In direct contrast to the last post...

This is my definition of a “perfect” day:

After staying up all night to be with a friend and write a screenplay that I hopefully will actually make into a film (no, really, I’m going to do it this time), and then waking up at nine AM to interview a Catholic Buddhist, I fall asleep at two PM, meaning to wake up at four, and end up waking up to the sound of my parents calling me at 6:30. I’d suspected they were coming—but I planned to be awake, at least, if/when they got here. I run to the window when Mom tells me to do so, and squeal when I see them. I run downstairs, filthy hair and all, and get two of the best hugs I’ve ever received. They have driven from Michigan to Maryland, a twelve-hour drive, just to see me and a vaguely-explained awards ceremony tomorrow (I'm getting some kind of award, but we're not sure what it is). I can't believe it they actually did this...I really cannot believe it. Yes, I know they love me. They're my parents; it's part of their job. But to actually come, to get up at God-knows-how-early o'clock and drive for twelve mother fluffing hours, just for something that really isn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things...that's the kind of thing that it took me a long time to learn not to take for granted. The day was already good; now, thanks to my parents, it has gone straight into the "great" category.

I have less than an hour and a half to shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and get dressed for my sorority formal. I rush through the wash hair/dry off/shave legs process, spend a good five minutes in epic battle with my dress and underlayer before hurrying upstairs so my mother can do my hair. Like a gift from God, one of my friends (for clarity’s sake, let’s call her Penguin for now) appears out of nowhere and offers to help. Between her and my mother, I am transformed into a 1940s movie star within the hour.

Then, enter Wingmanatee (yes, I do call her that), arms full of junk food because the damn Pub is closed thanks to alumni weekend. My parents offer to feed her, and she accepts. While Penguin is busy taming my hair, Wingmanatee sits on the floor with Buttonwood (one of the few non-aliases in this post—it’s her plush manatee) and charms my parents. Then, in comes Hermione, my “friend-date” for the night, and she looks so pretty—and here I am, not even finished with my makeup yet…

Let me explain here, I fought for a long time against a “friend date.” I badly wanted a “real” date, a romantic date. I wanted to feel like Cinderella, complete with my Prince Charming, and when it became clear that I wasn’t going to have that, not this time at least, I did the incredibly immature thing and decided not to go, just a few days before the dance. Wingmanatee offered to go with me. I pouted like a child and turned her away, saying I wanted a “real” date. My friends then pointed me in the direction of Care Bear. (Care Bear is my Un-Evil Twin, by the way. He makes videos with me. He’s my latest partner-in-crime—sorry, Saxophone Boy, but you couldn’t really help me raise hell all the way from Connecticut, could you?) I sulked. I turned down this suggestion too—and this made even less sense, because we’d gone to a dance together and had a great time, but no, I wasn’t going to back down. I asked a young man I’d had my eye on for a long time (let’s see…I think I’ll call him Hamlet), but he was too skittish about going with me—he works at my college cafeteria, you see, and though we’re precisely the same age and it’s an off-campus event, it was too risky for him to come with me. Two days before the formal and still dateless, I childishly decided that instead of just taking a friend, I wouldn’t go.

Hermione would have none of it. She told me, “If you go the worst that can happen is you don’t have a great time. If you don’t go you’ll see all the pictures on Facebook, and hear all the stories, and you’ll regret not going.” With less than 48 hours’ notice, she promised to accompany me to the dance.

Now, with ten minutes until we’re theoretically supposed to be at the dance, she patiently waits while I finish getting ready to go. Penguin puts the finishing touches on my eye makeup, I put on my heeled sandals (the only dress shoes I own that don’t make walking damn near impossible), and I think I’m ready when another catastrophe arises: my mother realizes that she can see through my skirt. I run downstairs for a slip and put on my lipstick as I run back upstairs. Penguin is still in the Whiteford lobby with her friends. Wingmanatee is still waiting with Hermione and my parents. I stop in my tracks when someone calls me “pretty.” It’s not that I’m not used to hearing that from my too-kind friends, it’s just that I’m not used to believing it. Every time my dad calls me “beautiful”—he has a bit of a knack for doing this when I’ve just woken up or finished doing some sort of hard task, and feel about as beautiful as a moldy dog biscuit—I mentally cringe and ask myself, really Dad? Really? And every time I hear it from a friend, my first thought is, “They’re being nice. They have to say that, because really, what else can they say—‘You’re an ugly troll?’”

Tonight I can let myself believe it, and so I do. I feel like I’ve just stepped out of the 1940s in this dress. I have a bruise on my arm. Two, in fact—one from an injury that I actually can’t remember getting, and one from attempting to give blood (which I do not plan to do again for a very, very long time)—and while I was getting dressed all I could think was, how am I going to hide that?—now, I don’t care. I step in for a picture with Wingmanatee and Hermione. I usually hate pictures. Right now, I don’t. I smile, and hug my friends close. Right now, I don’t think there is anyone in the world who I’d rather have in this room with me.

Then it’s time to go. I say good-bye to Wingmanatee and Penguin, and wait for my parents to pull up the car. It’s raining when we leave. I urge Hermione to get into the car first, as she gets there ahead of me. Instead she opens the door for me, makes sure I’m fully inside, then runs around and gets in on the other side. My mother teases us about this, just a little: “You’ll make a good bridesmaid for her later,” she tells Hermione. Were I here with a “real” date, the kind where you spend all your time worrying that they won’t like you if you do the least little unattractive thing, this would probably make me cry. Instead I laugh and agree with her.

We make it to the dance a little late, only to find that they’re still setting up. The first part of the dance—the meal—drags, just a little. The food isn’t that great, and the music is far too loud. But Hermione and I laugh about it and joke about it and make generally snarky comments that we find hilarious, but no one else would…but that just makes them even better. At one point, I realize that almost every girl here brought a female friend as a date. I mention this to Hermione, adding, “Almost everyone I know has reason to say ‘I told you so’ to me right now. She doesn’t say “I told you so. She says, “If you have to go to one of these things, never ‘not go,’ and never go alone.” I actually feel a little overwhelmed right then. I can’t believe that I’ve been blessed with such an amazing friend. She could be anywhere she wanted right now, and she is here with me. She chose to be here—I didn’t drag her. (Actually, it was almost the other way around.)

“I Kissed A Girl” comes on as we eat, and I sing along—“I brought a girl and I liked it, hope my boyfriend don’t mind it!”—just to make her laugh. She sees them bring in cupcakes and gets excited for that, but when I head to the bathroom to check my slip (sorry to all you confused males out there—ladies, I’m sure you understand), and see some of the formal committee running a sherbet can under hot water. I go back to the table and tell Hermione, “I think they’re trying to thaw out dessert.” We share a groan over this until we realize the sherbet is for the punch. Oops.

Something’s wrong with the music: it’s all the same. All of it. It’s hip-hop street-dance-type music, and I don’t have a problem with it, but I’m a little annoyed that they played all of the best dance songs while we were sitting down and now they’re only playing grind-able music now that we’re actually dancing. Some of us, you see, did not bring a male date—and some of us don’t know how to dance like we’re in a club. But we make the best of it anyway, and we dance with Cuddlegirl, and her boyfriend Phantom, a.k.a. two of the friendliest, most adorable people you’ve ever met (except Cuddlegirl continually tries to teach me “how to be sexy,” and does not seem to understand that she will never, ever achieve this objective).

Eventually the music does pick up again. They play “Party Rock Anthem,” a request from Hermione, and later on “We R Who We R”—a song I have long considered one of my theme songs, a song that never fails to take me back to the night of my senior prom, one of my favorite memories. (Saxophone Boy, you know why.) We dance like we’ll never stop, like the world is our own personal music video set, stopping only to enjoy punch and red velvet cupcakes (yes, they do finally feed us cupcakes, much to Hermione’s delight).

At one point they stop the music, and our pledge mom presents all of the different classes of Gamma Sigma Sigma with white roses, ending with my class, the Alpha Alphas. We get our roses and then have a dance as sisters, to one of my favorite songs—“Don’t Stop Believing.” (Yes, yes, I know, I’m a cliché.) I dance with Cuddlegirl and let her twirl me around so that the my skirt flares, enveloping me in fluttery bits of gauze—secretly, I refer to this as my Hunger Games dress, because I feel like Cinna designed it just for me, I love it that much—and we sing along, pretending to use our white roses as microphones.

We leave shortly after this. I remember too late to call my mother and let her know that Cuddlegirl and Phantom will take me home (I’m sorry, Mom. I wish I hadn’t done that). It’s raining hard when we leave and I accidentally drag a bit of my skirt through the puddles. It’s not that noticeable, but I’m still thankful I’m only a few minutes from campus and can give it a once-over with my tide pen as soon as possible. We drop off Hermione first and I give her a last hug and thank-you for coming with me. Then it’s off to my dorm, where Cuddlegirl calls me sweetie when she says good-bye.

I’m so happy and I can’t stop giggling, prompting one friend to ask me if I’m drunk. No, I’m not, and when I get an offer to change this status, I’m intrigued, but ultimately say no. I go back to my room, still giggling and twirling and feeling like a movie star in my white dress, and a friend stops me just before I get into my room and tells me I look beautiful. And, again, just this once, I tell myself, just this once, I can believe her.

Has everything gone according to plan? No. But would I change a thing? Yes—one—I’d remember to call my parents. That’s it. As far as I’m concerned, Hermione was right. Not going would have been a huge mistake.

Remind me to thank her again when I see her tomorrow.

Me with Hermione (left) and Wingmanatee (right, with Buttonwood). I love these girls and am more grateful for their friendship than I can possibly express.

So...

It's just been one of those days.

"One of what kind of days?" one might ask, whilst looking at me as if I'm insane.

You know.

One of those days.

One of those days when you try in vain to get your schoolwork done, but by this time you're just so sick of your classes that you can't force yourself to look at Daughters of Anowa for one more second, so you try to work on your outline, but your thesis changes so often you have no idea what point you're trying to make because your topic is such a gray area, and then you try to read Buddhist scriptures but the very cover of the book makes your head hurt, so you spend far too much time talking to your best friend over Skype because she's just so much more pleasant than any of the above.

And then, you kick your own ass, because you wonder how the flying hell you ever could have considered being a Religious Studies minor, because you thought it'd be an easy way to get those pesky International Nonwestern credits, and now you hate the mere thought of religious studies and never want to take another religion class as long as you live. And you want so very badly to go back to those days in which your hardest assignment was making a topographical map of your own backyard, because that was just so much easier. You hate the very thought of your religion teachers, even though they aren't bad people, they're just not the best teachers, because one of them is so lovely but she just reminds you of a grown-up Luna Lovegood, and her assignments make your head hurt...and the other is one of the kindest, funniest, most sincerely good-hearted people you've ever met, but he is also the dangerous combination of being a vague lecturer and a harsh grader. So, you're not too happy about your classes right now.

Then you decide, well, since you can't make yourself work, you'll make yourself walk to Jo-Ann Fabrics and get those things you've been needing to finish making presents for your sorority Big, because you've been putting off that long walk for awhile now. And you do find what you need, if only barely, but you know you can make it work because you're creative like that.

But then what happens when you try to check out? Your card doesn't work. So you use a gift card, but that doesn't work either, the stupid machine just beeps at you as if scolding you. And you only have fifteen dollars cash, but your purchase is twenty-two dollars, so you end up having to borrow money from your friend (who just so happens to be a cashier at this particular store--finally, thank God, SOMETHING that works out in your favor). But it's so embarrassing you could cry.

Then you get outside only to discover that it's raining. Not a big deal, you think, because it's not raining very hard at all, your purchases are protected by a plastic bag, and it's only about fifteen minutes' walk from here to your dorm. But, guess what? During those fifteen minutes, it goes from raining very lightly to raining so hard you feel like you're drowning. And so you almost start crying as you walk, because it was so sunny and so pretty when you left and you were so happy to be outside, but now it's a rainy, icky mess and you feel like a rainy icky mess.

And the worst part of all? You were so happy, so confident, when you left, that you wore jean shorts. Cutoff jean shorts. Not Daisy Dukes, exactly--but not bermudas, either. Oh, and your Vagina Monologues cast t-shirt. And this year's concept for the shirt was just the word vagina, in roughly 20 different languages. So you are walking along the street in the rain, soaking-wet, carrying a plastic bag, wearing lipstick, shorts, and a t-shirt that says vagina in multiple languages. And yet it takes you awhile to figure out the concerned, amused, and suspicious looks coming at you from the passing cars.

This, my dear friends, is a textbook example of a really fucking bad idea.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. Next time, check the bloody weather, and make sure you always have cash with you. Just in case.

Oh, and one more thing...if your really smart friend tells you not to wear that Vagina Monologues t-shirt off-campus? Listen to her.

Homesickness, Receding

As you can probably tell from my previous post, I've been feeling very homesick today. But this evening, just when I was on the verge of crying, I went on Facebook and found out that this guy at my school, who shall henceforth be known as Hal 9000 (thirty gold stars to whoever gets the reference), found a "stray" cat that still had its collar, and took it into his room. He then proceeded to feed it lettuce and, drumroll please, POSTED A PICTURE OF THE CAT ON FACEBOOK.
*facepalm*

Two things wrong with this. 1) Obviously, CATS DO NOT EAT LETTUCE. My roommate, upon hearing about this, said, "If you try to feed a cat lettuce, it'll just look at you like, 'What are you, stupid?'" I don't even have a cat and I know that. 2) McDaniel College students are NOT allowed to have animals in their dorms. Hal knows this, and he is terrified of Campus Safety, so why in the HELL he would post evidence of his rule-breaking on Facebook is far beyond me.

In addition: There could be fleas on that thing. Hal and his roommate moved out of one dorm already due to bedbugs. (The way the freshmen boys treat their dorms, I'm not surprised.) Now, they could potentially get other things from that cat, depending on how long it's been lost...which, according to my cat-expert roommate, is not very long, because while Hal described it as "fairly thin and dirty," my roommate pronounced it well-fed...and, y'know, I'm going to go with her judgment on that, seeing as, well, SHE IS NOT THE ONE WHO BROUGHT IN A STRAY CAT AND FED IT LETTUCE.

Thank you, Hal. I wasn't expecting to laugh much this evening. House of Mouse, one of my favorite comfort shows, failed to make me laugh. You, however, were successful. Congratulations. You get gold stars. (And, considering how annoyed I was with you before this, you need all the gold stars you can get.)

Also today I found out who my Big (Sister, for Gamma Sigma Sigma) is...and it is a lovely, lovely girl whom I have been friends with since the beginning of this semester, who shall henceforth be known as Haymitch (that was her nickname before I knew she was my Big - in Gamma Sig, we don't get to know who our Bigs are until Activation). She's given me plenty of presents throughout the process, but tonight she gave me four adorable little plushies and a hand-me-down panda bear dressed in a superhero costume. That panda, I swear...we don't remember his real name, so we're calling him Mr. Cuddles. And he is cuddly, I will tell you that right now. That might actually be the most comforting object I have ever held, that bear.

Also, it was chicken nugget day in Glar, so I actually got a decent lunch, which made me very happy.

I'm having the usual trouble with men...a.k.a., I can't read their minds, and it's very frustrating. Today, a certain male friend of mine, who I'll call Joker (because that's who he reminds me of) said that my lipstick looked like it belonged on a 1950s whore. Knowing that he was probably joking, I retaliated by leaving a lipstick print on his cheek...and when he complained that he had a presentation, I tried to pat it off with a dry napkin. He said he wanted to keep it on, and it wasn't coming off anyway, so I told him, "Good, because it doesn't want to come off." He sulked about that, so I later told him that a wet paper towel would probably take it off...and he completely disregarded that, because later on I saw him with the lipstick print STILL on his cheek. I'm not sure if I find this whole incident amusing or very, very frustrating.

I don't generally do diary-style postings like this. This is a new experience for me.

Should I sign off? I think I should.

Goodbye? Later? Meh.

VIVE LA RESISTANCE.

There. That's better.

;)

What I Miss

I miss sitting under the table instead of at the table, for no reason other than I damn well want to.

I miss reciting random poetry, or passages from my favorite books, and having at least one person gasp and say, "Oh my gosh, that's A Clockwork Orange/A Wrinkle in Time/Anne of Green Gables/Emily Dickinson/J.R.R. Tolkien/Jack Kerouac, right?" instead of giving me a blank look.

I miss knowing even before walking into class that I am going to get a hug from at least one person.

I miss being able to call my best friend and say, "I'm having an awful day," and hear, "I'll be over in a minute, love" instead of "I wish I could be there."

I miss cuddling with gay boys.

I miss running around barefoot in a thunderstorm without worrying about stepping on a cigarette butt.

I miss people understanding why a certain song, book, movie, or poem makes me cry.

I miss quoting Cyrano de Bergerac with the secure knowledge that half the people in the room will know exactly what I'm referencing.

I miss being compared to obscure--or not-so-obscure--literary or film characters (Zelig, Scarlett O'Hara, Violet Baudelaire, Molly Aster, Hermione Granger, Edward Scissorhands, Katrina Van Tassel, Beetlejuice--thank you, Person Who Called Me That, you know who you are--and my personal favorite, Sal Paradise). Instead, I've been labeled, even by non-Glee watchers, "the cinema-centric version of Rachel Berry." Thanks a lot, guys. Thanks. A. Lot.

I miss walking into Post-Production class and knowing that the teacher understood me thoroughly--and I miss being called "dedicated" rather than "weird."

I miss staying up until four AM writing scripts. Where did all my ideas go?

I miss playing Neopets with my roommate.

I miss being a Hottest Suitemate.

I miss saying "Hey, let's do something crazy" and hearing the reply, "Sure, what'd you have in mind?" instead of, "Why should we?"

I miss Saxophone Boy.

I miss Organ Girl.

I miss Goddamn Gypsy.

I miss my Dead Poets.

I miss Interlochen.

(I know I said I wasn't going to do this...excuse me while I feel a little--okay, a lot--homesick.)

What Kind of Film Geek Do You Think I Am?

Well, you're about to find out.

What kind of hipster would I be if I didn't love independent film? I mean, okay, yes, I do like some studio films--films by Pixar, certain Tim Burton specials, and just about anything by Chris Nolan--but I truly love independent films. Maybe this is just because I've made independent films and can appreciate the effort behind them--the long night shoots because everyone has to work around their "day jobs;" the innovative substitutes for proper lights and equipment; the refreshing performances given by first-time actors--but I think it goes beyond that.

There is something that's just plain freaking magical about independent cinema. Maybe it's the fact that, unlike so many franchise-made, over-merchandised studio films, if you find an indie film you love, you can almost guarantee that the person who made it has a heart and soul--or at the very least, taste in art--similar to your own. And if you've been "the weird one," or even just the "kind-of-weird one" your whole life, that can feel like discovering the Holy Grail.

These are my top ten indie films. Most of them are not PC or PG. They range from difficult-to-take-in dramas to laugh-out-loud, you'd-never-get-away-with-that-in-a-studio-film comedies. Almost all of them are weird. None of them are perfect. And I love every single one of them, for all their imperfection and weirdness.


10. Funny Ha Ha (Andrew Bujalski, 2002)
Let me just say, right up-front, that I am not a mumblecore fan. A lot of mumblecore (Hannah Takes the Stairs and The Puffy Chair, for instance) makes me want to hurt small animals. (Or, y'know, whoever made the film.) But I love Funny Ha Ha, and it's one of those films that I adore but I have no idea why. I think it's just because it's pretty much as realistic as a film can get: there's no beginning, middle, or end; plenty of conflict but no real resolution; characters who aren't black and white but actually have both good and bad sides; no overarching plot that neatly ties everyone together. I don't love it in an "I-could-watch-it-100-times-and-not-get-sick-of-it" kind of way, but it's definitely the kind of film that I can picture myself making someday.

9. Puccini For Beginners (Maria Maggenti, 2006)
This is possibly the best lesbian/bisexual-themed film I have ever seen. Basically, it's about a lesbian who starts seeing a man...and then falls in love with a girl...and dates both at the same time. The premise sounds wacky, but the subject is treated in such a calm, matter-of-fact, down-to-earth way that it ends up being absolutely hilarious. I think that might be my favorite thing about this film: the fact that it doesn't try to be funny, it just is. So many comedies lose their charm when the screenwriters try to draw attention to their own jokes--but Puccini For Beginners doesn't do that, and it works so much better. The situation speaks for itself, as do the characters. The jokes don't sound forced. Also, as a girl who identifies as pansexual, may I just say that this is probably one of my favorite representations of bisexuality, like, ever? Yes, it's used humorously, but hell, the film is a comedy; it can get away with that--it's not like this is a drama with a little "gay humor" thrown in as comic relief. (And, sadly, I have seen that happen a lot.)

8. Interstate 60 (Bob Gale, 2002)
What do you get when you combine Gary Oldman, Christopher Lloyd, James Marsden, and Bob Gale? THIS. It's probably the most studio-like film on my list (which should really tell you something, because most studio films wouldn't get away with half the things this film does). It plays out like Alice in Wonderland--a series of vignettes carefully tied together under an umbrella story arc. There's some weird, out-there stuff, some less out-there stuff, some cute stuff, and some just plain hilarious stuff. I really wish I could go into greater detail, but that would involve giving away some of the best jokes in the movie. In addition, the dialogue in this film is kickass--and as an aspiring screenwriter, I am a HUGE sucker for good dialogue. Submitted for your consideration: 1) "You make Mike Tyson sound like an Oxford graduate!" 2) "Then it hit me. They needed a character witness. I needed a witness who was a character." 3) "As I say, messing with people's heads can be a lot of fun. You should try it." Do you need anymore incentive to see this movie? I didn't think so.


7. Jimmy and Judy (Randall Rubin & Jon Schroder, 2006)
A friend of mine basically kidnapped me and made me watch this movie...and I am so thankful that he did. This movie is Experimental, with a captial E--and I absolutely love it. Basically, the whole premise of the film is that this kid, Jimmy, walks around with his video camera, capturing his life on film (much to the frustration of those around him). Think Paranormal Activity minus the horror element...well, actually, that depends on your definition of horror. Actually, no...if this were to go into any conventional genre, it would probably be crime. Murder? Check. Fugitives? Present and accounted for. Prostitution? Yep, that too. Drug pushers? Of course! And yet in spite of all this, you can't possibly view this as a crime or action film. You just have to see it to understand it. But be prepared to cry--or at least want to cry--at the end.


6. Mysterious Skin (Gregg Araki, 2004)
This film is probably the hardest-to-watch on my list...but it's well worth it, in my opinion. Where do I begin? Right, plot: The film follows two teenage boys, one of them a gay prostitute who views his early-life abuse at the hands of his baseball coach as his sexual awakening; the other a timid introvert who believes he was abducted by aliens at a young age. What the hell could these two possibly have in common? You wouldn't believe me if I told you. You'd just have to see it. But let me tell you, right now, that this film is not for the faint-hearted. Araki does not spare the audience any detail when it comes to the sex scenes, particularly the mouth-drying, heart-stopping sexual abuse scenes between the young boy and his coach. The first time I saw this film, there were scenes that I skipped entirely because I just couldn't watch (I was fifteen at the time). But the film is beautifully shot and edited, and the casting is nothing short of brilliant. If you think you can handle it--watch it.

5. Paranoid Park (Gus Van Sant, 2007)
And now we're moving into the top five, yay! And of course, there must be at least one Gus Van Sant film in this list, so here's the first: The story of a young skateboarder who winds up in one of the most gut-wrenching situations a teenage boy could possibly get into--and he can't tell anyone about it. Not his parents, not his girlfriend, not his best friend, and certainly not the detective who questions him about the incident. So, what does he do? Exactly what I would do: He writes about it. And that, right there, is what I love about Gus Van Sant. He's like a modern-day filmmaker version of John Knowles: he can portray teenage boys in his films more realistically than any Hollywood filmmaker, but his boys aren't just accessible to other boys, they're emotionally accessible to girls. So few storytellers can accomplish that--I know I can't--but Van Sant pulls it off. And not just once in one of his films, either. All his characters, in all his films, get to the audience this way. Every. Freaking. Time. And Paranoid Park is no exception. I saw this film at a relatively innocent age--in fact, it was among the first indie films I watched--but I had no trouble understanding Alex (the protagonist). And if you watch this film, you'll understand just how wild that is.

4. Juno (Jason Reitman, 2007)
I know, I know...I'm a cliche, I'm well aware of that. But damn it, I love this movie. I've heard so many criticisms of the dialogue, with people saying "real teenagers don't talk like that." Um, hi, real teenager here, who LOVED the dialogue because guess the hell what? We DO talk like that. The oddball hipster/outcast/weird people/misfits-by-choice do, anyway. Anyone who thinks that kids Juno's age can't have witty discourses  (or say things like "I think I'm losing my faith in humanity") has clearly never spent time around high-school artists. But anyway, I love this movie, for both the dialogue and just the general plot. I love it because every time you think it's going somewhere, it takes you in a completely new direction--and that is the kind of movie that I hope to make someday.

3. Brick (Rian Johnson, 2005)
Oh lord, where do I start? Well, how about the fact that Rian Johnson wrote, directed, and raised the money for this film on his own? Because I have to say, I have a hell of a lot of admiration for ANYONE who can do that, but for a first-time director...wow. And this film is absolutely brilliantly written, let me tell you--do you have any idea how difficult it is to write an entire film in hard-boiled detective slang? Or any slang which one does not typically use in day-to-day life? I know I'd have a hard time with that--I had to translate one of my scenes into film noir slang once, and it did not turn out well. But Johnson managed to do it without any of the film sounding forced, and I love him for that. The film is a mystery, and it's the kind where there's no clear-cut villain. You have to watch it three or four times, with subtitles, to understand it. But once you do, it's well-worth the effort. You'll fall in love with the flawlessly-mixed worlds--it's like someone took the language and customs of the 1940s and dropped them into a modern high school. In other words: one of those films that feels as if it were made just for me.


2. Finding Bliss (Julie Davis, 2009)
Remember how I said Brick felt like it was made just for me? Well, multiply that statement by 400, and you have Finding Bliss. I feel like Julie Davis freaking read my mind when she made this film. Why, you ask? Well...Finding Bliss is about a young filmmaker who is very awkward with men, but great with her craft. She graduates top of her class, wins an award from a professional filmmaker, and then...ends up getting a job as a porn editor because she can't get a break after she's done with college. Now, I'm not saying this predestined to happen to me--editing porn because I can't get a proper film job, I mean--but my God, I can sympathize with this girl so much. 1) She's awkward with romantic relationships, 2) She loves film, and 3) She just can't get a damn break with her filmmaking. SHE IS ME, DAMN IT. This film just struck a chord with me--and again, that is the kind of movie I love, and that is the kind of movie I want to make: the kind that people can instantly identify with.

1. Elephant (Gus Van Sant, 2003)
This is it, folks. The Film That Started It All. I saw this spine-chilling, Columbine-inspired movie for the first time when I was fourteen and I will never, ever forget my initial reaction: For the first three-fourths of the film, I sat quiet and calm, just watching, just taking it in, but acknowledging the little chill of foreboding at the deceptively normal school day. Then, towards the end, a character is shot in the back by one of the gun-toting "protagonists" (and I use that term as loosely as possible)--and I knew it was going to happen about thirty seconds before it did, and even before it happened, I covered my face and cried like a child. I couldn't watch the man get shot in the back. I couldn't do it. And I'd cried at movies before (which should not come as a shock to anyone), but this was different. This was like watching a documentary. And at the time, I'd never seen a film like that before, and it absolutely blew me away.
What I really love about Elephant is that it does not spoon-feed the audience in any way, shape, or form. Gus Van Sant lets you find things out as they happen, instead of foreshadowing or giving you a huge tip-off (Oh, look, imagery of a gun, this must mean shooting will happen later). It's not like you don't know where the film is going from the beginning--if you're at all familiar with the background of the film, or with Columbine in general, you know exactly where it's going--but you don't know how it's going to play out, or how it's going to end. But as I said, there's no heavy-handed emotion. It's not like Interstate 60, where everything is specifically planned to evoke emotional reactions, whether the emotion is positive or negative. Much of Elephant was improvised by the actors. It's more like Jimmy and Judy, where the camera is just there. It's not meant to be "a movie." It's meant to be a look into someone's life...and, yes, that someone (or those someones) is fictional, but that doesn't make the film any less jarring.


Independent cinema is not wannabe-hipster fodder. It's not something to be mocked. I'm not saying that some of the parodies of indie films aren't hilarious; some of them are. But I hate it when directors are portrayed in movies as these uptight, idiotic people who scream "CUT!" like they're crying for help and whine about their "creative vision" not being fulfilled by their overpaid, divalike actors. Most of the actors I've been lucky enough to work with are totally down-to-earth, easygoing people--and guess what? Us filmmakers aren't so hard to get along with either. In fact, we HAVE to be down-to-earth. We HAVE to be able to laugh at ourselves. When something goes wrong on-set, we don't get to do what movies portray us as doing--that is, stand there, throw our clipboards into the air, and wail about how our vision is too complex for anyone else to understand. We have to grit our teeth and solve the damn problem. This is especially true for independent filmmakers--not that our studio counterparts don't have their share of problems, but when you're working on a tight schedule, with tight space and an even tighter budget, you tend to run up against a bit more trouble than when you basically have a Disney license to shoot wherever and however you want.

So, I guess where I'm going with this is...don't make fun of independent cinema, and please don't make fun of directors. We're not all evil. And God knows we don't all wear berets, carry megaphones, and sit in those bloody pretentious chairs with our names on the back. Really. We don't. We're just trying to accomplish what the people who made the movies in the above list accomplished: We are trying to make something that touches someone. That's all we're trying to do.

"We're all trying to articulate something that's pure to us."~Benjamin Busch

The Human Wrong Campaign

This week, a group at my college is hosting an interactive exhibit about human trafficking called the Human Wrong campaign. They set up a tent-like structure with three different tracks: you could see how child slavery and human trafficking occurs in India, Thailand, or even Baltimore--and that last one seems to shock people the most; a lot of Americans think that human trafficking couldn't possibly happen here--but it does. I could say more, or I could tell you to click on the link, and let the photos speak for themselves:

Yes, you read that right - 27. Freaking. Million. Does knowing that make you feel sick? I know I do...

 The very last room in the display was the worst: It was about a young girl who thought she was going to work at a karaoke bar--but it was really a brothel. There was a bed in this room, set up with heels, a mirror, and a stack of condoms at one end...and a teddy bear and child's blanket at the other. At this point, I honestly felt like crying.

But reading people's reactions to the exhibit actually reaffirmed my faith in humanity:

InterVarsity Christian Fellowship (the group that set up the exhibit) also had places for people to write postcards to their senators, get literature, and get awareness-raising temporary tattoos. So if you were feeling angry and ready to do something after the exhibit (and as you can see, most people were), you could do something right then and there.

This was my first time taking photos for any kind of nonprofit organization or campaign...and now that I've done it unofficially, I can't wait to do it officially, it was an amazing experience. This isn't the first time that I've felt like I was making a difference with my work (I've made short videos and that sort of thing for my school's Advocacy Team projects), but every time I do it kind of hits me, all over again, that there really is a giant world out there, and it's full of problems...and it's only when people actually give a damn that things change.

One more time, just in case you missed it, here's the link to the Human Wrong page:
Human Wrong at McDaniel Facebook page

Get involved. Do it. It's worth it. Trust me.

Just A Day, Just An Ordinary Day

For my old blog, I used to do Stolen Dialogue at the end of each post. I don't really do that here--it just doesn't fit--but so many times every day I just have these magical little exchanges with friends, and I want to share them with you. So this post will be made up of a few lovely little vignettes, just little moments with me and my friends, just little things that continually make my day. Enjoy...and please note the nicknames; I don't know who's comfortable with being quoted online and who's not, so for anyone who hasn't given me express permission to quote them, I had to get creative.


~In Film Analysis class~
Alex DeLarge: Michael Bay is producing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Apparently they're aliens--he says the turtles are aliens.
Professor Awesomesauce: No they're not, they're mutants, just listen to the damn name!
DeLarge: Yeah...I know, but according to Michael Bay...
Awesomesauce: There'll be a lot of exploding turtles in that movie.
DeLarge: Well, it's produced by Michael Bay, directed by Jonathan Leeman.
Awesomesauce: Yes...exploding turtles...there will be lots of shell fragments everywhere

~In-between classes~
(In class, Non-Conformist Turtle says, "I'm not the spokesperson for Italian-American women under five-foot-two." This is me teasing her about it.)
Me: "Italian-American women under five-two?" If America has gotten that subdivided that we need a spokesperson for that group...
Non-Conformist Turtle: It's like, 'You know America is screwed when..."
Me: Haha, yeah. The turtle-loving, GSA-leading spokeswoman.
NCT: Yeah.
Me: Hmm..."Italian-American women under five-two"...you know, I thought Snooki had that covered.
NCT (laughing): You're lucky I can recognize satire, or I'd probably smack you.
Me: Thank God your sarcasm muscle is in perfect shape.

~In my dorm~
Mimi Marquez: Yeah girl, you've got ass like Christmas.
(back in my room)
Me: So...apparently I've got ass like Christmas and...oh, hell, what else did she say...boobs like, I don't know, 4th of July, I think?
Bella Swan (my roommate): What? The context doesn't even make sense!

~In the cafeteria~
Fellow Theater Geek: My name literally means "bay." Like, large body of water.
Me: Ok...I have to go back to my room now. Bye guys.
Gay Penguin (FTG's girlfriend): No! You can't go! *proceeds to pout*
FTG (attempting to comfort her): Come on...it's okay...jump into my water...dive into my wetness...
Penguin: If you're on your period, does it mean your bay is full of krill?
FTG: No, it just means I'm the Red Sea.

~Over Skype~
Me: Damn it, I wish you were coming to Michigan again...I could kidnap you and take you to Torch Lake.
Goddamn Gypsy: Fuck, I'd give just about anything.
Me: Of course, one of these days, I have to take you to Oxford in the fall so we can play hide-and-seek with the mooning scarecrows.
Gypsy: Oh God, yes.
Me: Damn it, woman. I miss you.
Gypsy: Ach, it'll be fine. I'm working on several plans to get back to the States.
Me: Ooh, does one of them involve letting me kidnap you?
Gypsy: Yes.
Me: and then we can run off to California and stalk Erica!!!!
Gypsy: PRECISELY.
Me: Oh, God...can you imagine if you and I showed up at Yale, with our long, flowing dresses  and red lipstick and cloches, and your Plath tattoos, and my Tolkien tattoos (if I ever get them), and we storm into Trumbull--
Gypsy: Haha, YES.
Me: --and we casually say, "Hello, we're looking for one Isaac Reilly." And you casually take a puff on your cigarette, looking all Hepburn-esque, and then when Isaac shows up we grab him, march him across campus, and throw him into my foreign-made truck, and drive off with something very un-Ivy-League like blasting out of the speakers...can you imagine the looks on their pretentious, grade-grubbing, hazing faces?
Gypsy: HAHAHA, it'll be perfect!


And last but not least, the Saxophone Murder Incident:

I was trying to study for an important test one night, but there was a party going on down the hallway, and it was irritating the hell out of me. So I logged on to Facebook and had a chat with my lovely, Yale-attending mega-intelligent friend, who just so happens to play the saxophone like a boss. At one point, I got fed up and asked him if he knew how to kill someone with a saxophone before I left for the library. When I came back, THIS was waiting in my Facebook message inbox:

1. Tried and true: bludgeoning.
2. If your arm is steady, impale them on the mouthpiece end.
3. Induce stroke with intense sound. (might require victim to have predisposition to stroke)
4. Hold sax out on side of busy road and shout “Free sax for the first person across!” (might require victim to be stupid)
5. Use rock to split sax into metal pieces, file sharp on sidewalk. You can imagine the rest.
6. Play music they hate while dancing around naked or in funny costume. Wait for them to attack. Call police. (only applicable in states with the death penalty)
7. Teach them to play the sax. They’ll fall in love with it and become starving musicians. Death soon follows.

...Yes, this man is one of my closest friends. Any questions?

The Park Where I Found the Tree of the Dead

A little over a week ago, when it was warm enough to walk around outside without a coat, my friend took me to this lovely little place behind our campus (the same friend who informed me of the presence of a gay ex-stripper-now-photographer-and-writer on campus--thank you, Will). The intention was to lie in the grass, look up at the stormy sky, and do absolutely nothing. But being me, I just couldn't do that.

Here is what the pictures do not show:

I was dressed like a 1930's housewife--swishy floral skirt, neat little blouse, black flats. I looked like I was going to a job interview, rather than lying in a damn field.

We talked. A lot. I can't say precisely what we talked about--hell, I don't even remember some of what we talked about, which would make reporting it rather difficult--but the parts I do remember were interesting, to say the least.

Some students in the athletic field just out of view behind us were blasting the radio the entire time...well, not the entire time, but pretty close...and somehow, this place was still peaceful. I still can't figure that out.

Not long after these pictures were taken, two of our other friends showed up...and then came the downpour. I put my things in the gazebo and then ran around in the rain. I got soaked. I probably looked like a drowned animal. I sure as hell couldn't see--I wear glasses, as you might tell from my profile picture, and as anyone who wears glasses will know, standing in the rain does not improve one's eyesight. And if you don't wear glasses...well, imagine trying to drive during a thunderstorm with your face pressed right against the windshield. But in spite of drowned-animal countenance and total lack of visibility, I was still having the time of my life.

And even as I was leaving, my only thought was, I have got to come back and shoot a movie in this place someday.

"The lights, they fill the air...or were they always there, and I'm finally seeing it?" ~Cloud Cult