Early this morning, David Morrell bought me breakfast. If you had told that ten-year-old child, opening First Blood and reading for the first time, "His name was Rambo, and he was just some nothing kid...," that in twenty-five years, the guy who wrote this magical, tragic work of fiction would be sitting across from him chatting about books, movies, theater, Polish politics, and airplanes, he most certainly would have believed you. Children believe in heroes, and they secretly believe in their deepest heart of hearts they will some day meet their hero. And maybe even become their hero.
If you happened to see Nature Theater of Oklahoma's Rambo Solo or my one-man film Flooding with Love for The Kid, you know of my admiration, well, maybe mania is a better word, when it comes to the novel First Blood. What I didn't know, however, was that the guy who wrote this book would turn out to be a man of uncanny generosity and authenticity.
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