Emmy Awards and Golden Retrievers: Yup, I'm at UCLA

I started school last week and have already learned a bunch. For one thing, UCLA is a whole different universe from Skidmore, where I got my undergraduate degree.   And not just because Skidmore is in upstate New York, and UCLA is in Southern California. For one thing, UCLA is a lot bigger. When I started school last week I was pretty proud of myself for finding  the parking lot near my classrooms with ease. Of course, because this is Los Angeles and they knew we’d be driving, the school sent directions to the lot, which was extremely well marked.

               

Which is a good thing, because Lot 3 is split into permit spots and pay-per-spots. To get a permit you have to show up at the parking department in person between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Assuming, for a moment that one did have the time for that, you then have to wait in line for another hour before forking over a small fortune for the permit.  That wasn’t going to happen.

Since I am cheap as well as lazy, I headed for pay spots. Finding one was no problem, but locating the meter was a little tricky. Then I had to return to the car with the receipt to prove I had paid. The extra window of time I had allotted for getting lost on campus was starting to disappear and I was still in the parking lot.

I did have a school map. Those haven’t changed a bit since the last time I was looking for a classroom. In fact, except that it had more items on it, it could have been the exact same one I’d used at Skidmore. It was covered with dark smugey unreadable lumps that were purported to be classrooms and  had no relation to the real brick and mortal buildings in front of me. On top of that the map was minuscule and the campus is lush and dark. Even with the help of my cell phone flashlight, I had no idea where I was.

I did manage to find a cafeteria, two theaters, a library a lovely sculpture garden and a few dorms. What I couldn’t locate, was the building housing my first class. Eventually I flagged down a man walking two Golden Retrievers - unlike my college mutt, all the dogs at UCLA seem to carry pedigrees - who pointed me in the right direction. I had walked past the building numerous times, and didn’t see the sign. Oops.

Whatever hopes I’d had of sliding into the background vanished as I tore into the workshop 15 minutes late. Since there are only eight of us and everyone else was on time, I made quite an entrance. The teacher, let’s call him Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, was extremely nice about it.  I, however, was mortified.

                

The workshop is an interesting assortment of people. Not surprisingly, all of them, including Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, are younger than I am. By several decades. Two are just out of college. One traveled from Finland specifically to attend this program.  They all seem very nice, and surprisingly supportive.

                

That seems to be one of the goals of the program and was a theme of the first lecture: they want people to succeed. Which is a far cry from J-school, where they made it clear that their failure rate was something to be proud of. I never have figured out the point of that.

                

The lecture class is interesting. It’s led by an extremely enthusiastic teacher, let’s call him Professor Mentor-to-the-Stars, who knows his stuff inside out. He’s written several books on screenwriting, and could easily be a character in any number of college-based films. I liked him even better after he used a Tom Waits song to illustrate a point. I was the only one in the class who knew the song.  Which probably says a lot more about me than I should share. The tune was “Christmas Card from A Hooker in Minneapolis.” It’s great: go listen to it.

                

The lecture is the only time the entire class meets together. There are about 50 of us and as in the workshop, we’re a pretty diverse group. The majority of the class is younger than I am, but most aren’t fresh out of college.  There are a few codgers even older than me. Which is refreshing.

                

About ten of my classmates are from other parts of the world. One is an Iranian woman in her 20’s. I’m not so sure she’s going to stick around; yesterday I overheard her complaining about how much she hated Los Angeles. She told someone she should have just stayed in Paris. I’m sure that  can be arranged.

                

I must admit though, that, I was a little shaken when the professor announced homework. Not the assignment – that was fun. It was the actual phrase that grabbed me: Homework.

                

No matter how old you are, or how much you like what you’re doing, homework is a little like a knife to the heart. I immediately panicked : I was back in seventh grade algebra and staring at the board in slack-jawed confusion. But I took a deep breath, reminded myself that the one thing I have confidence about is my ability to write, and I tried to relax.

              

 Luckily, when I got my assignment back, the teacher – or his two overworked TAs - agreed.  Phew.  Because I was worried.  I know I have a lot to learn.