Six years ago my wife and I bought the house we're in now.  When we moved in the lady we bought it from and several of our new neighbors told us to be wary of the old man next door.  He's a cranky, mean old guy, they told us.  And by the way; he's famous.

My kids met him first.  They were picking apples from a tree that grows out of his yard but reaches over ours.  He hobbled over to them and asked what they were doing, and who they were.  He told me later that he could tell that they wanted to run, but they didn't.  They introduced themselves.  He was impressed that my daughter knew what her name meant, and that my son, only three at the time, was so willing to protect his older sister.  He never appeared to any of us as the crotchety miser we were warned about; He was friendly and chatty and probably just lonely.  His name was Dave Diamond, and he was a retired professor from our local university.  But before that, a long time ago, he was a DJ in Los Angeles in the sixties.

Walking into Dave's house was like walking into some sort of personal museum.  He has gold records he's produced or written songs for on the wall, on plaques.  Evidently those things are real.  There's a little thank you card in a frame, and it's signed by Elvis.  There's another frame with a note saying "Too bad you couldn't make it, parties aren't the same without you.  Next time!"  It's signed by Frank Sinatra.  There's a black and white photo of five goofy young guys with shaggy hair cuts and one with thick glasses.  It takes a second to recognize four of them as The Beatles, and the one in glasses as Dave.

Holy shit, this guy is famous.

Dave Diamond was one of the first American DJs to play the Beatles, and they would later thank him for it by inviting him to tour with them.  He found The Doors playing clubs in LA and got them signed to a recording contract.  He wrote songs with Bob Dylan and Kris Kristofferson and Janis Joplin before any of them were famous.  He was in the thick of the hippy era, right there on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and he was spinning the records that would spin the world.  Then he retired, and got into teaching. 

And when he retired from that, he was the old guy in the house next door.

He'd wave me over while I was outside and we'd sit on his front porch with whiskey and cigars and he'd tell me stories about people and events that I had read about, from the perspective of someone who was there.  He told me several times how cool he thought my kids were.  I told him once about the video game I was making, and I asked him if he'd be willing to voice a character.  I knew he wouldn't be shy staring down a microphone, and he said he'd be thrilled.

What silly character does one give to a rock-radio icon?  I'd feel like an idiot asking him to fake a British accent, or correcting his pronunciation of made-up magic spells.  Maybe the Sorting Hat, I thought; The ring announcer.  Whatever, I told myself.  One day soon, when I've got a few minutes, I'll dig out my digital recorder and run next door and have a few drinks with Dave and we'll record his voice.  I'll get to put his name in the credits of my ridiculous Mugen project, and my world will be a better place for it.

The other day, we went to Dave Diamond's funeral.  I never did record him.

I tell this downer story because there's a lesson here that I've learned and applied to this project that is probably equally applicable to other parts of my life, too, and maybe to yours; Don't wait.  If you have a plan for something that excites you, or makes you smile, don't wait for some mythical right moment.  Do it, act on it, say it, write it, paint it, record it; Whatever.  A good idea is a good idea, and there are worse things than being impetuous.  And you might not get another chance.

Not even Diamonds are forever.