You know what's become a good drunk food for me? Soup.
I thought it was because it's really, really easy to make. You open the can, pour it into a bowl, microwave.
While I was making my soup tonight, though, I realized it's not just due to the ease. While I was eating, I looked down into my bowl, then quickly averted my gaze and thought: it's better if I don't know what it looks like.
And it's easier to not look if I'm drunk.
Anyone else? Would you rather know, or not know?
In fifth grade, my school system finally introduced us to a music program. You could choose a stringed instrument in fifth grade, or a band instrument in sixth. I wanted to be in the band because my older brother played trumpet, but I started violin anyway. In the middle of fifth grade, my family moved to Belgium.
I went to a private international school while I was there, since I couldn't speak the language and would likely be held back at least two years in the Belgian school system. Also, the government was paying for the school. Nice.
On my first day, I had no idea what was going on. People dragged me around everywhere, and at one point it was "music period."
"What do you play?" They asked.
"Violin," I told them. Before I could qualify that with my desire to be a flutist, they took me to the orchestra room.
For the next three years, I was a violinist. At first, I was like many a player: I didn't practice at home, and didn't really care much about class. One day, though, something seemed to lock into place. I started practicing at home, I played to get my emotions out, and I joined the after school ensemble.
Our orchestra group went to The Netherlands to play in a student competition with a bunch of other schools. At the end of the day, the judges' top choices for each instrument played. I remember watching the violinist play her amazing solo. My friends were whispering to each other about where to eat lunch, but I was transfixed. The violin she was holding was almost immaterial; it seemed as though it was just being used as a tool to express what she was trying to say. I was stunned.
One day back at school, the orchestra teacher brought in a jazz piece. I had never encountered jazz music before, and I was new to the concept of solos. The teacher had me go first, and I got a little lost in the experiment. I started really getting into it, and eventually the teacher had to stop everyone to remind me that the solo only goes on for a certain number of measures. I was jolted, as if out of a trance, and immediately embarrassed. But we didn't get right back to playing.
"TAB," said the teacher, with a look of bewilderment. "What did you just do?"
Everyone was looking at me.
"What? Did I do it wrong?" I asked, my cheeks getting hot.
"No. That was amazing."
That year, I became first violinist and won the prize for Most Valuable Player.
When we moved back to the US, I was put in the back of the second violinist section, in an orchestra group four times bigger than I had previously played. After long enough, I became convinced that the conductor didn't know my name. I remember being shocked when she mentioned my name in class in reference to a composition assignment. My mom stopped paying for a private tutor. Two years later, I quit orchestra to take theatre. I have barely touched my violin in the five years since then.
I think I am going to start playing again.
My school's art program administrative assistant sent an email to all the visual arts students. In it, a student film competition is described.
http://www.heroeshappenhere.com/competition.aspx
As with most student film competitions that are widely marketed, there is not only a winner but a cash prize. This particular competition, though it is sponsored by Microsoft (headquartered in Redmond, WA), will hold its awards ceremony in Los Angeles (headquarters of Hollywood and a majority of the American film industry).
Beyond this fact, there is absolutely nothing "cinematic" about this competition. The task is essentially to create a short film (under 4 minutes) depicting the potential of new Microsoft programs to improve our environmental crisis. Instead of hiring a quality production company and assigning some of the program's creative directors to consult with the company on the project (no doubt resulting in a higher-quality film), Microsoft would like to use the resources of struggling artists or technologically savvy individuals who have never slapped a film together before. In return, all they have to do is host an awards ceremony and pay small sums to only the most favored participants - a fraction of the amount they most likely would have spent on an actual advertising concept bought from a marketing company.
The modern version of slave labor, or a magnanimous act drawing attention to environmentalism, future filmmakers of the country, and... the TV show Heroes?
I'm going to do it if I have time. After all, the grand prize is $25 grand.
So, I feel like this could mean a few different things. And if this is how we're going to continue to portray patriotism, then I am probably going to be upset about it.
Or, if the photographer/people who selected this photograph were making a joke, I doubt many people who saw this got it.
As I sat in my friend's room talking about legendary philosophers and literary geniuses, I began to feel overwhelmed.
"I want to do things like them," I announced with despair. "I don't want to just make crap like so many people do. I want to make things that matter, that people will look back on and remember and show to their children."
Maybe it sounded naive, but that's why I said it despairingly. Because how many geniuses (not that I am one) go unnoticed? How many people get a movie made or a book published because they're friends with the velvet purse strings?
And what guarantee do I have that the work I can make will be anywhere comparable to those I admire?
None.
It is crushing. And now I have to write a screenplay.
I pulled a pen out of my purse as I walked to work at the college library, and took a moment to bask in the joy this specific pen had brought me.
Working at my customer service job over the summer, there had been a supply room with all the pens, pencils, and notepads our shrinking hearts could desire. As a result, everyone wrote their disheartening notes with the same crappy pens on the same crappy notepads.
One day at work my boss asked me to make a phone call to Comcast, pay the bill with the company credit card, and write down a confirmation number. Since the IT guy was fixing my computer, I sat down at an empty desk. Recently abandoned by a new employee who abruptly quit after two weeks, there wasn't much in the way of office supplies. When it came time to write down the confirmation number, I glanced around, scrambled around, stuttered a little, and finally found a pen lying in a drawer. As I wrote, I realized how nice this pen felt. It was one of those heavy ones, with a nice rubbery pad for your fingers, a weighted head, and a metal clicker.
After my phone call, I decided to take the pen with me, since nobody sat at the desk any longer. From then on, I wrote solely with this pen. Soon I noticed that not only did the pen feel nice, but my handwriting actually looked better!
Finishing this warm thought as I arrived at the library, I made the decision to never take another job where my introduction to a pen would be the most satisfying thing I did.
It's a shame when smart people do stupid things. Today, I have a list.
One:
This is the first week of classes, and today was the first day of my anthropology class. I woke up at 10am to be ready by 11:05am. I checked my email, showered, checked my email again, straightened my hair, got some coffee and sat down for a few minutes with some friends I ran into. I checked the time on my cell phone; it was 10:58 and my class was probably 3 minutes away. But in case the professor was one of those who thought that 11:05 meant 11:00, I thought I might as well show up a little early.
As I arrived, I saw through the glass double doors that the room was full already. Is a class getting out late? I wondered, looking to see who was inside. I recognized the professor as the one teaching this class, though, and several students I knew were also in the class. It was 11:01, but why did everyone at the table have their names printed on those cute little triangles in front of them if they had just arrived? I opened the door, alarmed.
"Oh, hi TAB!" The professor had interrupted himself to greet me. He looked down at his watch. "Did you go to a different building?"
Still confused, I slowly stepped farther into the room. "Um... no. I thought class started at eleven."
The professor proceeded to tell me that everyone had been there since 9am, and class was actually ending. I must have looked bewildered, because a moment later he laughed and informed me that class started at 10:30 instead of 11am. I sighed and sat down.
Two:
Ex Roommate asked me if I wanted to go to various places on campus with her in order to apply for jobs. Our new library boss had hired too many workers, leaving us with half the hours we had expected. My hours had luckily been restored when a friend of ours quit, but Ex Roommate still needed more hours. I decided to go with her anyway, in case I somehow magically decided I had time for more work this year.
After applying to the first place, Ex Roommate told me she needed to go to a class. I offered to pick up the remaining applications for her, and she seemed interested. To this end, I went to the College Events office, asking if there were any open positions. Vetoing sign maker, poster colorer, and event babysitter, I told the helpful gentleman there that I would be interested in an office position. He gave me a form asking for contact information and told me to write my availability on a sheet of paper for him.
Deciding not to apply for this one, I wrote Ex Roommate's name and number, then realized I didn't know her schedule. Not wanting helpful office guy to know that it wasn't actually me applying, I stepped into the hallway to call Ex Roommate. After getting her hours, I returned the forms and was preparing to leave when helpful guy offered his hand and told me his name. I started to reply with my name, but abruptly stopped as I realized he had just looked down at the name on the form, which was not mine. By the time I caught myself, it was too late to lie about the name. I took his hand, shook it firmly with a smile, and darted away.
Three:
My first assignment for my filmmaking class was, believe it or not, to make a short film. The tricky part in this case - more than the usual getting actors, cameras, lights, a set, a script - was that you are not allowed to edit. So you can pretty much only do one take, unless you are somehow able to rewind to the exact position you messed up and tape over it.
Having rehearsed our third segment (from Action to Cut in this specific shot), I said "Ready?"
The actors confirmed that they were ready.
I clicked Record, it made the nice loud beep that indicates it is indeed recording. At this point, I freaked out. I thought: "I know it made a beep, but did they hear it? Even if they heard it, does that mean they know it means go? I didn't say action! But don't they know what the beep means? What should I do?"
I said "Action". Yes. I said "Action" after I pushed record, on a film you are NOT allowed to do multiple takes on.
Four:
How many stupid things does one have to do before it goes from a smart person doing stupid things to just a stupid person?
One of the more charming aspects of going to a small liberal arts school is the rather large number of students with poor social skills.
I met one such person during my freshman year of college. One night as I entered a dorm hall, she walked over and introduced herself. No stranger to introductions, I followed suit. I noticed that we were having a conversation different from most when my new acquaintance of about five minutes poked my stomach and began asking me about my work-out habits. "How often do you go to the gym?"
"Um... about three times a week?" I responded.
"Wow, I can never get myself to go." She proceeded to explain the age-old dilemma of wanting to exercise but being unmotivated and discouraged by the long (10 minute) walk to the gym. This was not a rare topic per say, but asking me to flex my arms so she could feel my bicep was a bit odd.
Later that night, I was telling a friend about the strange conversation I had. "Wait, who was this?"
"Girl," I said.
They laughed. "Oh man, that was CrazyGirl!" Apparently people decided to add this prefix to her name, both so they could feel superior and to distinguish who they were talking about.
By sophomore year, everybody I knew had heard of CrazyGirl. She was popular in that way nobody wants to be; everybody knew her name and loved to talk about her, but nobody wanted to invite her to hang out.
I felt bad for her. Bad enough that I wouldn't run away at the sight of her walking toward me or make excuses to leave immediately when she started talking to me. In this way, she came to sit down at a table with myself and some friends last week. She stayed for long enough that we all ran out of things to talk about with her, so after a few moments of silence, she would bring up a new topic. A few moments later, the conversation would falter and we would plunge back into silence.
Breaking the silence again, CrazyGirl asked my friend The Worrier: "Did you know that fat peoples' legs rub together when they walk?"
My head, facing the opposite direction, snapped over so I could stare at CrazyGirl. Had I really heard her correctly? "Yes" The Worrier replied.
The table fell silent for a few more moments. "I wonder if it hurts. Do you think it's uncomfortable?"
I finally took my chance to ignore CrazyGirl while my friend continued to discuss large thighs with her. A few moments later, we left her to contemplate this philosophical question on her own.
Tomorrow I fly out of Washington, back to school...
Looking at the orientation week events, I noticed that our "first themed dance" of the year is the Black Magic Dance... Because, according to them, "Magic isn't only for Harry and his friends!"
What does one wear to something like this?
