I hit town last night. And, good or bad, I’m back in the belly of the San Antonio art scene. The most pressing thing I need to get up to speed with is Noche de Recuerdos. It’s happening this Saturday. I’m looking at a list of 28 artists who’ve agreed to construct a floating, illuminated altar. Some of them we’ve not contacted in two or three weeks, so I’m a bit troubled that not al will come through. So, we are hoping some last minute folks will decide to make something and join the fun. So, if you’re reading this and think it might be fun to create something, do so. Come on and join us at the Casting Pool across from Woodlawn Lake Saturday afternoon. We will be there at noon. All art needs to be in place by 6pm, when the event begins. At 9pm we will begin removing the art from the water. Let’s hope nothing sinks!

I had planned on doing an altar in tribute to my father. The idea was to get a photo of him, heavily process the image with high contrast until it became basically a two-tone image. I would then send it to a balloon printing place and have them print the picture onto several largish balloons. I’d fill them with helium and attach about ten of them to objects floating in the water (loosely tied together to keep them from drifting too far apart) which would represent some of my father’s passions, such as books, revolvers, beer, coffee, cowboy attire, wrestling magazines, cheese enchiladas, country music, flying saucers, Marie Windsor, etc. But I soon realized I’d frittered my time away and was unable to get the balloons printed in time.

I’ve moved to plan “B.” I’m planting my video projector on the shore. I hope the loaner generator comes through. And I will project a silent film onto a screen which will be floating on the pond.

I was at the Guadalupe Lumber Company over on Zarzamora (the Mother Road here in San Antonio) where I picked up some supplies to construct my altar. I don’t know why it took me so long to finally make an appearance at this iconic San Antonio retailer. And so now I finally feel like a true San Antonian. I’m all stocked up with PVC pipe. I now need to cut it all down and fit the pieces together to make a rectangular frame. 8′ x 5′ x 2′. Then I’ll zip-tie the contraptions to six bicycle inner tubes (double-stacked) as my flotation platform. The frame will be fitted with four layers of hanging gauzy white material, each six inches from the other. The light from the projector will passthrough and hit all layers, giving the piece a sense of depth, while also increasing the level of illumination.

That’s all quite do-able. But I also have to come up with some images to project. I do have some clips I can use in a pinch. But I’d rather shoot some new material.

We’ll see how much time I have to do this.

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My day started out with a meeting of the Locos. Ramon, Deborah, and I met at the restaurant across a side street from the Woodlawn Lake casting pool. I should have made a note of what it’s called. Something like Camarco…. Not Camargo, that much I know. Anyway, they make a damn good chilaquiles plate.

As we were sitting there eating, jawing, drinking coffee, we got a call from one of the local morning TV shows. They wanted one of the Noche de Recuerdos artists to come on their show for a short interview Thursday morning. And so the three of us each lifted a cell phone and dialed who we thought would be a good representative artist. And when the dust settled, the one artist who answered the phone and wasn’t otherwise involved on Thursday morning was Suchil Coffman-Guerra. In retrospect, we all we’re quite pleased. She’s a wonderful artist and will do a great job promoting the event.

After our late breakfast we walked across the street to the casting pool. The water had dropped about three feet since our last visit. The parks department had been out and cleaned up the shoreline. We spoke with a man and his son who were fishing of the raised metal deck. They were quite familiar with the casting pool and they raved about the sizes of the resident turtles.

Here is Deborah looking serious.

And Ramon, unshaved. As an elder to the Tap Pilam tribe of the Coahuiltecan people, even he knows he’s looking fairly un-Indian with his beard.

And here’s a picture of the entrance to the park where we will be Saturday.

We’re going to see you all Saturday, right? Don’t let us come looking for you.

It’s Monday night. I’m back in San Antonio after a week-long gig in Dallas. I was running point on a book appraisal which the auction house I sometimes work for was hired to do. The library in question belonged to a book collector I’ve known for maybe two decades. He passed away some time back and his family is trying to make sense of his large holding, which is somewhere between a collection and an accumulation.

If I can equate my rare book persona with my filmmaking persona, I would have to say that book appraisals are somewhat akin to video-taping weddings. I can do them both really well if I’m allowed to use my own personal process, but almost always there are various family members making specific (and often divergent) demands. Also, I’m such a poor businessman what I always under-price myself.

This appraisal, however, worked out quite nice. The family are pleasant, rational, and understanding. Also, I’m not the one naming a price. The auction house has done that. My week’s work will be billed to the family by the auction house. And the auction house will pay me the rate they normally pay for my services. This is in no way  small fee — they pay quite well — but the truth is I’d rather not know what the family is being charger. The fact is, appraisers most often charge stupefying fees. Back when the family book store was up and running, it often fell to me to do the appraisals. My father hated to do them. He let me set my fee. I realize now I can damn cheap. But, money matters aside, I get a kick out of keeping my finger in the antiquarian book business. Sometimes I forget how much I know about the field…and even though I have a hard time calling myself an expert on, well, anything, there are a few fields in which I can move about with confidence and knowledge, and collectable books is one of those fields.

I did a walk-through of the library the Friday before last. And then I had to head back to San Antonio. I’d promised to help Rod Guajardo on a film. It wasn’t that big of a deal. There wasn’t anything I could do for work in Dallas over the weekend, Sure, I could have spent some time with my sister. But I knew I’d be able to do that once I returned to do the appraisal. And, really, I was interested in seeing how Rod worked.

Rod Guajardo is, I assume in his young thirties. He’s a beginning filmmaker. He has embraced the DSLR as his instrument. And with a collection of relatively inexpensive equipment he has created some very impressive short pieces. And lately he has been working to up his game. He did a very nice music video. He put together a short commercial. He produced a great PSA for VIA (the San Antonio transit folks) for a recent contest. I thought his piece should have won. (Sorry, Nikki. I’m happy the PrimaDonna piece won–’cause, you know, you guys are awesome–but Rod’s piece was more technically polished and informative.)

So, yeah, I had my agenda in working with Rod. I wanted to see how he did such great work. I only wish other folks in the San Antonio film community had the same sneaky agenda as myself. You know, wanting to learn how to make better shit?

Rod is shooting with a Canon Rebel. And it’s a pretty cheap DSLR. But he makes it sit up and do his bidding. He’s researched well all the equipment he’s bought, and he’s learned to use them to the best of their specifications. Rod also has a great eye for composition. Also, he’s a smart guy, who knows how, not only to take a story apart, but how to get the best from his actors. Well, I guess I should wait until I see the first edit of this short film.

The film is titled “Unimaginable,” and it’s written by Cedric Smith. Patsy Whitfield is the producer. And they had enough faith in Rod to bring him in as the director. This is his first narrative project.

We had a short day of shooting Saturday. And an insanely long day Sunday. I was the only person on the crew with any real production experience. And even though we really needed a serious AD (a role I sort of took upon myself, with other roles), we had total commitment from our cast and crew. Yes, we moved slow. But it soon became clear that high quality was what we were pushing for.

I do know that the photography will be superb. But I’m really uncomfortable with the audio. We had a rotating crew of newbies, each teaching the next crew. Because the first two kids were instructed by an audio professional, I held my tongue. But the truth is, I’ve never seen so poorly held boom poles in my life. And we never addressed noise spill from refrigerators, other compressors, HVAC, and on and on and on.

I hope the guy who’s doing the audio edit (and, yes, he knows his stuff) can make this work.

But it was great fun. This was perhaps the most diverse (culturally, ethnically, etc.) film I’ve worked on since “Vaya Con Dios, Asshole,” Cast and crew, well, we were from all over the map. And, you know, we got along just fine.

Whenever you hear about this country being divided, ignore it. We’re doing just fine. Our corporate controlled media, that’s what’s all fucked up. I mean, really, Get it together people. Politically I’m an extreme leftist. “Spiritually” I’m an agnostic (you saw the quotes, right?), and maybe even a full-bore atheist (but I’m not yet fully committed). The truth is, I have quite a few Republican and Christian friends. We get along just fine. When people start talking about the “culture wars” tell them to go fuck themselves. There is no such thing going on in this country outside of the media.

Still worried? Increase your circle of friends. Pull in folks with divergent values. Talk to those people. I guarantee, your worries will begin to dissipate. Because, you know, they’re probably fine folks.

Oh, and you’re welcome.

I make it a point not to mention when things go to shit in my apartment. The problem is that my landlady sends some bottom-feeder of a trade school dropout. The guy is guaranteed to be either an octogenarian who constantly is massaging his arthritic hands as he looks with grim trepidation at his rickety five-foot ladder, or else some grinning and trembling fast-talking alcoholic sweating last night’s malt liquor from shaved scalp to flea-bitten ankles. Last week’s specimen possessed a combination of the less desirable traits of both. He showed up with a very stoned companion (who, during the initial introductions, stood in the driveway cradling a Skilsaw whilst staring raptly at a squirrel grooming itself upon the neighbor’s fence).

Let me back up. Four weeks back my landlady was standing on my porch, bemoaning about how painful it was to evict a tenant (an unsavory task she’d recently accomplished for a deadbeat couple in my building). Her son and daughter-in-law were scoping out the rentability of the unit on the south-side of the house–you know, how much repair needed to be done. It was a hot day, and when my landlady asked how my air conditioner was doing, I made the mistake of telling her it was pretty weak. Not really up to cooling the whole place. And that was all it took. If her star tenant was unhappy, it’s time to jump to action. Before I’d realized what I’d done, she’d yelled at her son to come running. They quickly assessed that I needed a new window unit. My protestations were useless. Early the next morning, the son showed up. Between him and his two sons–teenager and hyper-active pre-teen–they managed to cram the new air conditioner into the window, and in the processed fucked up my window casement on a truly heroic scale. The landlady’s son crossed his arms and stood in my living room looking at the new air conditioner, purring away (the air conditioner, not the son).

“Well, there you go. It’s working like a champ.” As he packed up his tools, I looked at the cracked window pane, the sprung casement molding, and the little shafts of sunlight coming in from around the window unit. Just get this guy out of here, I thought to myself, and I’ll use some gaff tape and that caulking gun I knew I had around someplace, and, hell, it’ll be good enough for me. “Right,” the son said, patting me on the shoulder. “We’ll get some guy over here to fix this all up for you.”

Before I could explain how a little bit of calk and gaff tape goes a long way, he was gone. My window was all fucked up. And I had a shiny new air conditioner…that was as weak and ineffectual as the last one.

This is where I found myself last week. Heckle and Jeckle scarping and sanding and sawing and painting…and playing hate radio talk shows on a battery powered transistor radio (fucking Sean Hannity). I retreated to the bedroom huddled over my laptop with headphones catching up on Democracy Now. And after three and a half hours, I tottered out to the raspy cry of my name.

“What’s up?”

“Well, guy,” the geezer said, slapping on the back. “We’re done here for the day.”

I looked at the window. It looked almost the same. The window sill had been scrapped and repainted with primer. The window was still cracked. The molding untouched. No caulking. I steeled myself for the next inevitable statement.

“See you tomorrow!”

This madness, I fear, will never end. These sorts of situations, I understand, necessitate a proactive stance. But all I could think of involved pistol whipping or a more baroque scenario involving a two gallon jug of blackstrap molasses and a huge nest of very very hungry ants.

Please, friends, rally! Save me from myself!

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The Saturday before last I headed to the SA2020 kickoff.

Because newspapers have become so pathetic and irrelevant, I was out of the loop about this major up-coming event which the mayor of San Antonio, Julian Castro, was instigating to facilitate a new thrust of local city planing.

I first became aware of this event when I received a mailing. You know, mail…in my mailbox! A card arrived. From the Mayor! I was asked to participate in this SA2020 event. Wow! The Mayor knows who I am? Shit, yes! I emailed my RSVP. But when I later headed over to the website–SA2020.org–I realized that anyone could be a part of this event. ANYONE. I mean you could sign up if you were, say, a crack dealer, a corporate lawyer, or even a trade school dropout. What a blow. Maybe I’m not so special after all.

But still I went. It was held at a YMCA over near Brackenridge Park. This was fairly centrally located. And what with the general obesity problem in this country (and in San Antonio in particular), a meeting at a health and fitness center is good politics. When I arrived, 20 minutes early, the parking-lot was completely full. I parked over on a side street. When I entered the facility, I registered and headed towards the meeting hall. And that’s when I saw my friend Elizabeth Moise Gonzalez (actress and local representative of TXMPA (The Texas Motion Picture Alliance)). She said she’d staked out a table up front. As I followed her, it became apparent that the over-flowjng parking-lot wasn’t just people coming to this event. The hall was still only 20 percent full. And that’s when I realized that this was a very popular YMCA. I mean, really, all those people coming in with their yoga mats weren’t part of this SA2020. (However, I should point out that by the time the event began the place wasn’t just packed, but there were people in two other rooms in the facility, as well as an over-flow off-site facility, three blocks away). Anyway, when Liz took me to her table, I was pleased to find my friend Malena Gonzalez-Cid seated at the same table. Malena is the executive director of Centro Cultural Aztlan, and I like her because she’s very intelligent and posses a wonderful sarcastic sense of humor.

Another actor, Ron Bush, showed up at our table. Also we had Mobi Warren, an educator and activist, who does some work with Gemini Ink, the preeminent literary nonprofit organization in San Antonio. Also, George and Catherine Cisneros (of URBAN-15 fame) were seated at our table at the beginning. Though they graciously gave up their seats to move to another table, without such a great front row view. So, basically, ours was the artsy table.

I like our young, charismatic mayor. Voting for Julian Castro was a liberating experience. Akin to voting for Obama. The biggest difference is that Castro has not yet disappointed me. But, truly, the two men have a great deal in common. Youthful good looks, intelligence, an easy and articulate way with the media, and, most unfortunately (to me, at least), a politically centralist position. Neither man has claimed to be a progressive. And, clearly, neither is. I’m not sure if either is actually what could be considered liberal. They’re pro-business fellers, pure and simple, keeping a studied distance from labor.

When Castro finally does do something to disappoint me, it will most likely involve the urban renewal development of downtown. Whenever I hear people harping on about how downtown San Antonio needs to be aggressively revitalized and developed, I’m quite baffled. What I’ve seen, in the eight or so years I’ve been in this city (and a resident of downtown–well, King William, downtown adjacent), is a slow and orderly development. I have witnessed a sane and healthy trend of expanded affordable housing, robust arts and cultural venues (not just for tourists, but also for residents), a clear respect for the ease of pedestrian movement–in short, the downtown area is becoming a healthy center of diversity and inclusion for the local inhabitants; and a well-crafted hub for tourists, whether they be here for the culture or because of some sort of convention. We do not need to aggressively speed up downtown development in San Antonio. We seem to be on a wise and solid trajectory. We’ll see. Maybe two years from now I’ll have a better response to the question of Castro’s efficacy as mayor. And, hell, maybe I’ll have a hand in things through this ongoing SA2020 deal. True the first gathering was purely a PR move. But maybe the process will continue to be transparent, democratic, and inclusive. What I do know is that San Antonio (oft labeled “lame”) is first and foremost an incredibly resilient city. In short, it’s hard to fuck it up. Because, you know, the people are watching each others’ backs. Solidarity? Yep. ¡Sí, se puede, motherfucker!

Finally my paycheck from the auction house in Dallas cleared through my bank. I paid my CPS bill and returned the money I borrowed from my mother (a loan which I needed to pay other bills earlier in the month). I also decided to buy something for myself. I needed some comfortable shows for walking and hiking. My Doc Martins are falling apart. Converse All Stars might look cool, but they’re useless for a two or three mile hike. And my pair of generic sports shoes, which I paid good money for three years ago, have been dropping the tread like a lizard shedding his skin. So, last week I made a morning visit to the Academy sporting good store on the south side and bought a pricey pair of Merrell light hiking shoes. They look like jogging shoes, but a bit chunkier. I wore them on a bike ride today. They are light enough for biking. And I even got off and walked the mile stretch of Villamain from the Ghosts Tracks to Mission San Juan. Very comfortable. I can easily see myself hiking ten miles or more with no problem. Now I just need to walk those ten miles, and often. I’m become horribly out of shape.

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A while back I received an email from the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs for an event they were sponsoring. And so, last Wednesday I attended a speech by Randy Cohen, Vice President of “local arts advancement” at Americans for the Arts (a Washington-based government arts organization). He discussed the Americans for the Arts National Arts Index, which is sort of like a censes report for this nation’s arts organizations. It was at the downtown library. Ten AM.

And so on that day I motored by Eddie’s Tacos for a couple of tacos and made it to the library with five minutes to spare.

There were about thirty-five people there, mostly representing local non-profit arts and cultural organizations. I didn’t know them all, but some of my favorite people were there (and I’m not sure all these San Antonio cultural icons even know who I am, but I know them). Malena, Graciela, Steven, Shirlene, Steve, Kellen, Marisela, Diane, Shimi, George, Catherine, Felix, Rafe, and Linsey. I always like going to these sorts of functions. But, really, why do I do this? I don’t run an art / cultural non-profit. True, I sit on the board of the San Antonio chapter of NALIP (a film non-profit); I’m on the steering committee for Luminaria (an arts nonprofit); and I have been head of media programs (more or less) for URBAN-15 (an arts non-profit) for four years. So, on paper I seem to be a legitimate member of any group which would embrace all these great people. But, really, I’m just some guy who helps out. And, truth be told, if there was an idiot-proof and streamlined way to set up a successful non-profit arts organization, I’d probably dive in. But it’s a tough world.

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Thursday I made it a point to check out the Gregg Barrios tribute at Krazy Vatos Emporium on S. Presa. It was held in “la yarda,” the gravel area in back. I first met Gregg a couple of years back. I had signed up for some Gemini Ink class which embraced the concept of November being National Novel Writing Month. The guy running the class, a local published genera writer, had apparently taken a look at my writing sample, and decided I wasn’t good enough to pay for his mentorship. What was up with that? I mean I’m a pretty good writer. Perhaps I shouldn’t gripe–Gregg Barrios was also denied (and he’s better than a pretty good writer). So what did Gregg do? He contacted Gemini Ink and had them contact all the folks who were turned down. If they wanted to get together as a group–for FREE–contact Gregg. And so I did. A group of about seven people met weekly for all of November to share our progress. That’s when I learned that Gregg Barrios is a great guy. And over the months following that November, I have seen him create new and well-reviewed work. Also, I have learned about the important body of work he’s created over the decades. And Thursday at Krazy Vatos it all came together.

Gloria Sanchez

Seven poets and actors read selected poems written by Gregg. And later Gregg took the stage and read some of his new work. Here is a list of the guest readers: Carmen Tafolla, Danny De La Paz (DDLP!), Anthony Flores (AKA, Anthony the Poet), Gloria Sanchez, Greg Hinojosa, Trey Moore, and Ben Olguin.

Gregg Barrios

It was a very nice evening.

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Friday night I headed over to the black box theater at Say Si. It was the final night of the play “Padre: The Story of Hildalgo’s Revolution.” I went because my friend Seme Jatib had been asked to provide some interpretive dance pieces as interstitial devices between acts. I was intrigued when Seme told be about this. Joel Settles’ name came up. I knew that he ran a student theater program with the parks department. I thought this is what the performance was. But now, with program in hand, I’m not completely sure who was sponsoring the event. It looks like this is a new theater program coming out of Say Si. If so, this is great. But they need to more clear in the program. In fact, I believe Joel wrote the play, but an author is not mentioned in the program. Oh well….

What I most enjoyed (beyond Seme’s excellent choreography/dancing (peppered a bit with some Isadora Duncan)) was to finally see Joel Settles do something other than comedy. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a brilliant actor doing comedy. But I was able to see him do a straight drama piece, playing Padre Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla.

It was a good play with some very strong performances. And if this is a taste of more work to come out of a new Say Si theater program, I’m certainly looking forward to future productions.

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Saturday I finally made it to Lisa Suarez’s play, “I’ll Remember For You.” Now I should point out that I don’t know Lisa. But, truly, I know her quite well. I’ve seen her performance a few times at the Jump-Start Performance Company, where she works. But because I’ve “friended” her on FaceBook, I’ve managed to learn quite a bit about her. She’s made no move to hide the fact that she’s the primary care-giver for her mother who’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. In fact, her social media postings can be seen as potent advocacy for Alzheimer’s education. She, on occasion, gives unflinching and honest accounts of her daily life–though always tempered with love and humor.

She wrote this autobiographical play about her relationship with her mother. But instead of portraying herself, she chose to take on the role of her mother. Veronica Rogers, an actress I’ve never seen before, did a great job with the “Lisa” role. But, damn, Lisa, as “Mama,” was amazing. I know that there are the occasional yearly awards which are concerned with the San Antonio theater scene. And if these groups really take the craft seriously, Lisa Suarez should sweep the awards. Best performance. Best writing. Those two, for starters, are the no-brainers.

I was afraid that the piece would be pretty gritty and painful and absolutely heartbreaking. And it was. But it was also damn funny. And I consider myself lucky that I went on the night which Lisa’s mom was in the audience. I guess I had a privileged position. I knew Lisa’s story, and because of FaceBook I’d seen photos of her mom and thus was able to know, during intermission, that I was witnessing a very deep and multilayered performance. There was not one iota of the whiff of exploitation. This was all about tribute, honor, love. Lisa bared her soul to not just the audience, but also to her mother. The fact that her mom might not be understanding that much of the piece,and probably won’t remember the evening, this all falls away when, after the final applause, Lisa finally breaks character and asks her mother to stand up. When her mother stands she tells her how much she loves her. All the frustrations, the bullshit, the sacrifices which have been made for a parent slipping into dementia are pushed aside–for the moment at least–and an unapologetic expression of intimacy and love is made.

This show really hammered home my assessment that the best theater in San Antonio happens at Jump-Start.

I was reading a few of my incomplete manuscripts the other day. One, the opening chapter of a sort of bohemian punk rock science fiction novel, seemed to be drifting towards another work, a projected novella which exists only in rough notes. It’s a Christmas story. Maybe I should hammer out that one instead. It’s about a journalist (a combination of Dahr Jamail and the Joseph Cotten character from Citizen Kane)–he’s determined to get an interview with the elusive Santa Claus, a toy tycoon who, in this parallel universe, really exists. Mr. Claus created the commercial element of Christmas in the mid 19th century with his pal Charles Dickens. Santa Claus is 232 years old. He keeps trim and feisty through a regimen goat placenta injections and daily enemas of radium-infused glacier-melt water. His workers who manufacture the billions of toys are all decedents of his original labor pool, inmates of Victorian-era London workhouses. Over several generations these over-worked and malnourished slaves have become diminutive pygmies who rarely live more than a couple of decades. “My little elves, my sweet loyal simpletons,” he’s been heard to call them. The problem our hero has in tracking down his subject is that UNICEF, Amnesty International, Green Peace, and PETA (because of rumored unspeakable and unnatural behavior with reindeer) are all aggressively tracking Santa. He’s become a moving target. Even his massive global chain of sweatshops keep shutting down and re-opening in new locations–deserted Pacific islands, secret east European cavern systems, the calderas of dormant South American volcanos, decommissioned Asian penal colonies, and the old American Motors plant in Kenosha, Wisconsin.

Why not work on this one? The season of giving is just around the corner….

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I remember those odd days back when my sister and I were running the family bookstore after our father passed away. Used and collectable books aren’t the easiest things to sell even in a good economy. It’s a career favored by those whose incomes are subsidized by trust funds. Or, such as our father, folks who are not concerned with amassing much in the way in wealth. Anyway, all those thoughts of my uselessness as a salesman changed significantly on those times (three or four times a year) when I would continue my father’s habit of renting a table at the Dallas Gun Show. He would attend as a book dealer, selling books on guns, hunting, and kindred macho subjects. His main reason was to sell enough books to buy a new pistol to add to his collection of, mostly, single action cowboy-style revolvers. I continued setting up at this venue. But not just to make some money for the bookstore by selling books on blood sport–see, it was also as a place to sell off some of my father’s guns. (Note to those considering turning me into the Feds: currently you do not need to possess a firearm license to sell your own personal gun collection in the state of Texas. There are limitations as to what and how much you can sell. And, by the way, I think many people are surprised that I, a self-proclaimed ultra-progressive leftist, am not overly concerned with increasing this country’s gun laws. That fact is, we have plenty of gun laws. Probably they should be better enforced. But I tend to agree with Michael Moore when he posits that perhaps the high rates of gun violence in this country has more to do with our media’s obsession with violence as well as the United State’s out-of-control military industrial complex which has institutionalized murder of foreign people by Americans in uniform as virtuous behavior…but I digress….) So there I was, selling books on one side of the table, guns on the other. Now let me just say that I place more value on books than guns (and so did my father, ore or less), but, man, if you wanna make money, my friend, sell guns. People–especially Texans–fucking love guns.

This takes me to now. I’m no longer officially in the book business. Now I’m trying to offer my services as a video producer, or, more close to my heart, I’m trying to get the funding to make the film projects important to me. But no one’s biting. The other day, when I put a notice up on FaceBook that I was selling my beloved 2001 F-150 pickup truck, I got two immediate responses. This makes me think two things. I’m selling it too cheap. And, people love trucks (like guns) more than they love art….well, buy art…..

(My father once told me that when he was younger he dreamed of owning a combination bookstore, gun shop, and liquor store. Had he but pursued that dream I don’t doubt my sister and I would have never been exposed to that shocking article of child abuse known as powdered milk.)

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A month doesn’t go by here in San Antonio when I find myself involved in a futile exchange with some naif who’s pontificating on the failings of San Antonio. Because of the people I move around, it’s often about the lack of funding for the arts. Specifically concerning films and the film industry. It usually begins something like this: “San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the United States. We’ve surpassed Dallas, and now we’re the largest city in Texas, after Houston. What’s the problem?” I try my best to tell them about metropolitan population regions. “We got no sprawl. The city goes all the way out to the county line. There are no major cities in the counties contiguous to Bexar County.” It’s a numbers game, really. The economic engine of any city in the US has become highly dependent on the populations and ancillary industries of the cities and towns and communities surrounding the major city in question. The news anchor for a major Dallas TV station makes substantially more money than his or her San Antonio counterpart. It’s a bigger market. Dallas might be a smaller city that San Antonio, but that Dallas-based TV transmitter can reach so many more homes that the same tower here. And if you think that the director of the San Antonio Opera should get paid more money than the director of the Dallas Opera, because, you know, San Antonio is a bigger city, I have to ask: “Really? I mean…really?” In Dallas you got millionaires coming down from Plano, Frisco, Flower Mound, and all those wealthy northern bedroom communities. With San Antonio, we might be able to entice a couple dozen of the more cultured thousandaires from Helotes, Poteet, and fucking Bastrop. There is no comparison. San Antonio, stop whining about those nefarious forces hampering our rise to the status of a “world class city” (whatever that’s supposed to mean).

These people seem incapable of understanding that San Antonio already has a vibrant arts and cultural scene. In fact, that’s why this city is so dependent on tourism. People from all over the world recognize the unique qualities expressed by San Antonio’s creative citizens. But let’s be honest. Tourists aren’t coming here for the symphony, the opera, or the ballet…unless that’s ballet folklorico. The Chicano arts are the best of what San Antonio has to offer–the world has spoken! And these artists and the organizations which showcase them need the full support of San Antonio’s political and economical will. And so if you’re harping about how this city needs to get behind you to make your zombie movie a reality, or to bring greater attention to your paradigm-shifting post-modern installation on the politics of meat, well, sorry, but I don’t really care. And nor should this city’s politicos. My advice? Take it on the road, ’cause it ain’t gonna be tasting like San Antonio. (I will, of course, change my stance for paradigm-shifting zombie movies and the very, um, rare meat piece of genius.)

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I’ve said this before, but one of the things I love about San Antonio is that it’s such a small town. If you live here for a few years you find that you know everyone. You might not know this. But you do. (Unless you live outside of loop 410, in which case you don’t really live in San Antonio, you miserable bumpkin or suburbanite.) This was brought back to my attention the other month when I was working with a local artist to videotape her work at C4 Workspace. The street in front of the place was being torn up, and she’d brought a U-Haul. I was afraid she’d have to park a block away. However, she recognized one of the contractors working on the beautiful old house next door to C4. It was one of her friends. He helped us get her rented truck right up to where we needed it!

A couple of days later, this guy sent me a FaceBook friend request. I, of course, accepted.

And when I made a FaceBook profile posting that I wanted to sell my truck, he quickly responded. The other day he made a test drive. He wants another look-see this week, but I suspect he’ll buy it. The kicker is that my next-door neighbor (who’d also like to buy my truck) has known this guy for years.

Yes, I understand, we are all connected. But forget that Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon separation. In San Antonio it should more aptly be considered as the two-degrees of separation limit. If you meet someone new, and that person doesn’t seem to know anyone that you know, best off not to even bother…unless, of course, you’re involved in some form of endeavor where anonymity is key. (And my advice for those criminally-, extramaritally-, and otherwise clandestinely-inclined, please consider heading north of loop 410. You ain’t gonna know any of those folks. Or their friends. Or their friends’ friends. Well, you might know their queer relations or perhaps their domestic help. So, be careful….)

San Antonio is a city based on relationships. I’m not connected to the rich nor the politically elevated. The local sports mavens have no notion of me. Society girls? Nope. Nor the armed robbers or white slavers. True, I have made myself known, on rare occasions, to a few of the TV personalities and some of the print journalists. And then there is the local art scene. For some reason I have become a known entity in this little tight-knit community.

Luminaria Arts Night in San Antonio is moving towards its fourth year. I was a participating artist for the first year. I also helped out as a volunteer. The second and third year I sat on the steering committee as co-chair of the film component. For some insane reason I agreed to become involved again for Luminaria 2011. Maybe I agreed because I’m so rarely asked to be a part of something more important than myself. My insecurities are far from inconsequential…in fact, they are quite burdensome. However, the more obvious reason is that Susanne Cooper asked. Susanne, the current co-chair of Luminaria, is someone for whom I have a great deal of respect and fondness. Last year she was the dance co-chair. We bonded over a lunch of fine food and the mutual frustration and resulting commiseration which so often comes out of committee work. We both were thrilled with the several works we were able to foster and bring to stage which fused some delightful collaborations between film and dance. And, so much like my decision to work on Luminaria 2010 because I enjoy working with George Cisneros (co-chair of Luminaria that year), I felt confident that being called back with Susanne at the helm could only be a rewarding experience. It doesn’t hurt that Susanne’s partner in running Luminaria 2011 is Richard Rosen, director of Magik Theatre (he and his Magik crew were crucial in keeping things running smoothly back in March.

There are some fairly significant changes for Luminaria 2011. I suspect I should wait for the upcoming press conference before I mention most of these. But I will say that HemisFair Park is a central part of Luminaria again. This might be because there are plans to bring development to this area of downtown. It seems as though there are two major factions. Those who want a mixed use environment, including residential units. And those who want to retain the original Expo feel of the place, with art and culture remaining at the heart of the place. So, it seems to me, that no matter what one’s agenda, this is an important chunk of real estate which people of diverse desires are horny to showcase. It may well be a perfect storm. We seem to have both political will and commercial will to whore up HemisFair Park come March 2011 with outrageous lighting schemes, three-story macrame spider webs, a poetry slam in the abandoned Women’s Pavilion, fire dancers in the reflecting pools, Caló Kabuki under the clock tower, claymation instructional dental surgery videos projected on the side of the John H. Hood Jr. United States Courthouse building, and the Soli Ensemble playing some discordant atonal opus in the playground behind the historic Kampmann House. And, you know, that’s starting to sound pretty groovy. Cram the sausage-on-a-stick concession in the vestibule of the Universidad Nacional Autonoma (San Antonio campus), and we are good to go. See you then!

[By the way, “Caló” is Chicano slang, basically Pachuconese–and let me just say here that “Pachuconese” is unknown to Google. I claim authorship. R. Erik Bosse, September 15, 2010, originator of the the portmanteau word “Pachuconese.” Fucking A! Urban Dictionary (www.urbandictionary.com), you know where to find me. I’m in the book.]

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Here are some photos I took of the Luminaria 2011 steering committee taking a tour of HemisFair Park. I thought it sweet (and, yes, a little weird) that some people brought their dogs.

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Noche de Recuerdos is five and a half weeks away. Proyecto Locos is looking for artists to construct floating illuminated altars in the Dia de los Muertos tradition. This has become a major cultural component of this city’s art galleries calendars. Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez (one of the three core members of Proyecto Loco–which also includes Deborah Keller-Rihn and myself, Erik Bosse) brought the Dia de los Muertos altars into the galleries here in the United States back in the seventies. He realized that this important cultural expressions practices amongst Latinos and the indigenous populations had a powerful aesthetic element. And so he invited these folk artists to show their creations at his gallery, Centro Cultural Aztlan. And so now, Proyecto Loco (in association with AIT-SCM, American Indians in Texas, at the Spanish Colonial Missions) have decided to take certain elements from the decorated chalupas (boats) on the Mexican lake of Xochimilco.

For this first year of the event we are starting small. We are asking artists to construct floating altars, which are self-lighted, no longer than eight feet. These mini chalupas will be set afloat on the casting pool of Woodlawn Lake. Perhaps in a year or two the event can be moved to the lake itself, with larger, proper chalupas.

It will be a relaxed night of art, poetry (calaveras), and music provided by some of the local Indian organizations.

It’s an open and inclusive community event, so we’re looking for all sorts of artists. And if you don’t feel like creating something, please come out and join us. It’s free and family friendly!

Thursday.

I was afraid that my occasional, yet very lucrative, on again off again gig in Dallas at the auction house (rare books department), had finally dried up. I was afraid they’d gathered enough full-time staff to do all the work. But, because this current sale is so massive, I was able to work a week and a half. And as I live fairly frugally, this will keep me in tacos and Topo Chico for a couple of months.

But, really, I probably should get a real job. This living hand-to-mouth is wearing thin. I have to give some serious thanks to my aunt for giving me a new truck after my old one started to fail. And, really, I have been lucky in that several paying gigs (nothing substantial, but everything helps!) coalesced right when I desperately needed the money.

Now I’m back in San Antonio, waiting for those Dallas checks to roll in. The first one might arrive tomorrow…or maybe not until two weeks from now. I’m hoping for tomorrow.

But what have I returned to? Well, there are three arts and cultural events I’m involved in. (Funny, but here in San Antonio, the Arts are almost always associated with Culture. I blame it on the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs. They contribute significant funding to most of the local non-profit arts organizations.)

I’m gearing up for the Adelante Film Forum. This a yearly event put on by the San Antonio chapter of NALIP (the National Association of Latin Independent Producers). I’m a member of the executive board. It’s going to be pretty impressive this year. We’ve secured some substantial funding. November 12-14. Workshops, parties, screenings. Come on out!

There’s also the event on October 23rd. Proyecto Locos (AKA Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez, Deborah Keller-Rihn, and I) will be presenting our Noches de Recuerdos. Artists will place illuminated floating alters in the casting pool adjacent to Woodlawn Lake. These alters will commemorate, in the manner of Dia de los Muertos alters, loved ones who have passed away. This event is sponsored by the American Indians in Texas, non-profit cultural organization which (among other things) brings attention to the families in San Antonio who trace their roots back to the indigenous people who helped the Spanish build the Missions which were so crucial to the founding of San Antonio.

And then there’s the mother fucking Luminaria. And by that I mean, Luminaria Arts Night In San Antonio. And I know that that is what the event is called because I’m wearing one of the coveted black t-shirts from Luminaria 2010. How did I get this shirt? I busted my ass on the steering committee. For two god damn years. And I’m back. Yep, I’m the committee again. Luminaria 2009 kicked my ass. I only returned to help out for 2010 because co-chair George Cisneros invited me. I’m very fond of George and I enjoy working with him. So, I said yes. As for working on the 2011 Luminaria, well, I was asked by new co-chair Susanne Cooper if I could commit myself. Well, I had so much fun working with Susanne for Luminaria (especially bringing film and dance together on Stage Seven) that I’d be an idiot not to join her.

And so, after working ten days for, well, you know, money, I now find myself back home having basically opened myself up to six months of pro bono commitment.

I’m not yet convinced that this is a bad thing. A part of me is screaming to stop this stuff. And maybe I’m working my way in that direction. But because I honor my commitments, I will press ahead in this fashion, at least until mid March (when Luminaria will have passed out the south end of my GI tract).

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Friday.

Today I downloaded a copy of MacSpeech, a voice-recognition software program. I am glad I didn’t pay for it. Whereas it’s rather fun to play with, it’s doing a poor job of recognizing what I say even when I speak in slow well-enunciated halting speech. Were I to pay the $200 for a legitimate copy, I would also get a USB headset microphone which would guarantee — supposedly — much greater accuracy. I’m using the built -in microphone of my laptop at the moment, and perhaps because of all of the ambient noise surrounding me, such as this fan and my window unit air-conditioner, I’m having to go back and edit a lot of this text in shape. I usually write with music playing. Loud. I assume that would make this program virtually useless. I’m intrigued with the possibilities and all, but I’m not willing to gamble $200 to buy the software and microphone and play it legit.

Okay, so much for this experiment. I’m going to return to typing with my fingers, and playing loud music.

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My new truck gets pretty bad mileage. I think worse than my old one. Maybe I shouldn’t had taken the super-scenic route back to San Antonio the other day.

My route was even more circuitous than one would expect. First I had to drive to Denton. I needed to turn some books into money, and because no used book dealers in Dallas pay as well as the fine folks at Recycled Books in Denton, I took I-35 north. And they did indeed treat me well. Next, I decided I would drive to Fort Worth and connect with either highway 281 or highway 16. I had downloaded a free navigation app onto my iPhone. It’s an extension of MapQuest. It pretty much sucks. Well, it doesn’t help that my old iPhone 3GS is a sluggish tottering old slug. And, really, I’m wondering if the iPhone 4GS is really that much better. I’ve seen two different Droids in operation. They’re looking pretty damn good. Anyway, I shut off the MapQuest app after the second time it told me to turn a block after I’d left that intersection behind.

It was about one o’clock when I hit Fort Worth. I decided to stop at Kincaid’s and get a burger. This iconic Fort Worth eatery is about seven blocks from where I used to live, some yeas back. The place was much the same. A bit cleaner. In fact, that particular stretch of Camp Bowie road had been licked and polished quite a bit over the last six or seven years. But the whole place still had that laid-back slo-mo cow town attitude. “No need to talk with such a rush, son. Just take a breath or two, lean your elbows on the side rail of your pickup truck and tell me how much rain you reckon fell on your place last night. Then I can tell you what I think about those fellers down in Austin on Capital Hill and what they’re up to. And maybe, if you still wanna, you can expound on your assessments on Fort Worth’s slow, cancerous gentrification.”

One of the things that makes that area of Fort Worth interesting is that the south side of Camp Bowie is generic middle class. The north side is where you can find the millionaires, and a couple of billionaires. It’s hard to tell one from another (the rich and the not rich) when they come in to grab a burger at Kincaid’s. Once removed from their country clubs and their homes, the ultra rich of Fort Worth are pretty heard to separate from the general herd. I suspect that this trait will serve them well. You know, when comes the insurrection.

I enjoyed my nostalgic meal and headed south, through Benbrook, Granbury, Tolar, Stephenville, Dublin, etc. I took highway 16 when it branched off at Comanche. It’s a lovely drive. I ccontinue all the way down to Fredericksburg, and then down 87 to I-10 and into San Antonio. I was itching to get back home, and so I missed one of the more scenic parts of the drive. That would have been for me to continue on 16 to Kerrville. And then on to Bandera. The drive between Kerville and Bandera is, simply put, awesome! Check it out some day.

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“I’m dreading the blind and ill-applied ultra-nationalism which may well infest my day tomorrow. Wave a flag in my face at your own goddamn peril! Somber reflection is one thing, peddling hate and violence (and wrapping it in the flag), however, is another matter all together.”

The above paragraph I just posted on FaceBook. It’s 11 pm tonight, on the eve of 9/11.

I hate every goddamn mother fucking asshole who thinks that the horrendous, unconscionable criminal actions perpetrated on Americans on that day necessitated the illegal and immoral invasion and occupation of two sovereign nations. This is the anniversary of that day that triggered a series of events in which I–with the rest of my countryman and countrywomen–was drawn into a dark era of shameful savagery, a new Crusades, which may well last for generations–and, as Americans, we are all culpable and (if you believe if such things) damned.

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Sunday.

I finally got around to taking in a bike ride down to the Missions today. After having been absent for a couple of weeks, I was disheartened that the construction along the bike and jogging trail from Espada Dam to Mission San Juan de Capistrano is still slogging along with no end in sight. I had to sneak through the construction site. Well, it being a Sunday, there wasn’t anyone where. But, dammit, they need to pick up the pace! This is a very popular place for south side families to come and walk and jog and bike.

After my bike ride, I took my truck to the car wash across from the old Mission Drive-In Theater. New Car Owner Behavior Number One: weekly (at least) trips to the car wash.

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Saturday

I started the day off meeting with my fellow NALIPsters. It was just four of us. Veronica, Robb, Olga, and I. We were hopping Dora would be there, it being her birthday. In fact, Robb had brought a cake. But Veronica reminded us that Dora was involved in some sort of charitable event.

We had some cake anyway. Dora would have wanted it that way…. Or so we told ourselves.

But mostly we talked about the Adelante Film Forum (well, there were the frequent punctuated digressions for the exchange of chisme). NALIP San Antonio has held the Adelante several times. I personally have attended, I believe, four. It’s an annual event, but last year we lacked the funding to pull it off. This year, however, we’ve received more funding dollars than expected. It promises to be a solid weekend of workshops. We’re working on bringing in some amazing people. We’ll have screenings, too. And, of course, great parties. We’ll be making a serious announcement probably by the end of the week. It looks like the earlier bird registration fee will be $50. That’s fucking cheap for a three-day film industry convention. You don’t have to be a NALIP member to attend. And, just in case my ultra guerroness hasn’t already clued you in, you do not have to be Latino/a to be a member of NALIP (the National Association of Latino Independent Producers). Come one come all!

Keep an eye on this blog. We will be making the Adelante schedule public in a few weeks. And don’t worry–the conference isn’t until November.

After the NALIP meeting I headed back to King William and picked up Deborah. We drove to the west side to pick of Ramon. (I’m still the only member of Proyecto Locos who owns a functioning vehicle). We drove to our office on Fredericksburg Road. Actually, it’s a taqueria. La Taqueria Huentitan Jalisco, 2318 Fredericksburg Road. Good honest dependable food. Check it out. The three of us talked about our upcoming event. We will be sending out official artist invitations to our artist friends on our email lists probably Tuesday or Wednesday.

And then I went home for a nap before heading off to the lower north side to have dinner with Pete and Lisa.

I seems like I’m back to my typical San Antonio lifestyle. I just returned from Dallas where I worked every day, ten to twelve hours per day, for money. And here I am, back home, where I’m busy, working on several projects. None of which are paying me money.

I do love this city, but, damn, it doesn’t seem to be doing such a good job loving me back.

That I’m from blue collar stock seems a disingenuous claim when I explain to people that I graduated from a private high school (Walden Preparatory School) and that I attended a year at SMU (an outrageously expensive college) as well as an additional year, through the SMU study-abroad program, in England.

The fact is when I was fucking up in high school, my mother’s aunt paid may way into a private school for over-privileged fuck-ups. I certainly was a fuck-up. But my parents were scraping by for a living. And when my great aunt dipped into her savings to help me out, it wasn’t from some huge reserve gathered from a life financially well lived. Nope. My great aunt Lillian ran a hat shop over on the unfashionable west side of Dallas. However, she was a classic frontier woman who took no shit from anyone. She remembered coming to Texas from Oklahoma with her folks in a covered wagon. And, in her twenties, she drove with a woman friend from Texas to Alaska, because she’d always wanted to see that part of the world. I guess that would have been in the 1930s. That’s a hell of a road trip, even now. She was a pretty interesting woman. And when she offered her meager savings to help me out, I felt very humbled and ashamed. But I was able to purchase my high school diploma. In fact, I was able to graduate a year early.

Some years later I attend SMU. There was an uncle, on my mother’s side of the family. Uncle Adolphus. He had set up a family scholarship in the SMU school of Theology. Once I realized I did not have to study theology, I signed up at SMU. I was the poor boy at that party for a couple of years until the scholarship money ran out.

A decade and a half went by. I wanted to complete my undergraduate degree. My mother’s sister offered to hep me out. And so I applied to UTA (University of Texas at Arlington). My application was accompanied by transcripts from six previous institutions of higher learning. I had been taking scraps of education here and there over the years.

In 2003, at the gnarly age of 40, I finally received my undergraduate degree.

All my educational achievements could never have been realized without family resources. My parents were never rich. Nor were their parents. But it used to be that education was affordable. And it used to be that a life’s work was a clear way to generate the sort of savings one could easily call moderate wealth.

It is important for us all to understand that much of our successes in life are because people who cared, helped us. Very few folks “pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.” This is a myth, and one mostly favored by the rich when they are tweaking their own personal narratives. The implication being: “What can’t the poor get it together? Jeeze!”

It’s so clear to me that the aid which has been given to me by my family no longer can be generated by the lower middle class.

Think about it. A woman who ran a hat shop–a fucking hat shop!–was able to amass enough savings to own property, plan for her retirement, and yet still have funds left over to help out a fucked up imbecile great nephew. Who can envision something like happening in this day and age?

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The above is a preface to the fact that a caring relative gifted me with a new truck, once she learned that my old one was suffering problems which I wasn’t able to afford to fix. I would have preferred that she’d just given me the money to fix the old truck. It’s still serviceable. But I’ve learned that it’s foolish (rude even–or so I tell myself) for one to dictate the terms of a large and altruistic gift.

So, to swallow the pride…. I gotta fucking new truck!

I dropped by C4 Workspace in the evening last week. I’d planned to capture some video on a project I’ve set too long on the back burner. The problem was there was a table read underway for a theater piece. It was an, um, musical. My utter contempt for musical theater is no secret. This is an adaptation from a locally produced kitschy, intentionally bad feature film. No huge surprise that some would see it as ripe for morphing into a kitschy, intentionally bad musical. Now don’t get me wrong. I think it will be a huge success. People will indeed turn out and watch it. Most likely they will love it. But then again, people are imbeciles. Broad cornball comedy where the bulk of expository dialog is conveyed via the singsong delivery of bad puns, the wiggling of eyebrows, and the slapping of thighs, is, in my opinion, a tiresome waste of time. Just because the low budget productions (stage and film) of Rocky Horror and Hedwig can amaze and amuse is no reason to assume it’s a simple game to play.

After the eighth tedious rhyming couplet wafted into my distant corner of the C4 space, I had to pack it up and get the fuck outta there.

It’s odd, but as I seem to lack both the musical theater gene as well as the sport gene, I seem to exist in a no-man’s land of no men, neither fancy boy nor he-man.

I should point out that I do have a soft spot for a few musicals. In fact the two mentioned above I find enjoyable enough to have seen multiple times. And then there is American Astronaut, which I still haven’t seen all the way through. Only a few clips on YouTube. What I’ve seen is a perfect interdisciplinary multi-genera mash-up. It’s a punk rock interplanetary western. I can groove on that.

The Billy Nayer Show, a punk band fronted by Cory McAbee, is at the heart of American Astronaut. I’m listening to this great song right now off their more recent film, Stingray Sam. It’s a great pop song. Even the truncated and flatly recorded live version here rocks all manner of awesome.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=833X4reI96k&feature=youtube_gdata

So, unless you’re some genius autoharp-playing post punk rocker and filmmaker, give it some thought before subjecting humanity to another god damn musical.

I find it inexplicable that when a filmmaker has access to 2.2 million dollars he or she thinks that what the project really needs is to be shot in 3D. And, conversely, it seems that when a filmmaker who only has access to a budget of, um, say, 2.2 dollars, he or she snaps to attention and shouts out: “I know, let’s make a musical!”

A pox upon the both.

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The other week I helped Deborah move a couple of her lights from her studio to the mansion in my neighborhood where she’s been house-sitting. She had a photo shoot planned for an art project. She wanted to do the shoot in the house instead of her studio at Blue Star. Her studio and her temporary mansion home are maybe six blocks from one another. But her car is dead. And the lights also come with stands. And, besides, I can never say no to her.

After we unloaded the lights, she invited me in for a meal. Late lunch, or maybe early dinner. Deborah heated up some lentil soup and pulled a leftover salad from the refrigerator.

When we were cleaning up, I happened to peek out the kitchen window.

“Hey,” I said. “There’s a girl taking her clothes off across the river.”

Deborah dried her hands and came over to look.

I can’t recall how many times I’ve happened to see young willowy women unconsciously undressing in public for some sort of fashion (or, perhaps, “fashion”) shoot. I assume it’s because I tend to live in urban, arty areas. This is one of the reasons I like professional models and performers…I find their lack of self-consciousness a very liberating and beautiful thing to witness.

Deborah, who’s almost as big a voyeur as me, stationed herself beside me. We soon fell into critiquing the photographer who, from our point of view, was shooting some damn lame images.

Next Deborah fixed some coffee and we headed out to the side porch. And as we talked about this and that, we occasionally looked out to see what was happening with the fashion shoot.

It just seemed rather boring and uninspired.

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The counterpoint to watching some half-assed photog making a mess of things on the right bank of the San Antonio River was brought to me the following day. Deborah’s own photo shoot went quite well. She showed me some of the images she took of a beautiful young tattooed woman (tattoos being a current theme in her portrait work). The images were beautiful, moving, and just so damn breathtakingly subtle in their eroticism.

In Deborah’s work the model is almost totally nude. She’s on the left bank of the same stretch of river that the previous day’s hack photographer was working. This is art; this is beautiful; this is good. In short, Deborah’s images are the sorts of images one would expect from an artist shooting a model who is presented as both vulnerable yet comfortable in nature.

Deborah Keller-Rihn is creating a new and very strong body of work.

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Later that day I had my own shoot. Artist Suchil Coffman-Guerra wanted me to help put together a video presentation of her most recent version of her installation / performance piece, Retro Kitchen Goddess.

Suchil showed up in a U-Haul around 1:30 in the afternoon. It was bad timing. The city has been tearing up the street in front of C4 Workspace. It’s a fucking mess. But, coincidentally, Suchil knew one of the contractors working on the historical house next door. She was able to slip her rental truck inside the construction zone, and we quickly unloaded.

While Suchil was setting up her art work in front of a neutral wall, I headed over to Deborah’s place to pick up a couple of lights. I also roped Deborah into coming and helping me out.

I had another helper. Rod Guajardo, a local filmmaker whose web presence I’ve been following for maybe nine or ten months.

Rod had made a comment on FaceBook (or maybe he sent me an email–I can’t remember). He’s seen that my shoot with Suchil was listed on the C4 calendar. If I wanted help, he was offering it.

Now Rod is, as best I can figure, a filmmaker, yet in the sense of a hobbyist. Having said that, I should point out that he’s better than most folks in town who call themselves professional filmmakers. He has embraced the new paradigm of DSLR filmmaking. He has a great eye, a clear sense of rhythm, and clearly a of love of experimenting with the media. His blog is a must for DSLR filmmakers.

http://foursandyfeet.com/

Rod’s a very gracious guy, thanking me for letting him come on set. He wanted me to know that he welcomed the chance to learn from me. But, really, I want the opportunity to learn from him. He does damn fine work. I hope to wrangle a PA position on his next production.

For Suchil’s presentation, I decided to use my DVX. The problem came with the lighting. I do believe a couple of soft boxes might have given me what I needed. But that wasn’t an option. Probably I should have staged Suchil’s pieces about ten feet away from the wall. But, because the cement slab of C4 is all wonky, it would have thrown the three major pieces into strange angles. Therefore, we were stuck with setting the pieces against the wall, and thus forced to deal with the shadows thrown by our lights.

Ultimately, Suchil’s way-cool art coupled with actress Rebecca Coffey’s amazing performances pushed the questionable production values somewhat to the back burner.

Before I get to Rebecca, I should explain Suchil’s installation. And please keep in mind that my interpretation is my own.

There were three major pieces. A refrigerator. And two kitchen counter tops. They are full sized. And best of all, they are damn light, as they are constructed of fabric over wooden frames. There are domestic items such as a blender, an electric mixer, and an ironing board. All these are embellished with crafty elements such as cloth, sequins, bows, yarn, etc.

Neither words nor pictures do it justice. Trust me here–it’s really fucking cool.

And then we have Rebecca. She’s an actress I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. She’s connected with the Overtime Theater. And though I’m sure she’s a powerhouse with the more traditional method of working with a memorized script, I have to say that as an improvisational artist she is phenomenal! (In fact, the Rebecca’s of the world is why I hate ensemble improv comedy–because when someone this clever and quick has to work with some lesser performer the whole endeavor immediately turns to shit.)

It was a great intersection of Suchil’s wonderful domestic art and Rebecca’s brilliant and nuanced dance of words, expressions, and impeccable timing.

Yes. It was quite a pleasant way to send a few hours. Now, I need to edit the work and see how it comes together…..

[Written Friday the 13th; posted 08/17/10.]

Friday night and I’m feeling at loose ends. There are two events happening in town to which I have a bittersweet reaction.

The 48 Hour Film Project is currently underway in San Antonio tonight. This is the fourth year this international franchise has operated in San Antonio. I’m proud to have run the San Antonio 48HFP for the first two years. Year three, the reins were turned over to the very capable Michael Druck. And this year Dana Fox (a young woman new to me) is proving herself to be a real powerhouse. I was at the kick-off ceremony tonight at C4 Workspace where the teams got their instructions, and then, at 7pm, they were released to the wilds to script, shoot, and edit a short film.

I have mixed feelings about these sort of film races. It strikes me as a sad way to squander resources to make what will almost certainly be a glaringly inferior film than what one could fashion with the same resources, yet given a week or more of preproduction–and ditto on postproduction. But, I can’t argue that it’s a hell of a fun way to spend a weekend. The problem of being a city produce of the 48HFP is that, if you’re also a filmmaker, you feel a sting of sad loneliness–everyone else is being creative and having fun. and you….you’re running the show.

Perhaps I would have done it as a filmmaker this year. But I don’t have the money for the entry feel. Hell, I don’t even have the money for rent. And I’m a bit dismayed that no one asked me to be on their team.

And there is also the Creative Capital artist development retreat happening this weekend in San Antonio. Creative Capital is a New York-based arts funding organization. This is the fourth year that San Antonio has been on their list of cities. I was chosen to attend the second year (2008). It was an incredible experience which I shared with about 20 other local artists.

Last night (Thursday) I walked downtown with Deborah (who also attended in 2008). The Office of Cultural Affairs hosted an alumni meeting where attendees from 2007, 2008, and 2009 could share with one another where we are in our careers. It was actually very cathartic and quite fun. But as Deborah and I walked back to our King William neighborhood, I felt envious of the 2010 group. They are about to get fired up and generally reinvigorated in their sense of importance and legitimacy within the creative community. And me? I’m back to generally floundering about. Lost and dejected.

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I’m drifting away from this blog.

Mostly I seem to be scrambling about working little jobs that bring me a little bit of income, but not enough to live on. Also, I’m spending significant pro bono time working on event planning. I hate this stuff. The truth is, I’m not so adverse to doing stuff for free, but I hate being roped into doing things I’m not particularly good at.

Take the whole fundraising concept. If I knew how to make money, I wouldn’t be divesting my book collection to second-hand shops and an auction house. This upcoming event–Noche de Recuerdos–that Ramon, Deborah, and I (AKA, Proyecto Locos) are planning is a sound concept. But it will cost money. And how are we trying to raise these funds? Selling raspas. Great fun. But the money is damn dinky. And then there was our fundraising screening of the great San Antonio film, “Viva Max!”, which so few people get to see anymore (it has no current active distributor). We’d hoped for a hundred people. But only 25 showed up. I think we made a profit of seven dollars. And, of course, the three of us aren’t making anything off this. We’d like to. But unless we get schooled by some fundraiser guru, we’re going to be beat-down and no less impoverished by the day after the big event.

And speaking of my current excursions into the lands of pro bonery, I have yet again answered the call to sit on the Luminaria Steering Committee. I love Luminaria. I think it’s certainly a good thing. But because the nature of the committee work is all about fighting to make all the artists happy with as little compromise as possible, well, it’s pretty damn thankless.

[However, here’s what’s keeping me stoked about Luminaria 2011: Susanne Cooper. She’s running Luminaria 2011 (along with the great Richard Rosen). For Luminaria 2009 Susanne was co-chair of the dance committee. And, as I, co-chair of the film committee, was trying to place three multi-media dance films with live performances on a stage suited for dance, Susanne expressed excitement with bringing film and dance together. We bonded. The both of us wanted to push these sort of multi-disciplinarian presentations. And for Luminaria 2010 we saw our vision played out on Stage 7 to great success. I’m hoping 2011 will see these sorts of multi-disciplinarian acts become more prevalent. Today I might be dragging my heels….but Luminaria 2011 is gonna be damn fine. Fuck yeah!]

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Okay. Here’s the deal. In two or three months I’ll have a large manuscript ready for review. I’ve never been sure just who reads my blog. I do know there are very few people. But if you’re a writer or a serious reader of fiction, please let me know if you might want to give feedback on a novel I’m working on.

If you’re familiar with writers such as George Saunders, Thom Jones, Denis Johnson, that’s certainly a plus. I don’t know if I really like these guys, but I think I write somewhat in their style. I should point out that my work is a bit more fun to read than these guys.

My episodic roman a clef is currently slated to be titled “Tunnels Under the Tower.” It’s a first person narrative where the protagonist is never named–however, it’s safe to say he calls himself Erik. All this stuff is at least 50% autobiographical. The book–it’s a novel, but I think it best to call it a “novel,” as it’s really a series of interconnected short stories, somewhat in the manner of “House on Mango Street” (the brilliant work by my famous neighbor, four houses down, who never seems to remember me). This “novel” of mine is divided into 40 self-contained short stories which will all be interconnected into a cogent narrative. I have 33 of the story / chapters in various states, from polished to very rough. It’s a daunting thought to polish all this stuff, as well as hammer out seven new pieces. Currently I’m at 61,000 words. I expect the finished work to top out at about 85,000 to 90,000 words. It will cover an eight month period in 2010 from March 6th to November 21st. I’ve hit upon these two seemingly arbitrary dates to bookend the piece because of two stories I’ve already written and of which I’m quite fond, and one riffs on the fall of the Alamo, and the other concerns the final visit of John F. Kennedy to San Antonio, before his ill-fated trip to Dallas the following day.

I printed up 175 pages of the current draft of the manuscript. And as I’ve been thumbing through the pages, it occurred to me that there are some damn fine sentences in there. Also, more than a few killer paragraphs. Beyond that, I have absolutely no clue as to whether or not the individual stories work (and I guess I need to start thinking of them as chapters). And as for whether or not the collection will function as a single coherent text is so far beyond the grasp of my objectivity.

Anyway, around early November I hope to have a solid first draft to let other people look at. If you have any interest, please drop me a line.