Why, why, why, why, why?

I have gotten so many "whys" over the years about my love for film. Why would I do this? Why do I care so much about crew roles? Why don't I just give up and become an accountant or something "useful"? Why did I come to Interlochen? Why do I want to be in film? Why do I put up with so much BS from people and then complain about it later? Why do I want a career that forces me to put up with that BS?

Tonight answered all those questions and more. Tonight I found what I have been looking for all year.

I can't go into the details of why tonight was so incredible--not all of them, anyway. First of all, because I don't have the time; I want to do this before the internet shuts off at 12:00. Second, some of the reasons why tonight made the whole year perfect are too personal, yes, even for me, Miss Spill-Her-Guts-To-The-Internet-On-A-Weekly-Basis. But I can give the overview--and maybe this will answer some of those whys.

Tonight was the premiere screening for the MPA major. Translation: Tonight was the first time the public got to see our films. I will not sugarcoat it, ladies and gentlemen: I was scared out of my mind. Last year, my premiere was awful; I went back to my room and cried, not only because my film was universally misunderstood and people laughed at all the wrong parts, but because I had literally one other credit in the entire program. I was terrified that this year would be the same, that I would see my film and think of 2,000 things that I should have done differently.

I was wrong.

From the start, the audience was on my side. I had a brilliant cast and it showed. My crew went above and beyond, and that showed too. Everything, from the lighting to the acting to the props, was absolutely amazing. There is a reason that Possession failed--it sucked. It did not deserve to be praised, or, in my opinion, to be screened (at least not until it had been re-cut and the sound was decently mixed). But tonight I put out a film that I could be proud of, and I finally earned the respect from my fellow students that I have been craving all year. (This is where I want to go into more detail but can't. Suffice it to say that I have won over my toughest critic.)

And that was just my personal experience with my own film! But the others--the films made by people I have lived with, studied with, and worked with all year--blew me away. I cannot express how proud I am of the people in my major right now. There are people whom I have fought with on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis--right now, I love them as if they were my siblings. There are films that I thought would make me shoot myself if I had to see them rotate in workshop one more time--right now, I would happily watch them another thousand times.

This is one of the many things that I love about being a filmmaker, in this case a film student. You work at a film for weeks, months, sometimes years (but most of us at Interlochen haven't gotten there yet, thank God), until it makes you cringe, until you doubt every move you make concerning your film, until you honestly can't remember why you made this movie in the first place. You watch others' films in workshop until you're so sick of them that you want to slap whoever was stupid enough to think that was a good idea, or that was a good script, or that was a good cut. You hate your workshop and can't wait for it to be over.

And then on the night of the premier, you see them all over again. You go in there dreading the screening, for whatever reason. Maybe, like me, you're scared that your film won't go over well. Maybe you have something else that you could be doing, some friend that needs a shoulder to cry on, some assignment due the next day. Or maybe you're just plain sick of your classmates' films. Whatever it is, you just want to be anywhere but there...until the lights go down, and the films begin to screen, and the audience cheers, laughs, gasps, or cringes for the first time. And then, it's a whole other ballgame. You laugh with them. You cheer with them. You cry with them, gasp with them, cringe with them. You see the film through their eyes, and suddenly there is no place you'd rather be.

After the screening was over, the love-fest began. Hugging. Crying. Laughing. Proud friends, proud parents. Everyone loves us, everyone wants to tell us how much they love us. I had people I'd never met before coming up to me and telling me how great my film was. I saw people pointing, heard whispering. "Who made the film about the rockstar?" or "Which one is she?" But for most of this, I only had eyes for my friends, my classmates, the people who made my film possible.

There is a wonderful singer-songwriter by the name of Rachel G., who came to me after my film screened and told me that, by putting her song in my film, I made her dream come true. To which I responded that by allowing me to put her song in my film, she made my film a thousand times better than it could have been. She made my dream come true--my dream of making people happy with my art.

But there's more than that. Tonight I realized that I've been trying so hard all year to get respect from the people in my major, when I really had it all along. Maybe I didn't have as much as certain others. Maybe it didn't show the way I wanted it to. Maybe I still didn't get the jobs I wanted. But they did care, and had I been expelled or had I left for other reasons, they would have noticed.

All year I have cried, fought, wished, prayed, begged, demanded, cursed, and complained. All year I have done things that I am not proud of, things I wish I could take back, all because I wanted to be good, I wanted a taste of what some of my fellow MPAs were handed on a silver platter. And tonight I was given that taste, and I realized that I would go through these past nine months a thousand times, if it meant feeling like this, having this success.

Shout-outs--well-earned shout-outs--to everyone who made tonight possible, especially the following:

Mark U.

Mindy M.

Travis C.

Keaton M.

Elizabeth V.

Aaron T.

Miles C.

Jesse E-J

Tyler H.

Nicole A.

Jamie T-R

Theo E.

Kylie C.

Jeff K.

Connor E.

Connor B.

Jay F.

Mida C.

Colin C.

Bonnie B.

Pippa A.

Dani K.

Preston C.

Jarryd E.

Michael M.

Lesley T.

Andy H.

Danny D.

Isaac R.

Mary-Carole H.

Bill C.

Harry H.

Sarah B.

Anne C.

Sheridan S.

Erin J.

Siddhartha R.

Rowen K.

and EVERYONE who worked in the MPA productions tonight, this would never have happened without all of you.

I love you <3

We make the hipsters fall in love

HOLY CRAP...

...it has been TOO FREAKING LONG!

I have soooo much to tell you and not enough time...but I will try to say what I need to say before the internet shuts off.

First off, MORP. MORP MORP MORP MORP. It was FREAKING AMAZING.

In a nutshell: I have the best friends in the world. From the moment I got up that day, I was surrounded by amazing people. There was literally no point during May 1st that I looked at someone and thought, "Why do I have to deal with you, you're a jerk!" My date/MORP buddy/whatever you wanna call him was honestly the best person I could have chosen to spend my senior prom with (let's pretend that sentence was structured properly, shall we?). Isaac R., the soon-to-be Ivy League-attending, film-acting, play-writing, saxophone-playing, physics-whiz BADASS who has been one of the best friends I've ever had and gotten me through the year (a LOT...you seriously have no idea) was my MORP date and I will tell you, we had a blast. I'd never seen him dance before and dude, he's an EPIC dancer...in fact, I got to judge a dance-off between him and another good friend, Emily D...and he won, it was close thanks to her disco moves, but he did win...and then he kicked my ass at bowling, and then we kicked ass at pool and got our collective asses kicked at pool by Ariel F.--no joke, she beat us single-handed! WOW.

Ok, so you know by now (or at least you should) that my friends and I are weird, right? Well, what would you say if I told you we had our own code for playing pool? We did...and I can't translate our code words (it's our secret!) but I can give you a sampling of our insanity:

MACARONI STOP!

What even is that thing?!

But I'm from Michigan!

"But I don't know anything about International Relations!" "It's okay, my dear, nobody does!"

Greyhouse moment!

But I want to adopt it!/Can I adopt it?/Do I want to adopt it?/You want to adopt this one, yes you do!

It was, in a single word, amazing.

It gets even better...WE HAD A REAL DJ...we had a proper, hired DJ from Traverse City, instead of having an Interlochen kid do it...and he played ALL my jams..."Jesse's Girl," "Thriller," "D.A.N.C.E.," "Boom Boom Pow," "We R Who We R," and "Just Dance"...and it was awesome. It really was. This is why I like REAL DJs...because they play REAL music instead of just doing the same thing over and over.

Shout-outs to all who made MORP memorable:

*Isaac

*Krista T.

*Morgan

*Mishka

*Lydia M

*Julia H, MY WIFE :P

*Emily H-C

*Thomas

*Gustavo

*Emily D

*Aaron

*Danny R

*Jackie G

*Harry H the HIPSTER ;) jk, jk <3

And a huge, HUGE thank-you to Lisa M., our activities coordinator, for making MORP magical for all of us...YOU ROCK and I want to be just like you when I grow up! :)

But while we were all getting ready for MORP, a few things happened that I have to mention, because without them, my senior year would be incomplete.

I have not had an easy time in my department this year. That's no secret. I've had to fight hard to get even the tiniest roles--I've done continuity three times this year!--and by April I was honestly really sick of this. So sick of it, in fact, that I started behaving very immaturely and blaming pretty much everyone but myself for my problems. I whined. I cried--a LOT. I complained to anyone who would listen about how unfair my life was and how I would've been better off in Comparative Arts or Creative Writing.

And then a truly amazing person in my department came to me, looked me right in the eye, and said, "Grow up."

But he didn't say it in a mean way! Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: He spent the night before HIS junior thesis pep-talking ME. ?!? How's THAT for an incredible friend? I swear to you, until that night I did not know that there was anyone other than my parents who would be willing to get up with me at four in the morning just because I was upset. I think that was half the wake-up call--knowing that even though he had every reason not to, he was still willing to come and talk to me in the middle of the night.

And you know what? I screwed up. I admit it. I screwed up a lot this year--I don't know anyone who DIDN'T have their screwup moments this year, but it felt like I had about a billion of those--and yet he was still willing to give me another chance.

All year, I've been dying to do lighting. It got to the point where I went to an MPA who I didn't like, who I knew didn't like me, and begged them to let me grip for their thesis simply so I could touch lights--didn't matter if I designed them or not, just so long as I could do somethingwith them--and I was whining excessively about how I would do anything to light just ONE person's thesis. (As you might have guessed, that did not work out too well.)

And when my friend got up with me in the middle of the night, he told me that he'd give me one last chance. He assigned me the position of lighting grip--which is a hell of a lot closer to what I wanted to do than continuity or vanities, a.k.a. what I'd been doing pretty much the whole year--and that meant that I got to set up, tear down, and operate lights...

...and, of course, go up in the grid.

Holy crap. The Grid. It should be the title of a horror movie. I'm not kidding. I have a new respect for theater techies--if you have the guts to go up in the freaking ceiling, on a mesh floor, using a ladder so sketchy it's enough to make a skydiver afraid of heights...well, in my opinion you deserve a curtain call, at the very least.

To say that I was afraid to go up on this thing is an understatement of breathtaking proportions. On a scale from one to ten, my panic level was at "OhmyGodholyhellIcan'tdothisohmyGodgetmedownNOW!" before I'd taken two steps. As I bluntly told my film teacher after the fact, it's not that I don't like heights, it's that I don't like near-death experiences, which is what I was sure I was about to have (or having, depending on how you look at it--hmm, going up to the ceiling untethered? sounds pretty deadly to me). So when I actually got to the top and got into the grid...wow. Exhilarated doesn't even cover it. I was on top of the world (figuratively and literally).

So as long as I was up there, I was fine. It was when it was time to come down that I had a problem. I went right back up to "OhmyGodholyhellIcan'tdothisohmyGodgetmedownNOW!" and pretty much stayed there until I was on solid ground. But it was worth it. I will tell you this much, right now: It is absofreakinglutely worth being scared for a few minutes to go up in the grid.

But you know what? I don't think anything was as amazing as hearing the director--my friend--tell me, "You are doing an amazing job." That alone was worth the scary ladder and the scary grid. I hadn't actually gripped for someone in a long time, so it was a double shot of amazing: Doing something I loved and getting recognition for doing it.

And you want to know something else? THAT is why I came to this school, right there, in a nutshell. That's why I came here. I wanted to do what I loved and get credit for doing it. Isn't that why we all came here? (Sorry, I'm about to go on a rant here. I hope my soapbox doesn't crush anyone.) Because I've heard an awful lot of people complaining about Interlochen lately...

~cue new section of blog post~

Guys, come on. I will be the first to admit that there are things I don't like about this school. (Tip lines? REALLY? Holy crap...) But you know what, I think we need to stop, take a look, and put this in perspective.

First of all, did anyone come to Interlochen expecting that it was going to be perfect? I hope your answer to that is no, and if it's not, well, I'm sorry, but I think most of us knew going in that this was going to be tough. And believe me, I'm not going to pretend that I've loved every second of the past two years--I haven't. There have been parts that I've absolutely hated. There have been moments that I wish I could erase.

For anyone wondering, no, I haven't always gotten along with my suitemates or roommates. I didn't always take advantage of opportunities that Interlochen offered me. I didn't go to every dance or eat every meal at Stone or trust the laundry service with my favorite clothes. But those were petty things, little things that I could just kind of ignore. When I say there are moments I wish I could erase, I'm talking about bigger mistakes. I'm talking about the kind of moments when you just wish the floor would open up and swallow you.

Put yourself in the following situation and see what I mean:

You are sitting in a film workshop, presenting your first-ever thesis script. It gets torn apart time after time, until you finally give in and change the whole bloody thing. At the last minute you write a screenplay that you think will satisfy everyone, including yourself. You submit it to your thesis advisor and he turns it down flat, telling you that it is "worse than the first draft," despite a trusted friend's insistence that it is much better than your current shooting script. Your friend advises you to send it in to your department head. Afraid of what your thesis advisor will do--namely cancel your shoot--if you go behind his back or over his head, you chicken out and don't send the latest draft of the screenplay. Instead, you shoot the script that he likes and hate yourself for it later.

I don't care what anyone says or thinks. I will never, ever forgive myself for screwing up my junior thesis. The fact that now I have a better film doesn't matter. The fact that I will probably be able to re-shoot Alien Water Torture someday doesn't matter. The way I see it, I essentially wasted my junior year. My GPA dropped, my thesis film was a mess, and I lost most of my friends and had to start over senior year, replacing graduates and returners alike with newcomers.

In other words: Not exactly the magical Hogwarts of the Arts that I was hoping for.

And things didn't exactly perk up the way I'd hoped senior year. I was told that seniors had priority for theses and crew roles. Not true. Now, I was told that my attitude through the year had a big role in this, and you know what, that's probably true. I admit that right now: There are definitely things I could have done differently, better ways I could have handled myself, and I would make a fair few changes in myself if I could go back to the beginning of the year and do this over.

But you know what? That wasn't the only contributing factor. As I mentioned above, when I actually got on sets I kicked ass. I stayed positive when on-set, didn't whine or act petty to the people who had crew roles that I wanted while I was stuck doing continuity. It was getting on-set that was the problem--by the time I finally got onto a crew, there had been five shoots. And it's not like no one knew what I was trying to do. I told everyone in the department, newbies and returners alike, that I was willing to work. I made it known that I was available. And I still got absolutely nowhere.

For anyone who doesn't know, there's a rule in the MPA department that we are only allowed to do the same job twice per season. So, if I were to be the cinematographer for two people, I couldn't say yes when a third person asked me to be their cinematographer; they would have to find someone else. Last year I noticed that there were certain crew roles, like vanities and grip, that could get away with breaking this rule and no one really noticed. I figured that was okay. I didn't realize yet that people weren't just doing minor roles more than twice.

I know people who have done lighting four times and camera three times. I know one person who did audio four times this season--why? Is it really that much of an inconvenience to have someone who's not the best in the department do your film? Last year I had a great DP who dropped out at the last minute and replaced him with someone who had never DPed a film before. And my gaffer? Yeah, she'd never lit a film before, either. And say what you like aboutPossession, I'll be the first to admit that it sucks, but no one can say the cinematography and lighting weren't anything less than 100% solid. This year the same guy was supposed to be my DP, but he overbooked and couldn't do it. I replaced him again, this time with a first-year who I'd never worked with before, whose reel I'd never seen, and hey, guess what? My cinematography was flipping amazing!

So yes, I know there are people in my department who are already at a professional grade, and I respect them and love them and view some of them as close friends. I'm not saying that it doesn't take serious dedication and some major raw talent to do what they do. I'm not saying that I don't admire them for it, because I do. (Read the end of this post if you think I'm just saying this so I don't sound like a jealous bitch.) I look up to them like crazy and I hope that I can be as good in five years as they are right now.

All that being said, Interlochen is a school, not a major studio. I don't care how much talent one person has compared to another, it's not fair for a teacher to showcase the more-talented student and let them do all of the jobs that everyone is supposed to learn how to do. During one conversation with another student about how I wasn't getting enough crew roles and how I might change that, my friend said to me, "Well, you know, they're three-years. Of course people know that they can do things."

EXACTLY. They are THREE-YEAR SENIORS. Of COURSE they know what they're doing, they've had a chance to do it all before most of us got here! Which is why it's the TEACHER'S job to step in and say, "Hey, this kid has been the DP for about six thesis films since he's been here, and I have this other kid over here who's really good at cinematography but hasn't gotten to do one yet and it's their senior year--hmm, maybe I should let this other kid take a shot?" (Terrible pun not intended.)

Yes, in the end I did get my chance. But by then it was too late in the year to really do anything except say "Ha, ha, you didn't know I could do that, did you?" to the people who wouldn't let me on their sets before. And yes, Mom and Dad, I DID learn a lesson about myself and about what I can do differently when I go to college. But that's not the point. Point #1: It should not be my job to teach myself how to make films. That's what Interlochen is here for. It's not fair that the self-taught, raw-talented students are showcased, while others are shunted to the side.

But the bigger point, and the reason I started this rant in the first place, is this: If you have complaints about Interlochen--and we all do--do not waste them on things that you knew going in would be problems, such as the food or laundry or sign-in or overloads of homework. Use them for things that matter. I would have to say that being overlooked in your major is a pretty freaking big problem.

So, prospective students, listen to me now: DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU. Do not make the mistakes that I did. If your thesis advisor is holding you back, go to your department head and MAKE HIM LISTEN TO YOU. If people are throwing you off their sets or not letting you on in the first place, ask yourself why. If the problem is you--and be honest, because sometimes it is--change IMMEDIATELY. Don't wait until the end of your senior year to show everyone why you deserve to be on set. And if the problem is with your department, go to your department head--and if he doesn't listen (which mine unfortunately didn't), GO OVER HIS HEAD. Go to Nicole or JWes. Go to Mr. Farraday or Mr. Wade--THIS IS WHAT THEY ARE HERE TO DO. Get your parents involved--yes, I know it might be embarrassing, but let them get involved anyway. DO NOT LET YOURSELF GET PUSHED TO THE SIDE. Fight back. It's hard, and I learned this lesson in the worst way possible--so learn from my mistakes. FIGHT BACK LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.

On that note, I have to mention a very special teacher who made this year infinitely better than my junior year.

I know that everyone loves our artist-in-rez from last year. Fine, whatever. Maybe I was the only one he picked on. Maybe others faced the same treatment but don't want to say anything. Either way, he and I did not work well together, with the inevitable result that I learned very little from him. When I heard that we would have another artist-in-rez teaching editing this year, I was wary. What if he turned out to be like last year's artist-in-rez--nice at first, but after awhile things went sour?

Turns out, I didn't need to worry. It was (platonic, thankyouverymuch) love at first sight. This man taught me more in one session of thesis editing than Anthony taught me in an entire semester. This is Danny Daneau, an editing teacher, a filmmaker, and a mentor, who showed me that editing is in fact an art form, who showed me that post-production does not have to be painful, and that there is life after film school.

For the first few weeks I was still cautious, watching for any signs that my new teacher had a dark side. Any signs of power-tripping--any slip-up--any insistence that we were the ones who got the date wrong and not him--any unfair test questions--I jumped. But no one is perfect, and over time even the imperfections grew on me. Classes with this teacher are not sit-around sessions. We do things. We cut films. We critique each other's films. We use professional-grade materials and footage from professional-grade films. We are not just film students in this class--we are editors, and he treats us as such, instead of condescending and making us feel like grade-schoolers.

So far we've screened three of his films--his short Good Night Charlie, his college thesis The Attic Door (WHICH IS MOTHERFLUFFING BRILLIANT, BY THE WAY), and the film he edited, Fly Away. I absolutely love watching his work, just like I loved watching Anthony Penta's work--but the difference here is that I respect Danny Daneau not only as an artist, but as a person. Having Q&As after a screening is more like chatting with a friend than interviewing a teacher.

In an editing session with Danny, you do not feel intimidated or nervous. You do not worry about pleasing him or disappointing him. You just look at him and say, "Tell me what I need to do to make this better," and he tells you, and you do it. He does not hurt you by telling you that you're "too stubborn," that it doesn't matter what he tells you because "you won't listen to me anyway," or that "you just don't know how film works." He is honest--but he is honest about the good as well as the bad. It's impossible not to trust him, which makes it pretty damn hard to not learn from him.

I'm going to write him a more formal thank-you at the end of the year. (Writing train letters to teachers = SO FREAKING INTERLOCHEN it's not even funny.) But for now, I just want to let everyone know--I love, love, love having classes with Danny Daneau, and I feel so fortunate to be here, at this school, where I have access to people like him. Thank you Danny, and thank you Interlochen!

Now that the cheesiness is over...remember that Artist as Badass post I promised? Well...

Have you ever gone to an underground concert and fallen in love with one of the opening bands? Ever seen an indie short made by someone your age and thought, wow, I wonder if I could do that? Ever read a short story by a sixteen-year-old that was ten times better than certain published novels I could mention (but won't, for the sake of not beating that poor old dead horse)? Ever watched a friend do sketches and wondered why in the hell no one had snatched her up to design logos for some hi-tech company yet?

I have done all of the above...and that is why I've decided that from here on out, I'm going to take the time in each of my blog posts to highlight one of my awesomesauce (or awesome possum, as my screenwriting teacher says) fellow indie artists. I go to school with some of the most amazing young artists in the world, not to mention some of the most interesting human beings in the world...it's high time I stopped just giving "shout-outs" on this blog and actually started telling the world why I love them so much.

In this post I'm showcasing the amazing filmmaker Aaron Tyson. Let me tell you, if there were an MPA award for all-around proficiency, this kid would win it, hands-down. Some people are born to be wild, some people are born to be artists, some people are born to be unprofessional...well, Aaron Tyson was born to be a kickass indie filmmaker. I have seen more short films and trailers on his YouTube channels (yes, you read that right, CHANNELS, as in, plural) than I could make in ten years, and he seems to crank them out by the day.

What I love most about Aaron is that he doesn't give a damn if anyone else thinks it's "good" or not, and as a result most of his films turn out so well that you don't care either. It's only afterwards that you realize, "Wait a minute, there was no plot," or, "Wait a minute, that was Jeff?!" All Aaron needs is a camera and a few friends, and BOOM, out comes a short film. It also doesn't hurt that he's an amazing editor--he can take a random clip of a party in his dorm room and turn it into an angst-filled mock-trailer for a movie that you're dying to see...only you can't, because it doesn't actually exist.

However, the talent for making real trailers is as great as making mock-trailers...as these so nicely point out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wz_w7JsC2eE&feature=channel_video_title

http://www.youtube.com/user/Sachte2#p/u/34/OVbBtny0e1w

The first trailer is for Nippeldiebstahl, the film that turned into a miniseries, and trust me, it doesn't make any more sense after you see the full movie. But here's the thing...IT DOESN'T MATTER! Remember what I said about why I love Aaron's films? Here's the practical example. When I saw that film, I wasn't thinking, "Uh, where's the plot?" I was thinking 1) "What's going to happen?" and 2) "Why the hell is Keaton wearing that wig?" (Well, okay, maybe I only thought that once, but still.)

The second is for Sachte, his junior thesis film, which I was fortunate enough to crew for (remember the fifteen friends and a crowbar post?) and I honestly can't make head or tail of this film...but I still love it. I don't care how many times you watch this thing, you will never be able to interpret it the way it was intended (and I would know, I'm friends with the writer AND the director), but it doesn't freaking matter! Part of the beauty of Sachte is coming up with your own interpretations. Or, if you're like me, you just chill out and think, Who cares? and enjoy the movie for what it is: A stunning display of editing, music, casting, visual effects, and choreography.

When you watch an Aaron Tyson film, you enjoy it. Period. And then maybe afterward, you realize that the only reason you did was for the graphics or the casting or the music...or maybe it was because the enjoyment from making the film seems to pour out of the screen and into the audience. When someone truly loves their craft, you can sense it, and it's almost impossible to not go along for the ride.

In place of stolen dialogue (yes, I KNOW you missed it, I missed it too, but this is more important), I'm going to close out this post with an interview with Aaron Tyson, the first-ever recipient of the Beatnik Belle Artist as Badass Award (yes, more WILL win this useless but fun award, and they WILL be featured on this blog and the "sequel blog" when I go off to McDaniel).

AWT: How long have you been making movies?

Aaron Tyson: I started when I was about seven years of age. My first camera was a large VCR camcorder nearly twice my size. Filmmaking was a hobby back then, something for my friends and I to do on weekends, so elements of story were rushed and mostly absent, similar to Nippeldiebstahl

What filmmakers inspire you? Why?

Alfred Hitchcock, for his ability to create suspense, and tell compelling stories with simple yet effective techniques. Robert Elswitt, for being the best DP ever. His ability to tell a story in one sweeping shot has always fascinated me. Walter Murch for his focus on sound design and his ability to make every cut count.

Your films are known for having a chaotic, edgy look with a heavy dark (Sachte) or comedic (The Jeff Who Wasn't There) tone. Where do your ideas come from?

This came from limited resources. When I started making films, I had no lights or trained camera operators. The limited lighting, and use of haze/fog to provide arial diffusion was necessary.

Nippeldiebstahl, your latest film/miniseries, has a few fresh faces (most notably Keaton Manning), and was made simply because you and your crew were "bored." Can you elaborate a bit on the story behind Nippeldiebstahl? How did you come up with the concept? What made you decide to release it as a series, instead of a stand-alone?

Alex Szemetylo (Corey) needed to shoot a music video for a Math extra credit assignment. Austin Holm (The Bear) was bored and wanted to shoot a country music video starring Keaton Manning (Edmund) and Harry Hunter (Crizzald). Neither of them can sing or play any instruments well. I posed the idea of a scary short. horror films are fun, and due to my experience, easy to make with limited time. They all agreed this idea was suitable, yet had no idea of story. So we made it up as we went long. Eventually Jeff Kasanoff (Jack) became the show runner and has written the next six episodes premiering soon.

Sachte has officially become an Interlochen Legend. What's the story behind that film? How did you come up with your marketing campaign? There have been rumors of a sequel - is this going to happen? If so, when?

I would love to make a Sachte II. The t-shirts already have been made to market the potential part two. If this ever happens, it will be a remake more so than a continuation. The film was originally the story of Boy and Girl, two lovable teens, who mistakenly stumble upon a trail in the forest. the trail leads them to a house. The house's foyer is filled with candy and other sweet foods. This lures them into the next room of the house, inhabited by dolls and toys, which come to life and dance with the two protagonists. the dancers are warm loving children, who a revealed to be ragged, ghostly minions to the witch who runs the house.

The marketing campaign came very naturally to me. I figured YouTube and Facebook were perfect place to promote the film at a high school: targeting the artsy teen demographic.

Do you have any advice for prospective MPAs?

Don't be discouraged by the difficulties you will experience here at the academy. Make sure your priorities are in order, though a 10 hour school day feels long there is a lot of time to produce projects independently and perfect your in class thesis work.

Is there anything you would like the readers of AWT to know that I haven't asked you? Any shout-outs to friends or colleagues?

Vote Szemetylo+Overton!!!

Sorry about the lateness of this post! Won't happen again, I swear! ;)

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!)