Behind the Scenes: 'Driver's Ed' the Movie

When I learned that a movie production company was filming 'Drivers Ed'—a comedy with Molly Shannon and Kumail Nanjiani—in downtown Wilmington, I knew I had to be there! I set off on what I hoped would be the first of many exciting movie-set adventures.

The Naley Bench

Not everyone shares my excitement! Wilmington feels divided between the enchanted and the inconvenienced. At Circular Journey Cafe, baristas rave about Molly Shannon ordering a triple shot latte—"She was so nice, she even remembered my name!" 

Meanwhile, business owners are grumbling about closed streets and blocked parking. The city is experiencing a collective emotional rollercoaster that makes my internal dialogue with Princess Amy seem positively stable by comparison.

On the first day of filming, I positioned myself on Second Street, where crews prepared for an early morning shoot. I approached a harried-looking production assistant, flashing my virtual press badge (a potent combination of determination and high-octane espresso). With her arms full of walkie-talkies, she barely slowed down. 

"Press package already went out," she said, clearly mistaking me for someone with actual credentials. I took the hint. Besides, it was beginning to rain, and my coffee was being watered down—a greater tragedy than being turned away from the movie set. Princess Amy enjoyed the encounter. Whenever I get shot down in any setting for any reason, it brightens her day.

Small Victories

The first day of shooting was unproductive, but I didn't give up. At the start of the second day, I was outside Flaming Amy's on Oleander. You can read about that fiasco by searching for "Flaming Amy" on this blog. Spoiler alert: my internal GPS skills failed me spectacularly, reminding me of my childhood attempts at divining the future with Magic 8-Balls.

Persistence can sometimes yield great rewards, according to Ms. Wonder, and so on the third scheduled day of filming, I made my way from Circular Journey Cafe on Castle Street to film set on Orange. Fifteen minutes and one suspicious glance from security later, I was greeted by Tom, the Production Manager for Outer Banks Media. Persistence had paid off, and I felt I'd struck gold.

"Tell him about all the other movie sets we've visited," Amy said. "You want him to know that you're not just another curious noob." I ignored her.

Tom and I talked about our mutual love of film production, and I showed him my blog. He scanned it politely and nodded with the practiced neutrality of someone who sees far too many blogs written by aspiring pop-culture journalists. 

"We're using this place as a fraternity house set on the UNC campus in Chapel Hill. We're filming a fraternity party."

We continued our conversation, swapping stories about filming events around the area. Tom even shared gossip about upcoming shoots. Princess Amy tried to re-interpret everything Tom said to mean we had unlimited access to the set.

And then he did extend an invitation. I was surprise to the point of shock. He gave me permission to visit the sets and get all the photos and videos I wanted for my blog. 

"As long as you don't get in the way and don't take photos when the actors are on set."

Amy squealed so loudly, that I thought Tom might have heard her.

"Any of the production assistants will brief you on upcoming scenes, and you'll have to follow the same rules of conduct that everyone else on set follows."

"This is my dream," I told him. "I can hardly believe you're inviting me to observe what's usually treated as a secret, off-limits operation with signs that say 'Restricted Area' and 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

He laughed. "We think it's easier to not make a big production of it." A film production manager making an unintentional pun—I'd reached the pinnacle of insider status!

"Oh, one correction," he said, pointing to my blog post, "the crew that works overnight to get the set ready for an early morning shoot is called the Swing Gang." 

Then he excused himself to talk with a boom operator waiting for instructions. I nodded knowingly as if I hadn't just mentally pictured a group of night-shift workers doing synchronized dance routines with lighting equipment.

"Conga!" shouted Amy.

Rumors and Anecdotes

I spoke to a crew member hanging around the food truck, who described the vibe on set as "surprisingly chill for a comedy!" He gave Director Bobby Farrelly all the credit. "The director allows actors to go off script, improvising their lines, before honing in on the funniest moments."

"We're burning through stacks of memory cards because nobody wants to cut when they're on a roll!" he said. The bit about memory cards got past me—possibly a technical film term that my brain filed under "Pretend You Understand and Google Later." Maybe it means something to you?

"Let's check out the food truck," Amy said. She seemed to be particularly interested in a table of snacks in front of the truck.

Rumors are plentiful in the peanut gallery. The most persistent is one concerning a climactic scene set for Nathan and Haley's Bench, a beloved spot from 'One Tree Hill'! It's said to be a last-minute idea. Specialized camera gear was unloaded there, leading to speculation about a sunset or night scene. 

My mathematical probability calculations suggest an 87.3% chance this information is accurate, give or take whatever percentage makes me sound most authoritative.

Hits and Misses

I didn't get any footage from the Orange Street location, but I saw enough, even from a distance, to give readers a glimpse into the creative process! Sometimes witnessing movie magic is like trying to photograph a unicorn—the evidence is elusive, but the experience is enchanting.

"This is going to be great!" said Amy, who had remained quiet long enough for me to wonder if she'd found another brain to torment.

"I'm happy to hear you say that, Princess. It's going to be fun."

"Yeah, we can hang around all day and eat all we want from the service wagon," she said, her priorities suddenly crystal clear.

"What are you talking about? We can't eat the crew's food."

"Tom said we'd be treated like crew members," she countered.

"Not exactly. Just because we're allowed on set doesn't mean we can eat free.  You pay attention to what people say with the selective hearing of a teenager being told to clean her room"

"Why do you always spoil everything? We can eat all we want, and if anyone says anything, we'll say we didn't know we weren't allowed." Her logic, as usual, was a blend of opportunism and plausible deniability.

"It's that big dish of M&M's, isn't it?" I said. "You've got your eye on all those little candies."

"And the Coca-Cola," she said, not even trying to hide her scheming. "It would be so nice to hang here and scarf the goodies."

That's Princess Amy for you. She seems like a tyrant most of the time, but when it comes to 1980s foodstuffs, she becomes a little girl. I'm not saying I understand the psychology behind an imaginary royal's nostalgia for Reagan-era snacks, but then again, I don't understand most of what happens in my head on the best of days.

Walk Like a Duck

The day had been a magical spring Saturday, flourishing with promises of a dream life in paradise. As difficult as it was to say goodnight to such a wonderful day, I knew it was time to unwind and abandon myself to the soothing embrace of sleep. Just as I laid my head on the pillow, ready to let nature work its magic, I heard that mysterious voice:

"We're off to see the lizard," the voice said.

I know what you're thinking: Genome, what the hell, the mystery voice has always been a morning visitor? I know! That's what I thought, too. Apparently, mysterious voices aren't constrained by time. They must be elements of the fifth dimension.

Yes, I found it odd to hear the voice before going to sleep but my care-worn sleeves were coming unraveled, so I decided to think about it tomorrow. The tomorrow I had in mind came this morning.

After a deep, restful sleep had allowed sweet nature to complete a lot of mending, I woke and rolled out of bed.

It was a quiet, welcoming Sunday morning, reminding me of something Ms. Wonder once said, which goes something like this: I've seen glorious mornings flattering the mountaintops and kissing the meadows green. I'm paraphrasing, of course, but I'm amazed at how she comes up with these things and off the cuff, too.

I stumbled to the dressing room to get upholstered for the day, and once dressed, I re-entered the bedroom when Ms. Wonder stirred beneath the blankets, stretched, and mumbled,

"You walk like a duck."

Is it polite do you think to criticize someone's lack of physical grace, or any other lack for that matter, at the beginning of the day without so much as a Good morning? No, I think not!

As I drank it all in, it became clear that discussing it before she was fully awake would be futile. I said nothing but left for the Circular Journey Cafe and my regular Sunday morning coffee with Island Irv. I thought of nothing but Wonder's words on the Cape Fear River crossing.

Fortunately, the Islander was present when I arrived because I couldn't wait to get his reaction. 

"Irv," I said, "I hope you've had a pleasant week and all that but I have something to discuss with you that won't wait."

"Of course," he said. "Tell me all; ask me anything. Remember what Shakespeare said: if you intend to do something, jump into it without delay and get it over with quickly."

"I doubt it was Shakespeare," I said, "but I'm not here to talk about poets; here's what I want to ask--do I look like a duck?"

"Certainly not," he said immediately, with a confidence that became him well.

"Sorry," I said, "I meant to say, do I walk like a duck, not look like one."

"Walk like a duck?" he said. "That depends."

"No it doesn't," I said. "A man either does or does not walk like a duck. Now answer the question, please."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, "Give me an example."

"Oh, for goodness sake," I said. "A duck waddles from side to side, swinging the caboose, as it were."

"Hmmm," he repeated.

"And they have flat feet. Their feet slap on the floor with each step they take."

"Oh, right, and they bob their heads when they walk," he said, nodding his head forward and back.

"No, Irv! Chickens bob their heads; not ducks." 

"Oh, that's right. Yes, I knew that. Well, on the whole," he said, "considering this and that, I'd say no, you don't walk like a duck."

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. The pent-up anxiety began to subside. "Thank you for humoring me. Ms. Wonder told me I walked like a duck this morning, and, just as Shakespeare advised, I had to get a second opinion without delay. Walking like a duck would not do at all. I'm sure you understand."

"Not like a duck," he said again. "More like a loon, I'd say. Loons are a sort of duck, of course, but they do walk differently."

I didn’t wait around to hear more. Amy was rolling on the floor of my mind laughing hysterically and I'd bust a giblet. The day was ruined—nothing like an easy Sunday morning at Lionel Richie’s house.

When I finally returned home, I found Ms. Wonder on the lanai listening to the birds competing for a spot on Backyard's Got Talent. I escalated the conversation immediately and got the whole thing cleared up.

"Wonder!," I said. "Just what do you mean telling me I walk like a duck?" 

"What, if anything are you driveling about?"

"When you woke and stretched this morning, you distinctly said I walk like a duck."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Now I know what you're talking about. I did not say you walk like a duck." She was laughing when she said it, but I didn't see anything funny about it, and I began to tap my foot to indicate that I was heated up and not about to take it anymore.

"I was just waking up and I mumbled something like, Oooh...gotta wake up." Sounds a little like "You walk like a duck." Right? That must be what you misheard.

It was an easy mistake to make, of course. Anyone might have misunderstood her words mumbled into the blankets. It's not a big deal. I only mention it in passing.

Becoming Authentic Genome

My recovery from the burden of conformity and becoming my true self, the authentic Genome, is the central theme of The Circular Journey. It's the reason this blog exists. Occasionally, the core message can get lost in the self-aware humor I use to lighten up the work of personal growth.

As a child, I was taught to be quiet and obedient, which translated to the holy trinity of childhood virtues: sitting still, staying silent, and avoiding trouble—particularly in the hallowed arena of family gatherings. Consequently, during those Sunday afternoon congregations of extended family, I stood out from my same-age cousins like a librarian at a heavy metal concert.

My behavior was so dramatically different from the other kids that I might have registered a decimal point on the Richter Scale—technically present but nothing of seismic significance. No wonder I was regarded as mentally questionable and distressingly "different." 

When I entered the grand theater of public education at age six, I felt like the only actor who didn't receive a script or character description. I discovered it was easier to pretend to be like everyone around me than to be true to the person inside. So I improvised with the desperation of a man attempting to build a parachute after jumping from the plane.

Throughout my early life, I studied the behavior of my peers, adjusting my performance accordingly. By high school, I'd refined my chameleon act to perfection. I collected personalities like some collect baseball cards.

Oddly enough, this exhausting act propelled me toward what society terms "success." By my twenties, I'd mastered the art of being precisely what each situation demanded. 

Job interviews became performances where I was The Perfect Candidate, and romantic relationships thrived as I took on the role of the man my partners were searching for. My elaborate maze of personas left me questioning whether I would ever reconnect with my original self.

Around my late thirties, the facade began to fracture, culminating in a chaotic incident that resulted in what my therapist would later delicately term "an episodic break from consensual reality." I've always liked her way of describing what's usually thought of as an emotional breakdown.

Through court-mandated therapy, I slowly began a journey of self-discovery and self-awareness that helped me become re-acquainted with my authentic self, after years of pretending to be someone I never was.

My therapist—a woman with the patience of a geological formation and a refreshing ability to never be impressed by my performances—became my guide on the journey to authenticity. 

With her help, I learned to accept that my true self was never lost. Now, I embrace this rediscovered self like new shoes—initially awkward but surprisingly fitting. I may not fully understand who I've become, but I've found comfort in being myself.

Dawn Chorus at Airlie Gardens

Up early with words to write...

You probably think morning begins early where you live but let me tell you, the morning begins far earlier than you can imagine when you promise to accompany Ms. Wonder to experience the dawn chorus at Airlie Gardens. 

Perhaps I should explain the "dawn chorus" is a symphony performed by a collection of different bird species, joining together to welcome the dawn in early spring. Think of it as America's Got Talent and you're the judge. The male birds sing a collection of favorite love songs to impress the females.

I've got a hunch that females sing too but their contribution is overlooked by male researchers. Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Airlie Gardens is a 67-acre Eden that lies along the Cape Fear River in Wilmington, North Carolina and dates back to the eighteenth century. It's a popular destination for residents and visitors--people and birds.

Ms. Wonder explained to me the experience would be "transformative," a word that always makes me uneasy. When Dr. Coast, and every other therapist in recent memory, uses that word she usually means it's going to require a lot of hard work over an extended period of time.

Dark green a branch ascends a garden wall...

Nevertheless, I found myself fumbling for clothes in the dark, trying not to wake the sensible part of my brain that was still enjoying its REM cycle. Twenty minutes later, I was trudging through dew-soaked grass toward our selected viewing spot--the "spring garden," wondering if transformation always required this much yawning.

Ms. Wonder, always the consummate artist, provided a lyrical description of the changing light and awakening landscape.

"I love the way the world is revealed in stages," she said. "It's like a painter slowly adding color to a vast canvas."

"Yeah," I said but not in a sour way; I simply wasn't yet fully awake. "No longer night, and not yet day," I continued because once I get started, it's hard to stop. "

Silence followed. Not awkward exactly, more like embarrassed. "Can we just be quiet and enjoy the morning?" she said.

As we stood there underneath the oaks, the water of the garden ponds transformed from black mirrors to liquid silver. Mist hovered above the surface, performing its morning dance before surrendering to the sun's inevitable arrival.

Oh, no! Somebody stop me. Do you see what I mean when I say once I start, it's nearly impossible to stop. But I'll try, really I will. I'll take a few deep breaths.

As dawn's embrace begins to wane...

It was about this time that Princess Amy decided to make her move. My internal monologue cycled between grudging appreciation and righteous complaint. 

"So it's beautiful," Amy said. "But it would be just as beautiful at, say, 9 AM?" 

A cardinal's clear whistle cut through the morning air, and I thought, "Okay, that was worth hearing." 

"You would have enjoyed it more at a reasonable hour after eating pancakes," said Amy.

The debate continued and the jury in my mind remained stubbornly deadlocked on whether this early rising qualified as wisdom or madness.

And Nature's secrets grow...

That's when a memory from years ago came back to me—a great blue heron standing still as a sculpture at the edge of a lagoon. For fifteen minutes, I watched it in perfect stillness. Then, with a strike so swift it barely registered, the heron speared a fish and lifted it to the sky. It almost seemed an expression of gratitude.

Perhaps she was distracted by a shadow passing overhead. Whatever her reason for pausing, it seemed like a gesture of thankfulness, leaving me speechless. I'd come to observe nature; I hadn't expected to witness grace. 

Ms. Wonder had wandered off earlier, camera in hand, leaving me to my bird-watching and Amy's running commentary. I'd been so engrossed in the heron memory that I hadn't noticed her return until I heard her say, "Sometimes, all it takes is being in the right place at the right time." 

She was watching another heron as she spoke, and I suddenly realized that I was in the right place at the perfect time at that very moment.

Mystery of life...

Walking back to the car, now fully awake and oddly energized, I found myself reconsidering the value of my standard morning routine—the news headlines, email checks, and social media scrolling that typically launch my day. 

Nature's rhythms happen with or without human audience or approval, yet we rise early, fighting our desire to stay snug in our beds, to experience the rituals—not because they need us, but because we need them. 

As Amy finally quieted in my mind, I realized that witnessing the world wake up had, in fact, been transformative. I'd just have to avoid telling Ms. Wonder she was right until after my nap.

Bird Feeder Diplomacy

When I announced my intention to install a "squirrel-proof" bird feeder, Ms. Wonder, ever the documentarian, readied her camera with the enthusiasm of a National Geographic wildlife photographer. Her objective was to get images for my planned articles on 'attracting birds to a feeding station,' 'keeping squirrels out of bird feeders,' and 'interspecies interaction at bird feeders.'

Mimi the Mockingbird arrived first, perching on the fence post with the air of a seasoned diplomat. Her posture suggested she had been elected—or perhaps had elected herself—as the official ambassador for the avian community. I imagined tiny diplomatic credentials tucked beneath her wing.

The negotiations began precisely at 3:15 PM, Eastern Daylight Time. Mutter and his nephews Twizzler and Ziggy observed from the sidelines, their expressions a mixture of challenge and curiosity. The squirrel contingent clearly viewed the new bird feeder as a personal affront to their gastronomic rights.

"This," Mimi seemed to announce to no one and everyone, "is a matter of international—or perhaps inter-nations (animal nations)—importance."

The first breach came not from the expected squirrel suspects, but from Chester, a chipmunk who had apparently been taking notes during advanced engineering classes. While the birds and squirrels engaged in heated debate, Chester performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers that would have made a Cirque du Soleil performer weep with professional jealousy.

With a combination of precision climbing, strategic leaping, and what could only be described as pure rodent ingenuity, Chester accessed the supposedly impregnable bird feeder. But here's where diplomacy took an unexpected turn: instead of hoarding his discovery, he began sharing seeds with his fellow creatures by scattering them on the ground.

The Cardinal family watched with regal interest. Mr. Woodrow, the Red-bellied Woodpecker, ever the curmudgeon, looked on with what I can only describe as a mixture of derision and grudging respect. The doves from the Order of Sisters of Brunswick exchanged meaningful glances that suggested volumes about cooperative problem-solving.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, captured every moment. Her camera clicked with the urgency of a photojournalist whose editor emphasized the need to meet a short deadline.

Mutter, the HOA representative for the squirrel community, seemed both impressed and slightly annoyed. Chester's diplomatic approach undermined his planned objections. Twizzler, Mutter's nephew, fell off the fence with a mix of laughter and admiration on his face. Ziggy, his sister, chased him underneath the fence and out of sight.

As the afternoon progressed, what had begun as a potential territorial dispute transformed into a remarkable demonstration of community problem-solving. Birds and squirrels shared the feeder with the help of Chester and a degree of cooperation that would make human diplomats blush.

I was reminded of a quote I once heard: Some solve problems. Some create problems. And some, like Chester, redefine the entire concept of problem-solving. An example of inter-nations diplomacy at its best.

By noon, the backyard looked less like quantum chaos and more like a model of interspecies harmony. Chester, the unlikely hero, continued his seed distribution with the calm efficiency of a UN peacekeeping mission.

Just another morning in our little corner of the world, where diplomacy and good news come in the most unexpected packages—and sometimes, with very fuzzy ears.