The Italian Orange #2 - Bootcamp

The summer flew...and so did the wine

Currently enrolled in a master's program in television radio and film at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University, I have learned much in the last six weeks. How to edit footage, color correct, and where to find the nearest begger. My endless escapades have instilled deep-rooted beliefs about what it means to be a professional as well as where to walk at night in Syracuse.

The university itself majestically overlooks the rest of the city on a hill reminiscent of the Acropolis in Ancient Greece. The student body is an amalgamate of different creeds and minorities, with a highly unprecedented (though very much appreciated) asian population. The city itself is rife with penurious citizens, tied down under the yoke of poverty. Nonetheless, Syracuse does offer tremendous restaurants with live bands and a spectacular college scene. There is a row of fraternity houses down from me, reminiscent of how most bar strips are situated.

My experiences in Syracuse have been eclectic, eccentric and even ecclesiastical. Unfortunately, there are several beggers on Marshall Street who, though polite, are persistent in their plight to receive change. I have even been followed into Starbucks by a few of them, asking for change. I even turned to one of them and said if they could ask me for change, then they could also ask Starbucks for a job. This was met with much antipathy, but I enjoyed the rational that bouyed my logic.

My scholastic experience has been nothing short of a cathartic experience. The friends I have accumulated has been a blessing, though there are several students here who serve as demarcations of insanity. Some are so self-consumed they are walking enterprises. However, there have been a lot of laughs. In one instance, a student-shot movie was focused on the well-endowed breasts of another student, and, seeing a mistake, the professor asked to go back to that clip again. In another instance, a professor equated a student's opinion of his academic prowess to what last night's dinner was now: shit.

I am responsible for making three one-minute movies with two of my peers, all of which starred me. I also did a documentary with my group which I wrote and narrorated. Lastly, I starred and helped direct a five-minute movie for my group, as well as starring in two other groups' movies. I have been impressed with my performance and received much adulation, especially from a professor who formerly worked with Spike Lee. But, before I can no longer walk through a door frame, I am humbled by all of this and thankful to those I worked with. Editing, lighting, direction all were key factors, and without them I would not have been able to reach my apogee. Funny enough, I have played: a disgruntled student late for class, a pervert boy friend, a lost driver, a pervet who raped a girl's mother, a stringent professor, and a perverted father with Disney-esque qualities. Allow me to put up a friendly disclaimer that I AM NOT A PERVERT, despite the fact I have been type-casted as one. The first impressions upon many of my fellow classmates have been amicable, though these depictions should prove to be illusory at best. Hopefully, my family won't see these films....oh wait, too late.

Our summer culminated with a house party the other night, upon which I was instructed on the prevalence of brothels in Syracuse. With my one two eyes, my gaze was stultified when I saw a man in his late 40's walking in tandem with a girl who could not be older than twenty. A friend of mine, who also saw this exposition in sexual conquests, was distraught, wondering how this relationship surmounted a sizeable age gap. Upon further examination, and with Twas the Night Before Christmas as an inescapable reference "The moon on the breast of the newly-arrived slut/gave the lustre of brothels and local smut/When, what to my wondering eyes should appear/But a minature whore, with quite a rear/ With a little older driver, so discreet/I knew in a moment it must be one of the local perverts from across the street/More rapid than eagles his dollar bills came/And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!/Now Lincoln, Now Franklin/Now Washington, Now Hamilton/To the windows, to the wall/Till the sweat drop down my balls/down these females crawl/Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" I could hear these words resonate within me and conjure up images of childhood, though to my dismay I realized I had never unwrapped a whore for Christmas. Given that "Christmas in July" had passed, I wrote this off as a late Christmas exchange, especially given the fact she was wearing red and green. Aside from an STD, there probably wasn't much else up her tree. At the very least, she remember to wear a skirt around tree. Kudos to her.


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