Three new programs launch at media center

Central Florida Future – Article Online  

By Cassie Turner

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Published: Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Updated: Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Emre Kelly

UCF’s Center for Emerging Media in Downtown Orlando celebrated the addition of three new programs, increasing student options and solidifying key concepts: partnership, collaboration and replication.

About 12,500 square feet of remodeled space is now dedicated to UCF’s MFA in Studio Art & the Computer; Flying Horse Editions, UCF’s non-profit fine arts press; and Citylab-Orlando, a University of Florida graduate-level architecture program.

These programs join several other high-profile programs at the center: The Florida Interactive Entertainment Academy, UCF’s graduate video-gaming school; Vicon Entertainment’s House of Moves, one of the largest motion-capture studios on the East Coast; and the soundstage and editing suites of Studio 500.

“The Center for Emerging Media’s mission is to expand programs, access and opportunities for upper-level undergraduate and graduate emerging media students in Orlando, while furthering the city’s vision for a creative village that will connect professionals with students to help them land high-paying jobs upon graduation," said Chad Binette of UCF News & Information.

Rogier van Etten, a software engineer at 360Ed and 2007 graduate of FIEA, said they are instrumental in securing employer interviews for students. 360Ed focuses on games with high educational content. 

"The best thing you get from FIEA is teamwork: how to be an effective collaborator; how to be an effective communicator; how to be a valuable member of a team," said van Etten. "The skills you can get other places — it’s the team aspect that really stands out."

"We want to replicate what happens in the industry. Collaboration between students, departments and the community is the idea behind the entire building," said FIEA’s communications and admissions director, Todd Deery.

Professors encouraged Brittany Metz, a second-year MFA studio art & the computer graduate student, to get out of her box and focus on different mediums. Metz said she joined the program because the focus is concentrated on your own artwork, and the digital media aspect allowed flexibility and broad-range artistic expression.

"I’m drawn to whimsical, childlike, nostalgic things,” Metz said, “things I can create a story out of or that recall the past. 

Adding to the community learning and work experience environment, Flying Horse Editions brings in visiting artists who provide students with critiques and real-world experience lectures, said director Theo Lotz.

Beginning fall 2010, a creative partnership with Valencia Community College and the University of Florida will allow students to obtain a bachelor of design in architecture degree.

Michael Kuenstle, associate professor at the UF school of architecture, said the symbiotic relationship benefits students, faculty and community.

"Architecture is an urban endeavor. Students will gain a professional degree, immersed in the subject they are studying, while still living in Orlando, and we are able to teach in an urban environment, using the city as a library and teaching tool," Kuenstle said.

According to the UCF Web site, through a 2+2+2 program, students earn an associate’s degree through Valencia, a bachelor’s degree at UCF and a master’s at UF. The program aims at preparing students for careers in professional architecture, construction management and industrial design.

In the meantime, UCF undergraduate students and graduate students will be able to take elective courses at Citylab-Orlando and collaborate with top design, construction and planning faculty members from UF, said Binette.

Currently, Citylab-Orlando is working on a local urban redesign project to address different uses for future public space beneath Interstate 4 in Downtown Orlando.

GLITTER GULCH

Out-of-date neon signs, long past retirement age, line Fremont Street. Their colored bulbs radiate an unwavering glow on the downtown Las Vegas streets. It is close to seven o’clock but the day’s heat clings to the air, stinging her eyes, as she exits from the back seat of the of the Town car. She gives a wave to the driver and quickens her pace entering the Horseshoe through one of the revolving doors lining the entrance. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, like a cirrus cloud, causing her to wince. The room is low ceilinged and buzzes with ample fluorescents and gambling euphoria. Tourists, digging for gold, clutch metal coin buckets in the crooks of their arms as the clink of their booty echoes. They are permanent fixtures, screwed to row-after-row of slot machines. That’s Sin City, she thinks.

 

Benny Jr. insists that you can still ‘smell the chips’ in the Old Vegas Horseshoe, on account of them being the same since Grandpa Binion opened the place in 1951, forcing the other houses to change from sawdust joints to classy, carpeted casinos. Benny always tells her, ‘they don’t make em like this anymore.’ Roxy wishes he would change the forsaken, threadbare carpet, but old cowboys seldom change.

 

"Would you radio Benny and let him know I’m here and will meet him in the Steakhouse?" She says brushing past Amanda the thin, freckled clerk at the registration desk. She checks her watch; three minutes until seven. She learned over the years you did not make Benny wait, you waited for Benny.

 

"Sure thing, Roxy." Amanda calls after her as she enters the elevator she hears the ting of a slot machine bell, a lucky winner screams at a jackpot win.

 

She presses the button for the twenty-fourth floor giving herself a once over in the floor to ceiling mirrors that adorn the elevators antique interior. Her lips are shaded Dangerously Red, matching her dress, complete with a low-plunging neckline and killer curves, all courtesy of Benny. She steps off the elevator and into Binion’s Ranch Steakhouse where Benny is waiting at the vintage mahogany bar. He slides his rocks glass across the bar and signals to the bartender, Petey, for another. She checks her watch again, noting it is one minute after seven o’clock. Her stomach muscles tighten as she gauges the expression on Benny’s face. He smiles at her tipping the brim of the cowboy hat covering his jet-black hair. The tension releases in her gut and a sheepish grin spreads across her face.

 

"Rox, the usual?" Petey asks polishing a wine glass.

 

Roxy nods and turns her attention to Benny planting a kiss on his left cheek. "Hi baby, sorry I’m late."

 

Benny retrieves her Chardonnay off the bar and takes her by the elbow leading her to their corner table overlooking the Vegas valley. Her breath catches in her throat as she gazes out over the cornucopia of shimmering lights. Benny and the Vegas lights brought her from Dallas and they are the reasons she remained after leaving she stopped performing each night on the strip.

 

Roxy hangs her purse on the back of the chair and takes her place at the table. "Benny, you said you had something important to talk to me about." Benny, opens his mouth to speak, their lanky waiter, James, brings over their salads.

 

"Mr. Binion. The usual for you. Caprese salad and the Pear and Gorgonzola for you madam. Your porterhouse and lobster will be out soon." James says sliding the dishes in front of them.

 

Benny stacks a thick piece of mozzarella on top of a ripe, red beefsteak tomato and slices into it. "Wanna bite?" he asks.

 

Roxy shakes her head and pushes a candied walnut around the plate with a fork. Her palms are sweaty. James returns and slides the tables candle towards Roxy. He places a steaming, twenty-one ounce Porterhouse, Au Gratin potatoes with a crisp, golden-brown crust, a bright orange Australian lobster tail, and a heaping mound of sautéed baby asparagus in the middle of the table along with two extra plates. The flame catches her eye, it orange, blue and white colors dancing the white wax. Benny prepares her plate, selecting tender morsels from each category. The converging smells assault her making her light-headed. Roxy reaches across the table and grabs her glass of ice water. She takes a big gulp, stifling the urge to vomit. She pushes her plate out of the way.

 

"What’s the matter?" says Benny.

 

"Oh, it’s nothing. I haven’t been feeling too good lately. I’m not too hungry anyway. Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?" Roxy says changing the subject.

 

"I do. We’ll get to that." Benny signals to James. "We need a bottle of champagne and two flutes. Bring only the best in the house for my girl here." James returns and pours the bubbly into two glasses. "We’ve been together for some time now ya know Rox," he pauses reaching into his pocket, "I’d like you to marry me." Benny extracts a golden ring topped with a three-karat diamond from its velvet home.

 

Roxy gasps, exhaling as she reaches for the ring, the dancing flame exhausts itself. "It’s beautiful." She says admiring the brilliant stone.

 

"Sorry uh, boss, I don’t mean to bother you but uh we got a shark we took outta the pit. It ain’t his first time neither." Bruno the head of security for the casino interrupts.

 

"Bring him on into the kitchen. I’ll meet you there." He turns to Roxy, "I gotta show a friend some cowboy hospitality. I’ll be right back."

 

Roxy stands. She feels her ears grow hot the fire spreading over her face. "Benny, I’m warning you…we have been over this a thousand time…"

 

"Roxy, sit down, shut up, and don’t’ move." Benny exits.

 

She hears Benny’s booming voice over a clatter of pots and pans, followed by a man pleading. The pleading turns into a wail of pain before silence. Two Horseshoe security guards pull the sobbing man through the dining room. He clutches his hand in a blood soaked linen.

 

"What did you do?" Roxy says in a whisper a look of horror on her face. "What did you do?" She says again raising her voice.

 

"You know we don’t play with fish in my house. If I were Grandpa Binion that fish would be two feet under in the middle of the desert, instead of missing a finger." Benny says as he dips his linen napkin in water to extract three dots of crimson from his shirt.

 

Roxy looks out the window at the glitter gulch below. In the distance, she sets her eyes on a thunderstorm bypassing the valley, illuminating the black horizon with flashes of lightning. Her eyes go wide. She looks at the ring on her finger, up to Benny and back down to the ring and takes it off.

 

With a slow, trancelike movement, she bends gathering her handbag. She pauses, touches her abdomen, and drops the ring into her full champagne glass. "Mr. Binion, I have to let you go." She says as she backs away from the table before fleeing from the restaurant.

 

She does not stop for Benny’s angry cries. She does not stop on the stairs for twenty-four flights. She does not stop during the two-mile walk down Fremont to her apartment. She does not stop through an hour of frantic packing or through eighteen hours and twelve hundred miles of desert driving. She does not stop until she gets to her Mother’s door, and rings the bell.

 

"Mama, I’m home." She cries, bursting into tears.

FREE TO GOOD HOME

My twenty-two pound math-for-liberal-arts-junkies book lands on the floor with a thud, jolting me out of a mid-term studying infused sleep. I scan the room for my cell phone. Flicking it on, I realize its 4:30 AM. I have no missed calls and no texts. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree, in the same state as when I dozed off, calculating the god-forsaken Pythagorean Theorem. The television, originally on for background noise to quell the quiet creakiness, is now blaring. A daytime-drama-has-been and her fateful counterpart are taking turns droning on about how my life will change: if, and only if, I am one of the next ten callers to order their very-special-one-of-a-kind-miracle-vegetable-chopper. Yeah right. Off goes the boob-tube.

Room by room I do a quick check on the kids, flipping off lights, tripping over chew toys and Barbie dolls. Where is my husband? He promised he wouldn’t be out late tonight. I check Mini-Me’s room. No husband there. In my room (again) Mini-Me is laying on top of the covers, spread-eagle, Curious George panties smiling at me. I can never keep this kid clothed. No husband there, either. Glancing in on the Other-Child, moaning in her sleep as usual, I simultaneously blanket curse the neurologists, epilepsy and Phenobarbital. No husband there.

Slightly annoyed I grab the cell again. My mind sing-songs, “Oh where, oh where, could Cookie be?” I text him. “LIAR!” A split second later I’m punching the qwerty keys. I dial his number once, twice, three…twelve times. Persistence is one of my better virtues.

“Hi and thanks for calling,” I hear Cookie’s voice. Blah, blah, blah; I depress the power button avoiding the greeting. I’ve been relegated to voice mail. Bastage!

Hijacking his personal tweet-deck, I bang the keyboard, “It’s 5 am; do you know where your husband is? It’s 5 am; do you know where mine is?” Since blowing up his cell, for the last thirty minutes, hadn’t done much good, maybe going public would. Being the fourth time in a few weeks this has happened, my concern over his personal safety has waned. I don’t question whether he’s dead or alive anymore. I deduce he’s alive; at least until he gets home.

I’m washing my face when the wiener brothers begin whining at the back door. My overstuffed dapple sausage Jack, le chien névrotique des deux, barks. Roscoe wags his tail, stares at Jack and then sniffs his ass. Patiently, they wait as the key turns slowly in the lock.

Enter stumbling husband. Enter foul smell of beer. Nice. Just what I’ve always wanted, I think, grabbing the can of vapor flowers to cover the acrid, rotting-bread smell.

I’m standing, half-hidden, when he enters the house. “Where’s your cell phone?”  The question takes a moment to register in his beer-soaked brain.

He stares back at me blankly before fishing his cell out of his back pocket. “Oh, nine missed calls. Hey, did you call me from a blocked phone number?”

Oh, nine missed calls, whoop-die-doo. My inner monologue mimics. “No. Why? Who else is calling you at 5:00 AM?” Hmmm…that’s funny; I called twelve times, only nine registered?

I feel the sting of four half-moon craters puncturing the flesh on my palms. “So where have you been? Game ended at 11:30 PM. It’s now after 5:00 AM and the bars close at 2:00 AM. Did you forget it’s your daughter’s birthday party tomorrow?”

“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be up early tomorrow to get my stuff done. Downtown was crazy! People lining the streets, like Mardi Gras. I was at Clubhouse, then Pine Street Bar” he pauses, “what’s that place…the one I kept running next door to watch the game that night because they didn’t have cable? Matador is it?”

Was he stalling? I pressed. “I don’t know. What I’m interested in hearing is where you went after 2:00 AM?”

“After the bars, we wandered the streets. Then I went to this girl’s house. She’s a radio personality. I don’t even remember her name. But, there was like two girls there and six guys. We were all hanging out. There was some other radio guy there. Stone something-or-other; he’s a stocky guy, lots of tattoos.”

“Interesting. So let me see if I have this straight. You stumble in after 5:00 AM, drunk, after being at some girl’s house ‘hanging out’ for the last few hours. You ignore my phone calls and can’t be bothered to send a status text. You must be aiming for consistency, because this is the fourth time it’s happened in the past few weeks. I don’t appreciate it. In fact, come play-offs, I won’t be available to watch the kids while you’re off gallivanting the city all night.”

“Oh really,” he retorts. “Well, come final play-off games, I don’t plan on coming home at all.”

I’m half expecting him to stick out his tongue, throw his thumbs in his ears and say nanny-nanny-boo-boo. I could scream. I’d really like to pick up a blunt object and ram it into the side of his head, but I’ve watched enough ‘Forensic Files’ to know better. Our eyes are small slits, our gazes fixed. We’ve reached stalemate.

“Really?” I say. “Won’t come home at all, huh? We’ll see about that.” I turn on my heel, crawling in bed to cuddle with Mini-Me.

I awake a few hours later; phone ringing, head pounding. The barrage of phone calls has begun. Girlfriends want to know if I’m okay. Guy friends just want to know.  No, I’m not single…yet.

I rummage through the purse to find the 800 mg horse pills to turn-my-frown-upside-down. I pop those, along with a couple of fat burners, and my daily prescribed dose of Adderal. What the hell, it’s Sunday. I grab a Xanex and chase the whole lot with Perrier. About 30 minutes later, I’m feeling no pain. Cracked and mellowed, but focused. I grab my computer and pull up my Facebook account.

“What’s on my mind?” it asks. Vague and leading, daring me to unfurl my innermost ranting-raving desires or what have you. I post the following cathartic ramble: “Free to good home: 5’10” male; adept at taking out trash and doing dishes; may require obedience training; comes with full wardrobe and two adorable wieners.”

Cookie doesn’t grace us with his presence until well after noon that day. Needless to say, the Other-Child’s birthday party with Chuck-E is postponed. The reprisal: Cookie gets a wicked sinus infection. Guess I didn’t need that blunt object after all