The pencils glided along the paper, continually making a faint hissing noise and occasionally releasing a small squeak. Everyone around me seemed to be writing while I quietly scanned the room trying to find someone else who forgot to do the first day’s assignments.
The girl wearing a green dress beside me appears to have just finished writing. She’s cute. I’d say she’s about 5’4; she’s more than likely in a sorority, possibly Delta Gamma, and walks around the campus wearing heels. She’ll lean her head on her right hand, held up by her skinny elbow resting on the desk. She has a pink water container and sips water like most the girls in these “attractive” sororities do – she’ll look up, briefly close her eyes, place the plastic sippy-straw on the tip of her lips, and sip – then she’ll slip off her shoes and expose her freshly painted toes as she waits for the instructor’s lecture.
I take my eyes off this presumably 3rd year English major and focus my eyes to the front of the class. The professor, a young African American lady, begins talking and assures those of us that didn’t access the required reading assignment were okay and would have the opportunity to reflect on the essay at home. She begins the classroom discussion on the aforementioned reading assignment - a piece from the “Age of Realism” about war and love.
By the 20-minute mark, the class begins to open up a bit. At this time I learn who plays what role in this character-filled room. Behind me is the know-it-all that answers questions with confidence and condescending voice patterns, in hideous southern twang. Ironically enough, she’ll have to be corrected every time she answers a question, and proves to actually know absolutely nothing, about anything. A few rows to my left, a closeted lesbian sits comfortably in her tie-dye t-shirt. She has a deep voice and an Adam’s apple the size of my ...
I kid; she has no Adam’s apple, just the deep voice, and a faint mustache. She too is quite the know-it-all, except she makes sense. She’s actually quite smart, I conclude, from the two 50-minute classes I’ve attended.
Behind her is the leader of the social outcast crew. Does that make sense? If a person is considered a social outcast, could they realistically be the leader of a group? Are they the voice of the voiceless and dateless? It’s almost like an anarchist rally. If anarchists are rallying, an organized, hypocritical gathering ruins their sole mission. If you cannot trust anarchist, then whom can you trust?
Anyways, the social outcast crew typically wears faded t-shirts with 1980-esque drawings of wolves. The wolves are typically set in a purplish-blue background, possibly representing the night, and tend to appear as if they’re howling at the moon. This goes for both males and females. The only thing separating the men and women in the group is facial hair. Often times, the men lack true facial hair, but the women sport large enough beards to go around.
Finally, after identifying other minor roles, I think of the role I play. What am I to these people I’ve never met, but managed to fantasize about 1/3 of the girls in the class? Maybe I’m the cynical asshole that will casually ruin someone’s day. No, that’s not me. Contrary to popular belief, I have a huge heart. I could be that guy who thinks way to highly of his self and never talks to anyone because they are not worth my time, but that would only true when referring to the social outcast crew. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Bob Ross, the guy that painted “happy trees,” but when your everyday attire looks like an original Ross painting, we have nothing in common.
Cheers,
Victor
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Poseidon’s Misadventure
In 1987, I’m told that I went on my first cruise vacation aboard the MS Britanis – a three-day Bahamas cruise. Since that significant sailing, a rather large and somewhat odd obsession with the cruise industry has basically consumed my 21 years.
Growing up, I was the only 10-year old American watching the “Love Boat” in order to see the interior shots of the Pacific Princess, rather than taking advice from a knowledgeable bartender. In fact, when UPN decided to cancel the short-lived remake of the 1970’s classic, I was pretty devastated.
In high school, I managed get hired by a staffing agency that specialized in the cruise industry. I was able to work for Royal Caribbean, my favorite cruise line, as a guest service representative. I was also able to get roughly 13 of my friends a job working pier-side, next the largest passenger ships in the world, and subsequently managed to get the same group fired, along with myself, because we took 30-minute cigarette breaks and mid-day excursions to South Beach, while on the clock.
No surprise, but whenever a movie is filmed on a cruise ship or a ship serves as the underlying plot line, I’m anxious to see how well Hollywood can depict modern-day ocean travel.
OnDemand is currently offering the 2006 box-office bomb “Poseidon” on HBO. A remake of the 1972 film and re-adaptation of the 1969 novel, the new film lacks acting skills and most notably, a real ship.
Besides the CGI-produced Poseidon exteriors looking like a futuristic seaboard medical facility, the interior is as predictable and tacky as a sappy romance novel. Set on New Year’s Eve, the passengers aboard the ill-fated ship are decked-out (pun intended) in luxurious evening attire.
No one that cruises dresses as if they are nominated for best actor at the Academy Awards. Just last week, Norwegian Cruise Lines announced that men and women are encouraged to wear jeans in their dining rooms. Only Princess Cruises has a strict “no-jeans” policy in their dining room.
The film features the former mayor of New York (played by Kurt Russell) staying in a stateroom the size of Donald Trump’s penthouse. To my knowledge, even the largest staterooms at sea do not offer vaulted ceilings and two-story swooping staircases.
The ship’s onboard entertainment comes courtesy of Gloria (played by Fergie). My only kudos for the film’s casting department is using the Black Eyed Peas front-woman as a washed up cruise sensation. I predict that in about 6 years, I too can catch Fergie lip-syncing and dressed like long-time “Love Boat” guest-star Charo on a cruise.
Nearly 20 minutes into this nail-biting thriller, the ship somehow capsizes. Predictable lines spoken by the captain and the film’s hero soon follow. I’m not sure if Fergie is dead yet, but that would make the movie a lot more interesting.
I can go on and on about how poorly the cruise industry is portrayed or how bad of an actor Kevin Dillon really is, but I wont. Instead I’ll go back to watching this shit movie, contemplate boycotting Warner Brothers and finish my bowl of pasta.
Cheers,
Victor
Growing up, I was the only 10-year old American watching the “Love Boat” in order to see the interior shots of the Pacific Princess, rather than taking advice from a knowledgeable bartender. In fact, when UPN decided to cancel the short-lived remake of the 1970’s classic, I was pretty devastated.
In high school, I managed get hired by a staffing agency that specialized in the cruise industry. I was able to work for Royal Caribbean, my favorite cruise line, as a guest service representative. I was also able to get roughly 13 of my friends a job working pier-side, next the largest passenger ships in the world, and subsequently managed to get the same group fired, along with myself, because we took 30-minute cigarette breaks and mid-day excursions to South Beach, while on the clock.
No surprise, but whenever a movie is filmed on a cruise ship or a ship serves as the underlying plot line, I’m anxious to see how well Hollywood can depict modern-day ocean travel.
OnDemand is currently offering the 2006 box-office bomb “Poseidon” on HBO. A remake of the 1972 film and re-adaptation of the 1969 novel, the new film lacks acting skills and most notably, a real ship.
Besides the CGI-produced Poseidon exteriors looking like a futuristic seaboard medical facility, the interior is as predictable and tacky as a sappy romance novel. Set on New Year’s Eve, the passengers aboard the ill-fated ship are decked-out (pun intended) in luxurious evening attire.
No one that cruises dresses as if they are nominated for best actor at the Academy Awards. Just last week, Norwegian Cruise Lines announced that men and women are encouraged to wear jeans in their dining rooms. Only Princess Cruises has a strict “no-jeans” policy in their dining room.
The film features the former mayor of New York (played by Kurt Russell) staying in a stateroom the size of Donald Trump’s penthouse. To my knowledge, even the largest staterooms at sea do not offer vaulted ceilings and two-story swooping staircases.
The ship’s onboard entertainment comes courtesy of Gloria (played by Fergie). My only kudos for the film’s casting department is using the Black Eyed Peas front-woman as a washed up cruise sensation. I predict that in about 6 years, I too can catch Fergie lip-syncing and dressed like long-time “Love Boat” guest-star Charo on a cruise.
Nearly 20 minutes into this nail-biting thriller, the ship somehow capsizes. Predictable lines spoken by the captain and the film’s hero soon follow. I’m not sure if Fergie is dead yet, but that would make the movie a lot more interesting.
I can go on and on about how poorly the cruise industry is portrayed or how bad of an actor Kevin Dillon really is, but I wont. Instead I’ll go back to watching this shit movie, contemplate boycotting Warner Brothers and finish my bowl of pasta.
Cheers,
Victor
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