My boyfriend meets my Mom... oh wait - no... It's a still from "Quincy & Althea"
Two short films that I was especially fond of were “Quincy & Althea”, directed by Douglas Lenox – a dark comedy set in the ravaged landscape of post-Katrina New Orleans, and “The Lonely Lights. The Color of Lemons,” an artsy, sentimental, but polished look at a young man’s rites of passage as instigated/recalled through viewing a series of Rorschach ink blots tests.
Um... I see a train going back and forth into a tunnel while my mother looks on disapprovingly.
Another highlight was the documentary “Girls Rock”, which followed the experiences of a handful of kids and counselors as they spend a week at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls.
Eat your heart out, Ann & Nancy Wilson.
This Camp was founded in 2001 in Portland, Oregon, and has steadily grown larger and more popular. The first year it had 7 attendees; last year it hosted nearly 250. (That’s almost enough rock ‘n’ rollers to staff Amoeba Music Hollywood!)
What happens: girls between the ages of 8-18 come together for a crash course in rock ‘n’ roll. In one week, girls form bands, learn their instruments, compose songs and then perform them for a huge audience at the end of the week. Alongside the music, girls are also offered courses in basic self-defense, and self-esteem and fun are always prioritized.
The documentary is often hilarious, heart-warming, and just feels right as those of us who wore black to high school because Kurt Cobain shot himself are now having little Frances Beans of our own.
The Festival ended Sunday night. My friends were exhausted. The core group of us retired into the comfy living room of Lindsey and Jake, two sexy volunteers, where we utilized their video projector television to watch the most hilarious of the films which didn’t make it into the Festival.
Now, I don’t want you thinking that we sit around and mock people who’s films didn’t make the cut. The films I’m talking about were made by people who probably haven’t mastered the use of their thumbs. Movies in which the writer/director/star (inevitably the same person) didn’t realize films require consistency, wit, editing or, well, plot. It’s an irony that these films always make for a greater volume of laughter than the comedies that do get accepted.
By the end of the evening I realized that I had accidentally drained an entire bottle of champagne by myself. Jeffrey drove Corey and I back to my family estate, where he and I fell asleep in each other’s arms, still chuckling over the train-wrecks of cinema we’d just witnessed.
I'd marry her if I could get the proper paperwork.
Our last day in Nevada City came all too soon. One thing had to be accomplished before we left, and that was a visit to the South Yuba River. For those of you who have never been, be sure to get there before you die. Or at least get reincarnated as someone who does get to go. It’s what a water-park will look like in Heaven.
On the flight back, Corey mused that he’d had trips to New York City that were more relaxed than our jam-packed weekend in my sleepy hometown.