Surely inspired by the art-film non sequiturs of "Sprockets", this is our uninformed take on the "experimental film." Senseless and idiotic. But let me tell the story behind the story:

It was the dead of winter. Ice had been pounding down all night. This mattered little in small-town Iowa--they wouldn't cancel school for anything short of gremlin invasion, and only then if the gremlins had throwing stars. So I got up as normal, jackknifed through town, and met up with Matt N. at whatever rehearsal we had that morning.

Probably not an hour went by before even the merciless sadists of the school system admitted that this was no ordinary storm. Trees were disintegrating beneath the weight of the ice. Birds were falling dead from the sky. The McDonald's was... closed. The word shot out around school: Go home. Run. There is nothing here but death.

But Matt N. and I hung around for another ill-advised hour, chatting with our drama teacher, Mr. Slechta. (He is given homage in The Godfathers as the revered "Don Slechta".) Eventually the school was locked and we made our way into the parking lot. Ours were the only cars left. I set about chipping the ice from my door, heating up the engine, and slowly creeping from the lot.

Matt N. waved me down. His car, an infamous jalopy (see for yourself in Breakdown), refused to start. There was no sense in having one of my star actors freeze in the snow Jack Torrance-style, so I told him to get in. We set off together. Inching up the long hill to my house was no mean feat; somehow we made it with lives intact.

The rest of the day was the kind of sunny blur that make up the best memories of your life. My mom made food. We went sledding. At some point we spent a half hour or so making Ice Hot Ravioli. Too many details of that day are lost to me now, but I have this video. And in the margins of its silliness, if I dare say so, is the evidence of a youth well-spent.