Making a Difference...

Recently, I found myself reading an article about the “Harlem Renaissance”, and its importance in the larger cannon of American Literature. (See how much smarter I sound just by having written that sentence. That is why I “find myself” reading shit like that.)

The individual accomplishments of people like Langston Hughes, Zora Neal Hurston, Gwendolyn Brooks are interesting in their own right, but what really struck my intellectual fancy was that these people were all friends, neighbors. It is like if the stars of Sesame Street were all black and not puppets. Instead of Grover singing about “Near and Far”, W. E. B. Dubois is explaining how “Honkey is a Big Dick Donkey”, while Oscar the Grouch and Elmo slip into verse, praying to break free from the big white hand shoved up their asses.

I am kidding, obviously, but the idea of a cultural revolution, one fed by the ideas and interests of those surrounding you really got me thinking. Based on my own life and experiences, what kind of change am I putting in place? Will my friends and I be the next great political minds and /or agents of social reform?

No. Not unless that change concerns watching a monkey eat its on feces on YouTube or measuring just how much a person can drink before having to “break the seal.”

F! My life is pointless! Langston Hughes spent his mid – 20’s rubbing shoulders with Duke Ellington and influential leaders, while my best friend Nick can sustain a single fart for over a minute and my friend Greg considers his days successful if he can go the whole time without calling someone “the c word.”

It’s not that I don’t love my friends; I think they’re great. It just when I compare my group of contemporaries with others throughout history – the Harlem Renaissance, the Romantics, the American Expatriates, that very special season of the Mickey Mouse Club from the early 1990’s - I feel a little inferior.

Don’t get me wrong, the “We Love Barrack” buttons pinned to our hipster satchels and our never-ending mindless facts about bands no one’s ever heard of is pretty damn important, but I am afraid it is not enough. I mean, I buy organic vegetables and have gay friends. What more can I possibly do? And it’s not like we can excuse ourselves because we are attractive or bubbly like those people on the TV show Friends; we’re ugly and our apartments suck.

It has not always been this way, however. I remember in high school being convinced that my group of friends and me were all a Barbara Walters’ Special in the making. 20 years from now sociologists would be dumfounded by the success and contributions that came from this tight-knit group of friends. Gwen was going to be a famous writer, Teresa the first female president. Matt was going to be a brain surgeon, Eric would be David Letterman, and Nick was just going to be rich and do it with a bunch of hot girls.

As for me, I was going to be a famous actor, but not of the blockbuster film variety. I didn’t want to sell – out, so I was just going to stick with Edward Norton or Phillip Seymour Hoffman fame. A popular movie or two interspersed between my serious “indie projects.” I learned from People Magazine that real actors do not work on films, they work on “projects.” You know the ones with lots of dialogue about sex and being unsatisfied with the “monotony of the modern condition.”

Her hair golden and inflated, sitting back in her chair, hand delicately supporting her chin, Barbara Walters, Babs really, leans forward in her pale pink pant suit, and says, “Well, I have to ask the question everyone has been wondering: How did this ever happen? How did such a close group of friends find this much success?” Seated together on an beige, overstuffed couch, we all laugh humbly, excited to be recognized for our accomplishments and to reunite with one another after all of these years.

Cut to a montage of old yearbook photos, certificates and awards. Barbara’s voice looms over the sentimental music as she introduces each of us and explains our story. The next day we are all over the papers, featured in magazines and editorials. O Magazine runs a feature story about me that begins with “Sitting down with Josh Clark over sparkling water and a lemon salad, I get right to the tough question: What’s next for this boy wonder?”

What the hell happened? Where is my 20/20 interview??

It’s not that my friends aren’t successful; everyone is doing great, but we’re sure as hell not taking calls from Oprah’s people.

In the end, though, I guess this is how it happens. The demands of the real world can deflate even the most certain of dreams. I know in my case what amounted to “groundbreaking talent” in Collierville, Tennessee translated into a loud voice and flamboyant undertones on the college stage.

It’s not too late, however. We should make a change, take a stand! Maybe we can save some gay baby seals from dying in Iraq or write important poetry about what it’s like to be white males.

We can do this, we can make a difference!

Oh, what you’d just say? You Netflixed The Big Lebowski and bought a six pack of some pretentious Czechoslovakian beer that tastes like cat urine? Well fuck, we can get started on the rest of this shit tomorrow. Pop that bitch in the DVD player my friend.