I like to say things that appear to be over the top.
I say things like, “This is the best song ever!” I say it several times a day about many different songs. I also can frequently be overheard muttering, “Prettiest girl ever,” “More in love than I have ever been,” and my favorite, “I used to have the biggest crush on her of all time.”
This says three things about me:
1. That I am a passionate romantic.
2. Because I perform, I probably tend to hype things up a bit for effect.
3. It has to be true at least once, right?
No apologies, it’s who I am. That said, let me tell you about the one time that all of these things came together and I met and genuinely fell in love with a girl called (I am changing her name) Jackelyn.
I met her in Detroit at a party. She had a shirt on that was the color and style of the Fed Ex logo, but cleverly read: “Fed Up With Men.” She was not tall, and she had perfect skin, brown flowing hair, amazing eyes, and a face that could launch a thousand ships. She was a knockout and she had me at first sight.
So, we met and as it turns out, she was moving to New York to pursue acting. We were able to hang out once or twice, but then she was gone. We stayed in touch and saw each other from time to time, but geographically we were poisoned. I did receive a call from her one day that she was moving back to Michigan.
This should have been fabulous news, but it wasn’t because I was moving to California. Again, we stayed in contact. Not much, but enough. Off the record, doesn’t this sound like a Casey Casem long distance dedication?
Finally, a short five years after I first met her, she calls me up from Hollywood and says she’s in town. I am speechless and thrilled. We quickly meet up and – I am not making this up – the chemistry had somehow elevated itself to a new level of mutual enchantment.
It was that one blissful scene in Forrest Gump where Jenny finally comes home to marry Forrest and his validation and heart have perfectly aligned, mixed with two parts Bobby Brady fireworks and one part, Wow!!
Anyway, to make things better, she tells me that she is moving here, to LA. Now there are a lot of pretty girls in Los Angeles, but she is by far the prettiest (see above).
Fast forward to me picking her up at the airport. There she is by the curb, looking like a keychain supermodel (remember, she is not tall). I take her to her new home that is so close to the airport, that she literally got in the car and I drove a mile and she was home. We unpack her and spend the next day or so connected. We go hiking in the rain, attend an acting class, grab some grub and talk forever.
So here’s where it gets typical of my life and probably most of yours. We decide to go to a bar and we started out at Saddle Ranch Universal City, but it was “Pick a fight” night, so we left and ended up at Sportsman’s Lodge, right near my house.
Again, we were having the conversation of conversations and the mood, food and drinks were in just the right amounts. She thanks me for my kindness and patience and I shower her with welcome to California pep talks. We are so into the moment – and each other – that we are doing the vomitaciously awful “same side booth sit” and it feels normal.
In my mind, this is the one I have been waiting for (literally waiting five years, but you knew that if you were paying attention). The cartoon birds are swimming above her head and Firehouse’s “Love of a Lifetime” makes more sense than ever.
That’s when the excessive texting began.
Ever been on a date where all is right with the world, but the other person is a text maniac? Well, you put up with it for a while, but then curiosity takes control and you ask the never proper, “Who are you texting?”
Now, there is no right answer for this. If she answers, “My mother, brother, sister or best friend Kate,” then you are a douche for asking. The only worse answer would be, “This guy that I will be fucking after you have dropped me off.” I got another one right in the middle. I got, “My boyfriend.”
Now, I have known this person for a while and I have never questioned whether or not she dated, because it’s normal and obvious, she’s beautiful and a sweetheart. I just don’t remember hearing boyfriend in any of our recent conversations.
JCN: “Boyfriend? How long have you been dating him?”
Jackelyn: “Seven years.”
JCN: “Really? Awesome! Does he live out here?
Jack: “No.”
JCN: “Is he moving out here?”
Jack: “No.”
JCN: “Are you moving back soon?”
Jack: “No.”
JCN: “Are you engaged or are you planning on marrying him?”
Jack: “Oh God, no. I would never marry him. It’s just that we have been together since high school and he has my heart. We had something special.”
JCN: “What, the same homeroom teacher? Lockers in the same hall?”
Jack: “It’s not like that. He just got there first.”
So, as I am having this conversation where I am with her alone and yet I am still the third wheel to the guy on the other end of the text message, it occurs to me that fairy tales are pretty cruel and that my song Love in Los Angeles is probably more accurate than I ever imagined.
Not really. I am older and a lot of my friends are in relationships and I am not. This doesn’t upset me, but I would way rather be in a partnership with a fabulous lady than trying to listen to some girl I met at BOA tell me about how hard it is to not feel guilty living off of her doctor/parents who own several laser eye centers while she struggles to make it as an extra on Scrubs.
I still adore Jackelyn, and California is a strange grabby monster that changes you pretty quick. I am lucky to be her friend for now, and be there for her when she asks. She’s pretty special and I know what we have is real and, if it’s right for us, I would love to get involved.
Until then, I will just sit on the sidelines and watch as the clouds roll in over some other sucker’s parade.
J Chris Newberg is a comic, actor, producer, song writer, and author living in Los Angeles and occasionally Detroit with his loyal and aging Cocker Spaniel, Flower. You can find him at jchrisnewberg.com, myspace.com/jchrisnewberg, or just google him because you know you want to. His column runs every other Tuesday.
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