Saturday, September 18, 2010

Senior Skip Day

(First published on GazetteXtra, 5/25/10)

I know when Milton's Senior Skip Day is.

I would like to say that I found this out through my brilliant investigative skills and fatherly intuition.

But actually, I simply asked my daughter. And she also told me that all that was needed for her to participate was a signed absence note.

Say what? Senior Skip Day is no big secret anymore? And it's parent-approved?

Where is the fun in that? A parent-approved Senior Skip Day is like getting permission from a cop to break the speed limit. It takes away the thrill of getting away with something, where you planned and executed this covert action and your enjoyment could not be complete because of the worry about being caught.

They took Senior Skip Day seriously when I was in school. The planning was all very hush-hush. When the administration caught wind of the day it was supposed to happen, stern warnings went out over the high school PA system. There were even threats about holding back diplomas.

Now, the word is out, and no one seems to care. Yawn.

It must be a generational thing. Once, rock and roll was the music of youthful rebellion; now we go to rock concerts with our kids. Once, we pulled a fast one on teachers and parents; now the parents are in on the deal.

I didn't participate in the big Senior Skip Day at Milton High School in 1980 – in fact, I'm not even sure now that there was one - but my friends and I made one of our own that spring.

It was totally spontaneous. A group of us were talking in the cafeteria before school, and the main topic of conversation was how much we didn't want to be there. That's not much different than what I'm hearing from my daughter right now. Her AP tests are over and she really wants school to be done.

As my friends and I were comparing notes about our class schedules that particular day, we came to the conclusion that there was nothing transpiring that we couldn't miss. So in an incredibly bold and amazingly stupid move, we walked back out to the parking lot, jumped in a car and listened to the bell ring as we left the school grounds.

We ended up spending the day in Madison, a bunch of 18-year-olds enjoying the wonders of State Street. Our big plan was to time our return so that we got back to the high school right when the school day was ending.

And you know what? It worked. We actually got away with it. My group made it to the parking lot right as the final bell rang, and we each went home “from school” at our normal time.

In those days, an absence did not need to be reported with a phone call from home, and as 18-year-olds, we could sign our own excuse notes. We all did that the following day, and our parents were none the wiser about The Day We Skipped School.

Not that anybody ever read the excuse notes anyway. On another occasion when I missed school due to Actual Illness, I decided to pocket my authentic absence note signed by Mom and instead turn in a note I wrote myself, explaining that I had been in Vatican City to visit Pope Paul. The secretary never looked at the note; she just stamped it and threw it in a box with the rest while issuing my “Excused Absence” pass.

Speaking of my mother, she has never heard about any of this, and she doesn't own a computer, so please don't tell her. She could still kick my butt, even with a fake hip and knee.

And that sense of danger and the threat of a good butt-kicking was all part of the excitement. An openly-revealed, mom-and-dad-sanctioned Senior Skip Day?

How boring.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Vanity Does Not Pay

Ever have one of those days when you look in the mirror and say to yourself, “Man, I’m a dork”?

Actually, with me, it’s pretty much a daily occurrence, but today, it was in all caps.

I. AM. A. DORK.

I was already kicking myself for ordering my son’s customized (and non-returnable) Brewers T-shirt in a youth medium size instead of an adult medium. But I took the utter stupidity to an entirely new level this morning.

In October, I will have a role in the Theatre Unlimited musical, “Camelot.” For the part, a beard is required, and a vacation up north last week seemed to be the perfect time to get it started.

Unfortunately, said beard gets whiter by the day. While I have very little grey in my hair, my beard is so white it adds about 10-15 years to my appearance. The dark/light combination makes me look like Pepe Le Pew. Steve Knox (no stranger to hair coloring issues) suggested that I might have a future as a Mall Santa.

After about 10 days of seeing this old man staring back at me in the mirror, I decided to take action. The play isn’t for two months, so a little Just for Men would make it tolerable until I really needed the beard to be grey for the performances. After all, if manly men like Walt “Clyde” Frazier and Keith Hernandez use it, it’s OK, right?

The instructions in the box tell you that the longer the junk sits on your beard before you shampoo it, the darker it makes your hair. They’re not kidding. I obviously took too much time because the color went from its supposed dark brown straight to black. The change wasn’t subtle, as I intended. It was ridiculous, like going from Gandalf to Bluto in minutes. I couldn’t go to work (or anywhere in public) looking like that, so off went the beard.

That’s when the true panic occurred. Once the beard was removed, I saw that the hair dye had stained my face. It looked like I was sporting a greasepaint beard. I looked like a clown, for Pete’s sake!

The initial washing with soap yielded no results. The panic ratcheted up to near-hyperventilation levels. What am I going to do??!!

My wife calmly suggested that a little scrubbing would probably remove the stain. As is usual, she was right, but it took a rough washcloth and about 10 minutes of scouring. Several hours later, my face is still sore from the massacre.

My only consolation is that I’m not alone in the area of home dying fiascos. One of my female friends accidentally made her hair a shade of bright orange once, prompting a frantic late-night call to the company’s toll-free help line.

I’ll have to start regrowing the facial hair soon. And it’s time I just accept the fact that it’s more salt than pepper.

So much salt, I could own stock in Morton.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

You Have 48 Hours To Make A Film....Go!


Two years ago, I wrote in the Janesville Messenger about the Madison 48 Hour Film Project, a crazy weekend in which local filmmakers compete to create the best short film from scratch, start to finish, in two days. It is an exercise in caffeine-fueled creativity gone wild.

I first became aware of this film festival when I was recruited at the last minute (actually, everything in these films is at the last minute) to play a role in Janesville filmmaker Stephen Pickering’s entry, "Kingdom of Ends." The entire experience was so rewarding that the following year, I expanded my involvement from just acting to forming my own creative team with good friend and filmmaker Robert Jarzen.

Our story begins on a recent Friday evening at the Electric Earth CafĂ© on West Washington Street. The ZenLyke Productions duo (Jarzen and Lyke...get it?) sits at a table, inspirational malted beverages in hand, waiting patiently to draw out of a hat (literally) to find out what type of film we are assigned to make. The festival has a pretty decent Milton/Janesville presence this year, with at least four teams (out of 23) coming from our area. In fact, Stephen Pickering’s team is the defending champion, having won the event last year with a sci-fi film called “Unknown Spectre.”

When it is our turn to draw, we get “Film Noir.” I am excited but Robert is not thrilled; that film style isn't his cup of tea. I immediately text-message my 18-year-old daughter Corinne, who is preparing to compose our soundtrack music, and ask if she knows what “film noir” is. She has no clue. Thanks to Wikipedia and my suggestion of listening to the Tom Waits song “Small Change,” she is able to get the idea.

After every team has their assigned film genre, the required elements are announced. Every film has to include a certain prop, a certain line, and a character with a specific name and occupation. This year, we have to have a tie, a courier named Patrick or Patricia Raynal, and the line, “I can’t hear you.” With that information in hand, the clock starts ticking and we all scatter to go out and create.

The next five hours are a whirlwind. Ideas fly around the interior of the car driving back to Milton. Lines of dialogue are scribbled down at McDonald's in Newville. A quick stop at home to grab a fedora and an old Royal typewriter to use as props. A run to the Janesville Little Theatre warehouse to pick up more 1940's-era props. A shopping trip to buy cigarettes and a shot glass. A call to our lead actor, Michael Chase, to tell him what to wear, where and when to show up Saturday, and when he'll see a script. For the story we're doing, we only need three other actors – Robert's wife Tracy, me, and my nephew William.

By 12:30 in the morning, we have a completed script to send to Michael. Corinne has a good start on the soundtrack music and is trying to get friends together to record the tune later in the day.

After a few hours of sleep, Robert sets up his basement for the shoot while I work at home to create an old-fashioned five-dollar bill and an authentic-looking Western Union telegram. I find exactly what I need online (including a font used on actual telegrams). We try to pay attention to the details to make sure the props we use look authentic to the 1940's – from the typewriter to the telephone to the money to the desk (purchased in 1948 by my parents) to the brand of cigarettes. Proving the indispensability of Google, I look up a glossary of film noir terms as well as tips on how to hold a cigarette properly.

By 9 a.m. Saturday, we're back at Robert's, shooting in his nice cool basement on what becomes a brutally hot day. We have to shoot the scene with my nephew William first, because he has to leave for the airport at 11 to fly to Poland with a group of college students. Tracy is only available until about 1, so the scenes with her are next.

Shooting goes very well, as we knew it would with two professional actors, Tracy and Michael, on board. We also luck out by having Robert's brother-in-law, a still photographer, help with lighting and his contributions are priceless. Principal photography is finished by about 2:30 in the afternoon – which gives us more than a full day to edit and do post-production.

I return home for a little rest and to see how Corinne is doing on the music. She hasn't had any success recruiting musicians so she resorts to recording all the parts herself. After I take a nap, Corinne presents me with four separate digital files – her playing bass, piano, trombone and finger-snaps. One problem – I don't have audio mixing software. I find a free program online and put the pieces together.

When I run the music over to Robert's to add it to the film, he already has completed most of the editing, but he is not a happy camper; much of the footage contains a loud hum from the lights we were using on the set. We were aware of it during shooting, but over the headphones it didn't sound like it was being picked up by the microphone. We were wrong.

We had a similar issue last year, but it was minor and the soundtrack music covered the problem. This year, the hum is far too loud to mask. Until 1 in the morning, we surf the Internet searching for solutions to the problem.

At around 9 a.m. Sunday, Robert reads through the help manual for his editing software while I scan more tutorial pages online. After an hour or so of trial and error, we finally seem to have found a way to eliminate most of the noise while preserving the dialogue. Six hours and one computer crash later, we are satisfied that our effort was worth it – the hum is almost entirely removed.

At about 6:15 p.m., we arrive at the Jade Monkey Lounge in Madison. We take pride in being the first ones to deliver our completed film for the second year in a row. When the producer of the competition sees us arrive, she exclaims, “You have got to be kidding me!”

Alas, three teams miss the 7:30 deadline – one by a mere three minutes. One of the late teams had their car break down on the Beltline on the way to deliver their entry; I can't imagine the frustration.

Four days later, all of the films are shown at a special screening at the Orpheum Theatre on State Street in Madison. I see several people there I know from Janesville – Stephen and his team, filmmaker Dave Haldiman, local actor Dave Bitter, former Charter Media employee Brian Alberth. When Stephen's film is shown, the cast is like a “Who's Who” of the local theater community: Dave Bitter, Pat Hall, Tom Hall, Mike Casey, Elsie Van Tassell.

Robert and I worry about how our film will look and sound in the Orpheum. Darker, black and white films like ours don't always fare the best on the screen there, and the sound system can be iffy at times. Our film is shown second, and we breathe a sigh of relief as neither problem surfaces.

We're amazed as we see the credits on the other films. Our credits are definitely among the shortest; our entire cast and crew totaled 7 people. Some films had more folks than that just involved in the writing.

When we turned in our film Sunday night, the producer asked how we are able to finish without pulling all-nighters or coming right down to the wire. I think the key for us, which we discovered by accident and not by design, is to keep things simple. Almost all of the creative stuff was done by two people. We had a small cast. We shot in one location. All those factors added up to time savings. There are a lot of teams that probably think we're nuts to have so much responsibility resting on the shoulders of a few people. If you see the credits for the teams that win the national competitions, they generally have a list as long as a Hollywood studio release. But for us, our system works. We aren't going to win any huge awards, but we have fun and enjoy the process.

You can see the resulting film, “Written Off,” here on YouTube. Hope you enjoy it...