Some Other Sucker's Parade: Sometimes I Cry

I've seen a million faces and I've rocked 'em all. And then cried a little bit.

So, I cry during movies sometimes. I admit it.

The movies could be unusually not cry worthy and I will lose it regardless. Not overwhelming, out of control sobbing, that would make me the biggest sissy on The Oxygen Network, but definite tears.

Here are some classic films that I have cried during: Rudy, Shawshank Redemption, Secret of My Success, Carlito's Way, Rocky Balboa, Hitch, The Family Stone and it doesn't end there. Basically any romantic comedy. Biggest tear jerker moment of all time was in Reality Bites when Ethan Hawke's dad died I think and Winona Ryder and him were fighting and then they played "All I Want Is You" by U2. I think I missed baseball practice.

I am very comfortable with my emotions and my manhood, but sometimes I can't really control it. I have never cried in front of a girl about a break up and, strangely enough, the only time that I have cried in real life not related to a movie was when my grandmother passed. I wept pretty hard, however, the scene in Can't Buy Me Love when Donald lost Cindy Mancini and just drove around on his lawnmower still managed to get about 12 more tears than the departing of the most influential and beautiful woman I have ever known. It's fucked up, I know.


Some of you may or may not know this about me, but before I became a comic, I was in a band. I wanted to be in Bon Jovi so bad I could taste the sweat that dripped off my fringe suede coat and cowboy hat. I was a cowboy, but the steel horse I rode was the bus. Anyway, the band didn't make it, but, I, to this day, remain a huge Bon Jovi fan.

Let's be honest, when they did "Dead or Alive" acoustic on MTV, I think the world stopped for like 10 seconds and then 24 seconds after that, the musical world went unplugged.

Last week I was in Atlanta and I had to fly back here. There were no direct flights, so I had to go through Minneapolis. I fly a lot, so I am Platinum with Northwest which means I am usually always in first class. I got to my seat by the window, put on my sleep mask and my headphones and I was out. I had slept on the previous flight, so I could only crash for about an hour.

When I woke up, I decided to watch Dan in Real Life. An average-at-best romantic comedy about a widower looking for love, etc., blah blah blah, you get it. The movie is fine and all of a sudden it's near the end. The happy part. I start balling.

Again, not Old Yeller-is-dead tears, but a definite stream of continuous and noticeable salt flow. I have no napkin because I slept through the meal and I couldn't really ask the sky waitress for one, and I am going over all of this in my head when the man next to me hands me a tissue.

I thank him. So embarrassed that I don't even look at him. He then tries to start up small talk. Yeah, that one gets me every time. Really? Someone else is a pussy like me? A kindred spirit in mush? This is unbelievable. I must know more of this man.

As I look down, I see he has on a pair of very expensive snakeskin boots. He is wearing all black and has sunglasses on. He looks familiar and I don't know why. He then says, "Is that your guitar that I saw up above us?"

"Yeah," I semi-cockily reply. "I am a musician and I just had some gigs in the south. It's a good gig, but the road can be a drag. Why? Do you play?"

He says that he fiddles now and again. And at this moment I realize that I am on the plane and cried in front of Richie fucking Sambora!!!

I am instantly 17 again. I began to momentarily gush. "Dude!!! Dude!!!!"

The dudes kept a coming. I couldn't stop them. Dude was the new and much more obvious tear. I cried dudes all over Mr. Sambora's life for a good 15 minutes. He was awesome, and funny, and so not annoyed with me.

I began to do a "This is your life" type thing, talking about how his solo CD "Stranger in Town" was under appreciated, etc. He thanked me and I left him alone.

That's pretty much where the story should have ended, but it didn't. As I was waiting for a cab and he was outside with his super attractive assistant waiting for his limo, we remained next to each other in awkwardness. Rock star and adult crier.

As his limo pulls up and as he is walking away, I say, "Hey Richie, thank you for being the soundtrack for my youth."

And he says (I am not making this up), "Not a problem, friend. Thanks for letting me see you cry during a dumb romance movie. Now I know I am not alone."

You are alone, Richie. You are high atop the coolest mountain on earth and you are playing a solo and throwing down tissue to dreamers like me.

Thank you, sir.

And F all of you for judging. Ha! Awesome!!!!! Richie Fucking Sambora!!!!!!!!

I jammed Livin' on a Prayer three times in the cab on the way home.

J Chris Newberg is a comic, actor, producer, song writer, and author living in Los Angeles and occasionally Detroit with his loyal and aging Cocker Spaniel, Flower. He has recently written about vampire romance and love . You can find him at jchrisnewberg.com, myspace.com/jchrisnewberg, or just google him because you know you want to. His column runs every other Tuesday.