1996 Changed Everything: Pt. 5 - We'll Meet Again Old Friend

This is part of a series of articles about 1996, as it holds significance for me since it was the year I graduated high school. This fifth article is all about the friends we make, the friends we lose, and the friends we keep.

Thirty years ago I walked across a stage, strutting like pro wrestling icon Ric Flair, grabbed my diploma, and began the slow walk from childhood to manhood. My sister Kate recorded much of that graduation ceremony on my old Sears camcorder. I cherish every second of it.

Even today, as the young faces pass by the camera on that tape, I remember so many of them like they are frozen in time. I feel as though those people who held the greatest importance in my life back then still do today.

The classic 1986 film Stand By Me has an iconic quote at the end that sticks with me to this day. Richard Dreyfuss as Gordie types: "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12. Jesus, does anyone?"

I wasn’t twelve when I graduated high school, but that line perfectly encapsulates how I feel about the friends I had back then. I’ve never had any like them since.

We were all learning and experiencing life for the first time together. We were succeeding, failing, laughing, loving, achieving, hurting, rebelling, being overwhelmed, and clinging on to each other as we rose and fell with the waves of teenage life. Those friends I made were not just friends; they were lifelong brothers and sisters.

When looking back at the people I called my friends as I graduated high school, I don’t look at a strict timeline. Many of those I’d have taken a bullet for I had already known for years by the time of caps and gowns. It was as if I already knew I’d found my tribe.

Doing some work in photography class.

Making friends is hard at any point in life. As an adult, it can feel like you’re applying for a job. As a kid, you’re putting yourself out there hoping that a stranger finds you worth getting to know better.

Being as shy and introverted as I was during my childhood, it’s a wonder I made any friends at all. Without luck, I’d have had to wait for a kickball to roll my way and use that as the opening to befriend whoever retrieved it.

My two oldest friends, Barry and Matt, came into my life through luck. Matt grew up across the street from me, and Barry happened to live a few doors down from my aunt. I’d go and visit her and invariably end up with Barry. I met both of them around the age of seven. Barry ended up being one of the most important and influential people in my life.

It’s interesting, as I sit here mining for memories going back 40 years, how I can’t remember those first meetings with people who went on to become chosen family. Oh sure, I can give you the Cliff’s Notes version of when someone crossed paths with me. I can share some early memories. However, the first meeting is a blur in virtually all of these cases. I guess you don’t realize that someone has become an integral part of your life until a certain amount of time has passed.

Hasan lived a few streets over from me. I know we bumped into each other during the summer before 6th grade. We built a bond like steel. He came from the city to Cape Cod and taught me about late 80’s/early 90s Hip-Hop. We played basketball. Rarely was it one-on-one because he’d crush me every time. So we’d do these two-against-zero games against opponents we called the ‘invisible ghosts.’

Tim lived further away, but our origin story is similar, revolving around a shared love of basketball. I remember sleepovers at his house often being punctuated by freshly made donuts the next morning by his parents. It was the Jerky Boys, walks through the woods to get to a nearby strip mall, and countless hours of me trying to figure out how to defend his patented ‘Fishy Swim’ fallaway jumper.

John I had seen around in middle school, but only when we sat next to each other in Freshman English did we connect. It was our just slightly wacky sense of humor that made us friends. I wish I still had my English notebook where we’d one-up each other with foolish lines and drawings, rarely paying attention to what the teacher said. To be honest, I would have had an easier time hearing an ant speak than that teacher, though.

Rob, much like Matt, happened to live close by. Our families were heavily intertwined, but it was only when I entered high school and bought a camcorder that we truly connected. He and I were the typical feral Gen Xers. Out all day on our bikes, going places we’d probably have needed permission to go, junk food, caffeine, crazy ideas, and laughs that brought tears.

Liam was another stroke of luck. We happened to work at the same job at the same time. Standing side by side with him, preparing food while music blasted loudly off the walls, ended up becoming some of my fondest memories of high school. Some funny lines we said back then we still bring up to this day.

There was a massive influx of new friends when I got to high school. My high school saw two neighboring towns’ middle schools combine into one blended family. It was an interesting transition. I played for the basketball team in middle school. A few of the new faces in the halls of the high school were once rivals on the other middle school team. It took a minute to realize we were all on the same team now.

New faces like Steve, Greg, Mike, Kevin, Pete, and others quickly went from strangers to major parts of my crew. Our interactions varied depending on the person. Greg, Mike, and Kevin became frequent subjects of photos during senior year.

An attempt at an artsy photo of those three.

I was taking a photography class and had to practice using a film camera. Those three would pose, or something like that, in the middle of classes. It was my job to hit up the darkroom and develop the foolishness that we created. To this day, Mike insists he wasn’t in any of those photos. The joke is on him, though. He has aged very well, so he looks almost the same today.

During high school, I was at the mercy of my bike, walking, or occasional rides to hang out with friends. I didn’t get my driver’s license until senior year, and even then I had infrequent access to a vehicle, what with me being one of five kids and having a mother working full-time and going to nursing school full-time.

It was a different era in the 1990s. You didn’t sit inside on a phone, playing video games, or watching television. Well, sure, we did all of those things to a degree, but for the most part life consisted of calling friends, quickly getting off the phone, and getting out of the house to have some sort of an adventure.

You quickly learn who your ‘ride or die’ friends are based on the level of stupidity they were willing to join you on. Wandering through the woods? Sneaking into a construction site to explore half-built houses? Hanging out of the back of a station wagon riding a skateboard? Drinking Jolt and creating caffeine-soaked skits with a bulky camcorder? These were only a few examples of what I’m talking about.

Yes, we drove something like this while someone rode a skateboard out of the back.

A classic ride-or-die story happened freshman year. Hasan and I went to a party at another friend’s house. It was in the next town over; we must have been dropped off there. It was populated by probably 8-10 more kids, but it was over thirty years ago, so my memory is hazy. What’s not hazy is how the party ended.

I am sure we were loud. I think there was at least some alcohol there, but I don’t think Hasan and I had more than a few sips at most. It was when the red and blue lights started flashing that we knew the jig was up. The police were there.

All of us 15/16 year old kids scattered. People were going in all different directions. Hasan and I though stuck together. One wouldn’t leave the other. We ran through yards, behind houses, tearing through trees and bushes until we were safely behind a nearby strip mall. It was part terrifying and part exhilarating.

At the strip mall, I called my mother to come and pick us up. We stood in front of a darkened store and waited, letting our heart rates come down. The fact that we hadn’t drunk worked in our favor. When my mother showed up, we didn’t reek of alcohol, so when we told her the story of what had happened, it was believable.

I feel like growing up in the 90s, I had a lot of near misses when it came to danger. I don’t think I’d have gotten in much trouble if the police had snagged me, but who knows? Being a minor, I knew I could do nearly anything I wanted with little repercussions.

That doesn’t mean that I went out defacing people’s property, or starting fights, or stealing. It just meant that the voice in my head telling me something was dangerous kept quiet a lot of the time. Maybe it wanted to see how I’d react to adversity?

I find it interesting that I didn’t go out drinking, or smoking, or partying until all hours of the night, and yet I feel my high school years were filled with adventure. That comes down to who my friend group was.

What the ‘cool kids’ would have thought of as adventures I saw as dangers not worth the time or risk. Now I can’t say for sure that if I was asked to go out drinking and partying and randomly hooking up that I would have said no. I can say that, looking back at the classmates who got DUI’s before they were of legal age and those who held their own children before holding a diploma, I am happy with my choices in friends and adventures.

I chose wisely when it came to friends. I also didn’t restrict myself to any certain subset of people. Only in the last few years have I noticed just how all-encompassing my friend groups were. Yes, I said ‘groups.’

I can rattle off a handful of different groups of friends. These had very little, if any, cross-pollination with other groups. I tried to be friends with anybody who wanted to be friends. It’s the way I was raised by my mother. I tried to fit in with anyone while also staying true to who I was.

Being seen as a poser is a kiss of death in any generation. If you lose your authenticity, you lose credibility. At least that’s how it was in high school. The way I navigated those waters was by amplifying traits around certain groups. I never hid who I fully was; I just shined a brighter light on the things I had in common with the people I was with at the time. Does that make sense?

I must have done a good job in my choices of friends because, as I said earlier, I still consider many of those same people my friends to this day. There are also no friends, not acquaintances but friends, that I regret knowing or having in my life. I think it’s rare to look at your friend group and not find someone who turned out to be a bad apple. I mean, unless we all were bad apples and none of us noticed the difference?

Friendships in high school changed and evolved along with all of us. You start with needing rides to someone's house to using your bike or your own car. Adventures go from walking to the corner store on a summer afternoon to driving to Boston for a killer, loud, AC/DC concert. Relationships could come and go, but friendships tended to stay.

A replica of my concert T since I have no clue where it is.

In my life today, I have more than a handful of friends of over thirty years. Now we don’t get to see each other all of the time due to work, family commitments, and location. That being said, if a friend reaches out to get together, I try my best to move whatever I need to see them.

I still remember inside jokes. I still remember certain foods certain friends liked. I still remember who was in what class. Mainly, I still remember how these people made me feel and why they became my friends in the first place. I think that is the most important thing.

Over time, specific memories might fade. That’s just the price of doing business in life. Feelings remain, though. If I hear any of a few dozen names from high school, whether they are still fixtures in my life or not, I get a smile and a blast of warm positive feelings.

We were all teenagers. We all went through the experience of finding ourselves in the world. If we are lucky, we have a solid crew of friends to navigate the choppy waters with. Very few grow up on one straight, clear path. It’s typically filled with twists, turns, dead ends, heartbreak, confusion, anger, and possibly, if a Gen Xer, indifference.

To wrap things up, I found one song that stuck out to me as far as my high school friendships went. Not surprisingly, it is a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. They were a band that made you cool if you listened to them, along with the Beastie Boys. At least it was in my circles.

The song is My Friends off of their less-than-stellar One Hot Minute album from 1995. The entire song weighs heavily on my memories of high school. The hook, I guess, is the lyrics I gravitated toward.

I love all of you
Hurt by the cold
So hard and lonely, too
When you don't know yourself




It’s a perfectly fitting sentiment. We were growing up, trying to find ourselves, but also knew that even as alone as you might have felt at times, if you were lucky, you had some friends to stand by you through those formative years.

In my next post, I will take a look at my family dynamic during senior year and a look at the role of family in the life of any high schooler. All families are created differently, as was mine.

A Forgotten Story From A Favorite Place

It’s amazing, as you get older, the number of memories that grow fuzzier or get lost to time altogether. It’s a big reason why I have chosen over the years to write various journals as well as blogs like this. I want to hold on to as many stories from my life, even if they end up being only in written or typed form.

That is the setup for this story here. It is one that I had totally forgotten about for many years. I wish I could tell you what brought it back to mind, but I can’t. It’s like one minute there was a dark room, and suddenly the light switch turned on and revealed the full contents therein.

This is a story where I was hailed as a hero. Despite that, I don’t think I talked about it much at the time. Bear with me, as even though I remember the majority of this story, there are still details that remain locked away in the past.



Bass Hole, or Gray’s Beach as it’s known to those not familiar with Cape Cod, has been my favorite place for a long time. My visits there number in the several hundreds over my life. It is a small beach in the town of Yarmouth Port.

For those wondering why it is called ‘Bass Hole’ by the locals, I will open the pages of my copy of the book Names of the Land. It was written by Eugene Green and William Sachse in 1983. Actually, it was my Nana’s book, but that’s beside the point. In the early 17th century, the Colonists marveled at the number of striped bass that were drawn to the deep creek mouth, aka the ‘hole.’

The Bass Hole grounds include a grassy area with a pavilion, grills, and a playground. Nature trails lead you to overlooks of a marsh and nearby Chapin Beach in the town of Dennis.

The major attraction at Bass Hole is a several-hundred-foot-long boardwalk that extends out over the marsh. It is the type of place where people flock to in the hopes of capturing the perfect sunset photo.

I visited regularly growing up. Once I was in high school and able to go out on my own with friends, it became a haven for most of our activities. John and Barry, two of my oldest and dearest friends, were my partners in crime.

We were never into doing things like underage drinking and all-night partying. We enjoyed grabbing some snacks and hanging out in the parking lot at Bass Hole after dark. Either we’d get tired, or we’d start seeing police cars on patrol, and that would cause us to call it a night. Those wacky chats, either in the dark or under the dome light of a car, are some of my favorite memories of growing up.

The pavilion and playground at Bass Hole.

After we all graduated from high school, John and Barry left for college and moved away to start the next chapters of their lives. When they returned, we would make it a point to visit Bass Hole together for old times' sake.

Still living on Cape Cod, I frequented my favorite spot for a sense of normalcy as I began delving into what I learned was a Quarter-Life Crisis in my early 20s.

I went by myself and sat in the parking lot. Typically, I’d bring lunch or dinner, something fast food to pair with my super healthy lifestyle at the time. Then I’d wander the grounds as if I were searching for a part of me that I’d never find again. Bass Hole was my happy place, whether alone or with others.

For this particular story, I believe we go back to 2003. I was living with my family in a small place in Dennis Port. It was early fall, probably October. I was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that was more like thermal underwear. I know that’s hard to picture. I got it from Old Navy. It was off-white. I am describing it in depth because it’s important to the story.

It was later in the afternoon on this day that I visited Bass Hole. I had something for dinner. Because it was 2003, I’d guess McDonald’s. When I finished, I threw my trash away and went for a walk.

When I am there, I typically don’t pay much attention to the goings-on in the parking lot. It’s a public place and a beloved place, but for me, the fewer cars, the better. For this October afternoon, there might have been a handful of other vehicles there at most, and I hadn’t noticed any other people.

The walks I’d take tended to last anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes. For as many nice things as there are to see at Bass Hole, it is, in general, a small area. I walked the nature trails and got lost in thought for a spell.

Upon returning from the woods, I crossed the grassy area, passed the playground, and stepped onto the asphalt parking lot. My car was straight ahead, and my mind probably drifted to what mundane tasks I’d be having to do at work the next morning. Then I heard it.

The eastern side of the square parking lot is bordered by reeds, thorns, and various other bushes. From among them, I heard a weak voice.

“Help!”

I stopped and looked over but didn’t see anything. Was it in my mind?

“Please help me!”

This was not my imagination. I might have been thirty feet from the end of the asphalt. Slowly, I walked toward where the frail voice had been coming from. Only when I got within a few feet did I find the source.

Lying on her side, three or four feet back from the pavement, was a woman. She had to have been in her early to mid 70s. Apparently, she had crossed into the overgrowth looking for something. I can’t remember exactly now, but I thought she had said something about berries.

The various branches and thorns had gotten hold of her legs and tripped her up. Once down among them, she struggled to escape, but in the process, she was tangled up even worse.

My only experience with that particular section of Bass Hole had come years earlier. John, Barry, and I had purchased a cheap kite. I believe it was some sort of bird emblazoned on it; we called it our ‘falcon kite.’

We likely had a kite similar to one of these

As we flew it poorly, it ended up crashing into those reeds and thorns. We knew it was more trouble than it was worth to try to maneuver through even a few feet of heavy overgrowth to retrieve a kite that cost us a few dollars. We left it in there. Who knows how long it took until it had disintegrated? Now, there was a person stuck in those same thorns and brush.

I didn’t think twice. I stepped into the thorns, trying to push the branches down with my sneakers, and grabbed hold of her. I lifted her gently but with enough force to detach the thorns from around her legs. I felt some of them release their grip on her, and on me as well. Once I had her up on her feet, I saw how badly things had been.

Her hands and arms were sliced up and bleeding pretty badly. It looked like she had been struggling for at least a few minutes. That long-sleeved shirt I was wearing was now covered in her blood. It was all surreal.

I guided her out of the brush and onto the pavement. By this time, a few people had rushed over. The woman was grateful but visibly shaking. I believe she had fallen in the brush within minutes of my walking off to the nature trails.

The people who came over only did so because they saw the two of us walking out of the brush with me holding the woman up. It could have been possible that if I hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have been seen or heard for a while. She could have possibly even been there into the night.

The woman thanked me profusely. One of the people who came over to help called me a hero. I guess I was a little shaken, and maybe a little oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. It was that same person who painted the picture of what could have happened to the woman if I hadn’t been there. Then it sank in.

In what must have seemed like a scene out of a superhero movie, I waited until I knew that rescue had been called for the woman and then quietly took my leave. It was a true Irish goodbye.

I find it interesting that when presented with the chance to soak in the adulation of people for saving a helpless woman, I chose to slip away. Nobody there ever got my name, not even the woman I helped. I was gone so quickly out of the parking lot that I didn’t even pass the ambulance that had been called.

Sunset was closing in as I got home. I parked in the driveway and sat in my cranberry red Saturn. Ironically, my white shirt now matched my car’s paint job.

I looked down at the dried blood and still couldn’t fathom what had happened on what was just another visit to Bass Hole. I had helped someone in need, a total stranger, without thinking twice. I knew that was the right thing to do.

I walked inside. My mother was in the kitchen with her back to me. I remember walking up to her, and when she turned around, the absolute shock and horror at what she saw.

Imagine the scene of your son walking into the house covered in someone else’s blood. It’s like the beginning of so many true crime dramas that you see on television. Lucky for me, I was never a troublemaker, so my explanation was believed.

It made me so glad that John and Barry and I had been (relatively) good kids growing up. If I had been a problem child, it would have been different. Do you think my mother would have believed the story that you just read? Especially considering that I chose anonymity? Nobody had my name, so where would the proof have been? She’d have probably sneaked into her bedroom and called 911.

Although I liked that shirt, I didn’t even bother trying to wash it. It was wrapped in a plastic bag and thrown into the trash. Boy, that makes it sound even more like I was covering up a murder. I did, however, buy a replacement for it.

Me wearing the replacement shirt, fittingly at Bass Hole in 2004.

Looking back, I wish I had gotten the name of the woman I helped. Or at least maybe stuck around until rescue got there. I had done the most important part, though, by helping her. I didn’t need the pat on the back.

What’s interesting is that this was in the days before social media. I think I had only recently gotten a cell phone at the time. If I had social media, would I have shared my experience? Probably.

I could have seen myself sitting in my car explaining what had happened. Of course, if I were wearing my blood-soaked shirt, the video would have been pulled, and the authorities would have probably been called on me. So all things considered, it was probably for the best that Facebook and Myspace didn’t exist then.

That’s the story of probably my most interesting trip to Bass Hole. The time that I happened to be there to help someone in their time of need. It was pure luck and nothing I sought out. It did make me feel good about myself as a person, though.

It makes me think of how many situations happen or don’t happen due to a matter of seconds and inches. If I had gone to Bass Hole a little earlier, what would have happened to that lady? I’d like to think somebody else would have heard her cries for help, but you never know.

I have been in situations where I could use a hand. It’s never been as bad as being trapped among thorns and bleeding heavily, though. I’d like to think that if I were in need, there would be a good Samaritan there to help me out. I will never lose that faith in humanity.

I have returned to Bass Hole countless times in the years since. There has never been such an event again. I will say I did get to see some incredible Aurora Borealis there in 2024, which was very fitting.

Aurora Borealis at Bass Hole

I hope that the woman I helped never lost her sense of wonder and adventure that caused her to climb in among the thorns, trying to find whatever she was looking for. I never saw her again and probably wouldn’t have recognized her if I had.

She and I were in each other's lives for all of 15 minutes, but I’d like to think that we each left a positive mark on the other. I gave her a helping hand, and she revealed a part of me that I am proud of.

When Teenage Dreams Meet Middle-Aged Reality

Donate to my fundraiser for The Cabin:  https://gofund.me/3f4b435dd

What did you want to be when you were younger? Where did you want to be? Who did you want to be?

I’m not talking about when you were little. I’m not looking at the days when we all wanted to be ninjas or princesses. I am talking about when you became a teenager. Those were the years when things started to crystallize a little better. What was your dream at the time you entered high school?

Flash forward to the present day. Are you that person? Are you where you’d hoped you’d be? Doing what you’d hoped you’d be doing? I hope you are.

For me, my life over the last thirty years has consisted of having one foot in the so-called ‘real world,’ and one foot struggling to keep its footing in those teenage dream years. Maybe you’d say I’ve held on too long to dreams that might never come true. I’d counter with maybe you gave up on your dreams too quickly.

I have always dreamed of working in some sort of creative field. I have had ten books published, have hundreds of blogs, hundreds of videos on YouTube that I have created from scratch, and hundreds of podcasts. Everything has been created by me from beginning to end.

The time between when I graduated high school and the green-lighting of my first book was fifteen years. In those years, I was a stock boy, landscaper, and cook. There were many days that the fire or my creative dreams were reduced to a tiny glowing ember underneath a pile of ash.

I never gave up, though. Even when my life was a mass of turkey clubs and fries, I never stopped dreaming. My hope of someday using my creative brain to make a living kept me from falling down a rabbit hole of despair in my 20s that I probably would never have gotten out of. Sometimes a little hope goes a long way.

Giving up on my teenage dreams has always felt like I’d be slapping my younger self in the face. My dreams of being a writer or a filmmaker in high school carried me through a home life that was chaos on nearly every level.

I had a biological father who couldn’t have cared less about me unless I had money I could give him. I had a stepfather who it felt like had a mission to break my spirit both physically and emotionally. That teenager fought to keep going, so this middle-aged man fights to keep those dreams alive.

You don’t understand how important a little hope is until that’s just about all that you have. Through rejection by my father, I had hope. Through abuse from my stepfather, I had hope. Through depression, breakups, and confusion, I had hope.

What ended up happening is the older I got, I’m talking later 30s, I started to feel that hope turn to something else: purpose. The older I got, being unmarried with no children, the more I started to step back and look at my situation on a macro level. There had to be a reason why I was where I was at that point in my life.

It easily could have morphed into fear and desperation. Oh no, I need a wife, and I need to have kids and settle down before it’s too late. I went the opposite way. I said, the fact that I am almost totally unrestricted must mean something. It gives me freedom to keep pursuing those teenage dreams.

There is an inspirational meme that I have gone back to many times over the last several years. There are two men in tunnels digging with pick axes. Both are slowly digging toward a giant stash of diamonds. One man is mere inches away when he gives up and turns around. The other man, it is theorized, will keep digging and find his fortune. That is my hope.

I am 48 years old. I have been on this road in varying forms for 30 years. Sometimes I stray and get lost in the woods for a bit, but eventually I am back on the road. Heading for what? I don’t know. I have hope.

Later this summer, I am producing my first feature film. It is called The Cabin and is a short story I wrote back in 2008. It is this project that I feel is the full-circle moment. This is where teenage dream and middle-aged reality finally meet.

Back to the digging for diamonds meme I just mentioned. In my life, I crossed a series of imaginary lines that could have been crossroads. I couldn’t play guitar the way I’d hoped. I had no way of making any money writing poetry. I made pennies on each of the ebooks I spent countless hours writing, editing, and self-publishing. I got a book deal and sold a fair amount, but got little in royalties from any of them.

Over the course of fifteen years, I had several exit signs on that road of life. I doubt anyone would have even noticed that I’d silently gotten off the highway to find whatever rundown shack I could and settle in to waste away my remaining decades. But I kept going.

I'd rather explore a rundown shack than live in one.

If music, poetry, my ebooks, or even my traditionally published books didn’t change my life, there had to be something else on the horizon. It is a mix of hope and stubbornness that kept me digging for those diamonds.

The Cabin doesn’t arrive as an opportunity if I leave my dreams behind. Sure, my creative work has only given me modest financial gains, but it has given me something just as important: visibility. All of my work leaves a mighty imprint online. I am easy to find.

The work I did over the years allowed producer Frank Durant to find me. He was looking for someone to write the companion book for his upcoming Lady of the Dunes documentary in 2021. I could have turned it down, but my senses told me it was going to be an important project. It was. In some small way, we helped spur on law enforcement to solve the nearly fifty-year-old cold case of a murdered woman found in the dunes of Provincetown.

That project led to me getting a small role in an indie horror film, Cape Cod Cthulhu, directed by Mark Polonia. That project and meeting gave me an opening. Frank was the one who had initially been interested in The Cabin. We had spoken about it a few times over the course of maybe two years. He mentioned it to Mark as a potential film, and the rest is history.

Again, I believe everything in my life that has happened, or not happened, has led me to this moment. Having a wife and kids, while it would have been a blessing, would have left me unable to just up and go off on an adventure to film this movie later this summer.

If I had looked at my lack of financial gains through my creative endeavors over the years and given up at any point, The Cabin wouldn’t have happened. Hell, I could have given up early and never have even written The Cabin in the first place.

I want to do right by that teenage boy who was dealing with so much shit, but never let it break him. I want to do right by my mother, who always supported me. I want to do right by my family and friends who have proven time and again that they truly believe that I am on the right path, even during the times when I doubt myself.

When I was younger, I had hope. Now I have support. One is you just trying to survive another day. The other is people you care about telling you that you are worth the time. One is solitary. It is teenage angst, telling others I’ll do this on my own, whether you like it or not. The other is a village. It is the cheering crowd during the last mile of a grueling marathon.

At the end of my one marathon I ran.

Of course, hope and support don’t matter if you don’t put the work in. That isn’t a problem. For five years, I have worked a full-time job while also spending 15-20 hours weekly working on various creative projects. Work for your dreams, and they will work for you. I’m all for wishing and manifesting, but I’d rather climb the tree to get an apple rather than stand underneath it hoping one falls.

This summer in 2026 feels like the time when my teenage dream and my midlife reality have hit a perfect intersection. I have built up enough equity through years of hard work with little more than that dream to carry me forward.

Perhaps if I had been offered the chance to produce a feature film when I was fresh out of college, I wouldn’t have appreciated it. I’d have probably been smug and felt like it was all too easy. The fall would have likely been epic after that.

I think I had to go through the grind. I had to go through years of being the proverbial starving artist to fully appreciate a big opportunity when it arose. I won’t lie, there is also a little twinge of desperation. That little belief that I’d better go all out because it might be the only opportunity that I’ve got.

Nothing is for certain. I don’t have any delusions of grandeur. In my mind, The Cabin is a major milestone, but also the beginning of a new road. I foresee a streaming deal, DVD/Blu-ray sales, maybe a small theatrical release on Cape Cod. I don’t see making millions off a low-budget, indie, psychological, suspenseful horror film.

What I do see is that tunnel leading to the diamonds. Maybe The Cabin is the peak of my film career. If I believe that, then it will be no matter what. I have several other stories I’ve written that could easily be made into films. Maybe the screenplay gets me noticed. You’ve got to make the most of every chance you get.

Even if I go no higher than a producer of a small indie horror film, I will still forever be able to say I am a film producer. It’s just like when I ran my only marathon. I can forever say I am a marathon runner.

I want more than that, though. I have hustled way too long to be satisfied with ‘good enough.’ That begs the question. How will I know if I have truly succeeded in chasing that teenage dream? It’s actually very simple.

The day that I wake up and am fully financially supported by my creative endeavors, I will know I made it. I don’t need a 5,000 square foot house on the water. I don’t need a luxury sports car. I don’t need the latest and greatest of everything. I just want to wake up knowing my success has come from my creative mind and does not rely on a person or company that could literally destroy my life in a moment by terminating me.

I don’t need to be rich. I need to feel fulfilled. I don’t need to be better than everyone. I need to feel as good as anyone. Teenage me wouldn’t get it. Middle-aged me does.

Don’t ever give up chasing your dream, whatever it is. That’s the best way I can sum up all of what I have written. I could have thrown my hands up and said 'oh well’ when I failed at 23 with guitar, or failed at 26 with poetry, or failed at 32 with ebooks. By failure, I just mean I didn’t become financially stable.

Maybe I fail at 48 with film producing. Who knows? But I never went into any venture believing I’d fail. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. The Cabin is a culmination, but also a new beginning. It is the moment when a teenage dream meets middle-aged reality. I am ready for the ride, wherever it takes me.

Initial Impressions 2.0 Blog #125: Class of 96, More Mall Dreams, Too Hot, etc.

1. It’s hard to believe that it’s been 30 years since I graduated from high school. At times, it feels like yesterday. That might be helped by the fact that I have the entire ceremony on video. I can see my old friends and classmates when we were all teenagers with our lives ahead of us. I can feel the promise of the years to come and not the weight of mistakes, missed opportunities, and ‘what ifs.’ I remember not realizing just how big a change was coming as I crossed the grassy field and took hold of my diploma. I think I was just itching to get out of the dress clothes on a warm late spring morning. Then again, way more often I feel like that day was a lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. I am now in my late 40s and most of the time feel as though I must have missed my exit on the highway we were all traveling. My mission now is to either find my way back to that missed exit or to keep going until I find something that makes the missed opportunities worth it. Yes, 30 years is a long time. I do know that I have many years left to fulfill the promise I saw lying ahead of me when I first held that high school diploma in my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I have seen a lot and done a lot in the last 30 years, but I feel it’s like comparing the sales of Michael Jackson’s Bad album to his Thriller album. Most musicians would kill to have an album sell like Bad, but only one in a million can sell like Thriller. Not sure if that makes sense to anyone but me.


2. I guess I shouldn’t expect too much from people. I put together four polls for my upcoming 250th podcast episode. I’m calling it Listener’s Choice because obviously, the people listening will choose what GenX nostalgia topics are on that particular show. I had people ‘liking’ the posts but not voting in the poll. How stupid is that? It takes literally the same time and effort to click one of the poll options as it does to ‘like’ it. I am grateful to the people who understood the assignment, and the podcast will be a good one. The others, though? It’s like they’re children getting mad at being asked (nicely) to do something to help out around the house. Don’t tell me to pick up my room, I’m going to make a bigger mess! Seriously, I was tempted to block everyone who liked the polls but didn’t vote, and I know because the polls show me each vote and by whom. But going back to the top, I guess I shouldn’t expect too much from people. That’s on me.

Coming soon!

3. It’s funny how a major anniversary or milestone can affect your mind. I mentioned the high school graduation anniversary. That same day was Monday Runday, which some of you might remember as the weekly meetup with my longtime friend and old classmate Mike. We run, or in my case, mostly walk, at a local track. I haven’t run much in the last few months as my left knee has decided to retire early. That changed this week. Perhaps I was inspired by the weather? No, it was the fear of being old. I decided to run more than I have in a while at the track. Now, granted, it was not much, but still good enough. Just the thought of it being 30 years since I finished high school was enough for me to need to prove to myself I wasn’t old yet. My body felt relatively good the next morning, so who knows, maybe I can slowly return to more running. Or I’ll end up crashing out the next time, and I’ll soon be walking with those Nordic walking poles.


4. My sister Ashley passed 14 years alcohol-free this week. If it sounds like a big number, that’s because it is. It was a hard road for her leading up to the choice to quit. There were times when it was really bad that some of us in the family thought the alcohol would be the end of her. But she defeated her demons and became stronger. She defeated her demons and became an inspiration to me. When my alcohol problem was out of control, I looked to her and thought if she could do it, so could I. For me, it will be 6 years without alcohol in September. There have been a few times when the alcohol nearly reentered my life, most specifically the death of my Uncle Eric. I remember that not only am I not drinking anymore for myself, but I am also doing it for Ashley because she impacted me greatly with her own battles. While I am speaking on deleting alcohol from lives, I want to mention another sister, Kate, who is rapidly approaching 300 days, and then a year, alcohol-free as well. Everyone’s journey and reason is their own, but I hope that Ashley and I helped to show her that it can be done. I am very proud of my sisters.


5. For the 3rd time in probably 6 weeks, I had a dream featuring me with a friend or family member hanging out at the mall. This time, I was with my oldest friend, Barry, just wandering the corridors and chatting. Why? Not why is Barry there. That makes sense because I haven’t seen him in a few years, and he has been a hugely important part of my life for 40 years. No, the question is why at the mall always? Am I supposed to go to the Cape Cod Mall and find some sort of answer to something? Do I miss being a semi-pro mall rat in the 1990s? Is it more about the people in these dreams and maybe needing to reach out to them more? I have no clue. Have any of you had a sort of recurring dream, or at least a recurring dream location? I have vivid dreams and lucid dreams, but they are rarely ever connected. I tend to have wild swings of plot lines of my dreams. Having hangouts at the mall come around 3 times in less than 2 months is weird. Especially specifically remembering them. I guess we’ll have to wait for the next episode of Dream Mall: The Series to find out what happens.

The mall of my dreams?

6. All it took was a few 85-degree and humid days for me to immediately begin dreaming of the fall. The irony is, it’s not even summer yet. The first day of summer is June 21st. The heat is one thing. I’m not a fan of the temperatures getting above 80, but you can cope when it’s not humid. That’s the thing that is the worst. The humidity just makes everything feel wet and soupy, which is uncomfortable during the day and just plain gross at night when you’re trying to sleep. I try to wait as long as I can to put in my air conditioner. I only have two windows where I live. Plugging one with a bulky a/c unit means that on days when the a/c isn’t needed, I don’t get any fresh air. This is another first-world problem since many people don’t even have the option of air conditioning. It is supposed to become nice and seasonable again in a few days. I’ll likely be able to hold out for a while longer but there’s only so many days when the ‘real feel’ is 100 that I can endure before the a/c goes in.


7. As luck would have it, a window fan I had for many years finally decided enough was enough. It died and left me roasting during the heat wave. I took a trip to the nearest Ocean State Job Lot to get a good, and cheap, replacement. This fan was a powerful window fan, and I was happy that it was relatively affordable at $40. I got home, and it was 85 and humid inside my apartment, so the fan was going to be a welcome addition. I put it in a window and turned it on, nothing. I was confused. I tried different outlets. I messed with the power switch. Still nothing. Now I was mad because even though the prices are pretty low at Job Lot, you still expect something to work when you get it home. I began getting the packaging together since I’d have to go back and get a replacement. I was angry and pouring sweat in the heat. Then I turned the ‘thermostat’ dial in the middle of the fan. Suddenly, both 9” fans sprang to life loudly and powerfully. It turns out the thermostat is really just an intensity dial for the fans. With it being turned all the way down, the fans wouldn’t move. Yes, I did feel pretty stupid. I will say this, though: better to feel stupid at home than to go back to Job Lot and have them find out I was returning a fan because I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.


8. I have seen birds do some incredible stunt work when it comes to flying. The way they can change directions on a dime is pretty amazing. I see it a lot when they fly in front of vehicles, yet they can change directions to avoid getting hit. This week, I saw the ultimate in terms of bird acrobatics. I was behind an SUV when a bird came flying in from the left. I think it was a robin, or at least a bird of similar size. This bird flew in between the SUV’s driver’s side tires. You’d figure any animal that gets in between the tires of a moving vehicle is likely not going to survive. This bird not only flew between those tires, but it also managed to instantly cut a corner and fly out between the rear tires and off to safety. I have no clue how it survived. If they have a bird lottery, I hope that one went and bought a ticket because it had luck on its side. Who knows, though, maybe it used up all of its luck and immediately flew into a mailbox or something.


9. I canceled my subscription to a television show pitch website. I had written out a full treatment for a season of a show based on my experiences working in restaurants in the 1990s. I mentioned it many weeks ago in this blog. I’m not done pitching the show. I am just looking for alternatives that don’t cost me $39/mo. with no promises of any views on my work. I went and canceled the membership with a few days left on it. For some reason, a notification popped up saying that my membership would end on December 31, 1969. Yes, you read that right. Apparently, my subscription to that site somehow made its way onto Doc Brown’s DeLorean and was deposited in the past. Maybe that will be my next TV show pitch. I stumble upon a tear in the space/time continuum thanks to my subscription to some random pitch website. On a more serious note, what does that say about their website? If you cancel and it gives you a cancellation date over 50 years in the past, what other mistakes have they coded into that site? Maybe I got out just in the nick of time?

Soon to be delivering my cancellation notice.

10. Every now and then, the old me shows up in terms of exercise. I can’t run really much at all anymore. I have nagging joint pains creeping up more and more, so lifting is less fun. I do the best I can, but there are days when I feel like the best is behind me. This weekend I was feeling lazy. Oh, I spent hours writing, so I was productive, but I ate terribly for lunch and had no desire to do anything. Then the heat wave we have been having got to me. It was 85, and I was sweating. This irritated me. I decided if I was going to sweat, I could at least turn it into an exercise session. So out of nowhere, I got into workout gear and went out for a walk. Now, mind you, it was 3pm, 85 degrees, and I had eaten junk and been sitting around all day. My body survived almost 4 miles before it began to shut down. I would not be denied. I pushed through 5.3 miles, burning 715 calories, erasing the bad lunch, and coming in under my calorie limit on MyFitnessPal. It might not have been as dramatic as the Knicks 29 point comeback in Game 4 of the NBA Finals this week, but it was a nice come-from-behind win for the day. I hope that it turns into some momentum so I can start feeling like my younger self. I’d take even feeling like 42 at this point. Oh, and also congratulations to the New York Knicks on winning their first NBA championship in 53 years.

1996 Changed Everything: Pt. 4 - Love, High School Style

This is part of a series of articles about 1996, as it holds significance for me since it was the year I graduated high school. In this fourth article, I look at how a significant relationship influenced decisions whose ramifications I am still feeling to this day.

Love is a wonderful thing. Michael Bolton said so in his 1991 hit song. Hey, it ended up in the Top 5, so he must have been on to something. Before you truly know what love is and what love feels like, love can take many different forms.

It can take the form of innocent crushes on girls in your class, like I had several of during elementary school. It can take the form of infatuation and pining like I did for a girl who used to visit my neighborhood during the summers of my formative years. When you are chasing the type of secure love that your life has not given you much of, you start to settle. You start to think that maybe you should say yes to whoever comes knocking.

Looking back thirty years, I can say in all honesty that during the nearly three years I dated my high school girlfriend, I thought I loved her at some point. Using my wisdom and experience from those years that have passed, I can say that, no, I never truly loved her. At least not in the purest form. Not in the way that I would want to be loved.

We came together mostly out of convenience. She literally lived next door to me and was friends with my sister Kate. I hardly had to do any work in terms of courting her before we were together. In fact, it was Kate who bluntly stated that we both knew we liked each other and that we should just get together.

I remember on that cold winter evening in February 1996 thinking to myself: Wait, I like her? I think my reservations were overruled by the thought of actually having a girlfriend, which was something I’d been wanting for years. A girlfriend in 5th grade, or a brief connection over a summer or two, was not the real relationship I was looking for.

I decided, why not? Soon we were hanging out and getting to know each other. The time together grew, which meant that my time with my group of friends shrank. In my mind, I thought if they were really my friends, they’d be happy that I had a girlfriend. Maybe that kind of justification to myself should have been a warning sign.

I was a senior while my new girlfriend was a freshman. It was not ideal. It actually made me feel a little less-than. Sure, a freshman who dates a senior would be seen as stepping up. A senior dating a freshman? It was more of a ‘what you couldn’t find anyone in your grade?’

Her reaction to us being together was to sweetly say, ‘I can’t believe I’m with you.’ It appealed to my ego. Yeah, I am a catch, I knew it. But it was also a lot of pressure to live up to. Also, in the back of my mind, I should have read it as it was: I had settled for less than I should.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is not a knock on her. She was sweet, funny, kind, and supportive. I’m looking at it from my perspective. If I felt the same way as she did, then I wouldn’t have opted against going to my Senior Prom. I couldn’t let my friends and classmates see I was dating a freshman. That’s on me, not on her. My insecurities and low self-esteem kept me from going to one of the milestone events of high school life. Maybe a few people would have cared. Looking back, I think that my group of friends, many of whom I am still in touch with today, would have been happy I was there.

I’m sure the next logical question is, why did you date her in the first place, then? Convenience, the desire to have a girlfriend, and an inability to say no. I should have said I didn’t have those same feelings. I didn’t want to be seen as the bad guy. Plus, the fact that she was so damn into me was intoxicating to a teenage boy who had not felt much love or appreciation at home for much of my childhood. I needed that validation.

Celebrating moments after my high school graduation in 1996.

The way that I viewed love and relationships as a teenager is far different from the way I view them today, as it should be. In my immature mind, it was about the fooling around every bit as much as it was the emotional connection. It was about availability over compatibility.

I know it was a me thing. Growing up, I was not taught how to give affection or express emotions. Vulnerability was weakness, at least in the presence of my first stepfather. I lost my ability to trust new people, always figuring they had an ulterior motive or were waiting for the right time to hurt me. I had done two bouts of therapy as a younger kid and probably could have used more.

For my girlfriend, I was the prize she couldn’t believe she’d won. She only wanted to be with me. I can’t speak for her, but I know that to any fully functioning adult, this would have spelled a perfect relationship. Unfortunately, I was the awful combination of an immature teenage boy and an abused child with emotional issues. I was broken, and she couldn’t fix me. She shouldn’t have had to.

An unexpected revelation about myself from this relationship was finding out just how broken I was. When senior year was still ongoing, I had structure. I couldn't spend unending amounts of time with my girlfriend, so I think things were masked. Once school was over, we spent more time together, but it was all pretty smooth. It wasn’t until my friends went off to college while I took a semester off that things started to go off the rails.

It wasn’t long until I felt I had made a mistake. Not so much in dating her, but making choices in my life based on our relationship. I had decided to take a semester off before going to college. Not only take a semester off, but also not go to, or even apply to, colleges that would have been off of Cape Cod. I still believe this to be one of the worst decisions of my life.

Despite it being more about convenience than actual feelings, my girlfriend made me feel important. We had some fun times. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy being with her, but our interest levels were far apart. I wanted to give it a chance, though. If I had left for college, then that would have been it. We’d have been a quick fling to end my high school days. Perhaps it should have been.

Dating in high school is a trip. Maybe you have a car. Maybe your parents have to be your driver. Maybe you have money for dinner or some sort of activity. Maybe you can only afford to go for a walk. Maybe you hold hands and talk on the phone. Maybe you go all the way. As a teenager, the possibilities were seemingly the entire spectrum of what life could throw at you.


That semester off to end 1996 was sobering. I went from a high school senior with possibly limitless potential to a lowly dishwasher/prep cook living at home. I can remember my life becoming a routine. Work, hanging with my girlfriend, rinse repeat.

I would drive us around in my mom’s station wagon, or later, my first car, a Pontiac Grand Prix. We’d find secluded places to, well, you know. We’d hit up Taco Bell and Burger King. It was being a teenager, but doing so while my future was slowly fading off into the horizon. It’s like I was blissfully ignorant.

A 1982 Pontiac Grand Pirx, my first car.

When my girlfriend was all that was left in my social circle, I started to cling tight. Familiarity was something I desperately needed as the rest of my life was descending into chaos. My mother wasn’t happy that I was spending all my time hanging out with my girlfriend and eating fast food, going so far as to point out the weight I had gained since summer ended.

Now I needed my girlfriend to become my anchor. What started as convenience morphed into toxic desperation. I felt less-than in life. I felt weak and powerless from years of abuse and neglect at the hands of my father and first stepfather. Having a girlfriend who idolized me made me feel strong and important. I began to lean more into that.

When you start to believe your own hype, it can prove to be your downfall. I have been a mix of different issues for so long. I have an avoidant attachment style. It’s a fear of intimacy and vulnerability stemming from my childhood. I also crave the closeness and safety of a real, loving relationship. It is two opposing forces colliding.

Now, in my late 40’s, I can see this and express it. When I was 18, 19, it was all there but also wrapped up in immaturity and teenage angst. I wanted my girlfriend to be there. I’d sing songs to her, and we’d go on late-night walks through our neighborhood. Then, if I felt I was lowering the mask too much, I’d flip on a dime and become cold and callous. It had to have been incredibly frustrating and confusing for her.

I look back 30 years, and on one hand, I am embarrassed at how I ended up becoming a bad boyfriend. Instead of saying no to the initial meetup, I became drunk on the attention this girl gave me. If my life were out of control, I wouldn’t just talk to her or someone else about it. I would lash out or be cold and distant as a way to express my inner turmoil. I probably trashed her mental health and self-esteem as she wondered what she was doing wrong. In reality, I needed therapy badly. I do wonder if it would have been the same result even if I were dating my biggest crush I had back then. Maybe nobody would have been able to make it work.

Then again, I look back to 1996 and step back to see a broader view of me, my life, and my mental state. I was 18. I knew nothing of real intimate relationships. It was all new to me. I didn’t go into that relationship seeking to hurt anyone. That’s not me making excuses; it’s me going a little easier on myself because of where I was in life at the time. When you don’t have a reference point for how to cultivate a relationship, or even how to properly express yourself, you are destined for trouble.


A lot of this particular post about 1996 is me admitting my faults and trying to atone for my actions. Today I am my own harshest critic. I was not the greatest high school boyfriend. Yes, she and I lasted a little over 2 ½ years, but honestly, the relationship should have ended a year before it did. We even had a brief split, but I went back to rekindle it. I guess I was desperate for any sense of normalcy. It ended up being a big mistake. In fact, that final year of our relationship might be why I look back on its entirety with such a bitter taste.

We were never meant to be a long-term thing. Statistics show that less than 2% of high school sweethearts end up getting married. So it was a near-certainty that I’d be writing about our relationship in the past tense as of now. I don’t know what the best-case scenario was, but I do know that in a different timeline, we’d have been joined together forever. There was a brief moment, a week at most, when I was 19, where we had to wait with bated breath for her to get her period. I have no idea how my life would have looked if that scenario had happened.

When she had finally taken as much of my bipolar attitude as she could, she ended things. Ironically, I was caught off guard and desperately clung to her to not leave me. Imagine that? I had spent nearly all of our relationship wondering if I’d made a mistake, and when she finally confirms my belief, I couldn’t accept it.

Today, I am single and have been for years. I would love to have the relationship of my dreams, but something holds me back. I feel today much like I did in those final months of 1996. I want the relationship, but also want my independence. That type of thought process is fine when you’re a teen. It’s not as good when you’re nearing 50. So I look at dating sites but stay in the background. Perhaps I am worried that version of me I’ve spent this blog talking about is still in there?


To tie a bow on this subject, let me flash back to 2012. This girlfriend and I had broken up in the summer of 1998. We had not spoken or even seen each other since. I was in the middle of training for my first marathon. I was out on a long run. Once I had put in enough miles running, I stopped, shut off my running app, and prepared to walk the remaining mile or so home. Then I spotted her.

She was standing outside her car in a parking lot. We both looked at each other. She seemed hesitant. I was exhausted, basking a bit in the runner’s high. I approached her, and we began creating some small talk. As we spoke, something was weighing on me. Knowing I might not get the chance to have her in front of me again, I finally gave her the vulnerability that she was owed from me.

I told her I needed to apologize to her. She said it wasn’t necessary and seemed like she didn’t want to go there. I needed it badly, though. I told her that my life was a mess then, and I took out my anger at that on her, and she didn’t deserve that. She deserved better, and I was sorry that I treated her that way. I was literally shaking from the nervousness of truly exposing myself.

She could have told me off, but she didn’t. She accepted my apology, which made me feel better. We left things off cordially and parted ways. I remember being in tears for the rest of my walk. It was a huge weight that was lifted off my heart. Yes, I had been a bad boyfriend, but I had grown from it, recognized my mistakes, and apologized from the heart. In life, that’s all you really can do.

1996 began with me at 18, single, in my senior year of high school, counting down the days until school was out. The year ended with me at 19, in a relationship that I wanted but also didn’t want. It was at the same time fun, exciting, a bit sexy, and a lot of confusing. It was all a part of the experience of growing up.

In the next post, I will go into detail about the other important type of relationship I had in 1996: my friendships. These were the people who shaped who I was, what I liked, and some of the fun memories that still hold a special place in my heart.

Home in 1996

In My Footsteps Podcast Episode 248: Raiders of the Lost Ark, Graduating High School 30 Years Later, Most Dangerous Roads(6-10-2026)

 

Donate to the GoFundMe for my feature-length film, The Cabin!

From Indiana Jones' debut, to graduating high school 30 years ago, to the most dangerous roads in America, and everything in between.

Episode 248 has something for everyone in the realm of GenX nostalgia.

It all starts 45 years ago with the release of the groundbreaking film Raiders of the Lost Ark. The debut of Indiana Jones and the beginning of one of the most beloved and profitable film franchises ever. We look at how the film came to be and why it was so successful.

30 years is a long time. This week, I celebrate (or mourn) the 30th anniversary of my high school graduation. What was intended to be a brief mention has become a full segment discussing that specific day of mine, and also what it means in a person's life to graduate from high school.

Summer travel is here, and so it is appropriate that the Top 5 this week deals with it. We are going to look at the most dangerous roads in America. Use caution if you are traveling on any of these.

There is, as always, a brand-new This Week In History and Time Capsule diving deep into the infamous prisoner escape from Alcatraz prison.

To support me and the show, become a member on Patreon. 

Or you can support my work and Buy Me A Coffee!

Helpful Links from this Episode

• Buy My New Book, In Their Footsteps!
• Searching For the Lady of the Dunes True Crime Book
• Hooked By Kiwi - Etsy.com
• DJ Williams Music
• KeeKee's Cape Cod Kitchen
• MSFTS Community
• Kingfisher Hotels Cape Cod
• Christopher Setterlund.com
• Cape Cod Living - Zazzle Store
• Subscribe on YouTube!
• Initial Impressions 2.0 Blog
• CJSetterlundPhotos on Etsy

Listen to Episode 247 here