Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

The Improv is a fairly famous LA comedy club on Melrose here in L.A. where hundreds—thousands—of comics have sometimes bombed and sometimes soared to new heights on its' stage over the years. I've been to the Improv countless times, but rarely for the laughs. For me, The Improv belongs to that period in the mid-eighties when I was in the last stages of a long, flagging relationship with an old boyfriend. For once, the nomenclature fits; I was twenty seven when we met, Ben was twenty five years older than me. Hardly a 'boy' friend, some might say. We were living together, fast approaching the suffocating, seven year itch mark, and I was twitchy, longing to find a way out, but lacking the guts to get out. Telling myself staying was the more noble course, that I didn't want to hurt him, that I couldn't leave after everything I'd done to get there, that he deserved better. What a load of crap. I was just a little coward. A passive aggressive whiner. ...

Tristram & Islolde: N.C. Wyeth  I ’ve been taking you back to Bandol with me lately. First came The Walk , then came Le Kiss. Here’s the final part of the story. The whole story is now available here and on Soundcloud and iTunes so you can start at the beginning if you like. Garlic & Gauloises It felt like we’d left Bandol and the beach far behind us. We had to be very close now, close to this place out in the middle of nowhere where Michel was going to take me dancing. Finally I could hear voices, shouts and real laughter; a boy’s hoot, a girl’s bell-like tinkle. Someone called out Veronique, Veronique, Vero! There was an answering cackle and something else, something in French that I didn’t understand. Whole words, snatches of sentences, floated through the still night air, loud enough for me to hear except that they were in French, and so, much like the sea breeze on this hot summer night, they fluttered and fell away before I could grab hold of...

Originally published Oct 2014: We were living on Tenth Street in Santa Monica, California when I turned seventeen in 1970, my friend Trixie was visiting from Canada, and boys were on our minds. It's #12 of the On the Street Where I Live stories.  I was a 17-year-old high school senior, he was a 23-year-old Vietnam Vet. Delaney & Bonnie (and Friends) via Delaney & Bonnie Tumblr Jailbait  Jailbait We were sitting on the sand watching the water when they walked by the first time; three long-haired guys who could just as easily be rockers, roadies, or badass bikers, smiling up at us from the shoreline. The one in the middle—I’d already decided he was mine—looked like Cat Stevens or the guy from Delaney and Bonnie or really, any of those musicians who had a beard, mustache, and dark wavy hair skimming their shoulders. From behind my sunglasses, I followed his faded green baggies as they disappeared in the shadows under the pier. Just before they faded ...

It was our last night in the little beachside town, and we were waiting to say goodbye to the two Canadian boys we’d met on the train from Paris. If not for them, we’d never have even found Bandol . W e were sitting on a bench in the dark, away from the promenade, t he black water of the bay burnished in the moonlight before us, the hazy tinkle of laughter and voices from the bars behind us, and I, at least, felt like some character in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, idling the time away, waiting for the next chapter to reveal itself.  The boys brought friends. French friends who, as they say, had very little English. Michel had next to none. What he did have was  dark hair that flopped over his eyes,  a wrestler’s body  and the confidence that guys who look like that always have, no matter what the language.  He reminded me of Ilie Nastase, the tennis star who I’d watched win the Wimbledon doubles championship with Jimmy Connors earlier that ...

Throwing it back to the Summer of 1970 We were living on Tenth Street in Santa Monica, California when I turned seventeen in 1970,  my friend Trixie  was visiting from Canada, and boys were on our minds. It's #12 of the  On the Street Where I Live stories.  I was a 17 year old high school senior, he was a 23 year old Vietnam Vet. Delaney & Bonnie (and Friends) Jailbait We were sitting on the sand watching the water when they walked by the first time; three long-haired guys who could just as easily be rockers, roadies or bad ass bikers, smiling up at us from the shoreline. The one in the middle - I'd already decided he was mine -  looked like Cat Stevens or the guy from Delaney and Bonnie or really, any of those musicians who had a beard, mustache and dark wavy hair skimming their shoulders. From behind my sunglasses I followed his faded green baggies as they disappeared in the shadows under the pier. Just before they faded to black completely...

The 8th and last of the stories I've been recording about Derek, an old boyfriend from the seventies. Listen or read it below. Originally published 4/25/16. Catch up with all the series episodes on my podcast on iTunes, SoundCloud or Stitcher. Behind Closed Doors It’s natural, isn’t it, when you’re young, to think about sex all the time. Didn’t you?  Before our first time at the Brentwood Motel , that’s all we both thought about. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. Wondering. Endlessly curious about its earth-shattering nature. There was a shift after that. Once, in the middle of the day, Derek had parked his GTO at a turnout in the road off Temescal Canyon, and treading past overgrown bushes, we’d found a patch of ground semi-surrounded by brush and bramble. Just 50 feet from the busy street, we laid a blanket on the ground, doing it under the sun, surrounded by green. If life had been caught on camera in 1972 the way it is now, that day, with every flashing sunb...

I've been recording stories for anyone who prefers to listen rather than read and starting this week I'm excited to announce you can subscribe to my podcast on iTunes. And it's totally free! Just click the iTunes link in the sidebar.  #7 in the series of stories about that old boyfriend from the 1970's. On Sunset When you hear Sunset Blvd, you think of the Strip, the section of the boulevard that curves along the northern ridge of West Hollywood, snaking its way down Sunset from the Chateau Marmont at La Cienega to Doheny, past the clubs that in 1973, I’m still a year too young to get into and I’m too chicken to have a fake ID: the Comedy Store, the Rainbow Room, Gazarri’s, the Whiskey A Go Go. But Sunset doesn’t stop at the Strip. Sunset straightens up and leaves the Strip behind when it comes to Beverly Hills with its mansions and maids waiting for the eastbound bus that takes them home at days end. The road winds westward past the pink Beverly Hills Hotel...

California Incline, Santa Monica. Stan Cline/Nostalgia Gallery I have no idea where Derek is these days but he’s got a permanent place in my hit parade of memories from the 19 70s.   Here’s another story about a boy. Curbed I sat on the curb outside  Derek ’ s house, legs bare,  stretched out in front of me  in a pair of denim cut-offs, arms freckling in an embroidered Mexican peasant blouse I’d picked up in Olvera Street. Just catching some rays in the hazy sunshine of a predictably sunny summer day in Santa Monica. Never too hot. Never too cold. Just ... right. Derek’s head safely under the hood of his GTO, futzing around with the dipstick, I took a quick swig of Coke, bringing  the bottle up to my mouth, suddenly embarrassed at the phallic shape, wishing it was  a can instead. Derek popped his head over the hood, mustache twitching up in a smile, holding his hand in the air expectantly like a baseball pitcher standing on the mound, waiting ...