i simply love this article. hope you will too.

Adapted from letter from Hollywood by rob long




Getting (really) old



Here’s what you need to bear in mind for this tale to pay off. First, I like to cook. The freezer in my garage is filler with obscure cuts of pork-pork belly, pigs feet, that sort of thing.


Second, I just turned 40. Which isn’t really freaking me out, I’m proud to say. No hysterical overreactions. No panic attacks. No new ultrahip wardrobe or idiotic tattoo signifying the midlife crisis.


Well, I did buy a car-one of those expensive and sleek convertibles you see around town. That’s the third thing you need to remember besides the big 4-0 and the refrigerated locker of pork.


OK. So here I am, turning 40, and not exactly interested in celebrating. Unfortunately, my friends and family felt differently. “Say some people were going to celebrate your 40th birthday,” said my best friend, Tim, a few months ago- just hypothetically, he emphasized. “And say that they’ve already invited everyone they can think of.” Repeating all this was just hypothetical, of course, he then suggested that maybe the person turning 40 could make a list of the people he might like to see at his 40th?


I groaned. Facing a relentless army-Tim, my brother and his wife, my parents, my friend Murdock- I surrendered. “Please, please, please,” I pleaded, “no speeches, OK?”


The night of the party rolled around. A shiny white stretch limousine arrived to pick me up. Totally mortifying. And there were, in fact, speeches. And gifts. And songs. And about 100 people: long lost friends, college pals, aunts, uncles, neighbors, colleagues… the whole thing was so embarrassing and over the top and affectionate and moving and wonderful that I forgot why I didn’t want a party in the first place.


And then, when they wheeled in the cake, I remembered. You see, I’m an unmarried man in his 40s. I used to be an unmarried guy in his 30s, which has that respectable ring to it. But an unmarried guy in his 40s is just sad. It’s not that I don’t want to get married-and haven’t come pretty close-it’s just that I haven’t done it. Yet.


But standing there, among family and friends, holding a glass of champagne, looking a t a huge cake, it was impossible not to think This is like a wedding. This is me, getting married to myself.


That’s when I felt a twinge of middle aged-guy regret. I mean, I’m 40. What have I done with my life? I’ve spent 15 years working in Hollywood was a writer and producer, but what’s that all about anyway? Driving home, I shared my (mildly) freaked out thoughts with Tim and his wife. “Don’t think of it as your wedding,” his wife, Jennifer said. “It wasn’t anything like a wedding.” Tim agreed. “Think of it,” he suggested helpfully, “as your funeral. Your pre-funeral. I mean, you’re 40 after all. How many years do you have left?”


After the party, I went away for a few days to santa Barbara to hang out at the beach and work on my next script. I came home to discover that the power had gone out in the garage, for some reason, and that all the pork in the freezer had spoiled.The entire garage was filled with the eye-watering, stomach-churning odor of rotting meat. And my fancy new car, which I parked with the top down, had sort of soaked up the smell. It penetrated deep into the German leather, the floor mats, everywhere. My new expensive convertible absolutely stank.


So now I’m a Hollywood writer turning 40 who dives around L.A. to various meeting in an expensive car that reeks of death. Which is a metaphor I’m trying not to linger on.