A peek into the past...

Happy Easter!!!!

Now, I was about to write a post on the ridiculousness that is the Interlochen tip line, and why it should NOT be abused...but my parents came up this weekend and brought me an Easter basket, something I haven't had for awhile (last few years, I've taken it upon myself to make my parents Easter baskets instead), and it got me feeling a bit nostalgic because it had pretty much every favorite childhood candy of mine: Smarties, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and a MASSIVE white chocolate Russell Stover bunny. (Anyone else remember those huge solid Russell Stover chocolate things that were a pain in the neck to eat because when you tried to break off a piece it just melted in your hands and got chocolate under your nails? Anyone?)

So, while I wait to hear back from my chosen artist for the first "Artist as Badass" post (it WILL come, you guys, I swear), here's a bit of reminiscing about being a kid...and the weird stuff that came with it. Anyone else remember these bits of strangeness and wonder, "Why in the hell did I like that stuff?" And, for bonus points, I added the teenage equivalent, a.k.a. the weird thing that has replaced the weird things we did/had when we were kids.

KIDZ BOP

What I remember: Nothing's weirder than hearing a gang of ten-year-olds trying to belt out a U2 single. And yet I definitely owned a handful of these CDs, as did a fair few of my friends. Why? Well, they were fun, cheap, and convenient. If you didn't like to listen to the radio, this was a great way to hear all your favorite songs without the commercials (and the talent, but hey, necessary sacrifice, right?), with the added bonus of making fun of the entire thing.

The teenage equivalent: Definitely Rebecca Black. Hate to say it, but I honestly think some of those ten-year-olds could come up with better songs than hers. (Ten bucks says that the next Kidz Bop CD - yes, they're STILL coming out - will include a cover of "Friday.")

MONKEY BARS

What I remember: Remember being that one kid on the playground who couldn't do just one thing that came so easily to the other kids? For some people, it was those poles you could slide down (and I can sympathize; I was terrified of those when I was little, too). For some, it was those awkward circular thingies you had to climb up (you know what I mean, right? That big, spiral-shaped ladder?). And for some kids, like me, it was a major accomplishment if you could get across just two of those pesky monkey bars. The shorter you were - and I was definitely on the fun-sized side - the harder it was to get across without dropping the five feet to the ground. And when you're three feet tall, five feet is a long freakin' way down.

The teenage equivalent: That one game at the arcade that you can NEVER win, no matter how easily your friends nail it. It doesn't take much effort for anyone to kick my ass at Guitar Hero, arcade version or otherwise.

JET PACK PETS

What I remember: This was literally my favorite thing about the Disney Adventure magazines when I was a kid. Other kids went on and on about Spiderman and Superman, while I begged my parents for Disney magazines at the checkout line every month so I could see the Jet Pack Pets comics. (For anyone who has no idea what the heck I'm talking about...1) I feel sorry for you; you have missed out. 2) Here, see for yourself: Jet Pack Pets)

The teenage equivalent: Skelanimals. Without a doubt. Other teenage girls cover their binders with Hello Kitty stickers; I'm the geek with the Skelanimals notebook and folder containing all ten thousand of my Physics assignments.

HAPPY MEAL TOYS/DENTIST OFFICE TOYS/CEREAL TOYS

What I remember: I can't even count how many useless things I got from McDonald's. From the endless Disney objects obtained (it seemed like there were at least ten toys for every Disney movie released) to the plastic pieces of crap I got at the dentist's office and out of cereal boxes (what, exactly, is the purpose of a spoon that lights up when you eat your mini-wheats?), I think I have about five or six moving boxes' worth of useless little toys that I will never get rid of, but also never really played with in the first place.

The teenage equivalent: I think we still play around with those weird things that come out of cereal boxes (Indiana Jones spoon ring a bell?), even though we don't want to admit it.

THE AMANDA SHOW

What I remember: Even my dad got into this show - Amanda Bynes was just too freaking hilarious to ignore. There were so many characters on that show that it was pretty much impossible to not find one that you could identify with (although I hope to God that nobody could empathize with the Hillbilly Moment skit. Yes, even hillbillies...). For me, it was Penelope Taynt - "Amanda please!" - and if anyone remembers that character, try to picture a blonde version of that, replace the name "Amanda" with "Avril Lavigne," and you essentially have me at ten years old.

The teenage equivalent: I don't know what non-Interlochen students have to replace this show, but here it's definitely Coffeehouse. You have pretty much every group represented - even us awkward MPAs, writers, and VAs get in on the act.

LUNCHABLES

What I remember: They were absolutely AWFUL!!! I swear, I don't know why I always begged Mom to buy them for me, because literally all I ever ate out of those things was the little candy bar and the bottle of Hawaiian punch.

The teenage equivalent: School-provided bag lunches/breakfasts (seniors, remember the oozing peanut butter sandwiches from the bus ride to Mackinac Island?). They're about as diverse as cardboard, and about as tasty, too.

CHUCK E. CHEESE

What I remember: Holy crap, what DON'T I remember? The loud, blaring music, the screaming kids, the overpriced food, the crappy prizes (which should be lumped in with the Happy Meal toys, come to think of it), the weird games (why would anyone want to pour bees into a honey pot?), the complaining parents, the cheap thrill rides like that stupid pedal-powered helicopter, the random stage show...I could go on forever. I honestly don't remember what I loved about this place, except for the playscape...but I could've done that at McDonald's.

The teenage equivalent: Dave & Buster's. Imagine Chuck E. Cheese for those over thirteen, with much better food and much more interesting games. Of course, you still have to win about thirty billion tickets in order to get any prize more interesting than a plastic Slinky, but it's more fun to try winning these tickets because you don't have to pour bees into a plastic honey pot. Also, they have DDR, and that is awesome. Case closed.

KIM POSSIBLE

What I remember: Kim Possible was pretty much my middle school hero. Unlike the other Zoog Disney heroines (the name "Lizzie McGuire" sound familiar?), she actually DID things besides her hair and makeup. I loved seeing a teenage girl saving the world instead of mooning over her prom date (not that she didn't eventually do that, but still). That show had everything I loved - cool characters, funny dialogue, love-to-hate-'em villains, time travel, epic gadgets, and a naked mole rat named Rufus...what's not to love?

The teenage equivalent: Betty Suarez from Ugly Betty. While she might not have Kim Possible's kung-fu badassery or awesome hi-tech world-saving gear, she has something that not many other girls on TV have at this point - a down-to-earth, truly cool personality.

GLITTER MAKEUP

What I remember: These makeup kits were like feminized crack to me from the time I was about nine years old. They came in pink or purple cases and usually contained lip gloss, lipstick, eye shadow, body paint and body crayons, nail polish, lotion, and hair clips, and pretty much everything in the kit would be full of glitter. I would make myself up like a fourth-grade prostitute and then whine about how unfair it was that Mom would make me wash it all off before leaving the house.

The teenage equivalent: Guilty pleasure makeup, which for me equates to Bonne Bell Lip Smackers - I have like six flavors, including the pink lemonade clear lip gloss!

AMERICAN GIRL DOLLS

What I remember: These dolls were literally my life when I was a kid. I had the Just Like Me Bitty Baby doll, the limited edition Lindsay 2001 doll, and the Victorian Samantha doll, and a ton of clothes and accessories to go with them. I had the entire Samantha collection and the entire Lindsay collection. I had all the books, not just the books that went with my dolls, but all the books, including the American Girl Library "advice for girls" books. And I would spend hours dressing up, setting up, and making up stories about my dolls.

The teenage equivalent: Vermont Teddy Bears! There is somehow no shame in owning one of these epic little bears, especially if they've been sent by a loved one. I have one dressed in an apron, headband, whisk, and oven mitt from my aunt, and my roommate has one dressed in a bandage and cast from her best friend.

So MORP (a.k.a. Interlochen Prom) is a week away, and my checklist is nearly complete:

Dress (Check!)

Mask (Check...although I still have to fix it so the rhinestones don't fall off)

Jewelry (Check! AND it's Betsey Johnson!)

Shoes (no check...yet)

Ticket (Check!)

Table plan (Check!)

Makeup (Check!)

And now, after today...A DATE! (Checkcheckcheckcheck!!!!)

See, at Interlochen, people have no reservations about doing the weirdest, most theatrical things possible in order to ask their potential dates to MORP. So today, as I was walking to meet up with some friends, I saw a jousting match going on by my dorm. Naturally I was curious, so I went over and checked it out.

Here's the scoop: There were two guys, let's call them Dude and Bro, and Bro wanted to ask this girl, who we'll call Chica, to MORP. Well, he asked her in the most epic way ever, even by Interlochen standards - he had Dude challenge him to a "fight" over who was going to ask Chica to MORP, and when he "defeated" Dude, he had one of his friends use a bubble wand and violin music to "set the mood" before the lights in the Main Camp gazebo came on and he asked her. I don't know how she answered - some rumors say she said yes, some say she said no - but regardless of how she answered, you have to admit it was a kickass way of asking her.

So after I saw this I sulked a bit, because I was just a teensy bit jealous of Chica, who had two guys, one of whom was gay, fighting to decide who would go to MORP with her, and I couldn't even get any straight guys (one straight guy in particular) to ask me. I mentioned this to one of my gay guy friends while a straight guy friend was in earshot. Straight Guy Friend took this opportunity to ask me, in the softest, sweetest voice you could imagine, "Will you go to MORP with me?" to which I replied, shocked, "Are you serious?" When he confirmed that he was indeed serious, I immediately said yes.

So there you have it...Beatnik Belle has a date to MORP! A friend-date, yes, but a date nonetheless.

I have a date, and I have Nutella, and I have an awesome roommate. Life is good.

Shout-outs to Liz V. and Sarah B., my roommate and suitemate, for their epic senior recital earlier this evening! Extra shout-outs to Rachel G. and Erica C., who have senior recitals coming up - good luck you two! <3

April Showers Kick My Ass

The title of this post was brought to you by Stolen Dialogue.

So...it's that time again, when I can't think of anything I specifically want to write about, so instead I'm going to post a collection of little bits and pieces of my writing. Mainly poetry, because at the moment I'm in a bit of a fiction block (a.k.a., every piece of fiction I write is virtually terrible and I'd be embarrassed to post it). So, here are a few of my latest attempts at creative writing.

'Fearless Vampire Killers'

[Note: This was what I read the first time I ever did a reading, at a Coffeehouse performance my first year at Interlochen.]

Forgive me if I repeat myself

It’s just that you distract me and I can’t remember what I’ve already said.

I love spending time with you

But I hate that you don't know why.

But I know that if I told you, you'd laugh at me

So I keep silent, and all I do is wish.

I wish I could be beautiful for you

I wish you saw me the way I saw you

I wish I wasn’t so awkward around you

And I wish I were one of the Fearless Vampire Killers

Because then I wouldn’t be afraid of anything

And I wouldn’t be afraid to tell you this to your face.

I’m sorry that I’m such a freak

And I’m sorry that I love you.

'Goodnight Heaven'

Goodnight, Heaven.

I’ve been waiting all day to see You.

Goodnight, Heaven.

Take me home tonight, when the moon is overhead

And everything is quiet and reassuring.

Goodnight, Heaven.

When You present to me the black curtain of the sky

Flecked with the glitter of stars,

I will take Your beauty home with me.

Goodnight, Heaven.

You are peaceful and beautiful and mine.

Every person in the world looks to Heaven

And finds their own piece of Heaven

And claims it for their own.

Goodnight, Heaven.

You made me believe again.

Goodnight, Heaven.

I thank You, forever and always.

“Fake Cigarette”

It was my first time smoking—or pretending to smoke.

I didn’t want to smoke,

but when she offered the fake cigarette I took it,

because I wanted to be sophisticated, like her.

She was older than me by exactly six months

and she always wore lipstick

and black, lots of black, and dark-red diabolical high heels.

I wanted to be like her.

It was the very beginning of November.

Outside it was gray and cold, as we knew only too well

because we had just walked to the store hours earlier,

to get coffee and energy drinks and various forms of sugar.

and we were sitting together in the library,

planning for National Novel Writing Month,

writers, beatniks, the “crazy ones,” just us, no outsiders.

And I wanted to be like her,

so I was wearing red lipstick and a black fedora

straight from a 1920s gangster film,

and I was drinking heavily-sugared coffee

while I pretended to smoke that fake cigarette.

I still have that cigarette, puckered at one end

and stained with red lipstick,

the veteran of many attempts to look cool.

I wanted to impress her, so I wore a black leather jacket

that I pretended was from a vintage store

but I really got it off the clearance rack at Target

and saddle shoes that I pretended were real

but were really from a costume shop

and red lipstick, always red lipstick.

I drank coffee from the school cafeteria at every meal

even though I hated the taste.

That night, on the first day of National Novel Writing Month,

was my first taste of real coffee,

not cafeteria coffee, but real coffee

that didn’t taste like dirt mixed with coffee creamer.

I turned to her, fake cigarette in my mouth, coffee in hand,

and said that I felt like a proper beatnik now.

Her reply was so predictable I could have said it along with her:

“Ist gut, ja? I have done my job now, mein schatz.”

'Misunderstanding'

She remembers his eyes.

His big, sweet brown eyes, precisely the same color as her best friend’s.

The kind of eyes that no one can really resist, especially not her.

She remembers the soft brown bed-head and the God-awful ski hat he wore when the snow first came.

She remembers his gentle smile

and the way his teeth sank into his lower lip when he was embarrassed.

She remembers the way he would look at her,

like she was someone worth seeing, someone worth loving,

and he always knew just when to look at her this way,

when her dreams were crashing around her and she needed to be loved.

He cared, and she will never forget it.

He remembers her voice.

Her distinct voice, the voice he would recognize in a crowd of a thousand.

The kind of voice no one can forget, even when they’re a hundred years old.

He remembers the long, loose curls, and that stupid pink scarf that made her look like Dolores Umbridge.

He remembers the smell of her perfume

and the hot-pink lipstick she wore when she needed a confidence boost.

He remembers the way she would look at him,

like he was the smartest, bravest person she could imagine,

and she always knew just when to look at him this way,

when he was vulnerable and he desperately needed a friend.

She was his friend, and he loved her.

“I’ll never want you.”

When she first said this it was reassuring, in a strange kind of way.

It meant things between them would never be awkward or uncomfortable.

It meant that no matter what happened there was the understanding that they were friends and nothing more.

But then they were alone together

and for the first time he realized that she was, in fact, a girl.

And now she was looking at him differently,

like he was her Prince Charming, her fairy tale,

and she knew this was the worst time to look at him this way,

when his guard was down and he wouldn’t push her away.

He had a choice to make.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Her eyes burned with tears when she heard those four terrible words.

Those words meant the destruction of something she could never get back.

Those words meant that in a moment of weakness, she had destroyed something incalculably precious.

She ran away then, away from him

and tried to stop herself from crying harder than she’d ever cried before.

And he didn’t follow her when she ran,

because in that moment he knew he couldn’t stop her,

and he knew she would not forgive him,

and they both knew nothing would ever be the same.

All because of a misunderstanding.

'He’s A Rockstar'

[Note: This is a nonfiction essay written about meeting my idol, Ronnie Winter, at a concert with my dad. This is also the essay that inspired the title and theme of my senior thesis film.]

So it’s after midnight, I think, I don’t really know. What I do know is that I’m in the Agora Ballroom in Cleveland, Ohio, and it’s late, and the entire place smells like cigarette smoke and beer and sweat. Earlier I carefully straightened my hair and did my makeup, but now you can’t tell that I did anything because I’m such a mess from dancing and screaming and singing along for the past two hours. About an hour ago, someone chose to throw their beer over the railing above us so that a bunch of us were splattered, so even though I haven’t ingested a drop of alcohol I smell like I’ve just taken a bath in a keg.

Beside me, my dad scans the crowd. Everyone is moving for the exit and it’s literal human traffic from here to the door. “I think we’re going to be awhile,” he warns me.

I look around. He’s right. The entire club is a mass of bodies; we can’t move without stepping on each other. So Dad leads me back to the ballroom/concert venue, where we just watched Red Jumpsuit Apparatus perform, along with three bands I’d never heard of before. The floor is sticky with alcohol and grime. The place smells like it hasn’t been cleaned in ages. But the pink and yellow lights make the entire room seem to glow, and right now I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

I run across the dance floor and spread my arms wide, laughing and twirling like a little girl pretending to be a ballerina. “Shake it, break it, get off your feet, come dance with me,” I sing, quoting a line from a song we’ve just heard. My pink Saucony sneakers stick to the floor with every step, making a squelching sound that is vaguely reminiscent of a whoopee cushion.

Dad reaches out and catches my arm. “Come on, you. We might as well go now, it’s cleared up a little.”

I stop dancing and give him a reproachful look. “I don’t want to leave yet.” The drummer from Anafair, one of the opening bands and, in my opinion, much better than the other two, emerges from behind the stage. “I want to ask him for an autograph,” I say, thinking that I really want an autograph from the lead singer of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus but knowing that I will never, ever get that.

Dad shakes his head. “No, you don’t. Come on, we need to get going.” He puts his arm around me and steers me away from the dance floor.

Reluctantly I allow myself to be dragged along, through the crowd, until Dad looks at me, smiles, and says, “There he is.”

“Who?” I ask blankly. The thought that it might be Ronnie Winter never crosses my mind.

But then I look up, and, as Dad put it, there he is.

From the moment I heard Ronnie Winter’s voice on Don’t You Fake It, screaming and belting through the punk-rock anthems and then gliding through softer ballads, I fell in love. The themes of his lyrics—don’t give up, fight for change, love and be loved, don’t be afraid, be strong, be loyal to those you love and, most importantly (in my opinion anyway), don’t be a douchebag—spoke to me in ways that Kelly Clarkson and Green Day never could. From the outset, I loved his band and I loved him.

And then I found out about his past and it made me love him more. Ronnie Winter grew up in turmoil, with alcoholic, drug-addicted, abusive parents and siblings to take care of, little support from his family and nowhere to turn for help. He fought alcoholism in college and worked the night shift at Wal-Mart to put himself through school. And he pulled through all of this and became, in my opinion, an amazing person.

So to see him this close to me, literally feet away, is not only a shock, but the most amazing gift Fate could possibly hand me.

I fish in my pocket for my ticket stub, gibbering frantically to my dad the entire time—"Oh my God I don’t believe this, I can’t believe he’s doing this, he’s so sweet, you’d never see the Jonas Brothers doing this, oh my God where’s my Sharpie, Dad do you have the camera?"—and then it’s here, I’m standing in front of him, and he is smiling at me, and for a split second I wonder if I’ll wake up and still be in the car on the long drive from Oxford to Cleveland.

Ronnie is taller than me. Well, no kidding, everyone is taller than me, but he’s really taller than me, by about a foot. He looks much younger in person than he does on CD covers and in magazines, all light-brown hair and sweet dark-brown eyes, a kind smile on his thin face.

I think he says something to my dad, but I don’t know what. I just stare at him for a second, and then wordlessly shove my ticket stub into his hands. He signs it, still smiling, and I blush and finally manage to squeak out a word: “Hi.”

This is what being so close to him does to me. There is so much I want to tell him, starting with, “You are my hero,” and ending with, “Your music makes high school bearable,” and yet all I can manage is “Hi.” I can tell that my dad, who knows full well that I rarely, if ever, shut up, is wondering who the hell I am and what I have done with his talkative daughter.

It’s then that I feel the notebook in my back pocket and remember something. I pull it from my pocket and hand it to Ronnie. “My—my best friend—couldn’t come tonight,” I stammer. “Can you sign—this?—I want to bring it back to her.”

“Of course!” He smiles at me yet again. That smile—I can only wish my smile were that warm, that friendly, that nice. “What’s her name?”

I tell him her name, and he signs the notebook. My dad holds up the camera, and offers to take our picture. I realize what this means and almost scream: Ronnie Winter is going to put his arm around me. He does, slipping a thin arm around my shoulders and indicating that I should put my arm around his waist. I am only too glad to do so. He’s skinnier than I would’ve thought, and it’s only when he gasps that I realize I’m holding on too tight.

Click!

Dad snaps the picture. I have to let go of Ronnie, for a minute I don’t think I will, I don’t want to. But I do, because I have to, and with one last sweet smile he turns away from me.

I don’t want to let him go yet, don’t want to share him with the other fans. “Ronnie?”

He turns back to me.

“I really, really love ‘False Pretense,’” I tell him, naming my favorite Red Jumpsuit Apparatus song.

It’s not much. It can’t scratch the surface of how much I love his music, how I could live on his music, how badly I want to be like him.

But it’s enough for now.

He looks back to me, still smiling away—does he ever stop?—and replies, “I love that one too. Did you like hearing it live?”

“Yes!” I practically shriek, and, laughing, he turns away, to sign a t-shirt for another female fan.

Dad takes my hand and leads me away, and I’m so happy as we walk out the door that I am literally skipping. Outside it is freezing cold—it's January in Cleveland, and almost everything is covered in a paper-thin sheet of nearly invisible ice. And yet I skip along, so happy I barely notice the cold. My jacket is in the car and I'm wearing a t-shirt. I don't care. It could start snowing—and, if it keeps up like this, it probably will—and I wouldn't care. Right now, I am literally so happy that I wouldn't notice the apocalypse.

On Monday I will have to go back to school, where I will be called every four-letter-word known to man, where I will be insulted and told I am “pathetic” or “a loser” because I like school and I don’t have sex with anything that moves. I will endure a teacher who I think must have a PhD in Asshole Behavior instead of Education. I will endure student deans who think they own the world and condescend to me as if I were nothing more than a stupid child.

I don’t care. Ronnie wouldn’t let them bother him, and neither will I.

STOLEN DIALOGUE

"I was a very curvaceous Justin Bieber."

"You're the badass, Mr. Udell!"

Person one: Where's my singing partner?

Person two: Oh, she left.

Person one: Aww, I wanted to get pictures of us in our costumes!

Person three: Don't worry, they were unforgettable.

Person one: Oh my God, your dad is so nice!

Person two: Were you expecting otherwise?

Person one: I need to kiss his ass for awhile, see if anything comes of it.

Person two: Gosh...oh wait, I thought you meant that literally...

"On a scale of one to unacceptable...that's like a Rosie O'Donnell."

"You sound like a drunk Oompa-Loompa!"

(to a student using a film he edited in a presentation)

Teacher: How's that for kissing ass?

Person one: How's the editing going?

Person two: I'm slowly forgetting what sunshine looks like...but I'm getting a lot done so it's all good.

Person one: Yeah, 'cause it's not like humans need sun or anything.

Person two: Yeah, I know, right? It's not like I'm a plant; I can't do photosynthesis.

(in an editing workshop)

Person one: The head-exploding cut didn't work.

Person two: That's because you'd have to cut to something else exploding.

Person three: Okay, how about an exploding squirrel?

Person two: Well, no, because then you're saying their love is like an exploding squirrel.

"You're too short to be a serial killer."

Person one: Does this look weird to you?

Person two: That you...have skin?

Person one: I love you.

Person two: Your hands are freezing...but I love you too.

"I don't want you to die and get fed to the evil swans in the ornamental lake."

"Oh God...he's like the Creature from the Existentialist Lagoon. His pigheadedness and asshattery just keeps growing exponentially as the semester goes on."

STAY TUNED for my next epic blog post, which will feature a new, well, feature...it shall be called "Artist as Badass" (points to all who get the Interlochen reference) and will showcase some of my fellow awesomesauce indie artists...if you like hilariousness, awesomeness, and independent film, you will love this. I promise.

I am crying really hard right now

There was a tragedy at Interlochen last night. Someone chose to do something they knew was against the rules, and as a result, Interlochen lost an amazing student. A gifted performance artist is leaving one of the most unique schools in the country, all because someone thought they were immune to consequences. Someone lost a chance last night, and it could have been prevented.

Why am I being needlessly melodramatic? Because I know the person who is going home, and I will miss him more than I can express. Because I know people cross lines and realize too late that they can't go back. Because I hate feeling so helpless, knowing that these people do cross lines and that there is virtually nothing I can do to stop them.

Remember my Red Ribbon Week post? If you go to school with me, you know that at the end of October I ran around with a box of ribbons and a carefully-prepared anti-drug speech, trying to convince my friends to keep our school drug-free. This is why. Moments like these, when you realize just how heavily something as innocuous-sounding as a cigarette can do irreparable damage to a person's reputation, career, and life. No one likes to think about these things. They think that by smoking, drinking, and doing drugs they will be going against the grain, fighting the power, sticking it to the man. They see themselves as beatniks, hippies, rebels.

I will admit, there was a time when I admired the dark glamour of these kinds of rebellion. Every teenager sees, at some point or another, a person smoking a cigarette or throwing back a shot like it's no big deal, and they automatically jump to the conclusion that the person doing these things is "cool." It's natural. It's understandable. And I confess that, although I've never done anything like this, there was a time when I secretly wondered what it would be like to smoke, to drink, to "rebel." To "be cool."

But after seeing dozens of my classmates expelled for "being cool," I know better.

At a public high school these things mostly go unnoticed. If I had wanted to, I could have wandered off to the courtyard, gotten stoned, and gone to class without so much as a custodian calling me out on it. But that doesn't mean that it's impossible to see the effects of doing things like that. Going out and getting plastered at regular and frequent intervals can do astonishing things to a person's reputation, 99.9% of them negative, even if your teachers don't care.

But at a private school, getting into substances leads to serious s#@%. Don't believe me? How many posts have you seen me write about drug use, or about seeing my friends or my friends' friends get expelled? All it takes is a text message. All it takes is for your hall counselor to see you slip something into your pocket. All it takes is one time before the manure hits the air circulator. The next thing you know, the witch-hunt is on, and people are frantically clearing their phones and taking out their trash and their suitemates' trash, just in case they did or have something that might be incriminating, regardless of whether or not they've done anything wrong.

I don't know what the solution is. But I firmly believe in what I wrote back in October, about making a difference one tiny step at a time. I firmly believe that it is possible to fight the system without resorting to pot or booze. And I firmly believe that if you believe in something and you have something to say, there is someone, somewhere, who will hear you.

And right now, Interlochen is hurting because someone did not think there was any other way to say what he wanted to say than to break the oldest rule in the book.

I can't elaborate any further. I can't judge. All I can say is that I will miss him, and I wish him luck and hope that he can be strong and continue to kick ass in the arts world, with or without Interlochen Arts Academy.

In a word...GAAAAACK!!!!!!

FELLOW SENIORS! WE ARE CLOSER THAN EVER! SEVEN WEEKS AND WE ARE OUT OF HERE! AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!

...That about sums up my state of mind at the moment.

Spring break is long over. I'm back at Interlochen and, like the rest of my senior buddies, currently KICKING ASS. If our final quarter of high school had a theme song, it would be this - we are so very close to it, and there is still so much energy in us. We can do this. We can graduate, move on, leave high school behind. We will leave our mark on Interlochen, before we go on to make our mark on the world.

As of yesterday, I'm officially enrolled at McDaniel College in Maryland, literally on the edge of so many amazing cities from Baltimore to D.C., close to the action but not in the middle of it, with a professional TV studio and plenty of light kits at my disposal. I applied to the one place where literally no other senior MPA applied, so I will know absolutely no one when I go off to college. I have no safety net. I won't be able to choose my freshman roommate or drive five miles down the road to a neighboring friend's college. I will be over 500 miles from my parents. The nearest familiar adult is my aunt, and even she is an hour away. For the first time in my life, I will really, truly be on my own.

And I am so looking forward to that, I can't even begin to explain it. It's like part of me is clinging to Interlochen because that is what I know, that is where I have spent over half of my high-school career. But the other part--a much bigger part--is telling me, "Let go." So that's what I will do, when my time comes. Will I cry? Yes. Will I always miss this place? Of course I will. Are there people who I will miss so badly that it'll feel like I'm going through best-friend withdrawal? HELL FREAKING YEAH.

But, like generations of high-schoolers before me, I will get through it.

We all will.

We have so much to look forward to. The end of the year--MORP, Senior Coffeehouse, honors convocation, Festival, StreetBeat--all of our final flings with our high-school besties. Graduation--the day we're all waiting for, our official entrance into the adult world. College--and who the hell knows what will be waiting for us there? New friends, new interests, a new life. Separated forever from the protective confines of our parents (usually). Most importantly this is our first real chance to DO something, our first chance to show the world who we really are.

There's so much energy in us, Seniors. Let's not go out with a whimper. Let's kick some ass for our last seven weeks of high school, go out with a bang, and give the underclassmen something to remember the way we lovingly remember the graduating classes of our past.

So in accordance with my senior plan (aka my plan to do as much insane stuff as possible before school ends), yesterday I went around with a ginormous stuffed bunny named Betsey. But wait, there's more: First, I dressed Betsey in an Interlochen uniform. Then, I took her to Physics class, where my teacher cracked up and insisted I introduce my bunny to the class. Then, I met up with my "wife" Julia and we took Betsey, our "daughter" to the weekly community meeting. And THEN I took Betsey to MPA block with me, where my underclassman friends took great delight in making bunny jokes and laughing at my silliness. After that, I went to dinner and witnessed an impromptu dance party and much celebration of the fact that we FINALLY have some warm weather...as well as a very amusing incident involving my friend putting a toy monkey down her shirt.

This is just one of those things I love about this place. It's so full of these "only-at-Interlochen" moments that you just couldn't have anywhere else. If I took around a giant stuffed bunny at my old school I might've gotten assaulted. But here? Well, if I DIDN'T do random, weird things I'd be considered a stick in the mud. Still, there's a line between the usual Interlochen weirdness and the out-of-this-world strangeness witnessed on less-frequent occasions. (This is one of the reasons I got such a reaction to the bunny.) And you can bet that on Saturday night's dance (we actually have dances again!) there will be a multitude of crazy characters and interesting situations.

Tonight there was a Comparative Arts salon. For anyone who doesn't know what in the blue hell that is (I didn't, before this year), basically it's a multi-media recital of sorts, a place where people can sing, recite, dance, act, display visual art and photography, screen films, and read their fiction or poems. In this case, there were multiple displays instead of a show, and I got to witness a Japanese tea ceremony, Interlochen as a retirement home, video game, and military cult, salt art made only using high-pitched sounds and vibrations, various photography displays, and chocolate that smelled better than Elizabeth Taylor perfume.

This is another thing I love about Interlochen: The performances. Last year I lived for orchestra recitals. This year I live for choir concerts. (No joke...I actually cried when I found out I couldn't go to the January choir concert because of the MPA screening. I considered skipping my screening for the choir show!) There is something magical about a place where in one week, you can see a ballet, a concert, and a play. You know you're lucky to be here when you realize that the amazing pianist you saw at Collage is one of your best friends. You know you've hit the jackpot when you actually enjoy hearing your vocally-talented roommate sing in the shower.

An update on the Random 2 AM Blog Post That I Will Later Regret:

I have stopped staying up all night worrying that I have wasted my life. I am eighteen years old. I do not need to be worrying about things like that. This is it. This is not a dress rehearsal. I only have so much time left to be a kid--do I really want to clutter that up with wondering if I'll make a decent adult?

I am not ashamed of that post. (Obviously, or I would've deleted it.) I know that this is just one of the things I do--that is, spilling my guts to the internet--and if I have something to say, I should not be afraid or ashamed to say it.

While I am most definitely still in love with The Boy, I am no longer obsessing over him. He didn't want me the way I wanted him--case closed. Move on. Accept that we are meant to be just friends and let it go. Like I said in the post, there will be other boys, other loves. This is not the last time that I will ever fall hard and be hurt...but, like every other time, all I can do is get back up.

It is spring. Winter is over. (No, I am not turning into Rebecca Black, and no, I will not say that summer comes afterward.) I made it through the frozen tundra of Interlochen, and now I can make it through my last days of high school. And I will do it with a smile. While I know that these are in no way the best years of my life--even Brad Paisley says so--it's still been pretty darn fun.

So this is it. Now, I have to make the most of the time I have left with my Interlochen friends, spend as much time as I can in my favorite places (until some of them become infested with those stupid hanging worms), and, to quote Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, skip classes, take chances, have fun...

'Cause when it's over, it is done.

STOLEN DIALOGUE

(Apologies in advance, there is a bit of harsh language in this batch of Stolen Dialogue...be forewarned.)

"I feel like the apocalypse could hit and you'd just be like, 'Whatever, dude.'"

Physics teacher: You canNOT leave out the units!...So, what should happen here?

Student: Whoever wrote that answer should retake this class!

"You should see my answer to #4...'How much energy would it take to clear a one-meter hurdle?' I answered that it would take less energy than you'd need to jump over a two-meter hurdle, and more energy than you'd need to clear a one-half meter hurdle."

"Is there a reason why you just put a monkey down your bra?"

"I need to lay off the drugs...look at this! I'm hugging a bunny in a rainbow dress...holy crap."

"Okay, so there are these frogs that you can lick to get high, and I had to take care of one once, so I know...and you know what? They're so much safer than PCP because if you do PCP once you can die, but to die from this you'd have to do, like, a shit-ton of frog."

"I don't feel like being an idiot today, so I'll go to English class."

Person one: What's your chemistry assignment?

Person two: It's just a bunch of little problems, but it's...ugh!

Person one: Ah, the universal language of homework.

Person three: Actually, I say something a little different...I say 'Fuuuuuuck...'

(seeing a bag of Chai tea)

Person one: Ooh, it looks like wood chips!

Person two: Wood chips that you DRINK!

Person one: This is why I drink coffee...

"I love him in a way that no man should...actually, I probably shouldn't say that at Interlochen, you could really take that the wrong way."

Person one: That's it, I'm officially in love with Misery Bear.

Person two: Who AREN'T you in love with these days?!

"I can't imagine living with Ms. O. I'd be in a constant state of intimidatedness...and that isn't even a word."

"You defy my imagination. In a good way."

Person one: So how are you?

Person two: I'm fine. Apathetic, but fine.

Person one: I see...one of those "I don't give a damn" nights?

Person two: More like one of those "I don't give a damn" weeks.

Person one: I've decided that people are full of crap when they say high school is the best time of your life.

Person two: Well why the hell did you approach it with that idea in your head in the first place?

This is your fault, Beatnik!

With all the hipster-hate and hipster-debate that I've been witnessing lately, I thought it was time for me to weigh in on the hipster craze...and throw in a The Iron Giant reference just for good measure.

First of all, I think it's only fair to mention that I had a huge problem with the hipster crowd at my school last year, so I was just a teeny bit biased concerning my opinion of hipsters. I thought they were arrogant, careless, and hypocritical. I couldn't stand the sight of anyone who wore skinny jeans and fake glasses. And I continued this well into my senior year.

But over spring break, I was on a college-touring road trip with my dad and we began to discuss hipsters. I told my dad the joke about the hipster in the music store (more on that later), we shared a few giggles over my Interlochen hipster stories, and he asked me for a better definition of "hipster." I gave him the lowdown, and at the end he teasingly said, "So basically, you're a hipster."

To say that I was taken off-guard would be an understatement of King Kong-esque proportions. "Whaaaat?" was my immediate response.

"Yeah...you know, you don't really care what people think. You're uninhibited."

Whoa, whoa, whoa...time out, dad. Hipsters are stupid, remember? We laugh at them. We make jokes about their condescension and derision. We think they need to get over themselves. Right? Weren't we just talking about that?

I should mention that, during this particular drive, we were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike (more on that later, too), we had gotten up at six-thirty AM (on a SATURDAY, for Pete's sake!) and neither one of us was exactly ready to compete in a beauty pageant. You could tell we'd been on the road all day. We were both wearing our "comfy jeans," a.k.a. the kind of jeans you ONLY wear when you're going to be sitting down for a long period of time, and flannel shirts that made us look like extras from Little House on the Prarie. I'd braided my hair, just to keep from having to deal with it, and then covered up my "bad hair day" with my Red Jumpsuit Apparatus hat.

Oh, yes. The Hat. I wish I could post a picture of this thing. Actually, I wish I could give the thing its own blog post. It's that epic. The Hat, for anyone who has never seen it, is a green army-style hat with "Red Jumpsuit Apparatus" stamped on it in yellow and orange, at a cock-eyed angle to the brim (as in, off-center instead of directly over the brim) so no matter how you wear the thing, it's always off-center. Either the brim is off-center or the logo is off-center. As a good friend of mine once said of The Hat, "it's a paradox."

(Yes, in case you're wondering, this is relevant to the story. I'm getting there.)

So, after Dad called me a hipster, we began arguing over whether or not I was indeed a hipster. "You wear that hat," Dad said at one point, gesturing to The Hat. "You'd have to be a hipster to wear that hat."

Of course I had to get defensive: "What's that supposed to mean? There's nothing wrong with The Hat!"

Cue sideways look, while Dad said, very seriously, "Exactly."

Ohh, boy.

We continued tossing the idea back and forth. Dad's position was that anyone who simply doesn't care what others think of them can be called a hipster. Mine was that you had to fit the "hipster profile," that is, the skinny jeans/fake glasses/too indie for your own good/"if it's mainstream it isn't worthwhile" profile that I was used to dealing with at art school. Dad got increasingly frustrated with me as he tried to explain, over and over, that the entire point of hipsterism (I don't even know if that's a real word...but according to my spellcheck it is, so I'm leaving it) is that you don't have to fit a profile.

In other words, to be a hipster, you have to be totally comfortable with who you are. You have to be able to say "Go to hell!" to anyone who tells you that who you are is unacceptable. You have to be able to listen to the music you want to listen to, without caring if someone doesn't think that Miley Cyrus/Justin Bieber/Aly & AJ/[insert guilty pleasure band here] is "cool." You have to be able to do what you love, whether it's filmmaking or drawing or writing or singing or acting, without letting anyone get in your way.

In other words...be a beatnik.

Which is, if I'm not mistaken, what I've been calling myself all along.

*cue crickets*

While I don't want to call myself (or anyone I admire) a hipster, the truth is, that's exactly what we are. A true hipster is not the flannel-sporting, indie-crazed dead horse that society seems to feel the need to keep beating. A true hipster is someone who is not afraid to say "Screw it!" and be whoever, whatever they want to be.

A beatnik. A hippie. A hipster. Call it what you want, but don't make fun of it. That "hipster" you've been turning up your nose at just might turn out to be the next Bruce Springsteen or Lady GaGa (choose whichever fits your musical tastes; they both fit). If nothing else, learn from my mistake: Don't scorn the hipsters; you might just turn out to be one.

Things I did not know before Spring Break:

• How to avoid truck-driving disasters on a busy highway
• The reasons why a zombie apocalypse is scientifically impossible
• How easily a person can fall asleep with Joan Jett blaring in a small, fast-moving car
• How sore a person's backside can get on a drive from Michigan to Maryland
• The exact capacity of an eighteen-year-old girl's stomach (Answer: A whole freaking lot of food)
• What the Pennsylvania Turnpike looks like during the day
• The Pennsylvania Turnpike has its own website
• There is a place where the internet is slower than Interlochen Arts Academy, and it is called the Best Western in Westminster, MD
• An eight-pound dog has absolutely no problem attacking a forty-pound dog with no provocation
• You literally cannot listen to "Bat Out of Hell" too many times
• A family can eat dinner in a craptacular restaurant with terrible service and average food, and still have an amazing time
• There is such a thing as a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, and it is freaking delicious
• Rain can turn into snow and turn the roads into a mess before the hapless driver even knows what hit him
• Not all sororities are evil
• It is entirely possible to trip over a flat, unobtrusive crack in a sidewalk (with my coordination, you'd think I'd have learned this before...but I didn't)
• The Iron Giant is the most heartbreakingly beautiful animated feature ever made

Yes...it really is.

I had heard amazing things about The Iron Giant, but I'd never actually bothered to see it. I figured I would watch it when I had the chance. Whatever. It's just a movie, right?

Oh, no no no no no. It is not "just a movie." It is the most incredible animated film I have ever seen. And yes, that does include anything Pixar has released.

I will not spoil The Iron Giant by giving away plot points, or even describing the plot beyond telling you, in case you didn't already know, that the movie is about (duh) a giant iron robot that crashes to Earth and befriends a young boy. That is all you need to know before you see this film. Well, that and the fact that it's the first traditionally-animated film to have a computer-animated title character. (I didn't even know that until after I watched the movie. But it's a cool little bit of trivia.)

Anyone who has seen me watch a movie knows that it is extremely easy to make me cry: Put on any film with a remotely touching or sad scene, and you're gold. Well, then, you can imagine me at the end of The Iron Giant, if you've seen the film. And if you haven't...well...give me some credit here; I'm not the only one who has teared up at the end of this movie.

The Iron Giant is more than just amazing. It is breathtaking, heartbreaking, tearjerking, and absolutely stunning. If you've seen it, you've fallen in love...and if you haven't seen it, YOU SHOULD. NOW.

And now, moving on to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

This is what happened when I went on a college trip with my dad (the same day we had the hipster revelation). In a nutshell, I got up at six-thirty following a nightmare about a zombie invasion (don't even ask), found out that I got rejected from Middlebury College (which was not really a shock, to be honest), ate a shit-pile of eggs (sounds appetizing, doesn't it?) and then got on the road at nine-thirty. We hauled ass down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which for anyone who doesn't know is basically the fifth ring of hell for drivers. At least this time we were going through the day, as opposed to at night.

Imagine this: Narrow lanes, sharp curves, idiots who don't know how to drive...all capped off by a lovely double-dose of road construction. Huge eighteen-wheel trucks seem to reproduce and randomly pop out of nowhere. (This is what inspired the how-to-avoid-truck-driver-disasters conversation mentioned earlier.) The tollbooths seem to be out for blood ("We are going to charge you thirty freaking dollars for the privilege of driving on our f@#$ed-up road! HAHA!")--and to get your thirty dollars' worth of unholy terror, whoever is in charge of the turnpike releases additional trucks for additional aggravation. And on top of all of that, people seem to think that this is the proper way to drive on this monstrosity: 1) Speed like a maniac, 2) slow down rapidly when you realize speeding like a maniac is a bad idea, 3) repeat steps #1 and #2.

Now imagine six hours of that.

In the words of my father, holy shit.

And to make it even more hilarious, the turnpike has its own website. I haven't looked it up--I don't want to look it up. It's funnier to think of what might be on it. "Here is how to keep your sanity on the PA Turnpike: Don't go on the damn thing in the first place!" "Fair warning, we will charge you half your net worth to drive on our messed-up road!" "A little hint--never come down this road at night, unless you are looking to scare the living hell out of yourself!"

I have never driven the PA Turnpike, nor do I ever want to; I have only ever seen my parents drive it. However, seeing as I will probably be going to college in Maryland, and to get to Maryland from Michigan you have to take the PA Turnpike...well...let's just say you might hear about some of those adventures on this blog next year.

No stolen dialogue tonight; the net is about to shut off and I don't have time to look for my notebooks. Instead, here is, as I promised, the hipster-in-the-music-store joke, courtesy of Go Cry Emo Kid:

(A customer walks over to the first aisle of a CD store and taps each and every last CD case with his finger while saying either 'mainstream' or 'sell-out.' He proceeds to do this with every single CD in the store, which takes him about 25 minutes. He then walks up to the counter.)

Customer: What a bunch of mainstreamers you guys are! Dont' you have anything more obscure?

Salesman: We do have a pretty large indie section, which you seem to have skimmed over.

Customer: You call those indie? I've heard of every single one of them. They're all sell-outs.

Salesman: So, what is it that you're looking for?

Customer: How the hell should I know? If I've already heard of it, I wouldn't buy it.

(In case you're wondering: 1) No, I have never done this, 2) No, I never WILL do this, and 3) No, I do not know anyone who has actually done this...although I do know a few people who I think WOULD probably do it, but I can't prove they've actually done it.)

(In case you're wondering about the color: I put it in purple because black text is sooo mainstream. ;) just kidding!)