...ends up on the internet. ;)
Well, really. I couldn't spend the entire summer at Interlochen and NOT collect at least a little Stolen Dialogue, could I?
Here's the thing. Yes, this blog is definitely more mature than my old one. And come on, you had to expect that. I'm almost twenty years old, and I started AWT when I was still in high school. I've gotten older, my writing has matured, and I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't changed a lot.
But one thing that will never change is my love for stealing the dorky things that come out of people's mouths. Even before my first real film teacher taught me about the concept of stolen dialogue, I was stealing dialogue left and right. (Someday I'll probably do a special tribute to the stolen dialogue I collected at my public high school--trust me, it's worth reading.) And if there's one belief of mine that has held firm, it's that the world can always use something to smile at--even after (ESPECIALLY after) tragedies like the one I wrote about in my last post.
So here we go. Stolen Dialogue, fresh from Interlochen. Enjoy! :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Get off my salad, bro!"
"This camp is going to turn me into a vegetarian."
"I look like I was swallowed by a skirt!"
"Shoes are just so not worth it."
"God knows you're going to be seeing a lot of my ass this week, Avery. I hope you don't have a problem with that."
"This sleeping bag makes me feel like a hot pocket."
"There are more counselors here than students!"
"I never called you 'Mack!' I mean, I COULD, but then I'd think of you as a truck!"
"How did she put it?...She said he was on a 'federal list of creepiness.'"
"So, I just broke into my cabin with a reed knife..."
"Hil, you have a chip on your boob."
"Is that any different from having a chip on your shoulder?"
"Wow...President Snow has a lot of balls if he's trying to regulate feminine products."
"I want to tell you in the most platonic way possible that I want your pants."
"This burger is delicious."
"I put a lot of love into it."
"I taste your love."
"I can belch from here to China."
"You're so classy."
"We were talking about sin, cardinal sin...you know, all the good stuff."
"I don't usually defecate from the rafters of my cabin, if that's what you're talking about."
"What's funnier than a trombone player trying to play trumpet calls? Him showing off and playing them FASTER!"
"You could wake me up at 3 A.M. and say, 'Liz, I had this horrible nightmare that I didn't know what to do on office duty!' and I'll be like, 'You're on crack. Here's the answer.'"
"You should tell your girls that midnight rovers will check your doors because they'll hear it and freak out."
"Tell them it's a ghost."
"Tell them that's why they need to stay in bed."
"It's the Ghost of Showers Past..."
"I mean, you can't just go up to a girl and say, 'Hey, so I was checking out your butt, and it's kind of hanging out...'"
"I wouldn't address it that way."
"Me and that deliveryman got super-tight this weekend, and he is an awkward turtle."
"Find me a good-looking Asian Jew!"
"I have a duck, and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"I HAVE A DUCK TOO!...I don't know where it is, but it lights up!"
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Monster, how should I feel?
I'm not a political blogger, by any means. I'd never try to force my views on those who read this blog. I don't consider myself a ringleader. I just write what I know, and what I feel.
And right now, I'm not sure how I should feel.
Unless you're too young to watch the news or don't own any form of TV, phone, or computer, you've heard about the man who opened fire during the midnight premiere of The Dark Knight Rises. I can't even wrap my head around this. I don't know how someone can casually walk into a movie theater with a gun and a few cannisters of tear gas and murder a dozen people--at least. Can you imagine? I can't. I don't want to think about how that would feel, to be in the theater when that happened. But I can't stop thinking about it, because everyone is talking about it. Those people who died all had families, identities, people to come home to and people who are in total shock right now, people who can't believe what has happened to their loved ones.
No, I can't stop thinking about this. I can't stop asking myself, why do things like this happen?
As a girl who considers herself a Christian, as someone who believes in God in general, I get a lot of questions when things like this happen. Namely the classic, "If there's a God, explain why tragedies like this are allowed to occur." Well, about that. Here's the thing: I can't. No one can. But I promise I'm not about to spout off the cliches--"God has a plan," "God knows what He's doing," "That wasn't God, it was Satan." No. I won't, because I know that hearing those things even makes me, a girl who proudly asserts that she believes in God, want to slap the person who said them.
Here is what I believe: God does not control us. We are ourselves, God or no God. And prayer can only take us so far, because God can't just hand us everything we want. And what if you don't believe in any god (or gods) at all--you can't pray at all then, can you, because if you don't believe something exists, you can't exactly ask it for help, right? Having been raised Unitarian Universalist, I can't believe that God as I see Him is the only possible incarnation of God to ever exist, or that my way of practicing my faith is the only right way to do it, ever. And for some people, faith is literally their entire life. They live, breathe, and exist to serve their God. They don't believe in anything else. Not their families, not their government, not their community, and certainly not themselves. I can't do that either. Faith is a part of my life. It is not the only thing in my life.
Right. Back on track. So, if prayer and religion aren't infallible (and believe me, they most certainly are not) where does that leave us when things like this happen? Scared, vulnerable, and still searching for answers.
I prayed last night. I was afraid, and I couldn't talk to anyone. So that was what I did. What was I even scared of? I don't know. I know I wasn't afraid that the shooter would burst through the door of my cabin and kill me and my girls. That wasn't even a logistical possibility. I wasn't afraid that the victims of the shooting would end up in hell if they weren't of my religion--I've never believed that for a minute. I wasn't afraid that another shooting would happen. I know that things like this happen. Atrocities are committed every day. I don't cry and lose sleep over everything I read in the news.
I think what scares me the most about this is that he got caught, but he won't be the last madman out there who is capable of something like this. That was what terrified me about Psycho and A Clockwork Orange when I first saw those films--people like Norman Bates and Alex DeLarge are really out there. They walk around with us, talk to us, go to our colleges, sleep in our dorms, live in our towns. Cite all the statistics you like, but the fact remains that people like James Holmes exist. And all we notice about them is that their "disposition seems off"--until something like this happens.
One of my favorite books is Peace Breaks Out by John Knowles. In case you're unfamiliar with the story, it's set in the uneasy tension of post-WWII, at the same boarding school as A Separate Peace. One of the boys, Wexford, has a knack for stirring up trouble--and not getting caught. At the end of the book, his teacher reflects, He's a monster and I can't stop him. That's the thing: there are monsters you can't stop. And until we come up with a foolproof way to stop every single demon out there--which is not going to happen, not just "not anytime soon," but ever--we're out of luck.
That was last night. But now, I'm not scared. I'm angry. Really, truly furious. I don't like being angry--it's my least-favorite emotion; I even prefer sadness to anger--but I'm angry with the shooter. There are so many things I'd like to say to him, many of them revolving around the theme of, how in the fuck can you live with yourself? Really, James Holmes, are you satisfied with yourself now? You killed twelve innocent people and wounded fifty-eight more--and beyond that you've left emotional scars that will take a long time to heal, if they ever do. The Dark Knight Rises promotional material has been pulled because of you. For many people, your actions have destroyed something that could have been successful--because, having seen it today, I have to say, The Dark Knight Rises really is a beautiful piece of cinema--and now it never will be, because you've left a bad association with this film. Especially for everyone in that theater who made it out--will they ever be able to see a movie again, and feel safe in their theater? You are a monster. And I hate you, and I hate that I hate you, because I don't like hating people, it hurts. But I hate you.
Because I selfishly feel like you encroached on my territory, as well. I am a filmmaker. Movie theaters are a haven for me. When I step into one, I don't want to remember your actions and feel a shiver run down my spine. People see movie theaters as an escape from reality. They don't want to walk into a nightmare. Now you've done to movie theaters what Harris and Klebold did to schools--when I went to the theater today, I saw cops walking around. I saw increased security. You did that. You did it. You made my movie theaters, my domains, the places where my films will someday be played, someplace that I have reason to fear. Am I allowed to hate you for that, or is it selfish?
But I think the worst thing that I feel is curiosity. I've already given that away, thanks to the amount of questions in my angry rant above. People are allowed to feel curiosity for criminals; it's part of human nature. And in addition to that, I'm a researcher. Being a screenwriter, I kind of have to be. But this is beyond my normal hunger for information. I can't feel satisfied until I know why this happened. And I don't. And I'm afraid of it, but still curious. I have so many questions I want to ask James Holmes--again, many of them falling squarely into the category of what in God's name possessed you to do this and how can you live with yourself for it?--just like I was so eager to find out all that I could about Harris and Klebold when I first learned about Columbine.
Let me stop there and explain, to anyone who doesn't know, that Gus Van Sant's Elephant has long been one of my favorite films. But, before I was allowed to watch it, my mom sat down with me and explained in-detail that most fictionalized accounts of school shootings make it look like the attackers were bullied or harmed in some way. This was not the case for Columbine. Plain and simple, the shooters were sociopaths. She made sure I knew this, and then she let me watch the film. I sat in silent terror the entire time, not afraid of the movie, but afraid of my own reaction to it. I was afraid that if I did not respond emotionally--if I didn't cry, like I always do at sad or frightening movies--that I was emotionless, incapable of empathy, just like Harris and Klebold. This should tell you volumes about the kind of child I was (okay, still am). This was one of those defining moments for me, when I realized what kind of person I am and what kind of person I want to be. So, for anyone curious about my fascination with that movie, or about that particular tragedy, now you know.
Whenever I talk about things like Columbine, I get weird looks. Or the inevitable, "Let me guess, you're a psychology major." Yes, I do like studying psychology. I like knowing and understanding why people do the things they do. But that can only go so far, and when something like this happens, all I can do is just sit there and think, why? What went on in this man's head? I want to know. At the same time, I'm pretty sure I don't. I'm 100% certain I'm better off not knowing. But oh, God, I wish I could ask him. I really wish I could.
I take it back. The worst emotion I feel is irritation. Mainly irritation towards the people commenting on all those news articles and saying, "Why doesn't the government do something about this?" Hold on, let's think about what we're saying here. What do we want the government to do? From what I gather, it's simple: require background checks and psychological evaluations of anyone wanting to buy a gun. Simple enough, I would think. Quite reasonable, too. But hold on...doesn't each state have their own laws about gun control? And will it really be that easy to convince every state in the country to change to the exact same law, with the exact same requirements? Not if how we're doing on gay marriage is any indication. Change takes time. People are impatient. This is a bad combination.
And here's another thing. People keep saying, "If someone else in the theater had a gun, this wouldn't have turned out the way it did. Lives would have been saved." I'm no shooting expert, but I'm guessing that in a crowded theater full of irritant gas, with the added pressure of a terrifying unknown gunman firing rounds of bullets into the crowd, people screaming and panicking and fleeing for their lives--in short, a scene of complete terror--a civilian with a handgun would not make a whole lot of difference. It would take an absolute miracle to hit your target. (Keep in mind, this is coming from someone who attempted archery and found that she could not hit the broad side of a barn; perhaps a civilian who practiced hunting or recreational shooting would be able to do what I'm describing, but I don't think so.) And in the end, shooting blindly would probably just cause more damage.
Have I offended anyone yet? I don't mean to, I really don't. I don't have an answer. I'm just scared, angry, annoyed, curious, and confused. And that is a hell of a lot to feel at one time, over a man you've never met, whose actions only affected you indirectly at best.
To anyone affected by the shootings: I am deeply sorry for you. If the apologies and heartfelt prayers of a selfish (but still trying not to be, I swear), reluctantly innocent teenage filmmaker mean anything to you: My heart goes out to you. I pray for you and your loved ones. I pray that they are in a safe place now, and I pray that you can heal from this. I send you a thousand wishes--for healing, for cathartic tears, for community, for safety, for love, for everything you need to help you recover from this. And I hope beyond all hope that the person who did this to you gets everything he deserves and more.
And right now, I'm not sure how I should feel.
Unless you're too young to watch the news or don't own any form of TV, phone, or computer, you've heard about the man who opened fire during the midnight premiere of The Dark Knight Rises. I can't even wrap my head around this. I don't know how someone can casually walk into a movie theater with a gun and a few cannisters of tear gas and murder a dozen people--at least. Can you imagine? I can't. I don't want to think about how that would feel, to be in the theater when that happened. But I can't stop thinking about it, because everyone is talking about it. Those people who died all had families, identities, people to come home to and people who are in total shock right now, people who can't believe what has happened to their loved ones.
No, I can't stop thinking about this. I can't stop asking myself, why do things like this happen?
As a girl who considers herself a Christian, as someone who believes in God in general, I get a lot of questions when things like this happen. Namely the classic, "If there's a God, explain why tragedies like this are allowed to occur." Well, about that. Here's the thing: I can't. No one can. But I promise I'm not about to spout off the cliches--"God has a plan," "God knows what He's doing," "That wasn't God, it was Satan." No. I won't, because I know that hearing those things even makes me, a girl who proudly asserts that she believes in God, want to slap the person who said them.
Here is what I believe: God does not control us. We are ourselves, God or no God. And prayer can only take us so far, because God can't just hand us everything we want. And what if you don't believe in any god (or gods) at all--you can't pray at all then, can you, because if you don't believe something exists, you can't exactly ask it for help, right? Having been raised Unitarian Universalist, I can't believe that God as I see Him is the only possible incarnation of God to ever exist, or that my way of practicing my faith is the only right way to do it, ever. And for some people, faith is literally their entire life. They live, breathe, and exist to serve their God. They don't believe in anything else. Not their families, not their government, not their community, and certainly not themselves. I can't do that either. Faith is a part of my life. It is not the only thing in my life.
Right. Back on track. So, if prayer and religion aren't infallible (and believe me, they most certainly are not) where does that leave us when things like this happen? Scared, vulnerable, and still searching for answers.
I prayed last night. I was afraid, and I couldn't talk to anyone. So that was what I did. What was I even scared of? I don't know. I know I wasn't afraid that the shooter would burst through the door of my cabin and kill me and my girls. That wasn't even a logistical possibility. I wasn't afraid that the victims of the shooting would end up in hell if they weren't of my religion--I've never believed that for a minute. I wasn't afraid that another shooting would happen. I know that things like this happen. Atrocities are committed every day. I don't cry and lose sleep over everything I read in the news.
I think what scares me the most about this is that he got caught, but he won't be the last madman out there who is capable of something like this. That was what terrified me about Psycho and A Clockwork Orange when I first saw those films--people like Norman Bates and Alex DeLarge are really out there. They walk around with us, talk to us, go to our colleges, sleep in our dorms, live in our towns. Cite all the statistics you like, but the fact remains that people like James Holmes exist. And all we notice about them is that their "disposition seems off"--until something like this happens.
One of my favorite books is Peace Breaks Out by John Knowles. In case you're unfamiliar with the story, it's set in the uneasy tension of post-WWII, at the same boarding school as A Separate Peace. One of the boys, Wexford, has a knack for stirring up trouble--and not getting caught. At the end of the book, his teacher reflects, He's a monster and I can't stop him. That's the thing: there are monsters you can't stop. And until we come up with a foolproof way to stop every single demon out there--which is not going to happen, not just "not anytime soon," but ever--we're out of luck.
That was last night. But now, I'm not scared. I'm angry. Really, truly furious. I don't like being angry--it's my least-favorite emotion; I even prefer sadness to anger--but I'm angry with the shooter. There are so many things I'd like to say to him, many of them revolving around the theme of, how in the fuck can you live with yourself? Really, James Holmes, are you satisfied with yourself now? You killed twelve innocent people and wounded fifty-eight more--and beyond that you've left emotional scars that will take a long time to heal, if they ever do. The Dark Knight Rises promotional material has been pulled because of you. For many people, your actions have destroyed something that could have been successful--because, having seen it today, I have to say, The Dark Knight Rises really is a beautiful piece of cinema--and now it never will be, because you've left a bad association with this film. Especially for everyone in that theater who made it out--will they ever be able to see a movie again, and feel safe in their theater? You are a monster. And I hate you, and I hate that I hate you, because I don't like hating people, it hurts. But I hate you.
Because I selfishly feel like you encroached on my territory, as well. I am a filmmaker. Movie theaters are a haven for me. When I step into one, I don't want to remember your actions and feel a shiver run down my spine. People see movie theaters as an escape from reality. They don't want to walk into a nightmare. Now you've done to movie theaters what Harris and Klebold did to schools--when I went to the theater today, I saw cops walking around. I saw increased security. You did that. You did it. You made my movie theaters, my domains, the places where my films will someday be played, someplace that I have reason to fear. Am I allowed to hate you for that, or is it selfish?
But I think the worst thing that I feel is curiosity. I've already given that away, thanks to the amount of questions in my angry rant above. People are allowed to feel curiosity for criminals; it's part of human nature. And in addition to that, I'm a researcher. Being a screenwriter, I kind of have to be. But this is beyond my normal hunger for information. I can't feel satisfied until I know why this happened. And I don't. And I'm afraid of it, but still curious. I have so many questions I want to ask James Holmes--again, many of them falling squarely into the category of what in God's name possessed you to do this and how can you live with yourself for it?--just like I was so eager to find out all that I could about Harris and Klebold when I first learned about Columbine.
Let me stop there and explain, to anyone who doesn't know, that Gus Van Sant's Elephant has long been one of my favorite films. But, before I was allowed to watch it, my mom sat down with me and explained in-detail that most fictionalized accounts of school shootings make it look like the attackers were bullied or harmed in some way. This was not the case for Columbine. Plain and simple, the shooters were sociopaths. She made sure I knew this, and then she let me watch the film. I sat in silent terror the entire time, not afraid of the movie, but afraid of my own reaction to it. I was afraid that if I did not respond emotionally--if I didn't cry, like I always do at sad or frightening movies--that I was emotionless, incapable of empathy, just like Harris and Klebold. This should tell you volumes about the kind of child I was (okay, still am). This was one of those defining moments for me, when I realized what kind of person I am and what kind of person I want to be. So, for anyone curious about my fascination with that movie, or about that particular tragedy, now you know.
Whenever I talk about things like Columbine, I get weird looks. Or the inevitable, "Let me guess, you're a psychology major." Yes, I do like studying psychology. I like knowing and understanding why people do the things they do. But that can only go so far, and when something like this happens, all I can do is just sit there and think, why? What went on in this man's head? I want to know. At the same time, I'm pretty sure I don't. I'm 100% certain I'm better off not knowing. But oh, God, I wish I could ask him. I really wish I could.
I take it back. The worst emotion I feel is irritation. Mainly irritation towards the people commenting on all those news articles and saying, "Why doesn't the government do something about this?" Hold on, let's think about what we're saying here. What do we want the government to do? From what I gather, it's simple: require background checks and psychological evaluations of anyone wanting to buy a gun. Simple enough, I would think. Quite reasonable, too. But hold on...doesn't each state have their own laws about gun control? And will it really be that easy to convince every state in the country to change to the exact same law, with the exact same requirements? Not if how we're doing on gay marriage is any indication. Change takes time. People are impatient. This is a bad combination.
And here's another thing. People keep saying, "If someone else in the theater had a gun, this wouldn't have turned out the way it did. Lives would have been saved." I'm no shooting expert, but I'm guessing that in a crowded theater full of irritant gas, with the added pressure of a terrifying unknown gunman firing rounds of bullets into the crowd, people screaming and panicking and fleeing for their lives--in short, a scene of complete terror--a civilian with a handgun would not make a whole lot of difference. It would take an absolute miracle to hit your target. (Keep in mind, this is coming from someone who attempted archery and found that she could not hit the broad side of a barn; perhaps a civilian who practiced hunting or recreational shooting would be able to do what I'm describing, but I don't think so.) And in the end, shooting blindly would probably just cause more damage.
Have I offended anyone yet? I don't mean to, I really don't. I don't have an answer. I'm just scared, angry, annoyed, curious, and confused. And that is a hell of a lot to feel at one time, over a man you've never met, whose actions only affected you indirectly at best.
To anyone affected by the shootings: I am deeply sorry for you. If the apologies and heartfelt prayers of a selfish (but still trying not to be, I swear), reluctantly innocent teenage filmmaker mean anything to you: My heart goes out to you. I pray for you and your loved ones. I pray that they are in a safe place now, and I pray that you can heal from this. I send you a thousand wishes--for healing, for cathartic tears, for community, for safety, for love, for everything you need to help you recover from this. And I hope beyond all hope that the person who did this to you gets everything he deserves and more.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
The Beauty of the Northern Wood
One question I've been asked before is, "What's it like to be a photographer?"
To which I always reply, "I'll let you know if I ever become one."
Well, really. I'm not a professional photographer. I don't get paid for my pictures (though it'd be amazing if I did), I don't get great shots every time (though to be fair, I know that even professionals don't get perfect shots 24/7 either), I don't even really know as much about it as I like to think I do (yes, Mom, you're right).
But here's the thing: I love that little Canon more than I can express. That camera has been a Godsend since I got it last May. Some of my friends excitedly informed me that they were getting cars for their graduation. I wasn't jealous. Tibby, my camera (yes, she does have a name) has been more important to me than a car ever would've been. And why? Because I can't just enjoy beauty when confronted by it. I feel like I have to do something. Preserve it, either in writing or in film. This, I think, is a big part of what draws me to filmmaking: I don't just want to preserve it, I want to tell a story about it. I want everything I do, be it photography, writing, or motion pictures, to have multiple interpretations.
Yesterday, I got extremely lucky, because at the precise moment that I just decided I'd had enough, and escaped from my cabin for a half-hour break, I had my camera in my hands. I was in tears, but I was also in a very beautiful location. This is the result: just a handful of pictures of the camp where I work, located in the beautiful woods of Northern Michigan.
To which I always reply, "I'll let you know if I ever become one."
Well, really. I'm not a professional photographer. I don't get paid for my pictures (though it'd be amazing if I did), I don't get great shots every time (though to be fair, I know that even professionals don't get perfect shots 24/7 either), I don't even really know as much about it as I like to think I do (yes, Mom, you're right).
But here's the thing: I love that little Canon more than I can express. That camera has been a Godsend since I got it last May. Some of my friends excitedly informed me that they were getting cars for their graduation. I wasn't jealous. Tibby, my camera (yes, she does have a name) has been more important to me than a car ever would've been. And why? Because I can't just enjoy beauty when confronted by it. I feel like I have to do something. Preserve it, either in writing or in film. This, I think, is a big part of what draws me to filmmaking: I don't just want to preserve it, I want to tell a story about it. I want everything I do, be it photography, writing, or motion pictures, to have multiple interpretations.
Yesterday, I got extremely lucky, because at the precise moment that I just decided I'd had enough, and escaped from my cabin for a half-hour break, I had my camera in my hands. I was in tears, but I was also in a very beautiful location. This is the result: just a handful of pictures of the camp where I work, located in the beautiful woods of Northern Michigan.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Why I Love My Job
Because there's just no other job in the world where you can...
...Eat breakfast on a patio overlooking a gorgeous lake--and instead of paying for that view, like most people, you're literally getting paid for that view.
...Go swimming in that lake during your break time.
...Brag that YOUR CAMPER is second principal violin of one of the most famous youth orchestras in the music world.
...Cuddle with a cat and get kitty kisses while you're working on your latest screenplay.
...Actually get paid to sit in a cabin and do crafts with hilarious, intelligent young women who actually laugh at your lame baseball and orchestra jokes.
...Get exercise by walking around the campus with other counselors and discussing music, camp rules, and political travesties...all while looking for misbehaving campers, which you rarely if ever find.
...Go to concerts, plays, film screenings, and musicals FOR FREE, and watch your girls kick butt performing in them.
...Meet Gavin DeGraw while on-duty chaperoning a concert.
...Make Hunger Games-themed decorations for your cabin, and then hear people say, "I'd BETTER be in that cabin!" when they see the sign saying, Welcome to the Capitol.
...Make all the obscure references you want, because people UNDERSTAND THEM HERE.
...Sit at a table full of filmmaking faculty and overhear a discussion about the sound design of all your least-favorite action films. (It's funny. Trust me.)
...Listen to Bruce Springsteen and read Madeleine L'Engle while working office duty, and not get scolded for it.
...Get dressed up as an old married couple with your co-counselor for "dress your counselor" day, which your girls find absolutely hilarious.
...Get hugged at least six times a day.
...Eat $1 soft-serve ice cream while sitting outside a Steve Martin performance.
...Go out for fried ice cream at 11:00 PM on your one night off per week.
...Get up at 6:45 AM, go right back to bed, and sleep until noon, because your first office shift isn't until 2:00 PM.
...Be surrounded by artists 24/7.
Yeah. Best job ever, anyone?
...Eat breakfast on a patio overlooking a gorgeous lake--and instead of paying for that view, like most people, you're literally getting paid for that view.
...Go swimming in that lake during your break time.
...Brag that YOUR CAMPER is second principal violin of one of the most famous youth orchestras in the music world.
...Cuddle with a cat and get kitty kisses while you're working on your latest screenplay.
...Actually get paid to sit in a cabin and do crafts with hilarious, intelligent young women who actually laugh at your lame baseball and orchestra jokes.
...Get exercise by walking around the campus with other counselors and discussing music, camp rules, and political travesties...all while looking for misbehaving campers, which you rarely if ever find.
...Go to concerts, plays, film screenings, and musicals FOR FREE, and watch your girls kick butt performing in them.
...Meet Gavin DeGraw while on-duty chaperoning a concert.
...Make Hunger Games-themed decorations for your cabin, and then hear people say, "I'd BETTER be in that cabin!" when they see the sign saying, Welcome to the Capitol.
...Make all the obscure references you want, because people UNDERSTAND THEM HERE.
...Sit at a table full of filmmaking faculty and overhear a discussion about the sound design of all your least-favorite action films. (It's funny. Trust me.)
...Listen to Bruce Springsteen and read Madeleine L'Engle while working office duty, and not get scolded for it.
...Get dressed up as an old married couple with your co-counselor for "dress your counselor" day, which your girls find absolutely hilarious.
...Get hugged at least six times a day.
...Eat $1 soft-serve ice cream while sitting outside a Steve Martin performance.
...Go out for fried ice cream at 11:00 PM on your one night off per week.
...Get up at 6:45 AM, go right back to bed, and sleep until noon, because your first office shift isn't until 2:00 PM.
...Be surrounded by artists 24/7.
Yeah. Best job ever, anyone?
Sunday, July 1, 2012
When two minutes is enough
So, I kind of have this habit of telling stories. I can't just tell someone, straight-out, "This happened." I have to explain myself in-detail. This also offers what I guess you could call a defense mechanism: if I need to talk my way out of something, my inability to stop telling stories actually comes in quite handy, especially when asked questions I want to answer about as much as I want to stab my own foot (or, y'know, questions I'd stab myself in the foot by answering honestly).
One question that I have never once answered honestly is, "So...'Gavin?' What is it with you and that name, anyway?" Especially in connection to Alien Water Torture. And my insistence that I'm going to name my firstborn son that (provided my husband doesn't have any major objections). Now, I'll tell people just about anything other than the truth on this front. I'll tell them that I read a fanfiction by a friend that had a lead character with that name. I'll tell them that I knew someone with that name in my public high school (which is actually true). But what I didn't tell anyone, until now, was this: I have had a secret (or as secret as I can be, considering that I'm about as subtle as a tidal wave) crush on Gavin DeGraw for a loooong time. Like, since I was fifteen years old.
Yeah. That long.
I won't bore you with the story of how I discovered Gavin's music. I'll just say it was a stroke of luck, and leave it at that. But when I was writing Alien Water Torture--and I swear to God, no one knew this until this blog post--I would listen to Gavin DeGraw on my laptop, whenever I got tired of listening to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. So, when I had to name my main characters, Gavin and Ronnie (lead singer of RJA, for anyone who doesn't know that) practically named themselves.
Now, I've always thought Gavin was a nice name, ever since stumbling across it in a Gail Carson Levine novel. But I loved the sound of Gavin DeGraw's voice long before I knew what he looked like, so it really was the kind of crush that just grew organically, without the whole "celebrity crush who I just like because he has a cute butt" aspect. So it seemed like the perfect choice to name my romantic hero after him.
The reason I'm telling this story now is because...well...
Yeah, that's how close I was to him last night.
Yesterday started out absolutely awful. It was my day off but I couldn't go anywhere because I don't have a car on-campus like many of my older counterparts in the HSG division, so I was more than a little testy because of that. That led me to be very unnecessarily snippy towards my co-counselor (I'm sorry, Steve). Then I didn't have money in my account, so I couldn't get tickets to the Gavin DeGraw concert that was literally going to be happening right outside my door (God bless Interlochen). No problem, I thought, I'll cash my paycheck. Problem: Yesterday was Saturday...and in what alternate universe is any bank open on Saturday? So, my friend drove me to a grocery store so I could cash my check there. Only that didn't work either. On top of all of that, a very close friend of mine casually reported that he was going out into the hurricane-grade storms in his area, because he's an EMT and since the storming was so bad there were bound to be plenty of accidents and injuries. Translation: riding in an ambulance going God only knows how many miles an hour in tree-crushing storms, at night. Can you imagine how worried I was about him?
And, as if all that wasn't enough, my camper caught me crying when she came back to the cabin earlier than I thought she would. Humiliated, I retreated to the headquarters building, where I continued crying because really, had there ever been a worse day off? (I'm sure there were, but at that time I wasn't really thinking that way.)
That was when another counselor, who was going to be chaperoning the concert that night, offered me her ticket. Let me back up there and explain, counselors can get free tickets to shows, but it's kind of a lottery process, and I didn't put my name on the list because I didn't want to leave it up to chance. (Ha. That turned out real well, didn't it?) I protested--I didn't want her to think she had to do that. (This is why I hate it when people I don't know very well catch me crying.) But she told me it wasn't that big of a deal, she wasn't really much of a fan, she just wanted to check him out, and gave me the ticket. I almost started crying again. Instead I gave her a big hug and promised that if she ever needed me to take over a shift for her, I'd be glad to do it.
The concert in itself was breathtaking. Gavin DeGraw is one of those beautiful singers who sounds exactly the same live as he does on his records--and he does not suffer from the "turn up the amps so loud our acoustic guitars make people experience sonic booms in their chests" syndrome that seems to afflict ninety percent of the touring popular bands today. So I was happy about not getting blasted by the amplifiers. His opening act was fantastic--I'd never heard of Andy Grammar before, but he was pretty kick-ass. But it was what happened at the end, after his encore (which freaking ROCKED, by the way) that truly made my night.
There aren't many artists who will happily, voluntarily stay after the show to give autographs or take pictures; that's what the billion-dollar VIP meet-and-greets are for. But after his show, Gavin did just that. I didn't realize at first, until there was this giant crush of people down by the stage. Then I saw what was happening, and I ran for it and threw myself into the crowd. It took what felt like a million years, but I actually got right up to the stage (he was perched on the edge of the stage--smart move, I thought, considering that he might've wound up crushed AGAINST the stage otherwise) and eventually, FINALLY got to him. The reason it took so long was because he, much like my longtime idol Ronnie Winter, actually takes a minute to talk to each person. It's not just like "Oh hi, here's my signature, now move along so I can get through this and go to bed." He talks to someone. Even if it's just for a minute. He looks right into each fan's eyes and asks their name. And yeah, if you're waiting in line, it's a pain, but when you're on the receiving end of it, it's absolutely lovely.
The woman who'd been behind me in line for the last forty-five minutes, who had gone to the fan club meet-and-greet before the show, assured me there was no need to be nervous, that he was a total sweetheart. I believed her, but I was still nervous. Meeting Ronnie Winter, I had no need to really be nervous. I knew, already, that he was a kind guy no matter what...unless you hurt someone he cares about, which I had no intention of doing. This was different. This felt how I imagined I'd have felt if I'd met Joe Jonas when I was fifteen. (But, thank God, that never happened.)
I approached him, shaking and trying hard to smile. He gave me one of those heart-stopping smiles and asked, "What's your name, dude?" Yes, dude, like we were gym buddies or something. Only on a guy like Gavin DeGraw would that work. I told him my name, in a trembling voice, and he calmly replied, "Nice to meet you, Avery, I'm Gavin"--as if I didn't already know that--and shook my hand. Like we were just two normal people, who just happened to be meeting, like he had no idea that just about any of the girls there would have gone home with him in a heartbeat. If he noticed my hand shaking, he didn't say anything.
I held out my lanyard, hands still shaking, and he asked, "Do you want me to sign this?" I said yes, of course, and while he signed it, of course I had to say something, so I told him, trying to sound at least semi-normal, "I was a student here..."
"Yeah?" He was just signing the lanyard, didn't even look up.
"The first short film I ever made, my main character was named after you," I told him.
Well. That made him look up. "Get out!" He looked genuinely surprised and, unless I'm very much mistaken, also quite flattered.
"Yeah," was my ever-brilliant reply.
"Thank you so much," he said sincerely, and gave me a high-five. I'd touched him twice! My inner teenage girl was going crazy.
"It's called 'Possession,' if you ever want to look it up," I told him as I took back the lanyard.
He said he'd look it up--I don't think he will, obviously; he's far too busy to even remember something like that--but the fact that he actually gave a damn overwhelmed me. He thanked me for coming, but I wasn't quite ready to let him go yet. "Can I have a hug?" I asked shyly, half-expecting him to say no.
"Sure." He reached out and pulled me in as close as the height barrier, thanks to the fact that he was sitting on the stage and I was standing at least two feet below him, would allow. But as he pulled me in, he said, "Hold me baby," and I almost squealed in his ear (thank God, I didn't). He was soaked with sweat from the two hours he'd been on the stage. I didn't care.
"Thank you," I breathed as I staggered back and prepared to walk away. "You just made my day."
He said something back, but I couldn't hear it--his reply was swallowed up in the crowd now separating us. I didn't mind. I'd heard all I needed to hear.
I'll tell you what, though--I'm never letting this lanyard out of my sight again.
One question that I have never once answered honestly is, "So...'Gavin?' What is it with you and that name, anyway?" Especially in connection to Alien Water Torture. And my insistence that I'm going to name my firstborn son that (provided my husband doesn't have any major objections). Now, I'll tell people just about anything other than the truth on this front. I'll tell them that I read a fanfiction by a friend that had a lead character with that name. I'll tell them that I knew someone with that name in my public high school (which is actually true). But what I didn't tell anyone, until now, was this: I have had a secret (or as secret as I can be, considering that I'm about as subtle as a tidal wave) crush on Gavin DeGraw for a loooong time. Like, since I was fifteen years old.
Yeah. That long.
I won't bore you with the story of how I discovered Gavin's music. I'll just say it was a stroke of luck, and leave it at that. But when I was writing Alien Water Torture--and I swear to God, no one knew this until this blog post--I would listen to Gavin DeGraw on my laptop, whenever I got tired of listening to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. So, when I had to name my main characters, Gavin and Ronnie (lead singer of RJA, for anyone who doesn't know that) practically named themselves.
Now, I've always thought Gavin was a nice name, ever since stumbling across it in a Gail Carson Levine novel. But I loved the sound of Gavin DeGraw's voice long before I knew what he looked like, so it really was the kind of crush that just grew organically, without the whole "celebrity crush who I just like because he has a cute butt" aspect. So it seemed like the perfect choice to name my romantic hero after him.
The reason I'm telling this story now is because...well...
Yeah, that's how close I was to him last night.
Yesterday started out absolutely awful. It was my day off but I couldn't go anywhere because I don't have a car on-campus like many of my older counterparts in the HSG division, so I was more than a little testy because of that. That led me to be very unnecessarily snippy towards my co-counselor (I'm sorry, Steve). Then I didn't have money in my account, so I couldn't get tickets to the Gavin DeGraw concert that was literally going to be happening right outside my door (God bless Interlochen). No problem, I thought, I'll cash my paycheck. Problem: Yesterday was Saturday...and in what alternate universe is any bank open on Saturday? So, my friend drove me to a grocery store so I could cash my check there. Only that didn't work either. On top of all of that, a very close friend of mine casually reported that he was going out into the hurricane-grade storms in his area, because he's an EMT and since the storming was so bad there were bound to be plenty of accidents and injuries. Translation: riding in an ambulance going God only knows how many miles an hour in tree-crushing storms, at night. Can you imagine how worried I was about him?
And, as if all that wasn't enough, my camper caught me crying when she came back to the cabin earlier than I thought she would. Humiliated, I retreated to the headquarters building, where I continued crying because really, had there ever been a worse day off? (I'm sure there were, but at that time I wasn't really thinking that way.)
That was when another counselor, who was going to be chaperoning the concert that night, offered me her ticket. Let me back up there and explain, counselors can get free tickets to shows, but it's kind of a lottery process, and I didn't put my name on the list because I didn't want to leave it up to chance. (Ha. That turned out real well, didn't it?) I protested--I didn't want her to think she had to do that. (This is why I hate it when people I don't know very well catch me crying.) But she told me it wasn't that big of a deal, she wasn't really much of a fan, she just wanted to check him out, and gave me the ticket. I almost started crying again. Instead I gave her a big hug and promised that if she ever needed me to take over a shift for her, I'd be glad to do it.
The concert in itself was breathtaking. Gavin DeGraw is one of those beautiful singers who sounds exactly the same live as he does on his records--and he does not suffer from the "turn up the amps so loud our acoustic guitars make people experience sonic booms in their chests" syndrome that seems to afflict ninety percent of the touring popular bands today. So I was happy about not getting blasted by the amplifiers. His opening act was fantastic--I'd never heard of Andy Grammar before, but he was pretty kick-ass. But it was what happened at the end, after his encore (which freaking ROCKED, by the way) that truly made my night.
There aren't many artists who will happily, voluntarily stay after the show to give autographs or take pictures; that's what the billion-dollar VIP meet-and-greets are for. But after his show, Gavin did just that. I didn't realize at first, until there was this giant crush of people down by the stage. Then I saw what was happening, and I ran for it and threw myself into the crowd. It took what felt like a million years, but I actually got right up to the stage (he was perched on the edge of the stage--smart move, I thought, considering that he might've wound up crushed AGAINST the stage otherwise) and eventually, FINALLY got to him. The reason it took so long was because he, much like my longtime idol Ronnie Winter, actually takes a minute to talk to each person. It's not just like "Oh hi, here's my signature, now move along so I can get through this and go to bed." He talks to someone. Even if it's just for a minute. He looks right into each fan's eyes and asks their name. And yeah, if you're waiting in line, it's a pain, but when you're on the receiving end of it, it's absolutely lovely.
The woman who'd been behind me in line for the last forty-five minutes, who had gone to the fan club meet-and-greet before the show, assured me there was no need to be nervous, that he was a total sweetheart. I believed her, but I was still nervous. Meeting Ronnie Winter, I had no need to really be nervous. I knew, already, that he was a kind guy no matter what...unless you hurt someone he cares about, which I had no intention of doing. This was different. This felt how I imagined I'd have felt if I'd met Joe Jonas when I was fifteen. (But, thank God, that never happened.)
I approached him, shaking and trying hard to smile. He gave me one of those heart-stopping smiles and asked, "What's your name, dude?" Yes, dude, like we were gym buddies or something. Only on a guy like Gavin DeGraw would that work. I told him my name, in a trembling voice, and he calmly replied, "Nice to meet you, Avery, I'm Gavin"--as if I didn't already know that--and shook my hand. Like we were just two normal people, who just happened to be meeting, like he had no idea that just about any of the girls there would have gone home with him in a heartbeat. If he noticed my hand shaking, he didn't say anything.
I held out my lanyard, hands still shaking, and he asked, "Do you want me to sign this?" I said yes, of course, and while he signed it, of course I had to say something, so I told him, trying to sound at least semi-normal, "I was a student here..."
"Yeah?" He was just signing the lanyard, didn't even look up.
"The first short film I ever made, my main character was named after you," I told him.
Well. That made him look up. "Get out!" He looked genuinely surprised and, unless I'm very much mistaken, also quite flattered.
"Yeah," was my ever-brilliant reply.
"Thank you so much," he said sincerely, and gave me a high-five. I'd touched him twice! My inner teenage girl was going crazy.
"It's called 'Possession,' if you ever want to look it up," I told him as I took back the lanyard.
He said he'd look it up--I don't think he will, obviously; he's far too busy to even remember something like that--but the fact that he actually gave a damn overwhelmed me. He thanked me for coming, but I wasn't quite ready to let him go yet. "Can I have a hug?" I asked shyly, half-expecting him to say no.
"Sure." He reached out and pulled me in as close as the height barrier, thanks to the fact that he was sitting on the stage and I was standing at least two feet below him, would allow. But as he pulled me in, he said, "Hold me baby," and I almost squealed in his ear (thank God, I didn't). He was soaked with sweat from the two hours he'd been on the stage. I didn't care.
"Thank you," I breathed as I staggered back and prepared to walk away. "You just made my day."
He said something back, but I couldn't hear it--his reply was swallowed up in the crowd now separating us. I didn't mind. I'd heard all I needed to hear.
I'll tell you what, though--I'm never letting this lanyard out of my sight again.
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