no rain

previously published by me elsewhere:

My brother-in-law has this manner of recounting stories that frequently makes me second guess almost every word. I suppose there's a lilt in his voice that assumes, behind that lecturers tone, he's actually telling a joke. Truthfully it happens more often than he retells the same basic quip everyone's tired of hearing except him.

Since my sister's family just relocated to our lovely state capital, he felt the urge to share with me some memories of attending Florida State as an undergrad. Specifically he was talking about some period of time when the burgeoning film department was located somewhere within the football stadium.

It seems two worlds collided one day during a break between classes when all of the arty film students stood there in their Misfits t-shirts smoking their Marlboros, while the machismo football team tried to play within the ever-developing black cloud.

This past Sunday marked one year since the first day of production for a local movie that seems to have fizzled out, very likely to never be heard from again. There's something about all of those memories of frequent smoke breaks for everyone involved but two or three of us that makes me wonder if I really can relate to either of those groups supposedly brought together on that field.

I guess there are plenty of assumptions about what you're likely to get from an artistic person. It's likely why the government likes to cut spending on the arts. God help them if their children grow up to be a fuckin' bum with no discernible direction in life, to say little of a pension plan.

Though I've never really gotten into the Misfits music, and I pretty much quit smoking before finishing off a pack, I still am one of those misguided tortured souls driven down that dead end road.

At least what's at the other end is by no means lonely.