I've gone up to Alaska for parts of the race (which runs more than a thousand miles from Anchorage to Nome, across some of the most beautiful -- and coldest -- areas of the world).
Although the race as a sporting event is amazing, I became fascinated by the rest of the race: the traditions, the rules regarding rest stops, the infrastructure of thousands of volunteers who come in from all over the world to make the race possible, and the inspiring personal stories of everyone involved.
The coverage of the race is great year after year (at least if you know where to find it), but there's very little coverage of all the other stuff.
I knew if someone could capture that other stuff, it would make a great movie. And no one else seemed to be making that movie.
I watched the movie Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why is Everybody Talkin' About Him) the other day.
Great movie. Ultimately a sad story.
In the movie, Richard Perry talks about how amazed he was by Nilsson's talents as a singer and songwriter. And how Nilsson became more interested in partying and making sessions into a joke.
Until what should have been a decades-long career of a superstar, instead flamed out after a few short years.
And yeah, there would be a few flashes of brilliance in even Nilsson's worst albums. But the last half of his professional life is noted for his devotion to epic drink-and-drug-fueled adventures instead of creating music.
Great movie. Ultimately a sad story.
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