It may have been nearly 20 years ago, but I can still remember the way the afternoon breeze would sweep through the open windows, carrying school bus yellow sunshine and diesel smoke inside.
It was always at least a 30 minute wait after the bell rang while the buses completed their first run, and returned to pick us up for their second run. Being one of the rural kids that lived outside of town meant we were picked up an hour before school started and dropped off more than hour after school ended.
The trick was to wait around the side of one of the brick pillars of the breezeway that connected the gym to the main campus. The bus lane bordered the breezeway, and it was always a game of chance which pillar to pick, wagering on which bus would return first, and how far up the lane your bus would pull. We always mobbed the bus, pushing and jostling against the after school duty teacher standing like a warden to keep us away until it came to a complete stop. The teachers and coaches all rotated weeks of staying late to patrol our shift. We were an interesting group. There were the farm kids like me, a little socially awkward due to growing up in the stillness and solitude of a farm. And then there were the kids from the trailer park on the edges of the city limits. Mostly Hispanic or Navajo, with an occasional token white trash kid thrown in for good measure--they were the rough kids.
The rough kids were the reason it was important to be aware of which teacher was on duty after school. Some weeks I breathed easier because it was someone like Mrs. Boognl, the algebra and geometry teacher. Red haired, 6 feet tall and mean, she could cause all algebraic equations to flee from your mind with nothing but a casual glare. I withered in my chair in her class when she called on me, but I basked in the protection she provided when it was her week on the bus duty beat. Other weeks someone like Coach Mascarenas would be in charge. During the 4 weeks of PE that we played flag football, Coach was known for removing his glasses to clean them. The rule was absolutely no tackling allowed. However, he'd say with a smirk, what he didn't see, he couldn't punish us for. And he couldn't see when he was cleaning his glasses. His glasses were often dirty after school too, and I'd constantly be on my guard those weeks.
The rough kids were the reason it was important to be near the front of the line to board the bus. They sat in the back of the bus, and the really awkward kids sat in the front to suck up to the driver. The best strategy I found was to be among the first few on board, so I could select my own seat somewhere between the front and the back. Then I could hunker down as everyone else found their seats around me. Most days I could simply blend into the green vinyl and the rough kids would rattle their way past without paying me any mind.
I suppose in the grand scheme of the world, the bullying I experienced really wasn't terrible comparatively. I was never beat up. The physical attacks rarely went beyond slaps to the back of the head or slugs to the arm. The mental attacks were constant though. Incessant teasing, continual degradation, threats, belittling remarks were the course of the day. Every day.
I invited much of it I'm sure. I was above average intelligence. Not in a get-all-your-work-done, slather-on-the-good-citizenship, and ride-the-honor-roll way. I was way too lazy for that crap. In fact I was merely average when it came to rote operation activities. Times tables I hated. Learning Spanish was a nightmare. My aptitudes were much more instinctive. I just knew things. I always assumed that it was because I was a voracious reader that I accumulated knowledge, and truth be told, I'm sure it didn't hurt. But even today, sometimes I just know things without distinctly remembering when and where I learned them. Regardless, I was at the very least an easy target because it bothered me so much to be teased.
Fighting was strictly prohibited by my parents. I knew it down to the very core of me. So much so that when I was once attacked, unprovoked, on the playground by a boy saddled with an emotionally unstable label, I just stood there, doing nothing. I didn't fight back for fear of getting in trouble for fighting. After it was over, I still got in trouble. My parents couldn't fathom that I'd been pulled into the principal's office for anything other than something of which I was surely guilty. There was no chance to plead my case, only the sentencing hearing.
And so this particular afternoon, like usual, I worked hard to play all my cards correctly. I managed to avoid any confrontations during the eternal 30 minute wait after school. I managed to get on the bus near the front of the line, and sat in my usual seat midway back. There in the early spring warmth, I sat. Just in front of the wheel well, on the right side of the aisle, while the afternoon sun streamed in from the left side of the bus. My only mistake was that perhaps I sat in the middle of the seat instead of huddling against the window.
The rough crowd was boarding the bus now, with Manuel leading the way. Manuel was Hispanic, and taller than me. A junior high top dog 9th grader, he was already reaping the benefits of puberty, filling in muscle, scraggly black hair on his upper lip, and the body odor to go with it. He wasn't terribly popular as far as the in-crowd was concerned, but he was included simply based on his terror factor. He wasn't just brilliantly intelligent, and I always thought he looked a little cross-eyed like the inbred cats on our farm. As he was coming down the aisle we locked eyes. I quickly looked away, but not before he noticed my existence. As he drew close to my seat, he paused and reared back with a fist as if to hit me. I of course, ducked quickly to the side to avoid being hit.
He sneered at my reaction, and his cronies behind him laughed. Then he joined in with his raspy cough of a laugh.
And I snapped. It was too much. The injustice of a thousand different affronts roared in my ears.
I burst to my feet. My hand clenched itself into a fist, and the farm-hardened muscles in shoulder and arm coiled to strike. My eyes sought his and gripped the lapels of his return gaze, breathing harsh, acrid anger into his face. He stumbled backward in surprise, nearly falling as he tripped over someone's feet.
It was in that moment I saw it. In his eyes lapped another emotion, filling in like an incoming high tide around the scattered stones of surprise.
It was fear.
A tense moment ticked by, and he realized I had seen it.
I lowered my fist, and a smile twitched just at the corners of my mouth. He recovered his footing and reared back as before, acting as if he were going to hit me. I didn't duck this time.
Instead I calmly sat down, and slid to the window completely ignoring him. I think not really knowing what to do, he went and sat at the back of the bus like usual.
I wish the incident stopped the bullying, but it didn't. That would have been too poetic I suppose. It did change things though. While he never touched me again, or threatened to hit me, he redoubled his mental warfare for the rest of that year. It wasn't until we moved to the high school that his class schedule took him to different parts of the campus. He was old enough to drive at the beginning of the 10th grade, so he no longer rode the bus with us rural kids. I didn't turn 16 until June after 10th grade, so I got another whole year of riding the bus.
In that square, small instant on that 9th grade afternoon though, the entire universe reordered, and quantum reality peeked its auspicious face into the aisle of that bus. I stood up for myself and rendered the bully harmless for an afternoon.
Bottle Shock is based (somewhat loosely I'll bet) on a true story. Set in 1976, Napa Valley, and California wines in general, have yet to come of age. Chateau Montelena winery in Napa Valley is run by a father-son duo that couldn't be any further diatmetrically opposed. Dad (played predictably by Bill Pullman) is a perfectionist to fault. Son (played fantastically by Chris Pine) is a stoned surfer dude. In fact their most effective communication occurs in a makeshift boxing ring. Meanwhile in France, a bored wine shop owner (played by the talented Alan Rickman) is searching for a way to drive sales and attendance to his self proclaimed wine academy. The solution? A blind taste test by the finest French wine critics of the finest French wines and the lowly Californian offerings. Clearly the event is designed to embarrass the Americans and further cement the superiority of French wine-making. Rickman travels to California to pick his victims, and when he encounters the Chateau Montelena crew the movie takes off from there. And, as they say, the rest is history.
I haven't finished A Good Year yet--my copy from Netflix was badly scuffed and kept freezing. I got about halfway through the movie last night before I just couldn't stand the skipping anymore. My new copy will be here Monday, so I'll finish the film out then. I feel I've seen enough though, to write somewhat of a review. The film follows Max Skinner (played by Russel Crowe) a hotshot London investor. When an uncle dies and Max is presumably left an estate in the South of France complete with a winery and vines, Max travels to renovate the place for a quick sale, and quick profit. Once he arrives he is overtaken by his memories of his uncle, and of growing up there at the winery. What follows is not unpredictable as he encounters the long forgotten wine country lifestyle bent on living life in quality, not quantity. Add in a love interest or two, and I'm betting I know how this ends not having seen the rest of the film yet.
I Capture the Castle is a sweet movie set in the 1930s. It centers around a the family of a celebrated author who unfortunately hasn't written anything publishable in over 12 years. Quirkiness and hilarity abound, all awash in the gorgeous backdrop of an old English estate, and beautiful period costuming and props. Girls come of age, boys become men, a man and his daughter find their literary voices. Wonderfully written, wonderfully acted. Worth your hour and fifty minutes.
I was afraid this movie was going to suck, put bluntly. But I sat down and watched it anyway, based simply on the fact that the story is about a book editor. I was pleasantly surprised. I'm not a big Sarah Michelle Gellar fan, nor Alec Baldwin, but they were happily tolerable. This has all the makings of a formula romantic comedy, and I suppose it plays out that way. But there is no sugar-sweet ending as life crashes in. This cotton candy flick had more reality than many dramedies hitting the screen today. Worth a cozy evening at home, with or without your significant other.
This movie is billed as a comedy, and I suppose there were some funny parts. However, there is some real depth cleverly written into the script, and the story is quirky and fresh. Mind you, as the cover might allude to, there are copious boobies in this movie. Most were probably superfluous, but at the same time, I don't think they hindered the film either. I suppose it will come down to your comfort level with the human body because you will get an eyeful. Just don't forget to pay attention to script, you may just find something worth mulling over.
I watched this film on a friend's recommendation. I never would have stuck it in my Netflix queue, based simply on the storyline and the trailer. Never was a WWF fan, never will be. And the first 20 minutes of the film played like a bad WWF match to me, sometimes quite literally. But once the movie finds its rhythm the story starts sucking you in. The movie turns out to be profoundly sad--I sat in the dark for a good 20 minutes after the credits rolled. If you aren't compelled to examine the direction of your life and relationships after this film, maybe you better just stick to watching TNT Impact or something.
