Ramblings of a Constipated Mind

So yesterday in film class I asked my teacher if he was going to be at Full Frame, and if he recommended any movies, since I was planning on hopefully going to see one or two at the most.

Then I got home and was looking at the Full Frame website. I thought to myself, "You know, if The Technician wants me to cover this, they could at least offer to pay for it. This is expensive."

And it is. Individual films are $15 a pop. Passes for the whole thing are hundreds of dollars.

So I'm browsing around and I see a thing about Press Passes. So I check it out. There's an email address and phone number of the lady I need to contact if I would like to receive press passes (which I'm assuming are free). I figure what the heck, I might as well give it a shot. So I contact her, tell her I write for the Technician and I'd like some passes.

I now have press passes to the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival.

All four days.

I will most likely see between 15 and 20 films within those four days.

This is the Cannes of documentary film festivals. 100 films will be shown.

Most of the filmmakers will be there, including director/actor/producer Sydney Pollack.

I have access to all screenings, panels, and parties. Including the stuff that's by invitation only. Everything.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I have a really hard Psychology test on Monday I need to study for. Plus two big papers due on Wednesday. I don't care. I'll lose sleep getting it all done, but it will be worth it. This is better than sex. And I haven't had sex. So when I say it's better than sex, I mean the idealized, glamorous version of sex I naively think of when I hear the word "sex" instead of the clumsy, awkard, not-always-too-good sex of reality.

Yeah. That's how good I feel right now.