the Change I Wish to See

I saw "Once" today. And it was brilliant.

I took some good advice and stuffed it in my bag before I left the house. It's now back in its auto-mailer, peeking out of my vest's pocket and I don't want to let it go.

I watched it squirreled away in the basement of our law library, holed up in the smallest "conference room" you've ever seen (that I had reserved to "study"). And then I went on vacation. I didn't read a thing. I stopped kicking myself for not having a paper topic (when I actually need 3). I forgot I had a phone that at any given moment could simultaneously alert me I had an email, a text message, a voicemail, a call, a Facebook wall post, and a class in three hours. Well I almost forgot. Actually, I was really, really aware of it because I'm constantly worried that I'm going to break, lose or be separated from it in a questionably legal manner. But I forgot about the symbolism of it.

Right: this was supposed to be about "Once," not OCD.

The characters didn't have names. Even the credits introduced them as "guy" and "girl." When you're standing in a room across from someone who's completely naked, the name is the last to matter. And both guy and girl, especially guy, were completely bared. At times, I shielded my eyes, embarrassed by how starkly human and familiar they were. I watched them unfold and had to avert my eyes out of my own sense of shame.

And all of my suspicions were wrong. I saw the trailer months ago and cringed at the idea of yet another film driven by songs with as much crowd appeal as a Paris Hilton performance of "The Star-Spangled Banner" (i.e., 'and the home... of the brave... that's hot'). I just can't understand why people think you can make movies revolve around song-centerpieces that aren't written by great songwriters; as if being in a film excuses a song from being able to stand on its own. But every, single, one of these songs is memorable. Every, single, one (even the conversations he plays in the back of the bus, realizing it's often easier to sing because it sounds like a different voice).

My vacation is over. I should've been back at work a long time ago. But this movie was just so authentic. I watched the special features (not the deleted scenes, the commentary). The director and leads reveal that people are so convinced the story is real they stop them, convinced they had watched a documentary, and ask what happened next. And what do you say about fiction that couldn't possibly be?

GW football doesn't exist (despite what the t-shirts at the bookstore say). There are many rumors as to why. Some say it was contractual, to guarantee the building of the Smith Center. Others say it's because Georgetown was upset that we'd finally have a chance at being better than it at something, and so we caved in to protect the "natural order of things," -- Georgetown's actual words -- when it threatened to put us on its basketball schedule.



Yet others say football teams add school spirit, and building classes of kids who care, about anything, certainly their school, would hurt GW's image and hence its recruiting with the "I'm too sexy for my Uggs - juicy-assed - collar-poppin'" Lawn Guyland apathetics crowd.



But after a night like tonight, where we sat right behind the end zone, knee-deep in student pride for a slow, dull-witted creature, it hit me: I can't feel my toes.



It was really, really cold. And I was soaking wet because some genius had spilled his entire Pepsi on my back and legs. The whole thing. It was like the dude behind the counter had put me directly under the soda fountain rather than a cup. He might as well have thrown ice in my eye. I looked like I had been in the trenches, with shin-deep soda stains on my jeans from wading through a caffeine river. He tried to help dry me off, but at that moment, it was the kind of help that doesn't stop you from wanting to punch him in the face. And through it all, there was this sopping bag o' douche a few rows ahead, who just could not let it go. Whether it was 2nd and 4, or 3rd and 19, he was screaming, "Gimme five [yards]." He yelled during timeouts. He yelled at halftime. He embarrassed his wife. He made me sad for his kids. He smelled like hobbit feet.



And it's that kind of "god, this sucks," "I should be anywhere but here" mentality that we are sorely missing. Because we would lose. We would lose hard. And we would lose interest if GW didn't put the game out of reach in 15 minutes or less. But we could be one in our failure. We could be nothing, together.



GW, the ball's in your hands.



Give us something new to complain about.





Sent via iPhone.