Gossip Girl

Did you hear what she said about your shoes? Oh no, she didn't!

Sometimes it starts innocently: “Okay, so I’m going to tell you a secret, and I know you want say anything to anybody, but please don’t.”

Sometimes it starts abruptly: “I’m going to rip her weave out. She stole Marissa’s man the other night when they went bowling.”

Sometimes is starts unintentionally: “Did  you hear Sue’s getting a nose job, and she’s seeking taxidermy for Roofus?”

And sometimes it shouldn’t start at all.

So I came across a short book actually dedicated to the art of gossiping. It’s called “How to Gossip Nicely: A Southerner Ponders the Grapevine” by Susan Taylor Block. Well, I’m kind of a Southerner but I’ve never substantionally pondered the grapevine. Until now. In the first chapter, I’m told to avoid toxic gossip and in doing so I should refrain from cell phone conversations, “doing lunch,” “the walk” a.k.a. the Walkie-Talkie which gives me time to catch up on everything with my co-walker where we disclose embarrassing female issues, problems with pregnant second cousins who recently inherited $6.3456578 million, and the fact two police officers were sent  to jail for stealing a dozen Krispy Kremes. Please do note, however, I don’t have said issues. But if it’s gossip, I guess it doesn’t have to land in actually-had-occurred land.

Block suggests to follow the Walkie-Talkie mantra, “what happens on the walk, stays on the walk.” During my Walkie-Talkie, I shall not forget to discuss how horrific the wait service was at Magnolia, an upscale Yuppy restaurant in Durham, North Carolina; The scallops and prime rib were rich in delightfulness, but our waitress paused (and did this odd humming/”uhmmm” noise) for 20 seconds while determining if the fully-stocked bar served martinis. It did. What about the restaurant’s policy of not splitting checks?

Yes, I needed to Walkie-Talk about it, but instead I wrote up a review and stuck it somewhere in the public domain of the Web. That same night, I became the audience to my roommate’s heart pounding story where she witnessed an FBI raid. Since the police didn’t have a warrant to enter, they left and 20 minutes later, she says, a church van barreled down the block, honking its horn, and an old woman ran out of the house, into the van. Gossip-worthy news, at its finest; I repeated this story to at least five different people.

Word sure does get around on that ol' grapevine.

What satisfaction do we gain from the Big-G? Is it the adrenaline of retelling a story? Added attention? Accomplishment? To me, the feeling of holding in a juicy tidbit of news is like holding it in when you need to use the restroom and your blatter’s about to pop. Furthermore, I feel it’s my responsibility to inform my roommate there’s now a new homeless beggar at our intersection, and to top it off, he’s an eccentric – a dwarf. Another story of an ecentric is found on page 13 of Block’s book: She recalls the story of a man who had a pet donkey and took it on car rides where he sat in the passenger’s seat, and also brought the donkey to a grocery store and a cocktail party where apparently he was “the best behaved ass of the night.” Or there’s the former chicken farmer close to my old college town of Murray, Kentucky who won America’s Got Talent. In a small town, you betcha he was and continues to be the center of attention at pot lucks, bingo gatherings, and at the gas station pump(s). That brings up another point: us gossipers tend to stereotype since it always makes for a better story. This lends us to news that’s been twisted, baked and/or turned up side down, known as exaggerated gossip, the most dangerous of its kind falling into the toxic category.

In the benefit of the doubt, some exaggerated  gossip is unintentional because maybe the grapevine has faltered in miscommunication down the chain. In these incidences, you should use your best judgement determining if the said news is worth spreading. Otherwise, it’s time to retire it. In high school I told a classmate I saw a teacher holding the hand of another teacher, therefor they had to of been dating. In this case, I was wrong; he had a twisted ankle and needed help up the stairs. Lesson learned: hand-holding doesn’t necessarily warrant dating. After all, in the early 1900s, brothers and sisters loved a clammy hand.

It’s difficult to determine if gossip remains gossip if you tell a stranger, particularly a hair dresser or your nail lady. That’s what they’re payed for – besides manicures and perms – to listen to your whining, complaining, dishing, bashing and other types of gossip that you would NEVER be the subject of. And there’s an entirely different type of gossip out there, known as literature. Literature, meaning book reviews, travel guides, food reviews, hotel reviews. Reviews through expedia.com or urbanspoon.com, on the same restaurant, range from 5 stars to 1 stars. Aren’t they just gossip, some true and some not, based on opinion just like my Crock Pot potato soup recipe from Southernliving.com? I proclaimed in written and verbal word never again will I make such runny, and tasteless soup.

If you talk about something, hear it, or repeat it, it’s gossip. So basically everything we say – unless revoluntionary – falls in the unescapable  trap. Where gossip takes place can, luckily, be pin-pointed, and ultimatly avoided. Right? Wrong. Some places I find gossip thriving includes any family function, nail salon, college dormitory, golf course, country club, dance class, horse stable, high school gym, work space, airplane, taxi cab, coffee shop, bar, or cup cake bakery.

Can you ever really avoid the Big-G? I take home gossip with me every day, and I wouldn’t trade my stories for any amount of pumpkin pie.

Round Two Of The Country Club Experience

It's that good, folks.

The Country Club life gets even sweeter when your manager wrongfully accuses you of filling the ranch squirt bottle with horse-radish sauce. So instead of members receiving their fatty side of ranch with warm chips today, they receive a breathy, nasally surprise – at least the reaction you’ve experienced with horse-radish. You’re rather surprised the news’ just now coming to your attention. You fire back in defense because you remember precisely retrieving the ranch from the giant cooler downstairs. Your manager still doesn’t believe you, so she asks you to take her step by step as to how and when you refilled the condiment station. You even offer to let her smell your apron – for evidence. There’s some fresh ranch on it somewhere. She finally agrees with you.

If the ranch mystery isn’t already your no.1 problem, the case of the unslit lemons becomes an even bigger problem. You’re blamed for not have slitting them. Do consider  that earlier you were reprimanded for slicing them horizontally, not vertically. Because, of course, you only slice lemons horizontally for alcoholic drinks, not for tea. During this wasteful moment, you realize you forgot to bring out the requested Old Lady’s fruit variety of muffins since she wasn’t satisfied with the assortment originally brought to her.

Old Ladies love them some fruit muffins.

So you go on a muffin hunt to discover there’s no more blueberry or cranberry muffins in the bread/muffin drawer because you forgot to turn on the warmer, and thus someone threw out the cold, fruit muffin assortment. You’re upset and not looking forward to delivering the news to Old Lady. You hope she forgets, because that’s what old ladies do. On your way back to the dining room, to break the news, your fellow server penguin man curses at the unslit lemons, takes a handful in his hand and throws them on the ground. You don’t mind since you’ll have to sweep them up eventually as a standard chore. But he tells you you’re not doing an adequate job, you were trained improperly, you never bring out enough water pitchers, you don’t fill the ice bucket high enough and so on.

Initially you want to dramatically throw your apron on the floor, stomp, and scream “I quite.” But you don’t because you’ve already found comfort in making his country club life even more miserable and that’s enough for your satisfaction. You pass the Old Lady’s table, with tea pitcher in hand. She remembers, thus transitions into Mean Old Lady. You’re forced to finally locate the fruit muffins. If she only knew you touched them with your condiment-filthy hands, and took a few bites out of the tops of them, she would sue somebody (hopefully not you.) When you later clean her table, you discover she never touched one fruit muffin.

Your shift is finally over, and all you want is to rip the penguin suit, throw it in the hamper, and maybe wash it next week (or the next.) Gasp! There’s a 3-inch mustard streak residing on your left pocket, and all your vest buttons have popped off. You freak because there’s no club soda.

Monday Night’s Episode

Enjoy the story of my Monday night and third horse-related injury in the last year, as told to you in second person.

The treats therapy horse could have enjoyed ...

You’ve led a grumpy, fidgety warm blood – once valued at $100,000 during his prime time as champion jumper – around the stadium for 45-minutes. He’s supposed to be the good boy, the good therapy horse who carries the physically disabled child. He’s supposed to get rewarded with excessive petting and a bucket of treats. Instead, he thinks he can nip at you because he’s big, beautiful and once worth more money than you’ve ever seen. Now, he’s bitter about his shoulda-woulda-coulda life, left with a messed up nervous system and a quivering lower lip. So he bites you and nips at his discretion. But finally, after some taps on the mouth and shoulder, he stops and gives into the boss (a.k.a. you.) Too bad you’re already tired, just from leading this giant pony around the ring like 50 times in a row.

Why does therapy pony have head protection, but I don't? Oh, that's called a helmet.

Next thing you know, winter has crept up with nights beginning at 6:30 p.m., no longer at 8. You miss those long summer nights where daylight never seemed to end, and you could stay up way past your bedtime and not even know it. Now, you catch yourself falling asleep watching movies and it’s only 9 p.m. Back to the responsibility of untacking, grooming and taking your assigned therapy horse to his stall. But he’s not going to his stall tonight. No, he’s going way up the cobbly hill and you must lead him there. You think you’ll be A-OK because the flood lights are on, providing ample light not to trip on the lead rope or fall on your face. Now, it’s time to take therapy horse up the hill where he’s anxious to mingle with friends. So you’re half way up the hill and the flood lights turn off. You can’t see anything, not even shadows because your eyes are still adjusting to the abrupt change. All you can do is feel your horse tugging up the hill, understanding horses must take bigger strides to get those 1,000 pounds successfully up an incline. Unfortunately you don’t realize you could have just dropped the rope and all this would have been avoided but it’s dark and you can’t do anything right in the dark. You pull him back, urging him to slow down because keeping up with him is or was never an option. He reaches the gate, you don’t. You catch up and then he swings his black body around, colliding his giant head with yours. You’re dizzy, a tad confused as to what just happened but you’re A-OK, remember? You’re annoyed because a horse just head-butted you.

After learning the results from my CAT scan. I'm giving Where The Wild Things Are two thumbs up!

You drive home, confused as to where that car came from and where that other car came from. Are you A-OK? Or, are you just having a small panic attack/reaction? You immediately ice your head, and then question yourself if you may have just suffered catastrophic brain injury, dying just like the British actress did from hitting her head while skiing. So you freak out of course because your brain might be bleeding and might stop functioning. Your roommate – such a good roommate – drives you to the emergency room even though she doesn’t want to risk getting the flu. Later she wears a mouth mask, just in case. You walk into the ER, find out you’ll probably wait more than four hours before you’re seen by the doctors, and of course by then you’ll die. Then you think you should have been a nurse, instead of what you’re still going to school to be; you would never get bored since you would see crazy patients like me who’ve had their head busted by an animal. Luckily, your roommate suggests driving across town to another ER. Now you’re hungry so the two of you drive through Arby’s, order a Arby’s sandwich and curly fries. You’re angry because you want to eat the curly fries but you’ve already lost your appetite. 

It's only appropriate that a cat get a CAT scan.

After checking in at ER #2,  you’re thankful that you have just recently renewed your insurance policy because otherwise you would be in a lot of trouble either from not receiving treatment and thus not making it or not ever being able to afford a $2500 hospital bill. Phew, you’ve got your bases covered. Now, you await the doctor and you start experiencing loss of breath, nausea, and compulsive trembling. You think it’s your injured head causing the commotion, but really it’s only nerves. The doctor (rather charming guy) orders a CAT scan. The benefits outweighed the risks, so you’ll receive a high dosage of radiation. Oh well. Next thing you know you’re wheeled off in a wheelchair and you laugh because you’ve never been in a wheel chair. Take the CAT scan 

You get your CAT scan back. You’ll be just fine, and you hope therapy pony will be nicer next Monday.

Greetings from Savannah

Fall Break Adventures, Pt. I

In front of the famous fountain

Moss covered trees

The fountain again

Jordan posing at the former Forest Gump bench location

Isn’t there a Bull Street in every Southern town?

For every block in Savannah, there’s a lovely square

Robert Redford happened to be filming his new film, “The Conspirators,” while we were in Savannah

My second trip to the buffet at Paula Deen’s The Lady & Sons, hands down the best meal of the trip

Just Say No to Sweets. Instead, Whine About It.

(Photo courtesy of imagecache5.art.com)

Today we went to Foster’s, a strange, unorganized old-people market place that hip law students like to go to in Durham. I ordered a veggie and brie loaf and a mac n’ chicken concoction. The meal was completely satisfying, but I wanted more. More meaning I didn’t just want dessert, I demanded it, needed it, craved it. You get the point. It seems that dessert after lunch, and dessert after dinner have become addiction events. I’ve waken up before at 2 a.m. in this confused state of being when I’ve eaten limited amounts of sugar and baked fat hours before – a dessert withdrawal, I like to call it – and because I had no stocked cookies or chocolate milk to reach for, I had  to, with much guilt and shame, pop a raspberry Tums chew.

“You might just lose six pounds in a week if you don’t eat your desserts, Whitney,” My BF tells me. I tell him to shove it. Then I think, what if I can really combat the sweets attack? I forgot to mention I’m already on the right track. Like today at Foster’s, he took my hand and made sure I avoided eye contact with the peach bread pudding, or with the tiny kids pack of gummy bears. I failed to tell him about the apple cider latte and shortbread sugar cookies (with sprinkles!) I enjoyed yesterday around 2 p.m. when he was studying at the library and when I got bored at Barnes & Noble. So right now I’m experiencing (mild) withdrawal, typing away and every now and then glancing at the half empty plastic Coke bottle that’s not mine being occupied by some crazy law student that must study on a Saturday (on Fall break!) I can drink water all day, and cut out the soda pop, the teas, and maybe the juices. That’s a start, right?

This past week, on my Fall break adventures in Savannah, we awoke at 9 a.m., and diligently marched down to the podium on Bull Street to put our name in for lunch at Paula Deen’s The Lady and Sons. The slogan on the restaurant told us we needed to Put Some South In Our Mouths. “Sure, Paula” I said. “Bring it on, Sista.” So we came back at for our 12:30 appointment with Paula (Well, just with her spirit). Food Coma. Food heaven. Foodie paradise. Foodie Heaven. Foodie Love. ETC., ETC., ETC.

Post Paula’s Buffet Pig-out, our waiter offered us free dessert via a stocked tray of cobblers and banana puddings. So why would I ever need to say no to an after meal delight? That would be just plan rude. You would think I would be full from Paula’s buffet consisting of sweet potatoes, creamed corn, green beans, fried chicken, smashed potatoes, and bakes apples. Nope. Can’t pass up free dessert.

Then there’s that stupid idea about moderation, which is always something to strive for yet presented on a freakishly thin line as thin as Ralph Lauren alters its models’ bodies. Am I a moderate person? Does balancing exercise and all-I-can-drink water with fatty dessert count? Why, sure. I used to jog and do sit-ups and partial routines from that workout series called P90X. Well that all ended about two weeks ago. Shoot fire. Maybe I need self therapy, just talk it out.

What’s so great about dessert that I always want it? I’ll just blame others. My mom brainwashed me into thinking it’s A-OK to buy Pepperidge Farm chocolate cookies and avocado dip and pecan rolls and cupcakes and Chess pie all in one grocery store outing. She always encouraged a good dessert after dinner, and not a cook or baker at heart, the majority of our desserts were store bought so I guess we could never really control the high amounts of sugar we consumed. My dad, though, would always condemn our sugar buying habits and instead opt for vegetables and meats that would typically always go uneaten and stink up the fridge. Then there was those days we would have to hide our sweets purchases in the back of the panty in hopes of him not becoming a hypocrite secretly eating my fudgesicles and pecan spin wheels that were to go in my lunch box. Shame on him.

Shame on me.

Life At The Country Club

Grin and bear it. That’s what I’ve been told all my life, especially when it comes to working at jobs which have nothing to do with your intended choice of career. I’ve worked as a server at Ryan’s Steakhouse, a hostess at Cracker Barrel (in which you smell like burnt fire place dipped in a bowl of dumplings), and more recently a server at a country club. For my safety, this country club will remain nameless. Working for the last few months or so, I’ve noticed much more than just tarnished silver spoons. On my first day, I heard the story of the member who demands his toilet seat warmed up by a staff member. He’s the same retired man who requires guidance to the restroom by hand. He’s the same man who makes one of the waiters park his luxury car. This is just the beginning.

The Uniform

If only my uniform looked something like this:

(photo courtesy of uniformwizard.com)

But instead, it looks something like this:

(photo courtesy of miamitux.com)

Three days a week, I’m dressed as a human penguin in full tuxedo pant, collard shirt, vest, and the cherry on top – the bow tie. When I was fitted for this unflattering uniform at the local bridal store, I was not a college girl being fitted for her (required) work uniform, but rather a lesbian bride-to-be. Quite an unpleasant situation. $100 later (all of which was deducted from my paycheck), three buttons on my vest mysteriously fell off thanks to poor factory craftsmanship. Temperature in the dining area remains at a nauseating 75 degrees, which is perfect for thinning, senior citizen skin. But when you’re wearing vest, and suffocating penguin attire, it’s not fun. It’s also not fun when you squirt mayonnaise on various regions of your black, already greasy apron. The apron, nice for storing straws and spare pens and non sharpened pencils, is designed to fit my waist properly. But when I’ve exhausted my energy locating a frosted glass and bottle (never can!) of (must be caffeine-free) diet coke, my apron is practically twisted down to my knees, thus requiring an extra 30 seconds for readjusting when I could be scavenging the extra skim milk for that one mom that freaks out if her three-year-old drinks 2%. (Here’s a trick I learned on the job. Don’t have skim, but ya got whole? No problem. Just add two-parts water and shake. Baby will never know the difference.) Don’t feel like washing your tux? No problem. Just dab some carbonated soda water on the stains. The unwashed armpit areas provide natural perfume for guests to enjoy.

Rule 1. Know your customers

The Old Man Golfer

(photo courtesy of http://acontinuouslean.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/mr6.png)

He’s picky, decisive. You secretly admire these traits and want them for yourself. He sits at the same table every day for lunch. He likes half a tuna sandwich with one slice of tomato. Mayonnaise on the side. (You chuckle because you hate mayonnaise and the thought of having to prepare it). He also likes his top piece of rye bread not toasted and his bottom piece of rye toasted. He orders fruit on the side, but insists on retrieving his own fruit from the salad bar. There better be enough watermelon up there, or all hell breaks loose. Like you’re going to get germs on it or something.

Please don’t get his order wrong, or he’ll tell you your brain is a size of a pea and how astonished he is that you remembered to spell your name correctly on your name tag. You get his order wrong. He’ll also be quite shocked when he asks where you go to school. And when you tell him YOU got into graduate school he’ll politely ask you to repeat this, because he didn’t think he heard you correctly.

The Friendly Old Woman She goes glam at the club … plasters herself with cake-like foundation, bright red lipstick and cheetah print on her belt, her scarf, her shoes, and her blazer. Typically very sweet. She likes to play bridge with her lady friends and take bridge lessons three or four times a week. She drinks her decaf coffee black, and requests extra lemons for her unsweet tea, so don’t bring out extra creamer because it will just go to waste and the kids in Africa will continue to starve. Her bacon on her BLT must be extra crispy.

She loves the muffin assortment you bring out to her table. You, however, have sampled the muffins a time or two and think they taste a little burnt. However, that first day you discovered the muffins, you stuffed three in your pocket and forgot about them until you stuck your hand down into the muffin mush. She wants wine at 12:30 in the afternoon. White wine. Or she may want a Bloody Mary. You laugh because older people aren’t supposed to drink, and definitely not at 12:30 in the afternoon. She also recently began dating a man friend at the club, so you remember to charge his tab, not hers.

The New Member She asks you where the powder room is. She inquires what days breakfast is served. She asks you a lot of questions you’re surprised you even know the answers to. She tells you the food is wonderful, how crisp her bacon is. How warm the ham and lentil soup is. She wants dessert. No one orders dessert. You enjoy charging her $4.50 for a chocolate ice cream pie that would take you three days to burn off. You chuckle. But then she sits in the corner, gossiping with her friend, also a new member, about how her ex-husband wants to reconcile way past 2 p.m. – when lunch is officially over – and you can’t finish your chores because it’s not etiquette to finish your chores in front of a member.

The Underage Member

(photo courtesy of littlebigmagazine.com)

Mannered, basically how you want your kid to turn out. He drinks skim milk, but really drinks the watered-down whole milk you prepared because you were too lazy and too busy to locate. You like to watch them talk, watch them tell stories of their family vacations and how cool the sailing in Nova Scotia was. They’re articulate for their age and must take the gifted and talented classes at the private school. He wants to grow up and play professional golf. Already works on his swing at the driving range. You notice a lot of these kids are adopted. You want your kid to turn out like them. You want to flash forward through graduate school, adopt a goldendoodle.

The Normal Member You hunt them. You fight for their table. Never complaining. Quick to give tips when really tips are included in membership dues. They don’t drink much water or coke, so you rarely have to make more than two refill stops. They read your name tag, and call you by your name. They rarely order from the menu, usually just get the cold lunch buffet. Easy enough.

Easy enough.

A Fresh Look

Enjoy my facelift. Note to Garden & Gun: Thanks for your geese.

My First Kill

The Screen Gems Studios story I wrote, edited, and poured my young writer heart into was put on the red ink chopping block, and then killed. Killed. Assigned to another writer with more experience. I do understand. It’s merely part of the learning experience. But here’s what I ended up with: (Remember I’m dealing with an audience about 50, educated, and obsessed with conservative North Carolina stuff.)

In 1984, Deno De Laurentiis was looking  for the perfect Southern town in which to film “Firestarter.” His search ended in Wilmington, where  he found vintage storefronts, charming rows of columned mansions, and historic brick streets, all located right on the water.

Today, the studio De Laurentiis established to bring the Stephen King novel to the screen has evolved into a movie-magic factory that attracts movie producers – and tourists – from all over the world. 

As the largest production studio in the South, EUE Screen Gems Studios now owns the home to 11 sound stages, some as large as 20,000 square feet, and has accommodated more than 350 movie and TV productions including hit sitcoms and major-motion pictures. The sprawling 50-acre complex recently finished a 37,500 square feet “dream stage,” supporting a 90,000-gallon special effects water tank.

But not everyone knows it’s there. “I don’t even think most people in North Carolina know about us, especially in western North Carolina,” Bill Vassar, executive vice president of Screen Gems, says.

Created as a rental facility open to production crews across the nation, the studios allow production crews to create realities so real, that if you walk through a set, you’ll be intimately acquainted with the sights, smells and feel of the characters themselves. The set of “One Tree Hill,” for example, is lavishly stocked with an in-ground pool, a real working stove, dishwasher and sink, and couches and an oak dining room table purchased from stores around Wilmington. Outside the stage, parked against the building, is the paddleboat used in “Dawson’s Creek,” plus two “Wilmington Public Schools” buses used for specific scenes.

When a production’s in the works, crew members work diligently to fine tune lighting and special effects equipment, local catering businesses rent out an annex on the property, and cast members’ wardrobes are assembled from shops and boutiques found in downtown Wilmington.

Stephanie Treventi, a third-year University of North Carolina-Wilmington film major, knows beforehand when a movie’s shooting around town. “I’ll watch the local news stations’ traffic reports, usually about two or three days ahead of time.” She especially enjoys watching “One Tree Hill,” which shoots half in studio and half on location. At the corner of Grace and Front Street, Clothes Over Bro’s, a clothing store, has become hangout spot for the show’s characters.

Even a 50-acre complex can’t hold in all the movie magic; often productions overflow into the town and surrounding communities in which directors have also chosen to use the interior of Wilmington’s airport and the supermarket isles of the local Piggly Wiggly. “Nights in Rodanthe,” along with the majority of Nicolas Spark’s novel-turned movies, remains true to its North Carolina setting in which it was filmed in the town of Rodanthe and along Carolina Beach. Taking weeks to create, the coastal storms crucial to the plot’s development were formulated in the smallest of Screen Gems’ water tanks.

Some fans, from everywhere imaginable, can’t get enough of Screen Gems. Weekend tours allow those curious about the place to walk through sound stages, some which have been turned into castles and cities. Once, two French girls, determined to see the “One Tree Hill” set, camped out near one of Screen Gem’s back gates in hopes of receiving an invitation to meet the cast members. The staff at Screen Gems say they receive at least a couple emails a day from film buffs in places like New Zealand who plan on making a pilgrimage to Wilmington.

Screen Gems is merely the setting for these productions that other companies and film producers rent the space and transform it to create their movie magic.“People get confused,” Vassar says. “We’re not a production facility, but rather a rental facility.”

For the TV series, “Dawson’s Creek,” producers used Wilmington, including the Water Street Restaurant as the fictional restaurant for Leery’s Fresh Fish, and parts of Durham to replicate the fictional town of Capeside, Massachusetts, later packing up the town when the show ended in 2003. When a set leaves, you can take part in an auction, featuring most of the show or movie’s props up for grabs.

“When Deno came here in the 80s, he hired locals, brought master craftsmen from L.A., gaffers, grips, and riggers,” Vassar says.

Today, production companies have their pick from a local talent pool of roughly 1,200 film industry professionals, many of whom graduated from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington’s film studies program. This talent, transplanted all the way from the West Coast, is still found today. And that’s why people are proud of this place, and like to show it off to their friends. “You can put a studio anywhere, but without the talent, you’ve got nothing,” Vassar says.

In the time since “Firestarter,” Wilmington has become well-known for the Cucalorus Film Festival, held every November for the past 15 years. It’s become so popular that, seven years ago, MovieMaker Magazine acknowledged the festival as “the best kept secret in the indie circuit,” and more recently named Cucalorus as one of the “Top 25 Coolest Film Festivals.”

Cucalorous, derived from the Greek word “kukaloris” is a term for a special effects tool, began its first year in one restaurant along the Cape Fear River, in 1994, where 16 films were screened. As of 2005, Thalian Hall is Cucalorous’ main venue, with another at the screening room on Screen Gem’s complex.

Dan Drawly, director of Cucalorus, says Wilmington is the idea place for its homegrown film festival. With such an eclectic mix of aspiring and accomplished filmmakers, it’s pretty miraculous when you put an Academy Award winner’s documentary up against a high school student’s, says Drawly.“Wilmington has such a rich history, and the studios have a major impact on the culture, and that’s why we’re here.”

And with the North Carolina 25% tax credit incentive on instate purchases of goods and services, which passed in September 2009, more and more out-of-state filmmakers will change their minds for the better and come to Wilmington. “Business has become incentive driven. Producers ask want the cheapest southern town,” Vassar says. Only three other studios operate in the South, including Tyler Perry’s in Atlanta and two smaller ones in Virginia. And Screen Gems is that perfect Southern gem.

There’s Magic In A Town. Meet Screen Gems

(photo courtesy of luminanews.com)

Yesterday, I didn’t just make it to the beach in Wilmington, but had the privilege to carry out a much anticipated writing assignment. Because of sad circumstances, I – the intern – was to the rescue. Still, not having completed my 1,000-word assignment, I shall take the time to reminisce on my eye-opening time yesterday. I justify the following graphs with my mantra: “This is sort of a brainstorming activity.”

Studio Gems. That’s where I was. A production-rental studio in Wilmington, North Carolina that many people outside of the South would be shocked to learn is the home of One Tree Hill and the former Dawson’s Creek. But I’m more intrigued with Nights in Rodanthe and A Walk to Remember. Those were also shot in the streets of Wilmington and Carolina Beach. While all of OTH’s actors were live in person on stage 9, we only managed to visit another stage belonging to the teen soap. Speaking of soaps, Bill Vassar, executive VP, told me OTH has the largest fan following in TV history. It’s a soap for teens, a soap trumping Guiding Light (who had its last episode yesterday). Carla, who carted us around via golf cart told us about two teenage girls that had made their way all the way from France to stalk the set of OTH. Since they couldn’t get clearance to hang out with the actors, they chilled by a back gate and freaked when they saw one the lighting crew men, proceeding to take photos. Then there was the story of all the OTH fan groups that flock to the place yearly.

As our golf cart pulled up to the door of an enormously huge white building, I didn’t really know what to expect. What would a set look like? Would I view movies in the same way after this experience. The answer was no. I will elaborate on that answer shortly. This particular studio space was home to a set of a living room (and I can’t tell you who’s because I’ve never actually seen one episode of the show), an in-ground pool, and a game show set that one of the characters is currently participating in. For exterior shots, there’s a real mahogany glass front door and background woodsy-looking curtain. You know, for when you look at your bedroom window or deck door. Most the appliances are real and at the end of using the set, there’s an auction of all the stuff just for the employees. Sadly there was no glimpse of Chad Michael Murray or the other actors who I wouldn’t be able to identify. Oh well.

Then, I’m thinking how in this world am I supposed to tell the story of this place? My story (soon-to-be written) needs to have that great story-telling feel, that feeling that belongs in the glossy and smell-good pages of Our State magazine. Honestly, I’m still intimidated since the most recent articles have been filled with some of the best damn sentences I think I’ve ever read. You see, some writers – and I mean, REAL writers – have this talent and ability, I continue to desire, that’s able to take a mundane, cliche place and put it in these crazy, ridiculous words. For example, describing a viaduct in lame man’s terms would go something like this: The Linn Cove Viaduct is popular this time of year when the leaves turn rich shades of gold and red. But REAL writers would say something like this: Every fall, if you roll your window down while crossing the Linn Cove Viaduct, you can hear fawns splashing through intertwining creeks and caterpillars bursting from cocoons lining the bark of trees that shed their skin. Thanks. I wrote that last one.

Back to my tour, my adventure, and my breakthrough assignment as a writer. When the original assigned writer didn’t produce exactly what my editors were looking for, they panicked for a bit. After contacting at least 5-7  other notable writers (including talks of Daniel Wallace), I decided to step in. Yes, I was a bit hesitant of potentially facing a big, yet polite, “No.” Lesson learned; ask for what you want, and sometimes you may actually get it. So I did, and I got it. The miniscule intern got the assignment usually reserved for accomplished and deserving writers.  Now the pressure’s on. I must write this piece aimed toward the 45-year-old, educated North Carolina (and what I’ve heard, even Belgium) reader. After all, the piece will fall in the “Year of the North Carolina Vacation” and most importantly, have a shelf life of FOREVER.

Last night, and after my tour of Screen Gems, I watched Julie & Julia, the much anticipated blog turned movie. Luckily for the real life Julie Powell, blogs weren’t “the hype” in 2002. So she got followers, and slowly more and more of them. Where are my followers? I want more. Anyway, and this would probably happen with any movie, I couldn’t separate my newly acquired knowledge of making movies and the make-believe realm of the movie world apart. In other words, I kept mumbling to myself, “that’s a set, not a real house” and “that’s a fake cityscape of Paris” and “that’s totally a fake kitchen and totally done-up food with lipstick and car oil and crazy glue.”

I hated myself during those moments. What happened to letting movies take you away in their world, and letting your issues temporarily disappear? So now I’m wondering if people in the film industry can’t watch movies as non-film industry people do?

To conclude this long entry, here’s some magazine-worthy material …

1. Taking a public tour (which occur on Saturday & Sundays at noon and 2 p.m.) may be interesting, but what’s so cool about the studios is the history and the people behind it. Not consulting my notes, I do believe Screen Gems is the third owner. First created by a director who needed a place to shoot the inside of a plantation, soon to be blown up, the studios was first built in the 1940s. In case you want more history, that’s for the most part accurate, consult Wikipedia and search “Screen Gems.” Bill Vassar told me he recently rewrote and fact-checked all the info.

2. People have misconceptions about the function of the place. Screen Gems is a rental facility, boasting 11 stages and two huge water tanks in which production people will come in make their magic.

3. A movie produced/filmed at Screen Gems may bring in $10 million to Wilmington’s economy. Restaurants, clothing stores, hotels, and most importantly, MORE jobs.

4. The locals are truly proud of this place. They take their guests on a tour, and those guests then in turn tell more people about it. And Wilmington is so attractive that many film people choose to move their families down and live here permanently. Actors have even fallen in love with locals.

Don’t tell the UNC-Wilmington kids this, but you don’t really need a film degree to bust in the industry. Just move to L.A., and then relocate back to Wilmington.

Wish me luck. I have a lot of writing to do. In the meantime, check out Screen Gems’ website.

Coming To Terms With General Condiment Dissatisfaction

(photo courtesy of bighospitality.co.uk)

Disclaimer: I don’t mean to offend any mayonnaise users out there. But I hate everything about it.

Vomit. That’s what almost emitted from my mouth today. As my third day on the job – waitressing for the semi-rich middle-aged/senior citizens of Greensboro, I had to (attempt to) conquer my fears. My fear of physical and emotional contact with condiments. Mustard, ketchup, thousand island, ranch, mayonnaise. You name it.

The dreadful experience reminded me of an A&E reality show addressing the ways in which people with OCD face and conquer their obsessions. According to the healthcenter.info.com, there’s five types of OCDer’s: checkers, washers & cleaners, orderers, obessionals, and hoarders. Which do I fall into?

Today, I was merely grossed out. I’ve always had an issue with condiments including ketchup (or is it catsup?), mustard, and worst of all – mayonnaise. Maybe I’m hypocritical when it comes to ketchup. Even though I’m totally content with dipping fries and plain cheese burgers into ketchup, I cringe when I see the condiment spread out, wet and gooey on someones else plate. But, if they are merely dipping chicken strips or other meat related products into a contained unit that places like Chick-fil-A give out, I’m not that bothered. I think my issues began when I was about eight. My grandmother a.k.a. Mom-Mom would always rub mayonnaise on my grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Come on Mom-Mom,” I would say. “It’s called a grilled cheese sandwich, not a grilled cheese and mayonnaise sandwich. Yuck.”

To me, mayonnaise  is thick, smelly white melted taffy grease. Just ask my hands that had to touch the rim of the bulk size generic mayonnaise jar several times within a 10-minute period. Later in the day, after refilling the large condiment squeezers, a spot of mustard appeared on my black uniform pant. Absolutely. Disgusting. Luckily, the senior server advised me to rub carbonated water on the stain. Yes, it works!

I need to warn people from now on, because, if you’re sitting across from me at a restaurant, particularly fast food style, be warned. I may gag at the tiny bit of ranch dressing dripping down the corner of your mouth. To you it tastes like heaven, but to me …

I was particularly offended when my grand mother – different from the one previously mentioned – decided to bring five different types of mayonnaise-based potato salads to my graduation party in May. The smell was so potent, I could smell it all the way from the basement. Avoiding eye and plate contact with individuals scooping dollops of salad from their correspond bowels, I physically blocked my nose censors as much as my strength would allow. Then I thought, do grandmothers in general have a fetish with dressings, mayonnaise and sauces in general? Yes, I do think so.

My dislike for 80% of sauces does come with health perks. Sauces account for a huge amount of calories you can intake during the day. I remember watching one of those reality fat camp shows and seeing participants sneak jars of mayonnaise into their rooms. Why would a person ever want to do such a thing?

Then my life got worse when I found an online recipe for chocolate cake calling for 1 1/2 cups of mayonnaise!

But there are sauces I refuse to turn my back on. They include honey mustard (only with chicken strips), ranch dressing on salads only if I’m eating eat and don’t have to watch other people ram it into their mouths. That’s it, I think. I know, I’m a sauce hypocrite. I like egg yolks. I like lemon juice.

According to howstuffworks.com:

Mayonnaise is made by combining lemon juice or vinegar with egg yolks.

Mayonnaise is an emulsion, which is a mixture of two liquids that normally can’t be combined. Combining oil and water is the classic example. Emulsifying is done by slowly adding one ingredient to another while simultaneously mixing rapidly. This disperses and suspends tiny droplets of one liquid through another.

However, the two liquids would quickly separate again if an emulsifier were not added. Emulsifiers are liaisons between the two liquids and serve to stabilize the mixture. Eggs and gelatin are among the foods that contain emulsifiers. In mayonnaise, the emulsifier is egg yolk, which contains lecithin, a fat emulsifier.

What if I make mayonnaise myself, from scratch? Would I feel differently knowing exactly what I put in to create the sauce? Well, here’s a fab recipe I found from the New York Times.

To answer my last question, I don’t think so.

p.s. Don’t ever, ever place a deviled egg on my plate. Then, I would have to blog about it.