Zona del Silencio

Head over here:

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/

These blog postings are getting a bit infrequent of late. To those fearful that I'm passed out somewhere in a pool of my own sick, fret not. I've been busy, is all.

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This afternoon I drove out to Edgewood Academy, the flagship high school for the Edgewood Independent School District (one of the 17 ISDs in the city). I was there to pitch the Josiah Media Festival. Kathy Braune introduced me to about 18 of her students who are working on animation projects. Two of the seniors had submitted a piece last year. They are both heading to the University of Dallas next year to continue their animation studies. One of the pieces the students screened for me was a fake trailer of a parody of the Saw horror movies which involved some equipment from the Edgewood robotics department to resemble some sort of anal probe. Ah, youth!

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I've been hauling my ass out to the bike trail every day in attempts to get back into some semblance of shape. But, man, these last couple of weeks have been like a sauna. The heat I can handle, but it's just been too humid for me. Here, let me click over to my favorite weather site. It's ten o'clock tonight. Temperature 85 degrees. Humidity, 70%. Heat index, 90 degrees. I think I need to invest in a second fan. If this one punks out, I'm a goner.

I ride out to Mission Espada -- the last in the line of historic missions -- and head on back. Often I walk the mile or more from Mission Espada to Mission San Juan, because it's nice to slow down every so often, and take in what you might be missing. Sure, I have to wave off the Samaritan inclination of fellow cyclists who think I need help fixing a flat. I even had a train stop and the engineer stuck his head from the side window and shouted down if I wanted a bottle of water. I suspect he had a cooler up there with him and was prepared to toss an Aquafina my way. I waved him off with a smile and continued down the quiet tree shaded lane. Lord knows how long it took that train and all those cars to get back up to cruising speed.





And then there's all the critters roaming around.

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Over the weekend I spent three days at the Creative Capital Professional Development Retreat. It was myself and 22 other local artists. David Alcantar, Estevan Arrendondo, Julia Barbosa Landois, Sabra Booth, Richard Diaz, Ilze Dilane, Donna Dobberfuhl, Rex Hausmann, James Hetherington, Stefani Job Spears, Deborah Keller-Rihn, Timothy Kramer, Rhonda Kuhlman, Marlyn Lanfear, Leigh Anne Lester, Jose Luis Lopez, Michele Monseau, Roberto Prestigiacomo, Doug Roper, Ansen Seale, Michael Twomey and Luis Valdaras.





It was an intense barrage of workshops, presentations, break-out sessions, and even the occasional role playing.

The best part were the artist presentations that each of us had to make. Just five minutes. I was blown away by the high caliber and diversity of the work. Perhaps they confused me with one of the other Erik or Eric Bosses.

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Last week I was out scouting Nightmare on Grayson Street (the premier San Antonio haunted house). Sam Lerma's using it as a location for some more of his SAL Film Fest promo videos. Me, Sam, and Dar were ushered in by Gordon, the guy who runs the place, and we wandered the labyrinth of rooms and corridors and backstage work shops.



I inadvertently caused Dar to let loose a piercing scream when I drew her attention to a fat rat that was mounted on a wall in such a way that whenever you opened the adjacent door, it scurried up and down the wall. Dar rounded the corner to see what I was talking about just as I was slowly moving the door open and closed, activating the fishing line that passed over a little pulley.



But all she saw was a moth eaten rat gliding up the wall a couple feet from her. I think the echoes of her screams are still bouncing about the walls of the warehouse.

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I've been checking out some gritty industrial settings for a shoot coming up in about three weeks. The decommissioned Hay Street bridge is very appealing.





As is this loading island on a dead Southern Pacific siding over in my neighborhood, between Say Si and La Tuna.



I need to get the rest of the folks involved in the project to take a look at these places.

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The footage me and Russ are shooting for Jayne King out at Northwest Vista College just keeps plodding along. We're about a week and a half into a three week project. She's working with the Sokolow Theatre Dance Ensemble to reconstruct choreographer Anna Sokolow's last work, Frida.



Last week we said goodbye to Sokolow Ensemble members Lauren Naslund and Samantha Geracht who spent week one working with Jayne's students.



And then, this Monday, Jim May, the artistic director of the Sokolow Theatre Dance Ensemble arrived to give further shape to the dance piece.



He worked with the dancers in the morning. And then me, Russ, Jayne, Jim, and two of Jayne's dancers loaded into a Northwest Vista van and drove to the airport. The Mexican students had just arrived. This project has an international component. Five dancers (three women and two men) flew up from the Central National for the Arts (CNA) dance department in Mexico City.



We set up a little impromptu interview session in the airport. And it seemed we had plenty of time as the kids' luggage flew in on a later plane.

I had a very pleasant weekend. It is finally spring here in San Antonio. Well, for people throughout most of this country it would appear to be high summer. Saturday it got up to at least 100 degrees. I'm trying to get back into shape so I upgraded my basic bike ride from the ten mile jaunt to the more serious twenty mile excursion from my front door to Mission Espada and back. It kicked my ass.

Earlier in the day I met with Ashley Lindstrom of the Current. We had coffee at Ruta Maya ... where I was waited on by the very talented Rebecca Potts, one of the gifted filmmakers over at the North East School for the Arts. I believe she's just finishing off her senior year.

When Ashley arrived I had no trouble recognizing her from her photo on the Current website. Being a wise-ass blog writer sometimes pays off. She has a very easygoing natural charm about her and I could see how this would pay off for a journalist in an interview situation. She could coax the skeletons out of the most hardened sociopath's closet. Now that I think about it, just what might I have unknowingly blubbered out to that sweet, trusting face?



I enjoyed not only reading her piece on the Marfa film festival, but also talking to her about it.

Read the piece here:

http://www.sacurrent.com/util/printready.asp?id=68683

On another Marfa film fest note, my friend Emily, a photographer from Dallas, posted a huge slide show of her trip to the festival, as well as an excursion down through Presidio, Redford, Terlingua, and back up to Marfa.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/crookedpinky/sets/72157604945015399/

My favorite part of the world.

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Today me and Russ met with Gordon Delgado. He's trying to get a feature film made this summer. I first became of aware of the project through Carlos, who's playing a small part in the film.

There are some notable actors attached to the piece. And what I've read of the script is quite appealing. But it just seems that he's a good three months away from shooting. Nope. He's slated to begin first week of June.

He's a likable guy. A middle aged artist with a clear vision of what he wants the piece to be. He did a solid job some years back on a short shot on super 16 called Jesus in a String Bikini. Maybe this will happen. And, who knows, maybe it will happen exactly as he envisions it. And maybe even me and Russ will be on board the project. However, at the moment, it's all up in the air. We mostly were meeting for lunch at Taco Haven to affably size one another up.

We'll see ... we'll see.

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Tonight me and Russ rolled our first cassette of video on this Sokolow documentary we're doing with Jayne King out at Northwest Vista. Two members of the Sokolow Theatre Dance Ensemble arrived today from New York. They'll be working with Jayne's students on a dance piece created by choreographer Anna Sokolow titled Frida, based on Frida Kahlo, who Sokolow knew.

The women from New York are staying at a Bed and Breakfast in one of the little mansions three blocks from me, and conveniently just beyond the back fence from Jayne's house.

We got about thirty minutes of the three of them talking about their plan to teach the Northwest Vista kids the Frida piece.



Tomorrow morning we're off to campus for an early shoot with the students for their first day of this project.

And somehow I think there are a couple of important things I need to do tomorrow, but I just can't remember. Oh, well, it'll all come back to me. You know, the moment it blows up in my face.

(It's Thursday already, and I'm just now posting this blog from the weekend. I tell you, this job I have at the moment sure is sucking time away from my frivolous pursuits.)

I continue to find myself in that vague world of "the check it in the mail." The absurdity of it all is that this should be coming from some financially irresponsible deadbeat such as myself. Funny, but it's coming from other people. Checks promised to me.

Such as just last Saturday when I was hired to video the Family Day at the Blue Star Arts Complex. Well, I can't grouse too much. They quickly paid most of the artists and presenters on the spot. And I do believe I was a last minute after-thought. So, I guess I can wait a few days.

The best thing was the convenience of it all. I packed my equipment into my trusty thrift store laptop shoulder bag and walked two blocks to the San Antonio River, hopped across the cement blocks of the low water crossing, climbed up the levy of the right bank, and there I was. One o'clock until four. I got a bit of a sunburn. I don't know how many people they were expecting, but it seemed a great success. At the most crowded, I would guess there were about three hundred people.





There were booths scattered across the parking-lot with various activities. Silk-screening with the Stone Metal Press. There was a woman letting kids make "fossils" out of shells and starfish and et cetera pressed into sand and then covered in plaster. Beaded jewelry. Clay sculpture. Papel picado. An environmental booth where, among other diversions, you could put on a pair of rubber gloves and dig in a fish tank of mud for a worm and some other critter, and then place it under a microscope.

One of the guys at this booth was walking around with a mug of mate. I only knew what it was because of the iconic metal straw. I've been curious about this drink for awhile, but I have never gotten around to tracking it down. When I asked him about it, he explained that the dried mate could be found fairly easily in San Antonio. He said that his mother in Paraguay sent him the stainless steel straw (they have a bulbous sieve at the far end to filter the mate, which is coarsely cut like tea). He offered me a taste. Very refreshing in a minty and grassy sort of way.



Over by the river, Deborah was setting up chalk and colored sand for kids to make a mandala on a circular part of the bike trail that passes through Blue Star.





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Saturday night I headed over to Russ' place. He was firing up the barbecue. Pete and Lisa were there. He'd tried unsuccessfully to track down Andy and Dar (but I'm thinking they might have made a get-away to the coast). It was the perfect night to sit in the backyard eating too much food. If only those hyperactive chihuahuas next door had been locked up in a soundproof box (now that I think about it, that Igloo cooler that Cooper was sitting on would have been just the right size).

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Sunday I decided to put in an appearance at the Overtime Theater. SALSA (San Antonio Lonely Screenwriters' Association) were gathering for their monthly public reading. First Sunday. For some reason, they were also slated to screen Operation Hitman, the film I did for IFMASA. Mary Harder had been given the script for IFMASA to use, and she initially wanted to direct it herself, but for some reason she offered it to me. The writer is the talented Richard Dane Scott. Who, no surprise, is a SALSA member. So I had a chance to talk a bit with Richard. I hadn't seen him since the 2007 Austin Film Festival. Also, Gabi Walker and her mom Alicia were there. Gabi was the costar of Hitman. I told her I'm trying my best to write a script for her before she becomes too famous for me to afford. Here we have a photo op moment with Alicia and Gabi.



And here we have a poor photo of the reading. I believe that's the back of Nikki Young's head, producer of Operation Hitman.



Gabi had to leave before the film screened (it being a school night). It was for the best, actually, because technical problems popped up, and the DVD refused to play.

No great loss for me. I've already seen it. But because of the vagaries of this dreadful technological blunder called the DVD (especially the hardware and software used to create homemade DVDs), every venue which wants to offer these sorts of screenings need to work out all the tech bugs in their system and, please, do at least a preview dry run of all material to be screened (not all DVDs and DVD players are created the same).

I can't slight the Overtime. They are not a film venue. The reading went off very smoothly. It was a feature script titled The Devil's Right Hand, by Terri Spaugh. A western. The actors did a superb job. They'd familiarized themselves with the roles well enough, so it was more of a performance than a simple table read. There were about a dozen actors on stage, most who I'd never seen before. All very talented. John Poole, who runs the Overtime, acted as the narrator. This meant he read the action lines. And I have to say, the level of writing was very impressive. Damn good action lines (and I'm not being facetious -- this is really where you hold the reader's attention, and if you've written a spec script you had better hold the reader's attention). But the dialogue was another story. Many of us have this problem with dialogue in screenplays. Too damn chatty. Films work much better with information conveyed by actors expressions and various visual cues (unless you're Whit Stillman or Wes Anderson). This stuff isn't for the stage. Ultimately it's not a huge problem, really, as a canny director will strip out about 50 percent of the dialogue and make the piece stronger (unless this particular director wrote the script, and thus has no objectivity).

I hope these SALSA readings continue. It's a one-stop shopping opportunity to sample local playwright / screenwriters as well as actors.

I've not been keeping up with this blog very well. Here's something I wrote over a week ago, I just hadn't posted it.

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Yesterday [Sunday, Apri 27th] was something of an ordeal.

After four hours of sleep, I got up and hauled my uncaffeinated carcass over to URBAN-15. It was for a film shoot ... that I wasn't working on. The fact is, I somehow found myself as the liaison between URBAN-15 and Film Classics (AKA Bryan Ortiz and Michael Druck). I have the key and the alarm code. And I was to be on site while Bryan re-shot some of his flashback scenes from his feature, Doctor S Battles the Sex-Crazed Reefer Zombies.

I arrived ten minutes early, and actors and crew were already milling about, waiting for me to let them in. I tried to help as much as possible, but once they began to set up equipment and dress the set, I decided to make myself scarce. They had 24 scenes to shoot -- all very short. But very ambitious seeing as both me and Bryan needed to be up on the far north side to shoot a wedding at 2 p.m.

They were shooting in the basement space and using the sanctuary space (above) for the green room. This is in the old church part of the complex. I had retreated to the dormitory building where the offices are. I switched on René's computer and answered a few emails. And then Druck called me on my cell from the other building about an electricity question. I headed over and helped them deal with that issue. And then, realizing I still hadn't had coffee, I headed upstairs to the craft services table and grabbed a coffee and a couple of breakfast tacos.

I managed a nap for about an hour and a half on a very uncomfortable floor. But, well for me at least, when it stops working, when a nap ends, there's no forcing it to continue. I stumbled over to the other building and tiptoed down the back stairs to peek in on the shoot. Bryan had done a great job dressing two regions of the basement to look like a generic laboratory from a '50s era monster movie. Producer Michael Druck was doubling as an extra -- he was laying on a table with a sheet covering him. Perhaps a failed experiment of some sort of reefer zombie serum. And over on the other side of the room, we had a trio of scientists conferring at a chalkboard. They were all in white oxford shirts, ties, lab coats, short slicked-back hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. (When these actors -- one being director Bryan -- were lugging equipment back to their cars after the shoot, they'd removed just their lab coats, and I was thinking that the neighbors must have thought some sort of Mormon rally was going on in the building.)

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The day started out cool and overcast. Around noon it was clear and warm. But by the time me and Bryan headed off to the wedding, it was wildly windy and damn cold, maybe in the 50s.

We were a bit late breaking set, but the traffic was mild, and we weren't too far behind for our next gig. The call time for the wedding was an hour before the service began, so, at 2:20, we didn't disrupt much by being late, all we did was to shame ourselves.

The service was a lot of fun. It was a "Harley Wedding," and the couple road up on motorcycles. We were set up in a park pavilion (it was still cold and insanely windy). In leu of a preacher, the service was officiated by an Elvis impersonator.

I was using a borrowed camera. A Canon XL-1. This used to be the camera I lusted after (that, or the more lust-worthy XL-2). But after the wedding, I'm really not much of a fan. One problem is that the XL is an aggressively right-handed camcorder. Left-handers can better manage the more blocky prosumer camcorders with the eyepiece on the axis of the lens. Also, the lack of a fold-out monitor paddle makes it a bad choice for a camera where you're doing a lot of shooting on the fly (this camera sucks for weddings and documentaries -- fine for, say, well-planned narrative work). And, dammit, the focus kept drifting on me when it was on the auto-focus setting (a setting I only use when shooting weddings and documentary type work).

After the weeding, I found it charming that the bride and groom were helping to remove the decorations from the park pavilion.

Next we all traveled to the reception which was at a bar a couple blocks away. I believe the place was called the Hills and Dale Ice House (rustic enough, but hardly what I'd call an ice house -- the place had an impressive array of dozens of great beer on taps along the wall behind the bar). I was hoping we'd be inside. Because, you know, it was damn cold! But, nope, we were on the deck outside. And actually, it did warm up a bit.

I placed the XL-1 on a tripod aimed at the, um, Karaoke area. Yep. Karaoke. I've live to this ripe old age without ever being subject to this specific form of torture.

As we were waiting for the wedding guests to suck back enough beer to get them singing, I unpacked my little GL-2. Clamped to my monopod and with a little on-board lamp, it was a good camera to move around quickly during a wedding reception. And there are times when weddings can be fun. I'm too fat and clumsy to dance without looking like an astonishing fool, but I get a kick out of hitting a densely-packed wedding dance floor, video camera in hand, and dancing around with the crowd. But Sunday there was very little dancing. I got some. But mostly it was people at the Karaoke microphone. I got some of that. And it was okay ... well, I hope. Some gifted singers (well, one), some decent folks, and a couple of guys so wonderfully awful that we were all happy when they returned for a second and even a third performance.

I do understand the appeal of Karaoke, but the sad thing is that it is so alcohol dependent.

Apparently I'm getting paid one of these days for this wedding gig (thank you so much PDP!), but it was hardly work. Remove that pesky XL-1 from the equation, it was a damn cool party. I only hope Bryan got home in one piece -- he'd not slept the previous night because he was preparing for the Doctor Shoot.

I don't want to know who'd be writing the obit of San Antonio's most promising young filmmaker. Catch up on your sleep Bryan. And stop shooting weddings. And stop shooting damn zombie films. A kitschy and campy zombie film is still a fucking zombie film. Last I looked, this was the 21st century -- "the post zombie century" (if you can believe www.ihatezombiemovies.net ... and I tend to acknowledge their expertise on this matter). Zombies, ninjas, goddamned contract killers. These are the kinds of films we make here in San Antonio? What ever happened to "write what you know"?

It's 11:45 Saturday night, and I have a 7 a.m. call time. So I guess this will be a short King William Parade and Festival post.

The rain that blew in last night brought an ungodly amount of humidity. Other than that, it was a great day, with clear skies and coolish temperatures.

The crowds on my street were down considerably from last year -- back then there were probably three times more people. I don't know if they were chased away by last nights weather, or by last years densely packed crowds. The King William Fair was also much sparser than previous years. All this was fine by me, as I hate crowds.





Filmmakers Ralph Lopez and Brant Bumpers were carrying the banner for what Adam's calling the Golden Showers Film Festival this year.



Carol Sowa was back again marching as a stick of butter. But, wait! She has a companion dressed as a couple of slices of bread. Maybe I'll join them next year as a pot of jam.



I'm not sure who won the coveted Miss Southtown award this year -- and I might suggest a lip, cheek, and chin waxing -- but one thing is apparent, their float is pretty damn tacky.



I wish I had gotten a better photo of this charismatic fellow in the gold sequined dinner jacket.



My neighbors are part owners of La Tuna restaurant and ice house. This, and I hesitate to call it a "float," has all the hallmarks of having been thrown together at the eleventh hour. But I rather like it. Why a train? Well, La Tuna is on the train tracks, and the noise can get rather disrupting ... especially on the nights when they project movies on their outdoor screen.



My neighbors, the Tolands, were having their annual Fiesta party. There were loads of kids and this considerably cool tiger piñata. Shame to see it whacked into shards of papier-mâché and gumdrops. The cat has a marked expression of anxiety.



Can you blame him?



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I walked down to the King William Fair. Nikki and Chadd suggested I make it over to the kids area to watch Joe Libby do his magic and ventriloquist act.

Annele Spector and Sam Bayless waved to me. I asked Sam how the edit was coming along for the SAL promo that he and the other Sam were working on. Sam said they had made it funnier. I believe him, and I'm looking forward to it.



I congratulated Annela on the photo shoot for the current issue of the Current -- their "best of San Antonio" edition. Annela and Monessa Esquivel, as the notorious Methane Sisters, are featured on the cover, as well as ten full page color photos scattered through the issue (don't miss the final page -- 150). She and Monessa created some very iconic-friendly characters in May Joon and Ann Jewlie.

Over by the river, I watched a bit of Joe's show, and then, feeling a sunburn coming on, I vanished into the crowd and headed home.

Let me just begin by saying that I'm not a fan of Fiesta (what Barbara Renaud wryly and derisively refers to as "the biggest ten-day pachangalooza you'll ever see"). For ten days people are roaming around in a disjointed daze, like runaway dogs lost in a neighborhood not their own. Traffic patterns are re-routed because of the dozens of parades, street fairs, carnivals, neighborhood-wide barbecues, and goddamn pet parades.

Today I had several things I planned to do before going into my evening job. For instance, I realized I have four over-due library books. No problem, I'll cruise by the main branch and drop them off. Little did I know that one of the major Fiesta parades (the Battle of the Flowers -- can that be right???) was not only gearing up (I kinda knew that), but it necessitated major street closures between me and the library. So, instead of fighting my way through a circuitous labyrinth of detour signs, I thought the price of an additional weekend's worth of late fees was a sensible price for my mental well-being. Next stop. I needed to get my inspection sticker for my truck. The first place I went to down on S. Presa was just down to one guy. His co-workers were probably all downtown watching the parade. He said it'd be thirty minutes before he could look at my truck. The next place I tried was pretty much the same. The guy who did the inspections was out. He'd be back later. After the parade ended, I assumed. And the third place -- the same. "Guy will be back in an hour or two."

At this point, I gave up on most of my other errands. No one was where they were supposed to be. And all citizens were all driving like maniacs. Even along the very laid-back southside streets. South Presa is a quiet artery where no one ever honks a horn (except in friendly greeting -- and then just a tap), and the traffic is mostly moving five miles under the speed limit. However, today I had scads of bumper hogs and a few near-misses.

So, I swung over to URBAN-15. Man, that was a fucking three-ring circus. Tomorrow is one of their biggest days of the year. They always march in the Flambeau Parade, the Fiesta evening parade. There were over a dozen of dancers and drummers putting the finishing touches on their costumes. Molly, the new building manager and general handy-woman, was charging around inviting everyone to head upstairs to the second floor of the dormitory to check out the cool air from the central A/C unit she's just fixed. George was getting some deposits ready to take to the bank. Catherine was talking to the guy from the panoramic photography company which will be taking photos tomorrow of the entire URBAN-15 drum and dance company -- the photo guy was setting up tier riser seating in the little parking-lot. And I found myself conscripted into preparing a part of the basement space for a film shoot that will be happening Sunday morning. And at some point during all this madness, Jim Mendiola and Faith Radle -- director and producer of the reality TV show "Las Chicas Project" -- dropped by. Their show has come to San Antonio this week. The Chicas, Yasmin and Crash (their names according to the press release) will be dancing in the Flambeau Parade with URBAN-15. Las Chicas had the day off, so I didn't get to meet them. From what I can gather having watched a bit of the TV show is that the Chicas are somewhat like that show with Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, but the Chicas are spunky and smart and do things like sky diving ... and, well, dancing in parades. Unlike Paris and Nicole, you're not supposed to laugh AT the Chicas.

I didn't really get any time to speak with Jim and Faith, but they seemed quite nice. They are completely on top of this production. Smiling and unfrazzled.

And then I had to get onto the highway and head up to work.

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Tonight I made it back to my neighborhood by ten. All of the King WIlliam area is barricaded off. Well, closed to "thru traffic."

The King William Parade begins in the morning. I believe this year it's happening a bit later, at ten a.m.

I hate parades. And as I was shifting crap around in the basement of URBAN-15 this afternoon, George had the televised feed from the fucking Battle of the Flowers parade, rear-projected on a large screen. That I could have handled. Just lavish images. But the audio was thundering from a bank of muscular PA speakers. Oh, mercy. I do hope Hell exists, because if it does, these morons who chatter with the color commentary of parade activity will doubtlessly be roasting in the fires of Hades ... along with sports fans and military recruiters.

And even though I have my gripes with Fiesta in general, and parades in particular, I have a soft spot for the King William Parade. First off, there are no TV commentators (not that I know of). And then, there's the fact that the parade passes right by my front yard. And, best of all, this is, as I've said before, something of a people's parade. And though I'd hardly call it a gay pride event, it does have a higher queer quotient than probably any other event of this size in San Antonio.

Besides, it gives me an opportunity to blog snarky comments about the San Antonio chapter of the Sierra Club -- a bunch of self-righteous tossers and poseurs and, dammit, litterbugs (guys, I think I still have some of the shit you left in my front yard from last year). Pull your heads out of your asses and join up with Earth First, you pussies!

But I digress.

I'll be out there, in my front yard, sipping coffee, and cheering the neighborhood arts organizations and businesses like Jump Start, Gemini Ink, Miss South Town, La Tuna, as well as groups like the Underground FIlm Festival (which has changed it's name for the second time -- and really, Adam, what's up with that?), the Alamo City Roller Girls, and on and on. If I'm feeling frisky I might lob some over-ripe fruit at the two or three corporate assholes that weasel in (like Time-Warner Cable or Ronald Fucking McDonald) -- so, if you're local, and programed into my cell-phone, don't be surprised if you get a call requesting some fast cash motored over to the Bexar County courthouse.

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Wednesday Pete called me up and said he and Lisa were heading out of town and could I look after their birds.

Well, sure. I don't want them starving or anything.

"Great," he said. "I'll head on over and drop them off."

"What? Today?"

"Sure. They're little birds. You won't even hear them."

Okay. Hummingbirds are quiet. These are parakeets. Or something like that. And they like to wake up early. But not me.



Oh well. It's my job to keep them alive until Pete and Lisa return.

Pete did have the presence of mind to tell me that one of the birds (for reasons he did not go into) was missing a foot. It still seems to flit around and perch and so on with no real problem. But I'm glad he told me. Because I could easily see some sort of I Love Lucy sit-com scenario where I suddenly notice the peg-legged bird and rush out to buy one that looks close enough to it and switch them. And then, what would I have done with the footless bird? Well, I guess I'll never know.

"Petey?"

"Yeah. What's up, hon?"

"This bird's grown back it's foot."

"Naw. Erik probably just stuck some toothpicks on it. Look for the staple. I thought I told him all about it."

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What I first mistook for some fireworks or miscellaneous Fiesta sounds tonight, I eventually came to realize was the sounds of a serious thunderstorm moving into town. And then it all just started coming down. First some eyeball-sized hail. And then sheets of rain. I stepped out on my porch and watched Hope and her kids across the street scurrying around to get the Fiesta decorations on their porch out of the rain.

After about an hour of rain, hail, thunder, and lightening (I shut down my computer and unplugged my modem), I'm now wondering just how sad and bedraggled the neighborhood's Fiesta decorations are going to be looking in the morning?

Oh, well. I'd better set my alarm (even though I have birds) and see what's what in the morning.

I'm not feeling very chatty tonight. But for some reason I'm up late. So, I've decided to subject my blog readers to three failed short stories (hell, maybe they are stories in progress -- things I'll finish one day). Enjoy these raw first draft stalled abortions I've created within the last month.

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FRAGMENT #1:



I didn't recognize Douglas at first. I was standing in front of a series of charcoal studies for the mural "Gods of the Modern World" at the San Antonio Museum of Art's show, "Orozco Framed, the Smaller Works of José Clemente Orozco," when some asshole dug his elbow into my side.

"What the fuck!"

"Man, don't be like that," replied a smirking middle-aged man in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt for what I presume was a pop band that I wasn't hip enough to have heard of.

"Douglas! The hell you doing here?"

He gave me an awkward hug.

"Like you. Digging the art."

"No. What are you doing in San Antonio?"

"I do some web consulting. I'm here for some telecom company."

"Shit, I haven't seen you since .... Christ, it must have been about twenty years ago. You guys were opening for Dirk Autoclave and His Butterscotch Morsels."

A matronly woman was standing perilously close to us. I knew she was not really looking at the art. She had stumbled on a couple of corn-fed "characters" and she was going to hang onto every word, hoping we'd, I dunno, say something horrible.

"Yeah. That was at Ralph's. I was too wasted to play."

"Naw, you did fine. You guys should get back together again," I said, none too seriously.

I could tell Douglas had noticed the matron.

"We could open for Dirk again," he said.

"He still have his band?"

"Naw. Actually now he's calling himself Melvin von Tibia. He's wrangled a shitload of funding from the NEA for his new off-Broadway show, Buttplug, the Musical"

"No fucking way!" I said.

"Well, he sure as hell didn't get the grant with the current title." Douglas looked up, as though searching his memory. "He was shopping the thing around with the working title of Mister Persephone's Miscarriage -- changed it the second the check cleared."

At the moment, we both noticed that the older woman was nowhere to be seen.

Douglas used to wear a punky spiked haircut, dyed black. Now his natural dirty blond hair, long and held back with a rubberband, showed streaks of grey. He still wore the black Buddy Holly glasses.

At the moment I suspected that we had exhausted our repertoire of commonality. The past can be a sparsely populated realm with very thin air. But Douglas invited me to lunch.

"Saw a Greek place on my way here. Any good?"

"Yes, it is. Let's go."

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FRAGMENT #2:



It was early in the afternoon, and I was tooling around downtown San Antonio on my bike taking surreptitious photos of people lugging about obvious tourists items. You know: sombreros, Frida Kahlo mesh bags, lacquered maracas painted green and red, that sort of crap. I felt the beginnings of a sunburn spreading across my forehead, so I entered into the cool darkness of the Aztec Coffee Shop. A friendly boho sort of place, where they'd never raise an eyebrow if someone walked to the counter rolling a bicycle. I ordered a double cappuccino, paid, and took a seat at a little table near the wall beside a grouping a sofas gathered into a cozy rectangle. I leaned my bike against the wall, pulled my little laptop from my backpack, and plugged it into the wall outlet.

John Lydon croaked a song over the speakers in the ceiling. The girl who took my order -- Kelly, according to her name tag -- bobbed her head in time to the music as she worked the huge espresso machine. She might be new to the Aztec, but she was no stranger to this sort of work. It was just the two of us in the place. And then, Foster and Felipe, the owners, came out from the back office. We were all on nodding terms, and they might even know my name. And, in fact, they both nodded and smiled at me as they marched to a large painting hung on the wall back beside the performance stage.

The painting possessed an off-kilter oddness -- something painfully naive -- but nonetheless it struck me as quite beautiful ... and certainly it was very colorful. Even as far away as it was, I could make out a good deal of detail. It was very big.

"This is it!" said Felipe excitedly to Foster. He held up his hand like a game show girl.

"Wow," Foster said. He moved about like a large cat in the zoo sizing up a baby in a stroller. "Wow. This is something. Powerful." He turned to Felipe with a grin -- he even grinned my way. "I mean, wow! This was done by kids?"

"I guess they really liked the tour," Felipe said. He turned to me and raised his voice over the music for me. "This was done by the fourth grade English class from over at Edgar Allen Poe Elementary."

"I particularly like the portrait in the lower left corner," Felipe said. " Annabel Lee, I have to surmise. Such dynamism."

I had to look up from my computer. The huge mural of a painting featured, in the center, the planet Earth, floating in space. The title, written large above, asked for "Peace on Earth." And in the four corners were portraits of Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, and César Chávez (who, I should admit, I only recognized because he was wrapped in the UFW flag).

"What's wrong with you?" Foster asked, with an edge to his voice. "Can't you fucking recognize Mother Teresa?"

"Oh, yeah. I see it now. Because she's wearing a, um, one of those--"

"Habits. A nun's habit." Foster shook his head. He shot me a nervous smile -- one of those what-are-you-gonna-do looks. "What were you thinking?"

"It was many and many a year ago / In a kingdom by the sea / That a maiden there lived whom you may know / By the name of Annabel Lee."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Foster demanded, crossing his arms.

"It's Edgar Allen," Felipe said, turning with a smile to Foster. He reached out and tousled his partner's hair. "As in Poe, the elementary school."

The girl placed my coffee down on my table just as a Gang of Four song started up.

She paused for the eye contact to see if I needed anything else.

"Thanks," I muttered. Then: "Hey, you study the poetry of Poe in school?"

Kelley lifted heavy lids and gave me a soft smile. She looked over her shoulder at Foster and Felipe who were quietly and smilingly communing with the fourth grade mural. She tugged for a moment at the ring through her pierced eyebrow as she stared at the floor. And then with a sweeping angelic smile she whispered to me in a voice straight from the clipped and nasal diction of north west Texas.

"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December / And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." She paused with a frown. "And something about Night's Plutonian shore."

"They teach you that in Midland?"

"Abilene," was all she said, with a faux flirty smile, and then she was gone, to go wait on three men who had just entered.

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FRAGMENT #3:



I was sitting at my computer the other night furiously instant-messaging with a young French exchange student studying international law at St. Mary's University over on the west-side. If her photos posted on her website were to be believed, she fancied leather bustiers, combat boots, and colorful tattoos of retro robots and William Morris-style floral wallpaper patterns -- and that was just on the flesh which was demurely exposed for the photographs. She was conveying to me her favorite Fluxus filmmakers, and in my gushing response, I was doing my best to pepper my witticisms with the odd Gallic twist of phrase. My office is in a little nook off my kitchen, and at a crucial point my attention was shattered by the clatter of one of the half dozen empty beer cans lining the counter by my sink as it tipped over. It was those goddamn roaches partying on the previous nights dregs of Lone Star beer. In their inebriated shambling, they were making a racket. I was thinking to pull away from the keyboard just long enough to knock a few of the rascals to the linoleum and stomping them flat, but all I did was to inadvertently hit "send," and too late to pull it back from the cyber ether. At the moment of its vanishing, I realized I'd poorly conjugated a bon mot lifted from Rabelais' grand opus. I wasn't sure -- my French is really quite sad, and my comprehension of idiom (be it of the 16th century, or today's) is practically nonexistent. I'm not sure, but I think I called her a "cunt" -- but, you know, in French. And is that really a bad thing?

"Oh, dear me," was her fast response. "Beast = you." And as I was frantically composing a cockroach-free excuse, she added: "OMG! Roommate needs computer. Later later gator!"

And she logged off. I shot to my feet and turned my rage on the roaches. But their blunder with the can had spooked them. Like seasoned soldiers at the Battle of the Somme, they were waiting me out in the narrow spaces behind the upper cabinets or under the sink lurking in the shadows of the cleaning supplies I never used and the plastic gallon of white vinegar I don't even know why I own. But then -- aha! -- I saw one still on the counter. He had been hunkered down under my little espresso machine, but I could see his little butt sticking out.

"You cocksucker!"

I lifted up the coffee maker and the critter would have yipped had he been so endowed. Instead, he bolted for a crevice where the ceramic tile of the counter meets the wall. I stymied him with my hand and he pivoted and scurried straight towards me and leaped to the floor. Ha! Just where I wanted him. I savagely stomped down with my Converse All-Stars three times, in quick succession. Dammit! The little feller had certainly gotten a snootful of cheap American beer, because he was weaving and skittering all over the place -- flushed with adrenaline and alcohol, he was a zippy and unpredictable target. He made it to the safe haven beneath the water heater.

Jesus! What am I doing with my life? It struck me that this living hand-to-mouth was wearing thin on me. Sure, I was expecting a small but useful check from my last gig in the mail in three or four days. But as things stood at the moment, I had two choices on how to spend the last five dollars in my pocket. A six pack of tallboys, or some roach poison. Of course, there was no doubt as to what my decision would be. And I wouldn't be surprised to discover that Suzette573 wasn't actually a playful kohl-eyed 24 year old grad student from Lyon who was living just a few zip codes away from me, but, instead, some fat forty-year-old pervert living in his mother's basement in Norman, Oklahoma.

So, the next morning when I was woken by my cell phone at eleven o'clock with the promise of a job, I heaved myself to my feet and grabbed a pen and some paper.

It was Sandy, a woman who worked the phones for Travis County Extra Casting. I'd signed up for them maybe two years ago when an actor friend of mine started getting loads of extra work up in Austin. What with the rising gas prices, the overhead travel expenses made their 50 to 100 dollars a day somewhat less inviting seeing I would have to drive over a hundred miles. So I placed a tick on the form that I was only interested in work in the San Antonio area. And I never heard back from them. Well, until now.

Sandy said she needed people, and she needed them fast. Three days, a hundred dollars a day. Starting this afternoon. San Antonio, she quickly clarified.

"Time and place," I said, doing my best to inject a smile into my voice. "And how shall I dress?"

Sandy gave me the particulars. She told me who the on-set contact was. Some guy named Davis. I was to be at the San Antonio Zoo by two in the afternoon. Casual dress, like what I would wear were I taking a child to the zoo.

"They'll write you a check for a hundred dollars at the end of each of the three days," she said. "Two p.m. until two a.m."

I thanked her and staggered into the bathroom for a shower.

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For those very bored intrepid souls who've read this far down the page, I have only one thing to say:

Get off the fucking computer!

Later later ....

My latest NetFlix arrived this afternoon. For some reason I had never gotten around to seeing Living in Oblivion. It's one of these movies about making movies that everyone who has seen has loved. Especially if they've ever worked in production.

I'd put it off because I'd assumed it was just goofy fluff. I think the problem is that I confused it with another movie about making movies, The Big Picture by Christopher Guest (which I have just placed in the NetFlix hopper, to arrive in good time to my front porch).

Tom DiCillo directed Oblivion, and if someone had explained that he was the DP for Stranger than Paradise, I might not have put off seeing this film for long. Also, I had not known that it starred Steve Buscemi, Catherine Keener, and Dermot Mulroney.

It's definitely worth watching, and I expect I'll see more of DiCillo's work. But if you just read the comments on IMDB it sounds like fucking Shakespeare. And I think the reason is that with the digital revolution and the explosion of film schools, a significant percentage of serious movie watchers have, at some time or another, worked on a film set. And Living in Oblivion does a solid job of delivering the verisimilitude of what it's like on a movie set. One of the highlights is Dermont Mulroney as the director of photography who wears a beret and a leather vest without a shirt. We've all worked with someone like that ... or someone who wants to be like that.

Apparently the piece began as a 30 minute short, but everyone enjoyed the experience so much, that they tracked down more funding and extended it into a feature.

There's a great establishing scene that opens the piece. It's 4:30 in the morning. Two production assistants are loading up the craft service table with stale cookies a handful of grapes, and a carafe of coffee. No one else has arrived yet. One of them opens a half gallon carton of milk and gives it a sniff.

"I think this milk's gone bad."

"When did you get it?"

"That can't be it. I just bought it Tuesday. Wait -- what's today?"

"Monday."

"Really....?"

@@@@@

Someone finally snagged the recliner that had been dumped in front of my house. That took a good three or four days. And I can't imagine it was an easy task to haul it into the pickup truck. The deluge the other night must have soaked it with a good thirty pounds of water.

This week is bulky trash pick up. It comes to my neighborhood maybe twice a year. And always the week proceeding the King William Parade. The neighborhood commission doesn't want anyone to have some lame reason why their yard or curb is filled with unsightly crap as the parade with all the public officials and the media comes tromping down our streets.

This means that the enterprising trash pickers are cruising the neighborhood looking for the tasty morsels to snatch from the mounds of brush and household refuse. I don't mind this -- I'm a supporter of the time honored scavenging arts. But it does create a maddening bottleneck with all the trucks inching along the street -- the drivers hopeful, discerning.

But it's not just the residential neighborhoods. For some reason I have been seeing people's shit dumped out along the Mission Trail where I ride my bike. This was out on Villamain along the railroad tracks between Missions Espada and San Juan.



Next, I stopped to inspect the Bridge to Nothing. The location for a Carlos Pina short film of the same name. It's a decommissioned bridge that spans a little canal that shunts off the San Antonio River. It's a cool location, and I was thinking if it might lend itself to an upcoming dance video. It's filled with aesthetic potential, but I came to the conclusion that it won't do for the performance.



There's another place I want to scout as a location. It's a much larger decommissioned bridge. You can see it from up on I-37 as you head north from the Alamodome. It's on the eastside. If I wasn't still fighting this damn cold, I might have cycled over to the place. But, instead, after coming home from my more humble bike ride, I got on my computer and used Google Maps to get a satellite shot down on the bridge. And then I thought maybe I'd try the "street view" setting. I'd tried this before, but wasn't able to get it to do much.

Wow! It's working great now. After cruising around the closed off ramps to the eastside bridge (360 degree street-level photos), I headed over to check out my block.

The Google photo truck had obviously come down my street around Halloween. The Witte's house and the Cortes' house are both festooned with loads of fake spider webs. With no little trepidation I rotated around to look at my house, fearful that I'd be sitting on my porch and picking my nose. But I was nowhere to been seen. My truck wasn't even in the drive.

There's actually a way to cruise down the photographed streets. All I did was to use the arrows on my keyboard. It's not a fluid movement, but it's a rough approximation.

@@@@@

I found this on my windshield early this evening as I was heading out to the grocery store. Some fucking bird had perched in the pecan tree above my truck and took a dump on my windshield. And for some reason this stink bug couldn't keep away.



I call this piece Stink Bug on Guano.

Look for my entire guano series at the finer digital photo galleries this coming First Friday

Friday felt like a Saturday. Not because my lifestyle allows much for a differentiation of weekend and weekday. The disparity was in the people around me.

Thursday night, after closing up a project at the Company, I got on the highway to head home. Around 9:30, while on the road, I got a text message on my cell phone from Dar. She said that she would be meeting at 10:30 with Sam and Russ to talk about the upcoming shoot days for the remainder of the SAL Film Fest promo pieces. If I could make it, they'd be at Joey's on N. St. Mary's.

These are people who work real jobs. And here they were having a production meeting at 10:30. At a bar. On a Thursday night.

I showed up just as Russ was pulling into the parking-lot. Once we entered, I realized I'd been to Joey's before, with Kat, my dominatrix friend. Sam and Dar soon joined us. Sam popped for the "first pitcher of beer." And I then realized that the reason we were meeting at this time was because Sam had just gotten off work. He was still wearing a shirt that had the name of the news station he shoots for.

I think we made some headway. Sam seems convinced that the rest of the scenes can be hammered out during two long days of shooting. Sounds ambitious, but I'm game.



The following day, Friday, I attended a Texas Filmmakers Production Fund grant-writing seminar at San Antonio College. For some inexplicable reason, it was held at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon. This is rarely a problem for me -- I have a fairly open and drifty schedule. But some people actually have jobs. However, Dar and Andy made it. As well as Russ. Lee. And Pete (who was hiding the exposed scalp of a recent and extreme haircut) ... although Pete has a schedule almost as fluid as my own.

Looking at the greater picture, Friday might have been a weekday, but it marked the official beginning of Fiesta. And we here in San Antonio know that all rules of social order (like showing up for work) are out the window for the ten days of high octane partying.

In fact, earlier Friday afternoon, I was down at the performance hall in La Villita helping URBAN-15 decorate the place for their Incognito event -- an annual fundraiser held on the opening night of Fiesta. It's a masquerade party with music by URBAN-15 as well as Brave Combo.



So, after a couple hours decorating the 50 something tables, I left to the TFPF seminar at SAC. Afterwards, I headed to Tito's for a very late lunch. I'd cajoled Russ to meet me. And while I sipped their great coffee, I noticed a familiar young man paying at the register with a friend of his.

It was Sterling Abrigo, a young local filmmaker. I believe he's a student at Brackenridge High School, down at the end of my street. But he also attends the art programs over on the westside with San Anto Cultural Arts. There, with the guidance of Manny, Payan, and Pocha Pena, he's worked on some impressive and solid pieces of video work. San Anto's SAMMI (San Anto Multi Media Institute) has produced some slick documentary work concerning the San Antonio art scene, under the umbrella title of San Anto TV.

I asked what he's been up to recently. He's still collaborating with fellow San Anto filmmaker Julian Moreno-Peña. "And I'm working on a musical," he said, with a noncommittal polite smile. I might have said something along the lines of "is that wise?" And I got a sense that his friend standing there with him was as doubtful as me. Of course, I hate musical. Well, most musicals. "What's it about?" I asked. Sterling smiled and looked off into the distance. "Well, that's a secret," he said in his quiet manner. But he did pitch me the story-line of another project he's working on, a short narrative with a sci-fi element.

The truth is, all those San Anto kids are worth paying attention to. And I will gladly give any musical a chance that Sterling has worked on.

I made it back to La Villita to volunteer for Incognito by about 8:15. I took the trolly, because parking downtown would no doubt be a bitch, what with Fiesta gearing up.

The place was filling up fast. George Cisneros was leading the URBAN-15 drummers like some post-modern Desi Arnez. I've said it before and I'll be saying it again. The URBAN-15 drummers might have an average age of 60, but they have a primitive industrial sound that could easily compete with Test Department, Einstürzende Neubauten, or the Swans. And they have no problem getting people of all ages and backgrounds out onto the dance floor.





My station for a couple of hours was in this tiny box office with one of the URBAN-15 dancers whose name now eludes me. We didn't have much time to chat. Our job was to sell tickets which the patrons would use to exchange for drinks and snacks. We were constantly taking money. And loads of it. I don't know how much URBAN-15 paid for a single-event liquor license, but I'd have to say it was money wisely spent.

I tried my best to enjoy the show from my little box.



After we were relieved by the next shift, I wandered around taking pictures and talking to the people I recognized. The problem in attending masked balls while not wearing a mask, is that people come up to you and greet you effusively and anonymously, and, as suddenly, they evaporate into the crowd. And then there's that: "Wait wait who was that girl?" And the moment is lost forever.

Rough stuff.

Gabriel Velasquez (architect, DJ, CALO founder, etc.) was there as the master of ceremonies. I also saw Ramon Juan Vasquez (poet and head of the AIT-SCM). I have no trouble identifying them because they weren't wearing masks.

Brave Combo launched into their own brand of cross-cultural party music. It has evolved quite a bit from their earlier designation of "nuclear polka" of their quasi-fame in the '80s. In fact, the last time I saw this band play live (and they always introduce themselves as a band from Denton, Texas) was for a birthday party for the artist Albert Scherbarth. I was living in a stark 6000 square foot loft in the Continental Gin Company building in the Deep Ellum section of Dallas. And I was coaxed down to Albert's ground floor space from my third floor cavern by the raucous polka beat and the promise of free beer.

Sadly, Brave Combo aren't near as wonderfully sloppy and playful and captivating as they once were, but they still can control a crowded hall. Besides, they have recorded a slew of brilliant albums over the decades, freely embracing a multi-cultural experimental agenda.

Here we have Catherine Cisneros oblivious of the camera I'm sticking in her face. Maybe she's just ignoring me.



And here we have Michelle, still smiling after an hour or so of dancing with the rest of the URBAN-15 dance troupe.



I finally decided to walk back home around eleven or so. It was a nice night with a full moon. The bars down on S. Alamo were not as crowded as I would have expected on a Friday night, let alone the first day of Fiesta. Maybe the people of this city are pacing themselves -- though that seems unlikely.

It was bound to happen, as I have been living on borrowed time for too long (face it, we all have). In my case, it was a simple question of an expired auto inspection sticker as well as registration. This happens to me periodically (every year, actually). I'm beginning to believe that this life-style just isn't working for me. This living hand-to-mouth. I put off getting my car legal because I never have the bonus cash laying about. And then I get busted, and I have to scramble to make some court clerk happy. This happened yesterday in Alamo Heights. Actually, this thing has happened before in Alamo Heights -- three years running. Damn that punch card for a free pound of coffee from Central Market (AKA, the Gucci HEB). At the risk of making Miss Nikki Young tear up with my callousness directed toward her 'hood, let me just say: fuck Alamo Heights! Having said that, I will admit that their police officers are polite. Also, their courthouse is easy to locate, and rarely do I need to generate crocodile compassion for probationers and assorted jittery scofflaws of the mullet class while I wait in line. In fact, there never does seem to be a line. So, a class act all around. Just don't let the sun set on you here, son, if you know what I mean.

Speaking of the mullet class (my people, if the do-right boys of Alamo Heights have any say in matters), here is a photo diptych that says it all.

The first is what I look out at every morning while standing at my kitchen counter sipping fine Alamo Heights coffee. Carlos and Hope Cortez have a grand, beautiful house -- here we see they've decorated it for Fiesta. In about ten days the King William Parade will raucously make its way down our street.



And this second images is what the Cortez family has to face every time they peek out the window or leave their house. They're wonderful people, and they suffer in brave silence. One of the apartments in this triplex where I live just emptied, and the Barcalounger with the greasy headrest is perched on a low-cut tree stump. The landlady hasn't mowed in a month or more. And all this picture needs is me and Carlos Pina sitting on my porch drinking 40 ounces of Bastardo Beer and drunkenly talking a bit too loudly about "shooting another movie here -- yeah, fuck yeah."



But Carlos has moved on from that sort of rough and tumble character. He's now a gentleman rancher out in the Lulling oil fields, with a new sensible car, a conservative haircut (yes, a goddamn haircut!!), and spiffy new headshots from Deborah and Ramin. Here. I'll have to poach an image from his MySpace page.



It's a great shot. I hope he gets increasingly meatier roles. And, if I squint just right, I can still see the hardened punk rocker from the Rio Grande Valley.



@@@@@

Last year the King William Parade used my street to stage the floats, marching bands, and et al. This meant that we on the 700 block of E. Guenther were only able to see half of the parade. There were some pissed off citizens. They reacted by joining up with the parade commission (or whatever), and so this year the parade should be back to it's traditional starting place and route. I can certainly applaud this grassroots activism. If it was only this easy to take the reigns where the war on terror is concerned. Or global warming.

For those who haven't attended the King William Parade as well as the King William Fair, it's the best thing about Fiesta. The parade begins around ten a.m. on Saturday. April 25th. But come early. It's an ordeal to find parking. Come on by, you're welcomed to sit on my little porch or in my front yard -- just bring your portable chair if you want to sit proper. I'm at 716 E. Guenther. RSVP and I'll have a cup of coffee waiting for you.

@@@@@

My last NetFlix movie was Save the Green Planet! Well, that's the English translation of the title. It's a Korean movie from 2003. The contemporary South Korean cinema is very weird -- well, from what I've heard. And this is no exception.

I selected this one because of a trailer I saw on another NetFlix offering. It looked like a playful and kooky sci-fi film. Not so. It's a kooky and gritty and intense psychological drama. It's one of those movies you want to watch with other people, so you can discuss it afterwards. It's a good film. Beautifully shot. Tightly written. But because of the preview, I had certain expectations. I think I would have enjoyed this more if I had been allowed to watch it without any information. And, really, isn't this the way we should enter every film? Actually, this is the reason why I like attending film festivals. Just dive into a film without having been tainted by any of the PR.

@@@@@

And, to close, I'm looking for a good home for a late 20th century-era recliner. It's perfect for lounging and watching the box-set of the Rockford File while eating a bucket of chicken. Or so I assume.



It has yet to be rained on. Act now!

What a long weekend. My dogs are still tired. I've something of a mild sunburn. And I finally discovered how many photos the SD card on my little camera will hold. 86, at the highest resolution. (I usually upload them to my computer the day after I use it -- and this was two days worth.)

Sunday morning I hauled myself out of bed at seven-thirty. No big deal, normally. But I didn't get to sleep Saturday night until 3:30.

I loaded up my video camera (as well as my little high-8 camcorder as a back-up), shotgun mike, headphones, monopod, a fistful of filters, wide-angle lens, and a couple of batteries. I stuffed it all in my laptop shoulder bag (which served me well as a production bag in Mexico in the summer of '06).

Call time was nine at Travis Park. I was there early and strolled though the little one block square park. Lots of park benches and shade trees. And even though some swanky hotels overlook the place, there are always quite a few homeless people hanging out and often sleeping there. The homeless problem in San Antonio is huge. But, for the most, these people are as polite and laidback as those who have homes in this city. We have numerous programs and shelters to offer a modicum of help. But there is precious little to deal with the root problems: mental illness, and a lack of a network of stable and long-term support.

And so as I wandered the park, nodding to the indigent, as well as the tourists and the locals who attend the two churches that front onto Travis Park, I began trying to identify the people I was supposed to be working with.

Ryan Murray, who I met on the set of Garrison a couple of years back, was producing a little promo video for SAVA -- the San Antonio Visual Artists group. I would be helping Ryan to shoot the piece. My understanding was that it would be a series of peripatetic guerilla art happenings. Why not? And, as the only person involved who I knew was Ryan, I began trying to spot artists. First off, I knew they'd not be dressed like tourists or church-goers. However, many artists I know do indeed look like the homeless ... although they are less likely to walk with a limp or shout profanity at squirrels.

Shirlene Harris was the first to show up. She's one of the founding members of SAVA. I'd not met her before, but when I was in San Miguel back in 2006, I met her daughter, Melanie, who runs a gallery down there. Shirlene had a huge stiff mesh plastic bolsa stuffed with art supplies. Other artist soon arrived at the benches at the center of the park. And as we all waited on Ryan (who was running late because of car trouble), Shirlene had us all introduce ourselves. I'd list their names, but I wasn't able to recall everyone's. There was a painter named, I believe, Leonardo Benavides, Jr. He showed up with his sister who was visiting from out of town. And then there was Nicole Vachier Lozano, an artists who works in glass. And then a man and two women whose names I'll have to add later, when I get all the info.



Ryan eventually made it, with his friend Carlos in tow. All in all, we were ten: six artists (Shirlene being one of them), two video guys, a friend, and a sister.

Our first stop, the Alamo. It was close enough, so we walked. Because we didn't want to get chased off by the Alamo cops, we set up on the far side of Alamo Street. In fact exactly where Deborah did her mandala piece for Luminaria. And also where Nicole was set us for Luminaria with her glass melting kiln. But I didn't know her back then.

We dropped down a plastic tarp, and the six artists stood in a circle wearing oxford dress shirts bought from thrift shops. They all had those little tool pouch apronettes which held brushes and bottles of acrylic paint. They had five minutes to paint a work of art on the back of the person in front of them. Me and Ryan moved around, shooting video. Leonardo's sister kept an eye on the clock. Carlos guarded our stuff. We got something of a crowd of curious onlookers. And then, once five minutes were up, we scurried to pack up and move to our next location.



The second location was a part of the river walk. Actually, I wasn't paying attention, so I'm not sure what the street overhead was. This was more sedate. The six artists were given little art boards, smaller than a LP cover. They were given five minutes to make a painting. This might be some of the more problematic video, because I kept having to reset the iris because some people were in shadow and some were in full sunlight. It was peaceful down there with hardly any on-lookers. It felt less like a stunt and more like what it was -- a group of artists painting together. Just really quickly.



Back up on the street, we grabbed a trolly and soon found ourselves in the Market Square area. It was to be another bit where the artists painted on the backs of one another. They put on ew shirts, and we looked for a good spot in the pedestrian alley between the El Mercado and the restaurants and galleries. We headed all the way down so that the Alameda (or the Museo, or whatever the fuck they call that Smithsonian affiliate) was in the background. This time, Ryan told the encircled artists to "kick it up a bit." He told them to walk in their circle, and continue painting on the back of the artists in front of them. I know this wasn't too thrilling for the artists, but it was fun to shoot. Oh, and we pulled in another artist. One of the SAVA members works out at Market Square painting caricatures. Shirlene spotted him and dragged him into the ring.

As me and Ryan were shooting, I noticed that there was a man taking photos of the event. He was wearing an Alameda name badge. My question: was he just an art-lover on break taking photos of something he was grooving to, or was he collecting photo evidence to be used in some future Smithsonian litigation were we are all sued for video-taping images of a building in the background connected to an institution with a huge and humorless legal department. But we continued, and from a nearby outdoor loudspeaker Van Morrision was crooning about some brown eyed girl and the artists were soon in the rhythm of the music.







We got out of there without incident. And then we grabbed a bus to the Freedom Torch, which is, I believe, the name of the priapic travesty of public "art" that rises up from a traffic circle at Alamo Street and Commerce. I muttered something about how "I've lived in this city for four or five years and as much as I've waited for that day when I might learn to love this sculpture which I initially thought sucked, I have to say --"

"It still sucks," Nicole jumped in to finish my sentence.

And, you know, I love all the gifts from Mexico. Lila Downs, ginger pig pastries, Miguel Covarrubias, hell there's not a sour note. Except this abomination.

But I digress.

We gave the artists small squares of clear plastic panes. They painted for five minutes. We were situated across from the "torch," using it as a background.





And then we all headed back to Travis Park and went our separate ways. A very enjoyable way to spend a Sunday morning.

Here's a link to Nicole's blog where she has some pictures.

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I popped by Pepe's for their Sunday lunch special of enchiladas verde. And then I drove to the final day of CineFestival.



I caught a great Lucha Libre documentary by Gustavo Vasquez, Que Viva La Lucha. Next I headed over to the gallery space to watch the Pocho Retrospective. Some short social satire comedies from a couple of filmmakers from LA. They were in attendance and gladly answered the questions from the too tiny audience who showed up. I believe their names were Estaban Zul and Lalo Lopez.

Some of the stuff is on YouTube. From dumb fun to witty & subversive fun. Check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/user/EstebanZul

As I was waiting for the wrestling doc to begin, I saw Jessica Torres and Sarai Rodriguez heading down the aisle of the main theater. I gave them a wave.

Filmmaker Jessica and actress Sarai are involved with the San Anto Cultural Arts student programs. They came over, shouting loudly, "if it isn't Mister Erik Bosse!"

They're wise asses. And, in my book, that's an important trait. They can drift into scorchingly fast-paced clever banter. They are smart and funny. And I look forward to seeing more of their film work.

Victor and Sandra did an incredible job with the CineFestival. They had a short time to pull everything together, but it turned out brilliantly.

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Around seven I drove back to downtown. I found a place on the street to park near the OCA offices, and I walked the five blocks to Main Plaza. Sunday night was the grand opening. As I walked to the site, I matched pace with a guy rolling a double bass. "You're with the San Antonio Symphony, I presume?" I asked. He nodded. "When you guys going on?" He told me they'd be performing at eight.

I'd heard earlier from Stephanie Keys, clarinetist, that the symphony would be playing for the Main Plaza opening. And, sure enough, I looked up and saw Stephanie walking towards me holding a little instrument case. She waved to me and hurried on.

I also saw Louisette. She's with one of the historic recreation groups or something. Maybe the Canary Island people? Whatever the case might be, I should have taken a picture. Louisette makes a tricorner hat look dead sexy.

The plaza is certainly promising. They still need to, well, you know, finish it. You see, the contractors really weren't able to meet this official opening deadline. It was a bit messy moving around. People were trodding over incomplete landscaping. And there were loads of people. The place was packed.









Some botoxed zombies with the local media were up inanely praising everyone and everything. Gassy politicians and majestically tanned local philanthropists were all swooning on the heady perfume of their own rhetoric which was mildly spiced with the occasional stray Españolism. This verbal wankery went on for maybe an hour.

And then, show time.

The symphony launched into some generic eighteenth century equivalent of John Williams -- guess I need to brush up on my classical music literacy. This was to cue the landscape lighting. Some halogen lights in the trees came up. Also, the rope lights which are piped along the lines of the cathedral's facade came on (but they're nothing new). And then, the fountains. Five of them. The water jetted up, lit beneath from lights. Very nice. And the finishing touch. Colored lights splashed up on the face of cathedral.

More money, no doubt, into Bill FitzGibbons' account. And as much as I like these ever-changing displays of colorful LED lights swathed across buildings and highway over-passes, it's getting a bit stale. Mr. FitzGibbons, you are in danger of becoming the Thomas Kinkade of the LED.





In the months to come, I will make it a point to drop by the plaza for the free performances that will be scheduled.

But as I headed to my car I wondered how many homeless people, come daylight, would be dozing on the benches of the plaza? The project cost somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 million dollars. And there was a moment when the Mayor praised the Tobin Endowment for coming in at the eleventh hour for the extra 2 million for the five fountains. Well, that was nice. They're very fine fountains. On a hot day in the summer, I'm sure they'll be perfect places to wash your feet. While shouting profanity at squirrels.

Saturday I finally got a chance to put in an appearance at CineFestival at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center.

I arrived early, because there was a student screening at 9am. But I eventually discovered that it had been moved to the Alamo Drafthouse. Just the student portion. Damn. I'd been wanting to pimp the Josiah festival to a captive audience of teen filmmakers. I could have driven out to the hinterlands (the Drafthouse is way out by Sea World), but, because my Locos documentary was screening at ten, I decided to stay.

Good thing, I guess. Because the person who was supposed to be volunteering to run the dvd player for the screenings at the gallery space had flaked.

Forgetting those student screenings far far away, the CineFestival films were showing in two locations. The main theater at the Guadalupe complex, as well as the gallery space a block to the north. Belinda -- one of the main people at the Guadalupe -- walked me over to the gallery and gave me a mini tour. The building used to be an old HEB warehouse. It's damn impressive. Five big studios. And a large gallery space. The gallery had been turned into a screening room.

She showed me the basics with the room's lighting and the audio / visual equipment.

Veronica Hernandez, my NALIP colleague, was there with her two little girls. They had just rescued a puppy wandering in the neighborhood and the girls were hugging it.

"What's its name?" I asked.

One of the girls told me. Lulu, I think she said.

"Oh, god," Veronica muttered. "They've already given it a name." She turned to her daughters and reminded them that this was not their new pet. They were simply saving it from getting run over.



A couple of other people showed up. But by the time I began the 90 minute block of short films (including mine), half a dozen people were there to watch the films.

(I found out that many people had been directed to the Alamo Drafthouse when they stopped off at the Guadalupe's box office ... even though they wanted to see the Taste of Texas short films, and not the student short films. There was a point where I headed over to the box office and spoke to the individual who had misguided these people. I won't name names, but this individual seemed unconcerned. "What was I to know? A short film is a short film." Hmm....)

Dora and Manual showed up with two of their kids. They helped out volunteering at the gallery space.

There were some workshops happening in one of the studios while films were screening in the gallery space.

The first workshop started off with no one showing up. It was for kids. And the panelists were Ozuna (from Harlandale), Gisha (from Say Si), and Gregg Barrios (local writer, who had headed my novel writing group for awhile). What made no sense to me was that Ozuna and Gisha were teachers in kids media programs. As was festival coordinator, Victor. Why couldn't they rally the troops? I was very dejected with this sad display. Gisha got on her cell and called over to Say Si to see if someone could bring some kids over.

There was a forum I attended. It was run by Jesse Borrego and Susanne Mason. Mason had directed a documentary, Writ Writer -- Jesse had narrated the piece. Because the deceased subject of the documentary, Fred Cruz (a prisoner who educated himself in the law to help fellow inmates), had a San Antonio history, many of the questions were about Cruz's life. And, really, I wanted some information about the process of producing a documentary. But It was still interesting.



I watched another block of short pieces, and then headed over to the main theater to see Alex Cox's digital feature, Searchers 2.0. I like it. And maybe later I'll write some about it.





The next big film was Propiedad Ajena. Russ showed up. And we went in to watch it. Fifteen minutes into the piece, I knew it wouldn't be delivering anything rewarding or surprising. I was a slick Mexican feature length telenovela. A multigenerational soap operatic love story that chased me out to Giovanni's, just a block away. (Giovanni's Pizza, at 913 S Brazos, makes the best pizza on town, don't even bother trying elsewhere.) Luckily the place was open. I hadn't had anything since a Mexican pastry for breakfast (thanks Dora!). I ordered a couple of slices and grabbed a Jones soda. I spent about an hour hanging out and talking trash with Giovanni. He's an old school leftist from NYC (still with deep ties to family in Italy) -- he's my neighbor, a few blocks to the north. He knows everyone in the San Antonio arts scene, and we dished the dirt back and forth until I realized I really should return to the film.

I paused outside the theater to take this blurry photo of the people lined up for the next show. The joint was hopping!



I had no trouble wiggling back into the theater. I had a VIP pass. Back inside, I thought I'd made it with perfect timing. The film seemed to be winding up. But, no. What I thought was the last gasp of a third act false ending was actually the second act third act pivot. I have another forty minutes of this overwrought nonsense. But at least I was well-fed.

When the lights came up me and Russ headed out. The following film had sold out. And while I expect my VIP pass would have let me in, he had no such credentials.

We eventually found ourselves at the gallery space for the Saturday night gala party.

And because I had to get up early the next morning for a shoot, I stayed until about 2am.

I have discovered another reason to blog about the upcoming CineFestival. My short documentary I submitted -- "Dia de los Locos" -- will indeed be screening. Saturday morning. It will be in with a block of other short pieces between 10am and 11:30am. So, I guess I will be opting out of the extra hours offered Saturday by the Company.

This from the website:

Saturday, April 12
10:00 am - 11:30 am, GCAC Gallery -Taste of Texas Shorts

Rio Grande Odyssey, Dir. Chad Green, 3 min.
Dia de los Locos, Dir. Erik Bosse, 15 min.
DreaMachine Lullaby, Tonzi Canestaro-Garcia, 7 min.
Requiem for Sweep, Vincent Moreno, 11 min.
The Great Wall of Texas, Dir. Valerie Asensio, 7 min.
Ram, Dir. Tyler Ybarra, 5 min.
Eye for an Eye, Rogelio Salinas, 8 min.
Hurricane Party, Dir. AP Gonzalez, 28 min.
Preview: Long As I Remember: Chicano Veteranos, Dir. Laura Varela, 10 min.

I don't know if this is the order in which the pieces will be screened.

I've seen Rio Grande Odyssey about four times already. It's excellent! Directed by Chadd Green, shot by AJ Garces, produced by PrimaDonna Productions, and featuring poet Rod Stryker, it's smart, slick, fast, wise, and funny.

My own piece moves along fairly well -- or so I like to think. It features my collaborators and co-producers, Deborah Keller-Rihn and Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez (we comprise Proyecto Locos -- an artist collaborative). I've flogged it about quite a bit locally, but if anyone out there has yet to see it, come on out Saturday morning. (Actually, it's posted online, accessible through my website).

I've seen some of Vincent Moreno's work before at a NALIP video slam. Very beautiful and moving work.

Tyler Ybarra is perhaps best known for his wonderful mockumentary, Tripas Love. I'm guessing this short piece is a pean to the late lamented head honcho of the legendary Tacoland.

Rogelio Salinas is a very focused filmmaker with a clear path in the work he wants to create. I've seen bits of a work-in-progress of his over the months. Very promising work with striking photography.

And of course, Laura Varela. She's undisputedly one of San Antonio's most committed and serious filmmakers -- I'm really looking forward to this preview of her current big project.

As for the other films, I know nothing about them or their creators. But I'm expecting to see wonderful and new work.

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I woke up this morning feeling fairly seedy. And as the day progressed I knew I couldn't pretend that I wasn't coming down fast with a cold. This is going to make this upcoming weekend a bit of an ordeal. I want to take advantage of as many of the CineFestival screenings as possible. Also, I have an opportunity to pitch the Josiah Youth Media Festival to some young filmmakers. Then there's the Main Plaza opening. And, also, I have agreed to help shoot a rather hush-hush gorilla art event which is scheduled to meander, peripatetically, through downtown and the southtown area over the weekend. Damn, but it's sad, in a way, that I no longer have connections to black market pharmaceuticals. (Ah, those were the days. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to live through them.)

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It's interesting that I found out today that the Dia de los Locos documentary was scheduled to play at CineFestival (thanks to a MySpace bulletin from Vincent Moreno), because I met for breakfast with the other two members of the project. Me and Ramon were sitting at a westside taqueria. We managed to cajole Deborah to come and join us. She was in the neighborhood shooting photos.

Ramon had recently bought a really kick-ass Canon point-and-shoot camera at a pawn shop. It came cheap, but lacked an instruction manual. When Deborah showed up, she took a look at Ramon's camera, rummaging through the menus to see what it might do. While they were doing that, I checked out Deborah's newish DSLR, a Nikon. It's a nice little machine. And I'm glad she got it. I've seen her do some great stuff with little point-and-shoot digital cameras (since her last DSLR crapped out), but clearly she was hampered. No more.

What Ramon wanted to talk to us about was not really a new Proyecto Locos project, but an idea he has to create a binational cultural exchange between San Antonio and Mexico. Sure, there are loads of groups already doing this, but his plan is intriguing, and I think quite possible. It involves a certain amount of politicking, and here is where me and Deborah come in. We three have all done work that fits into this mold. Deborah was quick to point out that she was in the middle of her own projects, and so, she assumed, was I. But we all seemed to think this idea of Ramon's might have merit. Maybe we could be involved via some sort of advisory committee.

Personally, I know that one of Ramon's reasons for doing this is to create more opportunities to travel to Mexico. And, personally, I'm all over that.

We'll see. Ideas are everywhere, but the grand ones only seem to take hold when a series of uncertain and unplanned events coalesce.

But while we were tossing around ideas, Ramon mentioned something about an idea he has had for awhile about a Barrio interpretation of Gibran's The Prophet.

This would be loads easier to do than to create a binational cultural exchange program.

The more I think about it, the more I think I need to push Ramon to consider this the next Proyecto Locos project. Theater and / or film. "El Profeta at the Pik Nik.

Thursday night -- that's the day after tomorrow -- the CineFestival kicks off at 6:30pm. It's the 30th anniversary of this historic Chicano film fest. So, head on over to the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center. Alex Rivera's feature Sleep Dealer will screen at 8pm. And then there will be the gala opening party.

My problem is that I have to work evenings through Friday. And, also, I signed up for a half day Saturday morning. I do need the money, but I'm already planning to feign the flu -- at least on Saturday.

Click over to the website and check out the schedule. Payan and Pocha have put together a killer line-up. The CineFestival is the most important yearly film event in San Antonio. And, this year, it follows directly on the heels of CineMujer, the second most important film event in San Antonio. If you missed CineMujer, don't make a similar mistake.

I hope to see lots of familiar faces this Thursday through Sunday, when I can escape from my corporate handlers.

And if you blog about the CineFestival, you can get free passes to CineFestival screenings. Head over to the "Attention Bloggers!" tab on the website. Pretty cool idea.

Who ever said blogging doesn't pay!

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And there is another film event coming up this Thursday. The students over at Harlandale High School (AKA The Film School of San Antonio) will be screening work at the Alamo Drafthouse, San Antonio. That's April 10th. 6pm. Thanks a lot for letting me know, George O., Dago P., and Russ A. -- 'cause I had to learn about this from a flyer on a telephone pole on South Alamo across from Tito's Tacos. This is getting the word out? You might wanna entice some bloggers, eh?

Another way cool event this weekend is the opening of Main Plaza. It's free. 6pm - 10pm. Marisela has scheduled these performances:

6:15: Rita Vidaurri, Eva Ybarra & Azul
6:30 Henry Brun & Latin Playerz
7:30 Ceremony
8:30 San Antonio Symphony
8:45 Spot Barnett & the New Breed Band featuring Will Owen Gage

If I can tear myself away from the CineFestival, I'll be hanging out there some -- especially because of Azul. This is an important new public space with a slew of free events already in the pipeline.

And sooner than we all expect, Fiesta will be crashing down on us. Ten days of debauchery. As if all that basketball crap brought to us by the Final Four (not final enough for me) wasn't enough for April. This month is jam-packed.

Why fight it? Fling yourself out there into the cultural jet stream.

I kept a low profile today. Eating grilled veggies and reading George Saunders short stories. Also, I watched my latest NetFlix delivery. John Sayles' Silver City. I'm not sure how I missed this when it came out. It had decent staying power at the theaters ... well, for a John Sayles film. But it just passed me by.

However, I almost wish I hadn't bothered. I'm very keen on John Sayles. Sadly, this isn't one of his better films. Nor is it one of the notable films shot by Haskell Wexler. It's got a killer beginning. I mean, wham, we're into a juicy story by minute four. Maybe the problem is that there are oodles of amazing actors in this film, but they're either miss-cast or have tiny roles. Chris Cooper, who was so incredible in Lone Star, is doing a second rate George W. Bush impersonation for the entire film. Mary Kay Place, Miguel Ferrer, Tim Roth, and hell even Daryl Hannah and Kris Kristofferson (two who are certainly acquired tastes for some, but who I quite like) -- and all these folks are hardly in the film at all. Whereas awkward zombies like Billy Zane and Danny Houston are all over the screen with achingly uneven performances. The story line was far from original. It was handled so much better in Chinatown and The Milagro Beanfield War (the novel, not the movie -- Robert Redford should have been horse-whipped for fucking up John Nichols' brilliant novel).

I'll place Sayles' newest, Honeydripper, in my NetFlix hopper and see if he hasn't lost it. I'm still stoked from the smart and powerful Casa de los Babys which preceded Silver City. Everyone's excused a stumble or two.

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Ramon emailed me last week. He's meeting with a city council member about a long-term art project and he wants me to get him the footage I shot of the Dia de los Artistas parade. This was the event that came out of a collaboration between him, Deborah, and myself -- aka Proyecto Locos.

It was easier to find the footage than I expected. The tape was labeled and quick to find. Lately I have been so impoverished that I have resorted to using the the unused tail ends of digital video tapes containing similar stuff ... all because I can't afford new tape. But this was an event shot when I seemed to have been flush enough to have used a virginal cassette. Now I just need to trim down the 23 minutes into something more manageable and get it to Ramon this week.

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Tonight I popped over to Deborah's space at Blue Star to meet with Joe Reyes, Stephanie Key, and Amber Ortega-Perez. Me, Russ and Deborah are wanting to make a short video of their music and dance collaboration that we saw in March. It's a work in three movements titled (RE)ACTION. We talked about mood, tone, aesthetics, lighting, locations, and. of course, schedules. The plan is to shoot the piece three days in June. And if we cut it fast enough, get the piece into CAM (Contemporary Arts Month).



It was great being in a room with such accomplished and grounded creative individuals.

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This was a nice bit of wry graffiti in the Blue Star parking-lot, at the bridge over-looking the river.



I like the expression of fear, so simply placed.

I'd been clicking over to my online library account refreshing the status of a short stack of Edwardian novels (mostly because I was too lazy and feckless to head out to the library) -- but it seems that there are only a limited number of times one can extend time on borrowed items. My plan Friday was to swing by the downtown branch whilst running a block of other errands. I'd just whip through the little semi-circular drive off Soledad and pop them into the box. The problem is, there's no box. I guess the driveway is just for the VIA buses. So, I circled around to the parking garage and walked inside. As long as I was there, I made a quick run through the fiction stacks for three by George Saunders and one by Dave Eggers.

I have fallen woefully behind the current crop of lit folks. And, to be honest, Eggers wasn't on the forefront of my mind until recently when I saw a video on the TED website where he's talking up his after-school tutoring program, 826 Valencia. Eggers came off as such a genuine person and just a wonderful human being, that it mitigated all the gassy platitudes the critics and generic bloggerati have been laying on him, that I thought it high time for me to jump on that particular bandwagon.

As for George Saunders, I can't recall where I encountered him name. I suspect it was on some website where a blogger I respect was praising him. I tracked down a couple of video interviews, read two stories of his on-line, and maybe an essay or two. He's wrangled a McArthur. And even though I've found the smattering of work I've so far read entertaining enough, my current thoughts are that the McArthur board have fallen a bit in their bestowing of the coveted "genius" award -- Sandra Cisneros and Cormac McCarthy, I'll gladly allow, but unless these three books change my thoughts (concerning Saunders) I will have to concede that geniuses aren't what they once where. But, of course, I'll reserve judgment.

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Sometime next week I'm going to have to contact the San Antonio Museum of Art. The old and stale honorarium check I discover on my desk earlier in the month, was returned by my bank. Admittedly, it was eleven months old, but I'd like to think they'd be glad to get that standing item on their books resolved. Needless to say, this threw my meager accounts into turmoil -- the domino effect for those of us who live hand-to-mouth on the self-employment treadmill.

I'm about to just give up. The rats are picking away at me. Yeah, I know, it's my own damn fault, but, dammit, I'd pack it up except I've no plan "B." Just lay low and keep away from the people I care about because I have just a few ounces left of my sense of humor ... and my smile is getting pretty brittle. Hunker down and wait for things to get a bit better.

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The "for lease" sign has mysteriously reappeared in front of my house. I'm not sure which of the other two apartments in this triplex is going to be opening up soon. I don't really care. This is a crop of dull and joyless tenants. I've only spoken (once) to the guy on the south side. The woman on the north, well, I only know her name because her mail found it's way into my box. Actually, I'd rather her leave. Then I could go back to hogging the driveway. And I could return to lounging out in the side yard sweeping the heavens with my astronomy binoculars. The best scenario, of course, would be for the both of them to exit. Oh, what am I saying -- I might get psychos again.

Of maybe, the best scenario would be for me to be heading out.

There are times (like right now) when I feel I've had my fill of San Antonio. I remember when my friend Rose (she's currently with the Peace Corps in Morocco) cringed when I decided to switch my cell phone over from a Fort Worth area code to one here in San Antonio. "Don't get trapped here," was her clear message.

Don't get me wrong, of all the places to find oneself trapped, San Antonio's actually quite awesome. The people are the main thing. I have managed to gather a tight circle of maybe 12 friends and a huge assortment of associates -- and this is quite an accomplishment for a recovering social phobic. This city seems to bring out the best in people. And there's also culture, history, art, and some sweet and funky neighborhoods which are inviting and accessible.

But I'm just beat down. I need to get back to the desert of southern Presidio Country, where time moves at the sensible speed of a vulture gliding untroubled beneath a cloudless sky. A place where the only reason people come by to visit is to commune, human to human, as the planet languidly rolls around the sun and the wind sweeps in from Sierra Rica and a little vinegaroon scuttles slowly across the dust of the garden towards the shade afforded by of a little knot of stinging nettles -- those with the yellow flowers which the locals call mal mujer.

Maybe that's not what I need, by that's what I'm missing.

As it is, 2008 isn't impressing me.

I'm locked into half a dozen projects that are, for the most part, indistinguishable from those of 2007.

There's some quote from William Burroughs (and no doubt he lifted it from another source), and my best paraphrase from memory would be: "We do not have to live, but we have to travel."

I've never been certain what this means, but it has always struck me as profoundly true.

I think the central conceit at work here is that life, in all it's ubiquity (at least on this planet), expands into every corner and every niche no matter how untenable -- in short, we will always travel and move no matter how dangerous or detrimental to our best interests.

The highlight of my 2007 was the short production gig down to the far side of the Falcon Reservoir. And 2006, San Miguel. These were wonderful alien (well, to me) worlds. And dammit I'd better find the equivalent in 2008.

Today we wrapped on part one of the SAL Film Festival promo. But, wait, there will be four interconnected pieces in all. And so after three days of shooting, it's now up to the Sams (Lerma & Bayless) to edit all this rich goodness down to a taut 90 seconds.

We met down on Camden St., not far from the San Antonio Museum of Art. Sam wanted a highway overpass in the shot, and we had a perfect view of I-35 passing above.

One shot called for the camera to be mounted on JJ's hood, pointed at him while he's driving. Andy loaned us his car camera mount. This is a recent purchase he has yet to use himself. It looks pretty sketchy, and I knew Russ was dubious trusting his baby to the device; however, once he slapped the contraption onto JJ's car, he was impressed on the no-nonsense of those suction-cups. We strapped it on and hoped for the best.



Before we got our first shot off, Araceli Lopez showed up. She wouldn't be needed until the next location, but she came to keep us company. She'd driven up the previous day from San Benito, way down in the lower Rio Grande Valley. The script called for a pregnant woman, so she arrived with some prosthetic padding putting her not just camera ready but apparently ready to drop a young'un then and there.





We also received a visit from JJ's parents. The whole family had been downtown earlier that morning for the Komen Race for the Cure. I tried to take a photo of JJ's mom taking a picture of him but she's kind of lost in the distance.



Here we have actor John Mayoral chatting with Dar before we called him over for his bit.



The craft service buffet might look a bit suspect -- you know, with those three or four healthy grapes thrown in as an afterthought -- but, trust me, there was a whole pile of grapes earlier that morning.



The next location was the unemployment office. We did a quick run and gun at a mall over on Austin Highway. We considered roping some of the locals citizens wandering about in as extras, but after a lanky intoxicated man in flip-flops with his, how shall I say, "orientation" meter, set to Glamourous Miss Nelly, walked past us with a saucy quip directed to Araceli's belly --"Goodness, girl, you're about to pop! It's going to be a boy, 'cause you know I'm gifted in these matters" -- well, after that we realized that although the neighborhood was ripe with just the sorts of characters one would likely encounter in line at the unemployment office, it also became clear that these sorts of people might not be depended upon not to just wander off whenever, playing havoc with continuity. This is one of the reasons that the line at the unemployment office was so short -- Dar, JJ, Araceli.



We burned through the scene. Sam had to get to work by one. I'm afraid he might have had to call in and make sure that the news production truck didn't roll out into the naked city without its shooter.

This little piece, as short and ultimately as ephemeral as it is, has some very gifted actors throughout. I was very impressed with Araceli. I'm always a bit disinclined to work with actors who have so far to travel. I can't afford to pay them. And it can seem a little exploitative. But I'll certainly keep Araceli in mind for future projects. She's beautiful, talented, smart, resourceful, and had no trouble keeping up with JJ's brilliant rapid-fire ad-libbing.



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There were a couple of films I wanted to see at Cine Mujer, but unfortunately I didn't make it out to the Esperanza Center until after eight. I watched a sweet little narrative feature from Brazil called Antonio. It's about four young women in the slums of Sao Paulo trying to make it as a hip-hop group. It came out in 2006. Directed by Tata Amaral. It's a beautiful piece. Sao Paulo, even in it's impoverished sectors up on the hills, is just stunning. What a backdrop!

I do believe I saw Janet Vasquez of the San Antonio Film Commission in the audience, but before I could go up and talk to her, I lost her in the crowd.

I'll definitely be there tomorrow for some more films. It begins at 3 in the afternoon. There is a documentary at 4:30 I'm looking forward to -- Un Poquito de Tanta Verdad. It covers some of the action that happened in the big teachers' strike in Oaxaca.

See you there.

Now I remember one of the downsides of working for the Company. As a temp worker, I'm affected by the vagaries of other divisions -- divisions, I might point out, staffed by full-time employees. Anyway, I discovered that my services weren't needed this evening ... but everything should be up and running full speed by Monday. Time to hit the ol' plasma bank.

On the upside, I was able to head over to the Esperanza Center for a screening of Lost in Beijing (2007), directed by Li Yu. It's one of the reasons to attend film festivals like this. I most likely never would have put this in my NetFlix queue or picked it off the shelf at the library. But it's a great film with a tight, always unfolding story-line. It's heavy with handheld camera work and jump cuts that are woven together organically and never got on my nerves.

The annual Cine Mujer at the Esperanza pulls a decent crowd -- well, for this sort of thing in San Antonio. There were maybe 50 people tonight. But it occurred to me that I rarely see familiar faces from the film community at these events. Sure, if people I know have a film screening. But not so for these curated shows of international works like Cine Mujer, the Jewish Film Festival, the European Film Festival, the Canary Island Film Festival, Manhattan Shorts, and so on. Many of these screenings are free or damn cheap. I'm tempted to decant a tall serving of bile for my fellow filmmakers, but maybe with the convenience of Blockbusters and Netflix (not to mention a public library system with a decent and growing film collection), the trend is to learn from films one watches at home.

I've had this on-going conversation with George Cisneros at Urban-15. He wants to know how to plug into the San Antonio film-going community so as to fill more seats at the occasional film events they have at Urban-15. The problem is that in San Antonio there isn't a deep love for cinema. The people who attend film festivals in this town (who aren't there to see a film they themselves worked on, or, perhaps, in hopes of catching sight of a famous so-and-so) are generic lovers of the arts. These are the people who attend the theater, art openings, dance performances, poetry readings, and so forth. They are curious and often have a deep liberal arts background.

People in this city who I see in attendance at these film events are less likely to be card-carrying members of, say, the Pier Paolo Pasolini Appreciation Society, than just generally open-minded creative human beings hungry for new ideas and experiences. Perhaps there are still cities in this country where you can turn to a stranger in the row behind you before a film begins and find yourself in a deep conversation about the early work of Fassbinder. Don't expect to find it here in San Antonio. Art always takes a back seat -- hell, it's usually asked to trot along behind the vehicle.

This brings me to my afternoon. I was invited along with about 20 other local film people (chiefly educators) to give input to the proposed expansion of the a media / cinema program at Northwest Vista, one of the more promising campuses in our Alamo Community College District.

The invite came from Manny Navarro Jr., Coordinator of Occupational Programs. It seems that they will be expanding their video and multimedia programs into a very ambitious and streamlined curriculum.

The program seemed to be weighed heavily toward technology, with a very slight acknowledgment of the arts.

This sort of wrong-headed thinking is rife throughout the film and video programs for kids in this town. And the results are, for the most part, shockingly bereft of aesthetics.

Ultimately it comes down to the instructors. I hope that when this program gets up and running, they will have teachers on staff who introduce the students to composition, lighting, and how to, for fuck's sake already, gather and edit audio.

I cadged a ride with Russ. And when we showed up, there were his colleagues from Harlandale High School, George and Dago. What? This was pretty much the entire teaching staff of the Film School of San Antonio (AKA, the cinema department at Harlandale). I had images in my head of emo introverts sitting at editing stations in a darkened classrooms looking around and calling out in a fearful croak: "Sir?"

Konise was also there, as well as a guy from Edgewood Academy. Drew and Pete made it. Kevin Williams and Roger Castillo. Ned from Say Si. And a bunch of people I should have known (I guess) but didn't.

We were provided a very nice taco buffet bar. And each of us was given a Northwest Vista coffee mug. As I had run out of coffee at the house I was looking around for the big kettle of coffee to fill up my new mug. No coffee. Just sweetened tea. Sweetened? This ain't Alabama.

As I carried my plate of food to a seat, grumbling about no fucking coffee, I noticed Russ sauntering in from the hallway blowing across the surface of his coffee mug.

"You went to the staff kitchen, didn't you?" I asked.

"Still another cup or two in the pot," he said with a smug grin.

And he was right. Just enough for a full cup.

There was enough hot air generated to lift the Goodyear fleet to the to Troposphere. But I believe we were all lassoed under the umbrella (and who said I couldn't mix a metaphor?) of the Northwest Vista Video & Cinematography Advisory Committee. And don't think I not gonna stick it on my resume.

Here are a couple of snaps. I wanted to stick my new Northwest Vista mug in the foreground to make the images look cool. This course I now know to be ill-advised, as the photos look pretty awful.

Here we have Drew, Brandon, and Pete. Hm. Looks like they're there for their parole hearings.



And this is a man who's name I didn't get. He had some very good things to say. He represents an important production company in town I had not heard of before with the unfortunate name of Apple Productions (which inexplicably hasn't been litigated into oblivion by Steve Jobs). He's refusing to allow me my candid photo op and is apparently watching me photograph him. But his loss -- my camera decided to focus on the plastic cup in front of him.



Now I have really got to hit the sheets. I have an early shoot in the morning with Sam, somewhere downtown. I just have to figure out how to snake around the streets they will be closing for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure (to help fund research for breast cancer).

Actually, I believe our main actor, JJ Phillips, will be arriving on set after running the Komen. Usually this would be a red flag. No one wants an actor showing up after running a marathon. But I watched JJ inhale over ten slices of pizza and still maintain his high energy state. Ah, youthful metabolism.

I'm temporarily back at the Company where I'm scoring standardized tests. In keeping with this country's love of corporate consolidation, the business has been swallowed up by a bigger business. In fact, the place has a new name. I, however, will continue to use the unoriginal denominator of the "Company," protecting myself from breaching the massive and obdurate nondisclosure form I undoubtedly was made to sign a few years back which one must assume had a "no blogging clause" lost in the bowels of sententious footnotes.

This current gig is weekday nights. Three or four weeks. The bitch is that, as I recall, there is a lag of a couple of weeks before the first check arrives. Oh well, at least I have some pending income to supplement my current contract work with Urban-15 -- for, you see, we're already gearing up for the 2008 Josiah Media Festival. Mid July. Start making room on your calendars.

Speaking of filling up the old social calendar, April promises to be a monster for folks in San Antonio. First off, we have The Esperanza Peace and Justice Center's annual Cine Mujer. Actually, it kicks off tomorrow (Friday) night. It runs March 28 - 30, and then April 3 - 5. It's free. But please try and drop a stray bill or more into the donation jar at the entrance. This is one of the best film festivals in town. Graciela and the crew over at Esperanza bring in some great work from all over the world. I plan to make as many of the screenings as possible.

Also, the 30th annual CineFestival will run April 10 - 13 at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center. This is going to be a blast. Head over to the website to see what's planned for this nationally renowned Chicano film fest. And drop Payan and Pocha an email if you want to volunteer -- it'll probably net you some free admittance privileges. I've seen one of the promo posters for the festival which was handmade -- silk screen, I presume -- and that's just fucking cool. I'll be camping out at the Guadalupe for that weekend. Hope to see your there!

However, that Sunday -- April 13th -- (late afternoon / early evening) I'll be over at the grand opening of Main Plaza, the area they've been renovating in front of the downtown courthouse. If you're kicking yourself for missing Luminaria, this promises to be more of the same, but in a smaller geography. There will be all sorts of performances from 5pm until about 10pm. That night, and, well, for months to come, performances and events in Main Plaza will be over-seen by Main Plaza Conservancy, a non-profit organization. Marisela Barrera (of La Colectiva fame) is the programming coordinator for the conservancy. Expect big things to come.

And then April 18 - 27 Fiesta will descend upon San Antonio. Tens days high-octane drinking and partying that, for those of us who live in the downtown region, resembles the biblical descriptions of the ten plagues of Egypt (quite apt, now that I think about it -- Fiesta is usually around the time of Passover). There is some question as to whether or not the King William Parade will go by my house this year. The assholes who run the event are feuding with some of the folks who live on my block, and last I heard they were trying to pass through punitive measures. We'll see how that goes -- E. Guenther Street has some feisty citizens.

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This morning I was at the parking-lot of the San Antonio Zoo. 7:45 call time. The zoo officially opens at 9, and we were there to shoot a quick scene for the SAL (San Antonio Local Film Festival) promotional teaser written and directed by Sam Lerma.

The folks who operate the little kid's train were kind enough to allow us to shoot on the train. We loaded crew, equipment, and actors onto the train, and the engineer (Don, I believe, was his name) put it into gear and we were off.

Here we have the train engineer sitting next to JJ Phillips. While we were still adjusting camera and audio settings, I heard Don tell JJ how proud he was to be working at his job. "I might be old, but I'm out here every day. I don't need a walker, and I can climb up onto this engine ... well, better than you. Now I'm not bragging to make you feel inadequate, young feller, it's just the way it is."



Sam, Russ, and myself, the three crew people, were crammed into the handicapped car directly behind the engine. And there was a moment between takes when I realized that all three of us were snapping photos with our little point-and-shoot digital cameras. This is the future of on-set production stills. They will be listed in the credits as "shot by everyone."



We returned to the train depot with five minutes to spare. As we were breaking down equipment, the engineer motioned to Sam. Sam had his baby daughter on set as an extra. The engineer let Sam's little girl pull the cord for the train whistle.

Earlier while we were chugging along on the train, Russ has said something about how this was the fun kind of filmmaking. I think we were all on the same page with that.

Next, we headed to the park's train yard. It was a great location. We were in a little warehouse where two small gage tracks entered so that the trains can be maintenanced. We had two trains as set dressing in the background. And for this scene one of our actors was Andy Miller -- filmmaker and SAL board member. He filled in for an absent actor, and he did a great job. I don't know how much of his lines will make it to the final edit, but he was doing some great ad-libs -- and, as I was holding the boom pole, I was trying not to laugh.

The third and final location of the day was the Grayson Street Garage (strangely, not on Grayson Street, but N. Alamo). Sam wrangled it because the local TV station he shoots for uses it to service their production trucks. A very quick and smooth shoot.



Here we have JJ Phillips on the right. The handsome grimy young man beside him is Cosme Espinoza, who only has one line, but he delivered it perfect. He will also be appearing in rest of the companion SAL promos.



By 11:30 we cleared out of the Grayson Street Garage (where we were treated wonderfully). Andy had headed back to work, and Russ had to make a doctor's appointment (or so he said). The rest of us headed off to the Pig Stand on Broadway for lunch. Me, Sam, Dar, JJ, Sam, and the little Samlette.



I then headed off to put some hours at Urban-15, and then off to the Company. A full day.

Thanks for Lunch, SAL!