This is a great introduction class for students who want to learn more about the simple concepts related to media such as making a website or the history and evolution of the internet. And with film, we learn about the types of angles and focal length that have different intentions for the viewer’s interpretation of the image. Would I recommend this course? Only because it’s a prerequisite.

Personally I think the class focuses on teaching too many subjects in such a little amount of time and I think it really takes away from the learning. I understand it’s to broaden the horizons of students and give them a basic understanding, but I would prefer the class focus on less subjects where students can take more away and leave having a stronger understanding of a subject. But maybe that’s because I never bought the textbook.

It’s been a unique experience taking this Film/Media 150 course here at Hunter College. The way that I see it, If there was ever a new way that a course could give me a different perspective at viewing at the world, a class has done it’s job like it should. And I think, even among some petty frustrations I’ve had with the teaching staff, I’ll be leaving this course with a new and thrilling interest, surprisingly not in media and film, but weirdly enough, painting.

I had begun this course stuck on believing one couldn’t compare paintings to photographs. The most sophisticated paintings I have ever concocted were finger paintings of rainbow kangaroos in a two dimensional backdrop consisting of a solid sun emitting dashes for heat waves and sea cerulean clouds drawn in the shape of a sideways”8″. But I had the some general idea that however a man chooses what  type of paint he should use and what textures his lines he decides to create over time is never the same for how a man chooses his lens and in what direction and angle he is going to point his camera and flick the switch. If I can make any sense which I almost never do, I’m slowly deciding I rather have the mind/mentality of a painter than of a photographer when I’m out taking photos. It has something to do with how a painter starts from the beginning of nothing and how a photographer starts from the end of something. And finding creation in a person of a place, something that is already exists, seems so damn interesting to me now. Make sense? Me neither. Sorry, I’m still working on the kinks.

Having this epiphany in lab, I rode downtown and  met up with my friend who attends The New School for painting. I had asked him about wanting to get into painting more without having to deal with the pseudo intellectual circle of pompous, self-congratulatory discussions of what a painting could symbolize, but focus on the theories on why certain painters used colors the way that they did, or why they brushed their strokes in this way and why not the other, and follow the history/lineage of inspiration from past painter to painter. So he said, what I probably should do is go to the MET and rent the headphones that offer information on every painting there. He said “You just have to dedicate entire days during the summer there, man. And do it alone, in sections. Don’t visit the medieval times and stroll on over to contemporary art. And don’t bring any cute girl with you. Leave the whole day open,  let all your distractions out the window. Come in with an open mind and let your mind sink deep into these paintings you find so interesting in front you. And then go to Central Park behind the place and take fucking deep breathes. Look at the all the nuances around you. And then before summer ends,  I’ll come with you and bromance it up one day. I’ll explain it all to you with us on acid.” So aside from fulfilling my dreams to road trip across America for the summer and working on finishing the deadline for my novel this October, I’ll be spending time photographing the places I see and the people I meet with this different, how would I say, way of dancing with the graceful seams of life, and slowly develop this growing love I found for painting into something special and dear to me.

In conclusion, I would never have gotten up to go to class on Saturday for Practical Film Analysis (the  class before my lab)  if it weren’t for a wonderful professor who dealt with my stupid bullshit and an insightful class of peers who all came from such diverse backgrounds that showed the talented works they created in class.

Thank you all for the laughs. I hope to see some of you again one day.


“You’re a fucking rockstar filmmaker, you know that?”


Here are two haiku’s I’ve written and I have a hard time figuring out which one represents Spring best:

1. Her warm summer breeze
breathes through, all careless and free,
only love surrounds me

2. The sun rises, the birds cry,
I’m walking to my film class,
damn, I want to die.

“Help me look for a shot’s volume worth. I don’t want to go into the other room. I’m really comfortable here.”

“Okay. Here.”

“D, that’s a Poland Spring cap. What are you on?”

“I’m kidding. I can’t find anything. How do you not have a cup in your room?”

“Forget it. Open your mouth, there’s no other way. I’m pouring it straight over your mouth.”

“Just go in the other room! Why don’t you just go in the other room?”

“It’s more fun this way.”

“Fine. This is going to be really stupid. Don’t! Careful! Don’t spill any over my clothes. My roommate going to be suspicious if she smells it on my clothes. She hates the smell.”

“Okay, well do you want to take off all your clothes before I pour a shot in your mouth?”

“Ha! You’re funny. Hurry up, there’s papers to be bullshitted.”

“You want me to hurry up or do you want me to be careful?”

“Give me the bottle, I’ll do it myself.”

“Okay, but you won’t be able to do that yourself after the fourth shot, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not writing this paper drunk off my mind, Samuel.”

“Why do you have to call me Samuel? You know I don’t like being called that. And I know you purposely did that because you stressed my name. “

“Samuel! Sammy! Samantha! Hahaha.”

“Just, take the shot already. And you always drink more than four shots. You can never help it.” … “You look like you’re about to suck a dick.”

“See look what you did! You made me laugh. Now I spilled some over my shirt. You’re such an asshole!”

“Hey! You can’t hit me for that! You didn’t even laugh, that was like, a hump of the air. It’s not my fault you can’t aim. Is your roommate your new motherly figure?”

“Do you have orange juice? Yuck!”

“It’s in the other room where I’m not going into. How does that matter? You don’t think your roommate is going to find out when she finds you passed out on the bed smelling like piss, vomit, and a bullshitted paper four in the morning?”

“Samuel, that’s not funny. I need to pass this class. My mom thinks I’m a straight A student since sixth grade.”




“You think there was some guy?”

“What guy?”

“Like some guy, guy in the mid 30s. And he knows what he’s doing.”

“Wait, you mean a guy in his thirties?”

“No, I mean a guy in the nineteen thirties. And this guy just knows what he’s doing…”

“Alright, what is it that he knows what he’s doing?”

“Like he knows. So he’s watching Hitler make those damn speeches on his tee-vee. And he’s hearing the American commentators over the broadcast saying that he’s fucking crazy. But the guy doesn’t say, “fucking crazy” like I say it, because how they spoke back then was much more formal. Plus, you can’t say fuck on the television.”

“Okay, and?”

“So, this guy just knows. He’s looking at Hitler in the black and white television of his in the suburban home some-special-quiet place surrounded by other houses that look just like his. I know, suburban neighborhoods weren’t invented yet, but bare with me. I’m painting a picture for you. Anyways, so, when his daughter gets home from school, her daughter just… waves at him, farts and proceeds to pass out in front of him. Like, right in front of the door. And from the guy’s perspective you can even see the bus that dropped her off leaving from outside the frame of the door. You still with me?


“So, his wife or her mom doesn’t see because she’s busy making sandwiches in the back of the kitchen as a housewife. The guy just stares. He’s staring at the close up of the saturated muschache of Hitler and then back at her daughter. He does this about several times. And then he smells a whiff of the air, because he has to, if he doesn’t he dies from oxygen.  So then, Eureka! He gets it, man! He sees the light. There’s a flashbulb lighting up above his head.”

“What does he get?”

“He stands up from his chair and thinks “Holy shit, I should invest all my money in cyanide pesticide! I’ll make millions of dollars from Hitler with all the shit he’s about to do on humanity and how he’s going to gas all the Jews!” But he doesn’t say “holy shit” of course, because the phrase hasn’t been coined yet.

“Bro, you just killed my high.”


“This is the story of a man called Bob who earned a Ph.D in Cinematography and Directing from the prestigious American Film Institute a semester early. Bob was the first to donate all of the grants he won from student film festivals he barely gave a shit about. He went on to win the Palme D’or award at the Cannes festival three consecutive times in a row. Tribeca, Sundance, Venice, and Berlin have all given an open invitation for him to be the President of the Jury, which he so graciously declined for the second year straight.

There has been controversial conversations with the public that Bob is a robot, but Bob retweeted a photograph of his pale white ass for validity that he was just like everyone else. A few days later, Bob announced that he was to stop making films at the age of 25. At the same time, he left his polygamy relationship with Natalie Portman, Julia Roberts, and Michelle Obama. This is the story of how Bob retired from professional filmmaking to direct low budget porn videos annoymously and spent the next five years of his life in a desert haven calledSahara Ha Ha.

No one knew what went on in there. There was private, but publicly announced invitations for a certain few to stay with him. Woody Allen and Terrence Malick were the first to leave. Michael Bay checked his emails, phone calls, and mailbox everyday but couldn’t understand why he didn’t get an invitation. He did get one though, but Bay had killed himself in an explosion the day before. Police have investigated the interior for crimes but came out crying and a new drive to make the world a better place. Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus have volunteered to be his new starlets in his new lesbian pornographic feature. Yes, Cyrus had a sex change. The porno ended up being preserved at the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being “mad fucking important.” The film reel was placed next to Lumet’s 12 Angry Men and Kubrick’s Dr.Strangelove. No one understood.

Producers, directors, editors, cinematographers, screenwriters, almost everyone in the Hollywood and independent industry have stopped down there to visit him during the limited visiting hours that was organized by Christopher Nolan. Yes, he decided to give up directing the final film to his Batman series to work as an assistant filing meetings for Bob. Well, Kevin Spacey headed the security department where he assumes the role of Lester Burnham from his critically acclaimed American Beauty.

There was a candid photograph leaked over the internet of Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg on their knees begging in their underwear under the hot sun in the middle of nowhere for him to come back to work. Bob drank his ice tea lemonade made by a naked young beautiful woman. Her name tag read Isabella. He said he was sorry that they were going to leave empty handed. However, depite Spacey’s efforts, Hanks and Spielberg dragged Nolan onto the helicopter and they flew away. They knew how crazy the public would be if Nolan had not completed his film. Bob told Bruce Willis who was method acting John McClane, not to fire his imaginary RPG at the helicopter.

But as the trio were leaving the place, all three of them felt puzzled as they had a bird eye’s view of Bob’s complex. It was nothing extraordinary. Nothing in the world could make them understand what was going on in his mind. They told themselves it was another genius who went crazy. But no one knew that Bob was perfectly fine, playing a charade on the entire globe. He was going to creating the most perfect film that anyone would watch in the 21st century.”

“Do you really expect me to produce a film like this?”

“It’s the name Isabella isn’t it? We can change that.”


“She asks me who am I fucking now and why I’m not fucking her and I tell her why am I not fucking the both of you at once? And that’s why I don’t talk to my sister and mum anymore.”

“*ba-dum tshh!!*”

“Really, that came out of your mouth just now?”


“Okay, which one first? The alcohol or the weed? Now I was thinking of the dro first, because I get cottonmouth a lot. But I know alcohol makes you less hydrated but I’ll be so high I wouldn’t give a fuck right? But if I take the drink first and smoke later, I’ll can’t help but say I feel much more happy. Maybe I should do both at the same time? Or fuck, wait a minute, oh my god, holy fuck man, What if maybe I drink first and then time the smoking of the bud so that the effects hit me at the same time? Wait a fucking minute, do you guys have a connect for acid?

“Who the fuck is this guy? Is he with you?”

I spend most of my day dancing even when I know I’m going to die tomorrow. And although I could die dancing today, that started to never occur to me anymore ever since I died yesterday night and the nights before that.

This blog post doesn’t say anywhere on this paper I’m holding here that it’s going to be graded. You should never allow me that privilege. I decided to make it as if I was a kid who focused on only the wrong things, which is not totally untrue…*


I had raised my hand last class during Saturday’s lab to sign up for a tour of Democracy Now! Then I asked my lab partner Sarah what time it was and then I realized we had to meet up at 7:30 in the morning and I was like, “Oh, f!@# me. That is not humanly possible for me.”

But I stepped into the lobby floors of the Democracy Now! offices at 7:30 sharp. The first thing that caught my attention was that the doorman smelled like the only drug that smells. He didn’t have a name tag. So I decided to call him Mr.Dank. This was a precaution if I were to ever have this hypothetical thought provoking conversation small talk with him in which I had invented a name for him solely based on the first whiff of smelly air that smacked me in the face as I opened the doors. His morning was clearly better than mine. Really, I’m the only one that really notices these trivial things. Because everyone else was anxiously excited for the elevator to the eleventh floor.

We were introduced to a wonderful and uplifting woman who’s name I had forgotten (Let’s call her Ms. Amber). Ms.Amber had a slithering tongue. She was speaking quickly. I always had this generalization that people who worked at television broadcast stations were never really soft spoken. I mean, how could they be? So Ms.Amber then offered us all coffee and pastries. And oh my, that coffee was ridiculously delicious. A man who worked there had mentioned it was their own brand. And then he irked out this joking smirk on his face for a sudden moment. I got a blue mug for my coffee.

We went on a quick tour before the show started. We walked single file into one of the video production rooms where Ms.Amber told us that the cast was doing the final touches to the hour long broadcast. Ms. Amber told us the editor named Sam (“Hey there! My name is Sam too!” is what I screamed in my head. I mean, doesn’t anyone else want to say that when they meet someone else with the same name as them?”) was fine cutting the segment of President Obama’s speech. Ms.Amber told us that behind us, was the room where the host of Democracy Now!, Amy Goodman would be presenting the hourly show. We walked back out and I had gotten a quick glimpse of her in the make up room. Prior to this fascinating observation,  I geek orgasmed at the wiring of the control room. What a beautiful sight. Okay, moving on.

So we sat back down in our chairs that faced the sound proofed glass window of the live room where Amy Goodman was now sitting in. It wasn’t long before the broadcast aired in front of us and on the three television screens propped up against the walls.

Well, my first initial impression, was “Jesus Christ, are you using the same introduction you used back in 1985?” One of the surprising things that I noticed was that there wasn’t any delay. It was live. I had thought after the Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction, most national broadcast had a 2,5 or even a 10 second delay. But Democracy Now! was as immediate as it got to the daily news. They had two audio sync problems with their clips of Mitt Romney and Martin Luther King, Jr. during the broadcast and that really bothered me. Then during their break, award winning novelist Tim Weiner entered the building and into the live room. During that break, the make up artist entered the room to do quick changes to Amy Goodman and glanced at her and back at the television screen. Tim Weiner had looked pale and I wondered why the make up artist didn’t fix him up. “Well, he looks more pink to me.” said Professor LaSalle. She pointed out to me that the other bigger television by the window had more yellow hue. I realized the television screen I was watching wasn’t color calibrated correctly. I swear in all the things I believe in that I could most likely be OCD. Oh, by the way, their lighting isn’t correctly lit. Their fifth camera was overexposed in some areas of the room by a whole stop of light. Sigh. What’s wrong with me.

After the broadcast, we talked in the conference room for, a while. This girl behind me would not stop putting her feet on my chair. This room had turned into a funk of distractions I couldn’t stop noticing. It didn’t help as I watched this girl in my class draw a bunch of cartoon figures on her notebook and wrist as she sat right next to Ms.Amber. About 45 minutes passed or so before Amy Goodman entered the room and I dozed on and off my attention to the conversation. Here are some fun facts I noticed:

1. There was 16 plaques in the room which are probably names from people who donate to the non profit organization of Democracy Now!

2. Professor Starosta has an awesome book bag. I think she got it at the Strand. I spent five minutes thinking about this. However, I might be wrong. She also likes to play with her necklace a lot.

3. Professor LaSalle ALWAYS has bandages on one of her hands. I’m convinced her hands are mysteriously falling off.

4. That conference table was probably made of oak.

5. Ms.Amber had a Sigma 24-70 and a Canon body. (high five)

Okay that’s enough. Amy Goodman came in and spoke to us for an hour which seemed only like fifteen minutes. Maybe it was because she was talking at the speed of light. I thought, “Wow, this woman is a real life Aaron Sorkin character. This is amazing.” I thought her college anthropology story was humorous and inspiring. Ms.Amber took 14 photographs altogether. Then when Amy Goodman left, Ms.Amber asked if anyone of us wanted to go on a tour, but everyone said no. Why not? I wanted to go 😦


Seriously though:

I hold a strong regard for people working on television productions. I think it’s truly an art to be able work on a strict time constraint. Usually with film productions, you could always add a day or two to the shoot schedule. Although that would be ill advised and cost ineffective, time could be always on your side. With television, it’s this dangerously adrenaline rush with a time limit that I could never see myself working comfortably under. And to find replacement for content at the spur of the moment cancellation of interviewers. These television producers and writers must have balls that weigh a ton.


Happy Spring Break!

*My opinions of everyone in this post are not really my real opinions of them.