I can't remember a time when someone's asked me what I've been up to, that I haven't said, "nothing." But surely, I must be up to something. I've decided to really begin taking stock of my life and because I'm nostalgia crazy, I'm going to start getting nostalgic about stuff that just happened.
Monday Saw Black Swan with my mom. Note: Do not see Black Swan with your mom. I've, admittedly, but never purposely, seen several of these sorts of R-rated sexy-time movies with my mother without incident, but when the sexy time stuff is kind of a reflection of/reaction to the mother-daughter relationship, the viewing experience just gets, as the French say, weird. But if you haven't seen this one already, you probably should. If only to check out Vincent Cassel, who is, as the French say, French. Total French dude.
Tuesday Blew off a writing assignment and saw the new Sofia Coppola movie Somewhere. Can't help thinking that Sofia Coppola's entire career is based on a bet...and of course nepotism, to a lesser extent. But I am a fan of hers, in spite of myself, and enjoyed this movie even though there was no plot, conflict, etc.
Wednesday The neighbor boy came over and we watched The Empire Strikes Back (RIP Irvin Kershner) while talking about how aimless we are, the stupidity of Facebook, and Yoda's tendency to flip everyone the bird.
Thursday My boyfriend and I decided that we needed to go on diets and were planning on eating something healthy for dinner but instead ate monster burritos. We are fat enablers.
Friday BF got me hammered, hoping, I think, that it would lead to some sort of make-out sesh or coitus situation but really all it lead to was chili cheese fries at 2AM.
Saturday Went to the Pixar exhibit at the Oakland Museum, which was extremely rad even though the whole experience was ultimately just rubbing salt into the you-will-never-work-for-Pixar wound. (Decided that later, I'd nurse said wound with a Lean Cuisine binge.) Saw this ominous/seedy "Pay Her" sign when we parked the car outside the museum:
Sunday Watched the Syfy channel's Star Trek movie marathon. Desperate to see my idol/husband Jean-Luc Picard/Patrick Stewart, I waited with bated breath for the Next Generation movies.
A block away from IHOP and sandwiched in between "the hood" and a hipster-friendly, quasi-industrial, semi-gentrified area of Emeryville, California is Pixar. The animation studio (which also happens to be a 10 minute drive away from my house) was founded over 20 years ago by John Lasseter--a former Disney animator--and Ed Catmull--a Lucasfilm CGI pioneer/all-around super smart, mega-brain, physicist type. Mock turtleneck aficionado, Steve Jobs, was the studio's original investor.
I'd only been 12 for about 2 weeks when I saw Toy Story--Pixar's first feature-length film. As someone who has been called eerily stoic/soulless/android-like, the experience was oddly moving for me. My icy, adolescent heart had been so totally warmed by the end of the movie that I completely lost it when I heard Randy Newman's happy-go-lucky singin' and piano playin'.
That movie stuck with me, man. It resonated. I became mildly paranoid around my old toys.
A solid 67% of me wants to work for Pixar because of how much I admire their films--generally, I'm creeped out by anthropomorphism but I adore everything the studio produces. The other 33% of me isn't so sentimental.
The thing most people don't know about the Pixar studio is that its iron gates and prohibitive foliage hide what is literally an elysian utopia of awesomeness.
According to legend, there are swimming pools, video game rooms, and adorable chimpanzees just waiting to be hugged. Their cafeteria boasts a gourmet menu; employees ride around the halls on scooters and bicycles; there is at least one regulation sized soccer goal on the premises.
Recently, I learned (via a Facebook status update) that a co-worker of mine had somehow been given the opportunity to see a screening of Toy Story 3 at Pixar and that, in addition to all of the ridiculous things that I've just described, there's a life-sized Barbie Dream House with a working elevator.
So I could get all schmaltzy and nostalgic and idealistic about why I want to work for Pixar because, like I said earlier, there is an element of that, but I'm also not going to lie to anyone. I really just want to ride that Barbie Dream House elevator and eat filet mignon for lunch.
Unfortunately, I don't know that I--a chick with a BA in Medieval European History--possess the sort of skillz that would qualify me for a job at one of the world's most famous animation studios. I mean, I can kind of draw Pixar characters:
Though, after I showed the above picture of Woody to my mother she said, "Oh, that's good, Amber. Is it a 70s man?"
So I guess if Pixar is looking to hire someone who can draw 70s men, I'm their girl.
When I told my BFF that I was dying to work for Pixar she said that she believed in me and thought that I could get a job there. As a janitor.
But if you're going to be a janitor, you might as well be a Pixar janitor, right? I'm sure their maintenance workers get most of the same perks as everyone else. Plus, if I were a janitor, it would finally give me the chance to play out all of my Good Will Hunting fantasies. You know, where I--an aimless but brilliant blue-collar worker--dazzle all of the so-called intellectuals.
Realistically, though, it's probably just as difficult to land a job as a janitor at Pixar as it is to be hired for any other position. But I'm still determined to get onto their lot by any means necessary. Being the illustrious stalker that I am, I have already performed some preliminary reconnaissance in an attempt to figure out how to make my way into the studio undetected.
These photos were taken as part of Phase 1 of Operation Penetrate Pixar or OPP. Phases 2-infinity and beyond are essentially just me standing outside of the studio, pointing at myself, and saying "wingardium leviosa" over and over again until something happens. But if you're down with OPP and you don't want me to go to jail for trespassing/be forced into a psychiatric hospital, then you can contact Pixar on Twitter or Facebook and tell them to let me in. Just kidding. No, but seriously, do it.
