3 or 6 Ways to Recognize Me on the Silver Screen

I might have been in a movie on Saturday.

Last week my boss forwarded an email looking for volunteers to drive 60 miles and sit in the wind for free to be extras in an independent film. My other options for Saturday all involved responsibilities or personal betterment, so I immediately RSVPed to the casting company.

We played the audience at a horseshoe tournament, which is 90% of what I know about the movie. There’s also a guy who is planning to jump off of a bridge, and (SPOILER ALERT) one of the horseshoe players has a little dog with a vest on.

It’s difficult to tell where the camera was pointed or which footage will be used, so I’m providing this useful guide to help you look for me in the finished work.

Girl Who Is Really, Really Into Horseshoes

The extras’ main job was to cheer wholeheartedly for the horseshoe game, which was apparently the most exciting thing to happen in the known history of this little town. We clapped, we whistled, we stood up, and one little girl kept shouting, “Is it okay to talk yet?”

Pretend enthusiastic clapping is considerably more tiring than real enthusiastic clapping, since you don’t have the actual excitement to lend you strength. As a result, we may be the only group of people in history who can honestly say, “Watching that game of horseshoes wore me out!”

Of course, we weren’t actually watching a game. We reacted to a professional horseshoe thrower hitting all the ringers, and then to the actors throwing shoes wherever they happened to land. Thanks to the confusion, I didn’t know who won the tournament until just after I finished applauding for it, setting me up for a long-running role as Girl Who Has Been Cheering for the Wrong Side.

Girl Who Just Stole That Frozen Hamburger

This film didn’t have a lot of spare money lying around. As a result, all of the extras were paid in sack lunches and the possibility of a half-second of screen time. We did get some exciting perks, though, including food props that we were allowed to nibble on for increased realism.

Crew members started salting the crowd with hamburgers and sides at 9 a.m. I was not among the chosen, which was fine because Breakfast Coleslaw is not an accustomed feature of my morning routine. By about 11:00, though, the abandoned plates littering the bleachers started to look pretty enticing. I finally located a burger with no obvious bite marks and did my part for authenticity.

Fifty-degree temperatures and several hours of wind do no favors for bottom-shelf meat products.

On the upside, outdoors was even safer for food storage than a refrigerator. Also, the experience prepared me for another role, later in the day, as Girl Who Really Appreciated That Free Turkey Sandwich.

Girl Who Is In Six Places Causing Continuity Problems

The scene needed about 200 extras, and 70 showed up. We started the morning with the instruction, “Remember this seat because it’s your spot for the whole day.” After half an hour, it changed to, “Try to take up a lot of space.” Finally, the crew gave up and started moving groups of us to whichever area of bleachers was in camera range at the time.

This approach means that every shot of the crowd includes the same people in a slightly different arrangement. I’m particularly looking forward to the sequence in which I am standing behind the two championship horseshoe throwers and simultaneously looking on from the bleachers 30 feet away. If the editors cut back and forth between those two shots, I’m planning to start internet rumors about a cloning conspiracy plotline abandoned in the final version.

Then again, they may cut me out entirely thanks to my brief cameo as Girl Who Totally Looked at the Camera Just Then.

Anyway, if you have a chance to see a film called Stars with a horseshoe-related subplot, keep an eye out for me. I’ll be the one clapping, gnawing, teleporting, and otherwise lurking around looking like this:

Also, don’t forget to prepare your glowing compliments for my inevitable IMDB page. I’m currently seeking copious uses of the words “witty” and “brilliant.”

NaNoWriMo

November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for those who are saving the extra syllables for use in their literary efforts.

The idea is to write at least 50,000 words of a novel over the course of the month, which averages to about 1,667 words per day. It’s not too late to start, but you’ll have to put in some overtime.

I am not participating, since I am too much of a sissy for serious fiction. As we all know from high school, a book cannot have literary merit unless terrible things happen to any characters worth liking. Whether an honest farming family slowly starves on the way to California or Death Eaters slay a loyal house elf, the good guys have got some suffering coming.

I have taken a few creative writing courses, but my short stories always chickened out when I reached the possibility of anything important happening. I had just made up lives for all these people, and it didn’t seem right to invent them a bunch of pain.

As an alternative, then, I am celebrating NaNoITrToWriInFoGrMo by presenting excerpts from the Novel I Tried To Write In Fourth Grade.

Most of my memories from that year involve the ambitious plans I had for my world-changing contribution to literature. I worked on it during every writing hour and rainy-day recess, filling double-spaced pages and occasionally leaking previews to my teacher so that she could enjoy the privilege of witnessing my genius.

As a basically show-off-y kid (who totally grew out of that), I wanted two things to surround this epic: Absolute secrecy, and universal knowledge that I had something super amazing and was keeping it to myself.

I installed a homemade lock on my spiral notebook, limiting access to only advanced masters of paperclip-and-string technology. To foil those remaining wily invaders, the first few pages were filled with warnings and cunning deceptions.

The problem was that my security measures worked. No one cared about seeing my story, and no one from school could access its hiding place under my dresser. The only audience left was my little brother, so I had to whet his appetite for my sweet, sweet, secret magical prose. I “accidentally” revealed my storage spot. I started leaving the notebook in the middle of my floor, with a hair across the pages to detect tampering. I held little readings of the most impressive parts and dropped tantalizing hints about the plot.

The plot in question was the combined product of my all-consuming Dog Phase and roughly twenty viewings of Babe, specifically the parts with the border collies. I also saw a local production of Camelot and discovered the dramatic potential of betrayal and revenge.

WARNING: Top secret material below! Continue at your own risk! If you tell anybody, I WILL KNOW AND GET YOU!

“Blaze was a one-year-old workdog on the McLoftlen farm….He had a happy life on the farm. Hearding seep, and chaseing rabbitts, birds, and butterflies. But one day he was afraid that it would all come to an end—much too soon for Blaze.”

He is out herding one day when a duck brings him a threatening, anonymous note about how the farmers think Blaze is responsible for a recent sheep killing. Sure enough, the farmer’s wife tries to shoot Blaze, but fortunately she is as bad at aiming as she is at maintaining a consistent personality from page to page.

As Blaze recovers, his most feared enemy dog, Mordred, shows up in the field. An epic dog battle ensues, featuring the grittiest action I could conceive: “First Mordred jumped at Blaze, then in a burst of fury, Blaze would jump back. This went on for almost an hour, and then Mordred slyly slunk away.”

The farmer and his wife tend Blaze’s wounds while producing authentic country dialogue such as, “I reckon’e got in a fight with a’other dawg.” Farmer McLoften calls his neighbors about their dog bully, and they hang up on him.

…and with this cliffhanger finish, I stopped writing my masterpiece and forgot what else was supposed to happen. Probably a lot more jump-fighting and apostrophes.

Despite all my careful buzz cultivation, chances are good that I just got distracted. The next thing in the notebook is this piece of fine art:

I remember spending most of 5th grade on these and stussies. That specific distraction is the biggest threat to NaNoWriMo, from what I hear.

Happy Halloween!

I love Halloween. We need a lot more holidays that allow people to dress in costume and eat an entire bag of Reese’s cups. Seriously, just think about how much better Valentine’s Day would be if you could buy yourself a box of chocolates while being an imperial stormtrooper.

I squandered a few Halloweens in my childhood by wearing the same fairy princess dress for multiple years in a row, thus forever missing my chance to be baby Yoda. Since then, I’ve learned to show greater respect for the idols of my formative years.

[Important Update: It has come to my attention that some people think the creature pictured above is Cookie Monster. If you missed this important part of Sesame Street, I feel really bad for you.]

In addition to dressing up and sugar, I also love being good at things, which is why I rarely go dancing. However, one of the community centers in town has swing dancing every Tuesday night, and my roommate convinces me to come roughly once per year for the Halloween costume contest. A little coordination-based loss of dignity is a fair price to pay for dancing with the Dread Pirate Roberts and Dr. Horrible.

This year I couldn’t settle on an appropriate nerd culture role model, so I wore this:

I received a couple of compliments and only one “You look like you’re twelve,” but I just joined the contest for the fun of it. My outfit could never compete on the level of the guy who built a Transformer suit out of spare car parts.

But to my intense surprise, when they started announcing the winners, I had come in first!

In the children’s category.

Specificity was clearly not this contest’s top priority, though. Other winners, as announced from the stage, included:

“The robot”

stars.ign.com

“The Fantastiks”

amazon.com

…and finally, “The Star Trek dude.”

knowyourmeme.com

I asked Jean-Luc how he felt about being demoted from Captain to “dude.” Apparently it’s a little like dressing as food and being mistaken for a middle-schooler.

Picard did dance with me, though. My level of excitement was probably sufficient to put me on some kind of watch list for deranged stalkers of fictional characters. I elected not to mention my own tenure on the Enterprise.

Stop Callin', I Don' Wanna Think Anymore

Humanity really loves telephones. We’ve had them for a hundred and thirty years, and for the last couple of decades we’ve been carrying them around with us at all times. At least two people I work with daily keep their phones clipped to their heads, and people don’t even think that’s weird anymore.

So, with this vast cultural store of phone knowledge and a lifetime of personal experience, how can I still be so bad at it?

One of the reasons I’ve been blogging less regularly of late is a messy business situation that is taking up a lot of my time and requiring a lot of important-sounding phone calls. That’s how I discovered the danger of Sudden Aphorism Syndrome.

With email, you can spend a few minutes to formulate a thoughtful reply. You can also ignore messages for days until the sender confronts you in person, and then you can lie about internet connectivity problems. On the phone, meanwhile, you keep having to think of another thing to say RIGHT NOW.

When I’m pressed for meaningful statements without any prep time, some ancestral storage facility in my brain takes over and I start to spout down-home wisdom like an old-timey farmhand.

On the other end of the situationally-inappropriate-word-usage spectrum, I have now caught myself saying “pursuant to” over the phone in three separate conversations with people I know in real life.

Even without someone asking questions on the other end, the danger doesn’t stop. My second-greatest telephone enemy, after myself, is voicemail.

At work I leave a large number of phone messages, primarily of the “please send money” variety. These usually sound confidently professional right up until the last ten seconds, when my mouth has words left over after my brain has run out of information.

The wonderful thing about this medium is its permanence. Unlike the aforementioned conversation, recipients can replay messages to their hearts’ delight.

P. S. In case you finally got this out of your head.

EDIT: Yeah, so I did not watch the official video of that song before posting it. This is a different one with a lot less of...everything, really...

We Would Like to Extend to You an Invitation to the Ants Party

We’ve already discussed the fact that I am not afraid of ants, since it’s ridiculous to fear a non-poisonous creature 1/54,000,000 my size. I hate them instead, because burning rage at God’s creatures for their inherent species characteristics is perfectly reasonable.

The ants made a move Sunday morning that I’m not sure how to interpret. It seems like they are trying to change our arrangement, but I can’t tell what direction they are hoping to take.

That’s right—I took a swig from my water bottle and subsequently pulled a live ant out of my mouth.

I’m uncomfortable with the speed at which the ants seem to want our relationship to progress.

How I Keep Injuring Myself in Progressively Lamer Ways

Someone gave me a diary when I was about six, and all through elementary school I would unlock it once a year or so to write another variation on “My brother is anoeeing when he trys to play with my freinds.”

Shortly after the entry on a possible monster with bloody eyes in the church basement, there’s a whole page dedicated to “I want a Broken arm or fott please.” This sentiment was inspired by numerous classmates who, unlike me, were awesome enough to arrive at school with day-glo casts for weeks at a stretch.

Broken limbs didn’t just get you special permission to sit in the rocking chair for story time; they also proved that you led a life of incredible daring.

I could not compete.

My childhood lack of grievous bodily harm has matured into a lifelong talent for injuring myself in spectacularly undramatic ways. I still get hurt occasionally; I just do it in the least interesting manner possible.

A Few Examples:

• I grew really fast one summer in middle school, which made my legs hurt a lot. I also spent half of 7th grade limping due to not damaging my knee in any discernable way.
• In high school I developed an ingrown toenail, and then I contracted a case of Persistent Wrist Pain Caused by Nothing.
• In college I strained my shoulder by reaching too enthusiastically for a salt shaker, and one morning I was physically unable to get out of bed because I had coughed all night and worn out my core muscles.

Given this history, I wasn’t too concerned a couple of weeks ago when my right arm developed a sudden enthusiasm for random, stabbing pains. Since I could still scoop ice cream, the problem wasn’t seriously affecting my way of life.

Pretty soon, though, my shoulder wouldn’t rotate much without expressing its rage. I started feeling like a poorly designed action figure—one where you try to activate the Kung Fu Grip, but his arm won’t come back all the way because his veiny bicep collides with his rippling pecs.

After a few days of using my left arm for everything, that hand started to hurt, too. A small part of my brain acknowledged what was logically happening, but the rest of it was busy panicking.

Finally, I woke up to a right arm that couldn’t even reach my face and the firm belief that every movement was sawing away at permanent nerve damage. My roommate found me on my bed waiting for the clinic to open, whimpering quietly and imagining the worst possible things that could happen.

When you arrive at Urgent Care with a case of “my arm hurts,” they smirk and send you to sit next to “I have the sniffles” for a couple of hours. My roommate sat patiently while I talked determinedly at her about anything except how I was probably dying.

When my frothing anxiety and I finally got to see the doctor, he revealed that I had an acute attack of tendinitis caused by something thrilling like typing wrong. In retrospect, I don’t know why I was worried. It’s probably not physically possible for me to be injured in any interesting and dramatic way. I’ve never even had strep throat—I’ve just had a lot of cases of, “Oops, never mind, it turns out that’s just another cold.”

I ended up with a sling, some low-end drugs, and a diagram of goofy-looking rotator cuff exercises.

This episode has been the crowning achievement of my lame injury history so far. I had an immediate visual representation of my suffering, but nothing good to back it up when people asked what happened.

I wore the sling for the better part of a week, and I spent most of that time trying to come up with a better story.

Also, it turns out that tendinitis sticks around for quite a while once you develop it. This means that I’m still putting the sling back on about once a week, and all the same sympathetically eager questions crop up again.

(P.S. If you were naming an affliction of the tendons, wouldn’t you spell it “tendonitis”? So would I.)

Promises, Promises

For part of last week and most of the weekend, I was unable to draw or type with my right hand. I decided not to spend that time producing an array of these:

You’re welcome.

Anyway, now that I have my manual dexterity back, I’m using all of it to move to a new apartment this week. Rarely has such creative power been focused on which spatula to pack first.

Provided that we get the internet connected in short order, I should be back next week for the story of what happened to my arm, or “How I Keep Injuring Myself in Progressively Lamer Ways.”