Done And Done

As I sit here at 10:36 in the morning on a Wednesday, eating half-warmed macaroni & cheese from a plastic tupperware thingy, listening to the Dave Brubeck Quartet, I can't help but feel a little surreal about this whole graduation thing. If you count that lovely advanced placement summer work, which I do, I haven't been completely free from school, like I am now, since the summer of ninth grade -- but, even then, I had practice for the summer musical, Into the Woods, every other day, so, seriously, school's dominating grasp has by tight affixed around my torso since, well, the start of high school. And now it's not. There are no tests in the future, just a few mildly obnoxious end-of-the-year items to attend to, most noteably, of course, the graduation ceremony itself.

The last day of high school was somewhat of a blur and there is a very concrete (I'm not sure if "very concrete" makes sense -- are there degrees of concrete-ness? It seems to me that something is either concrete or it isn't, but the phrasing stands) reason for that. Thanks to our beloved English teacher (and my mastery of the procrastination skill set) I had the real pleasure of pulling an all-nighter to finish up the massively annoying and, furthermore, massively useless final paper. I stopped counting a few pots of coffee in, but if I had to guess I'd say that I consumed between twelve and sixteen cups of coffee and, as a result, I entered the last day of school with the worst stomach ache I've ever encountered in my seventeen years as a human being. Not to mention my head was cloudy from the, you know, lack of sleep.

I don't recall this at all, but I've seen photographic evidence (everybody always seems to pull cameras out of nowhere lately) that I entered the building, perhaps around 7:15, dragging my canvas man purse along the floor with a look of utter defeat plastered to my sunken face. At some point, in the bandroom, I collapsed in a heap of clothes that Hoffman was gathering to tidy up and woke several minutes later, unaware.

Dan did his usual End-of-the-Year video. I went to some, but not all of my classes. Got some Thai food after school. It worked for me. I've never felt happier than when English class was over yesterday. And, in all seriousness, that is not hyperbole. I reached a new plane of bliss and contenment that I never knew existed.

So, this summer, I'm going to work as a production assistant for a film being made in Rochester called Sophomore by our old friend Tim Beideck. I noted, yesterday, as I was uncomfortably waiting for my interview on a large leather couch, surrounded by the intimidating walls of a massive metal fouyer, that our boy Timmy B. has really moved up in the world from his days as the front man of a mildly succesful local band and the director of a string of short films using local talent. Apparently this is a multimillion dollar film, financed by private investors, moslty in California, that is very like to feature the talents of several big name actors, including, I'm told, Anthony Hopkins. There was even a big metal clock over the only other doors in the lobby that made the exact noise your imagining on the minute. Ch-chunk -- the only noise to interrupt the oppressive silence. I'm pretty excited.

My job is not nearly as glamarous as you may be thinking. For example, on Thursday I begin to sift through headshots and sort them -- man, woman, young, old, etc. There are thousands of headshots to go through because they put an ad in Backstage magazine calling for paid actors, which, as you may know, brings down swarms of desperate professionals from the likes of New York City. Later on I may have the pleasure of packaging up the contents of the wardrobe room to be transported to a dry cleaner. I mean, but still. I'm not complaining.

Today I'm not doing anything. And that makes me proud.