This was the weekend we first met.

The first time we kissed. The first time we held each other. The first time we slept with arms entwined, bodies bare and buried under the covers.

It was before the snow melted on the verge of spring, when I would open the windows to dry the sweat from our skin.

I put on a song that made me cry, because she said that it turned her on, and with the tears welling up in my lids, we stared into each others’ eyes.

From the moment we touched, there was never any awkwardness. Only a complete trust, a comforting familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years, a gentle nuzzle of the nose from my baby-faced doll.

And now it’s over.

A tribute to Nick and Alison, my old laid-back roommate (who taught me how to make a mean grilled cheese, offered a significant challenge in Counter Strike, and introduced me to Lamb) and his new bride.

I would say something about the wedding, but the video says it all.

At one point in the night I was running around with my Karachi Outpost strapped on my back, and my camcorder bag around my shoulder, feeling like a one-man documentary team, even though my focus was on video instead of stills. There are a couple of camera issues, such as focus and zoom speed that still bug me when I watch the footage, but until I can afford a Canon XL2 my cheap Hitachi DVD-cam will have to do.

Surprisingly, the easiest part was picking the song, something that can take days itself. I needed a single track that would work through landscapes, kissing, and drinking, three things that evoke vastly different emotions, and Tulips by Bloc Party was perfect. Even the timing of the lyrics worked out. I wish I could say that I was able to obtain a score for the music, analyze it, and symetrically break down the scenes according to the development. To be honest I just didn’t have enough footage, so I just put what I could in the parts that would fit, without interrupting the flow of the story.

The entire clip took about three solid days to complete, half of which was just getting the scenes in the right format to work with in Adobe Premier 2.0. I was plagued by video format problems and asynchronous audio issues. It was also the first time I was able to try this latest version of Premier since I was running 1.5 for a while. The process really pushed the capabilities of my system; loading only Premier with the whole sequence took up 1.6 gigs of RAM. Render time was about 20 minutes on a dual-core AMD 4400+. Uncompressed video size is almost 2 gigs.

Influences were Michele Gondry from the Hardest Button To Button video, as well as the smart and witty stylings of Spike Jonze.

Being transferred to Bayview Glen in grade five was my first private school experience. The change from Catholic school was subtle; aside from the better funded facilities and passionate teachers, the only discernable difference was the manditory uniform. It was there that I met John in my classes, but back then he was the bully who threw me against a wall at first recess. My parents intervened in the form of an angry phonecall to the teacher, and I learned never to tell them about my problems at school again, out of fear that I would be emasculate me.

John maintained a reputation as one of the kings of the playground. At that age, he was a precocious pre-teen, matching machismo with Daniel Cappon for the attention of Pamela Arstikitis, the acerbic, metal-mouthed, blonde beauty. I remained blissfully young and ignorant, and we never really got along.

In grade seven, he changed schools to Upper Canada College, as his grandfather had done over fifty years ago, while I went through both the test and interview, and didn’t make the cut. Our parents knew of the school’s prestigious reputation and yearned desperately for their respective sons to be alumnus. Two years later I made a successful second attempt, and moved there too.

I was by myself, in a school full of jocks, academics, and artistic esoterics. John’s reputation didn’t follow him to this institution, where he was the odd, alienated, aloof, young man, while I remained the small, dysfunctional boy who never fit in anywhere. We were seperate loners, and our individuality is what brought us together. We never had any classes together, so lunches were spent philosophizing on the bleachers when the weather permitted, or misbehaving in Mr. Lorne’s classroom, throwing textbooks at each other in the winter. Eventually we went our seperate ways in university, and John was the only person I kept in touch with.

In the summer between grade seven and eight, as part of the children’s choir of Bayview Glen, we auditioned for a part in the Canadian premier of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. This consisted of a demo tape, a semi-final competition between 25 schools, and finals of 10, with only four school choirs being selected. The judges told us to hold our celebration until all the finalists were announced, but by the time we were called, we couldn’t hold it in, and let out with a thunderous roar. It was the only time in my life that I was so happy I cried.

The picture of our choir, roughly 25 students between the ages of 10 and 14, ended up in the performance booklets that were handed out to the audience as they walked from the lobby to their seats in the Elgin Theatre. We were far from friends back then, but we stood next to each other. I still don’t understand why.

John’s haircut hasn’t deviated from a hastly brushed mop. Mine, on the other hand, has gone through various stages of shaggyness, poofiness, and occassional what-was-I-thinking. It’s just like the two of us. John did all his growing up before he was 12, and at his core he’s essentially the same person now as he was back then, while I continue the never-ending cycle of learning and growing.

And this will probably be true in another 15 years.

You ever read any Nietzsche?

Nietzsche says there are two kinds of people in the world. People who are destined for greatness, like Walt Disney, and Hitler. And then there’s the rest of us. He called us “The bungled and the botched”.

We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there.

We’re the expendable masses.

—Jack Lucas, The Fisher King

When I listen to this song, a post-hardcore blend of catchy, melodic guitar lines and technical screaming, a feeling washes over me. I recognize it immediately.

Envy.

It’s the other, other, Jeff’s band, and he fits the eccentric rockstar persona to a tee. His clothes are all tight-fitting, thrift-store finds and Sally Ann recyclables. Even his frames are a modernized version of the old-school bad-boy sunglasses. An unassuming type until you talk to him about his music, and then he’s a galvanized, animated person. He spends his money on studio hours, and his free-time laying down tracks, mixing songs, jam sessions. I don’t even know the name of his band.

I do know that this song is a huge improvement over the material he gave me a month ago. The structure is less experimental, the sound is more polished. The result of a new drummer, and redone vocals. Jeff’s goal is to get his name out there, win a recording contract, and spend the rest of his life making music. I can already tell that he’ll catch the attention of the right person at the right time.

Knowing that this young man, in his mid-20s, is going somewhere, is what fuels it. He has the ambition, the ability, the mindset to achieve greatness, while I remain one of the many.

If I had the time, the money, the ambition, I’d do the same. I’d be a director. A photographer. Things I think I’d be great at. Instead, I simply use video and photography to document my life, as an extra form of expression over the written word. As a result, my desire to improve is solely driven by my perfectionist attitude, not a desire to be great or to make money. I understand that to become one of the few is an investment of one’s entire life, and the risks of doing so are severe. Too severe.

It’s my choice to live like this: risk-free and secure. It’s a part of my personality. I invest in government bonds over stock. I’m a 9-to-5 guy, who doesn’t like going out on weekdays, whose primary goal is to pay off the mortgage before I retire. My greatness is a steady paycheque, a cat who jumps on my lap, and eight full hours of sleep. I enjoy the simple things, and satisfaction with what I have.

And I realize that not knowing the name of Jeff’s band is a subconscious choice I make. That way, there’s less chance I’ll learn of his success when I’m reading the paper.

Less chance I’ll be reminded of how average my life is.

There’s no room for confusion or regret. One can only thrust oneself forward, never looking back, never questioning what was once said. To learn from these mistakes is the only saving grace. Busyness is simply self-distraction, and to believe otherwise is self-delusion.

And do you try to love him more, because you can’t love me?