Goin' Out To Cally – Part 31, Small Screen, Big Dreams

The year was 1974. My father worked for the American Heart Association and his office was usually on the cutting edge of technology. They had Xerox machines before Xerox machines could collate. They were one of the first to upgrade from typewriters to word processors. They had push button phones. And to record their quarterly and annual meetings they bought a new fangled electronic marvel called a video tape recorder. It was a reel-to-reel device with a cord that attached to a thing called a video camera and another cord that attached to a microphone. The end result was muted black and white images displayed on your television.

Those images would change my life.

Back in 1974 there were two ways to see moving images... on your television and at the movie theater. Cable television was in its infancy and only had a few channels. The internet did not exist. There weren't any VCRs or DVD players or Digital Video Recorders. Downloading videos to an IPOD or cell phone wasn't even a consideration. There were no Blockbusters or Netflixes. Syndication was just starting to catch hold and the three major networks ruled the day. Because of this, television had an almost magical place in our world. If you were on television, you were important. Being on television made you special.

So, imagine my amazement, as a nine-year old boy, as I watched my face and heard my voice on the same television that I watched Star Trek or professional football or the show F.B.I. with my mom. Somehow, I became just as special as William Shatner or Steve Grogan or Efram Zimbalist, Jr. It would change the direction of my life forever.

The only moving images of me before puberty

One weekend when my dad brought home the video camera and recorder, my brothers and I, along with some neighbor kids, decided to make what is arguably the worst Western movie ever made. The kitchen was a saloon. My brother, Paul, was the bartender. My brother Charles, a cowboy. And I was a Deputy. Some of our neighbors were outlaws and others were lawmen. As with every good Western, the end result was a bar fight, part of which included me getting slid across our kitchen counter and onto the family room floor. I wasn't even allowed to sit on the kitchen counter, let alone get to slide across it, but because it was a movie, we were able to bend the rules.

I videotaped Star Trek by pointing
the camera at the TV

Suddenly, the possibilities in my mind were endless. I knew at that moment that I wanted to experience that sense of freedom for the rest of my life. I knew I had to make movies in some way, either by acting or directing or writing... or all three.

I was officially hooked.

So, in August of 1988 as the four travelers from Florida packed up and left the friendly confines of Bedrock City behind them, my heart began to accelerate as we steered our way toward Los Angeles, California. Weeks ago one of my professors had secured for me a meeting with a University of Florida alum who was making a living as a producer in Hollywood. I was actually going to get to meet someone who worked in the magical wonderland that is show business.

I couldn't wait to get there.

Sunday and I, having awoken in each others arms... a result from the exceptionally cold weather the night before, were now in our standard location in the car for the drive... in the back seat of the Acura. Sunday's reaction to our cuddling the night before was the same as her reactions to all of the other times where I thought something might not have not almost not happened... she acted like it was all in my imagination. Or at least that was the way I interpreted it.

And for all I know, nothing could have happened. Or something could have, but didn’t. Or something should have, but wouldn’t.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was confused... a state of which I was growing accustomed when it came to understanding women. To me, comprehending a woman seems as impossible as putting together a 10,000 piece monochromatic puzzle blindfolded while riding a unicycle.

Earlier that morning, as Tim and I broke down our canvas home, I mulled the option of discussing my confusion with him, but I knew he didn't have a copy of the directions to the puzzle either... he was just lucky enough to complete it before Beth found out it was all by accident. As we packed the tent into the base of the hatchback, it would turn out to be the last time we would call that canvas cave home.

Our next temporary home on our trip would be on the floor of Paul and Anne Osterhout's Los Angeles home. And, unbeknownst to us at the time, getting to their house would put our lives in jeopardy.

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Part 31, (Text, Audio)
Part 30, (Text, Audio) - Part 29, (Text, Audio) - Part 28, (Text, Audio)
Part 27, (Text, Audio) - Part 26, (Text, Audio) - Part 25, (Text, Audio)
Part 24, (Text, Audio) - Part 23, (Text, Audio) - Part 22, (Text, Audio)
Part 21, (Text, Audio) - Part 20, (Text, Audio) - Part 19, (Text, Audio)
Part 18, (Text, Audio) - Part 17, (Text, Audio) - Part 16, (Text, Audio)
Part 15, (Text, Audio) - Part 14, (Text, Audio) - Part 13, (Text, Audio)
Part 12 (Text, Audio) - Part 11 (Text, Audio) - Part 10 (Text, Audio)
Part 09, (Text, Audio) - Part 08, (Text, Audio) - Part 07 (Text, Audio)
Part 06 (Text, Audio) - Part 05 (Text, Audio) - Part 04 (Text, Audio)
Part 03 (Text, Audio) - Part 02 (Text, Audio) - Part 01 (Text, Audio)