I was over at URBAN-15 today processing the DVD submissions for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. Monday was the postmark deadline. So today we received a load of locally mailed pieces. We can expect some from further afield in the state tomorrow. And those from out of state Thursday. As for our international submissions (and I only know of one), well, it’ll arrive when it arrives. Currently we have 59 submissions. We have films from Dallas, Arlington, Austin, and Houston. Represented are, I believe, eight Bexar County youth programs. The youngest filmmaker, is ten. The oldest, twenty-one.

I predict we’ll get at least 80 submissions. And then our brave judges will make the first cut. They will decided what will be screened and what won’t. I guarantee this will be a sober process …. however, I wouldn’t hold it against them if our judges were to close the night out with a few cocktails. The fact is, each artist has to make some less than stellar work before finding his or her strengths, and thus to develop those important skills and and aesthetic sensibilities needed for an artist. Having said this, I have previewed a few submissions, and there are some very strong films this year. The final judging will probably be done the third weekend of this month. And in keeping with the last two years, we expect to screen different films on each of the three nights of the festival. The only films which will be repeated will be our four winners.

On the final night of the festival we will give out the awards as well as announcing which of the four winners wins the additional prize as “best of show.”

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This morning I received a call from the auction house where I do some temp work. The head of the Texana department asked if I could meet with her in a few days to look at a library of Texas books which may be consigned to the auction house. It sounds like some very good books. I’ll get some travel expenses and a bit of money to help me through to the end of Josiah (my major work commitment for this summer). And if the books are brokered for consignment, I’m sure I’ll be asked to come in and help research them and write the copy for the auction catalogue. I love writing copy describing rare and collectable Texas history books. It’s material I’m familiar with,and yet I always learn something new — also, there are so many bibliographies available that it’s almost impossible not to sound like a genius.

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The other day I walked around to the back porch where the communal washer and drier are located. It’s a semi-enclosed screened-in porch. As I’m setting the wash cycle and closing the lid, I find myself straining to better make out what I realize is music I’ve been hearing off in the distance — so faint, it barely registers. I step out into the backyard to get away from the noise of the washing machine. I hear a weird sluggish atonal violin attack, yet it sounds strangely familiar. Who in this neighborhood would be a fan of experimental music? And what is it? Alfred Schnittke, I’m thinking. Or maybe something performed by the Kronos Quartet. It’s frustrating not knowing. But at least I now know that there’s a kindred soul in this neighborhood who enjoys listening to adventurous avant-garde music.

As I turned into the side yard and began walking down the driveway, the music wasn’t receding. This couldn’t be. My next door neighbors? This didn’t sound like what they would listen to. But I had to remind myself I don’t really know them that well. How cool.

And then it hit me. It wasn’t coming from the neighborhood. Well, not in that sense. It was coming from my pocket. The mp3 component of my iPhone. I had to laugh as I fished the phone from my pocket and switched off Elliot Sharp’s “Abstract Repressionism.”

I was struck by two things at once. It’s shocking how infrequently I hang out with people who groove to the likes of Sharp, Xenakis, Meredith Monk, Cecil Taylor, et al. AND … how I’m just so pathetically narcissistic in that I think the hallmark for someone else’s hipness is that he or she enjoys my pretentious musical tastes.

Creative Capital is a New York-based art-funding organization. They’ve been around for ten years and have been increasing their funding levels every year. They also provide the Creative Capital’s Professional Development Program, which is a weekend workshop retreat. The city of San Antonio (through our Office of Cultural Affairs) has sponsored this program for three years so far.

It’s an intensive program geared to make artists look at their creative life in a new light. As a business. Creativity is all fine and well, but there are pragmatic necessities that can’t be ignored. For instance, what is your time worth? And this isn’t always a dollar figure. Maybe it’s more important for you to cut down the hours of your day job — thus sacrificing income — to give more time to work on your art. Or maybe you just need a longer buffer zone between your professional work-a-day life and your artist life. But, of course, money is important. Is there a way to transition out of this weekend artist life with a supporting job into becoming a full time financially stable artist?

There are times when the CC retreat slides into a cultish realm along the lines of EST or Bible Camp (’cause they are indeed pushing an ideological agenda … though it’s not so bad; the bottom line is, what is it that you, the artist, needs to continue to make your work?) They provide a lot of workbooks as well as conceptual tools, such as time-tracking; one year and five year plans; writing your own obituary; and other basic life-hacking tools to break us out of our old and unsuccessful patterns.

Anyway, I was selected for the Creative Capital PFP in 2008. And the 2009 recipients were tangentially engaged in the retreat last weekend. Saturday night we had a potluck at Joe Lopez’s famous Gallista Gallery on S. Flores. Alums from 2007 and 2008 were invited, as well as the fresh meat, those from 2009 … and those boor bastards still had another day of grueling workshops and self-revelation.

It was a wonderful night. First off, Joe Lopez is the best host you could hope for. He was a 2008 alum, like me. A truly good human being — a respected elder in the San Antonio Chicano arts community. Also, I just love his art work!

The place was filled with so many great people from the San Antonio art community.

At the bash were Oscar Alvarado, Dora Pena, Ann Wallace, Guillermina Zabala, Estevan Arrendondo, Julia Barbosa Landois, Erik Bosse (that’s me!), Ilze Dilane, Donna Dobberfuhl, Rex Hausmann, Deborah Keller-Rihn, Jose Luis Lopez (that’s Joe Lopez), Roberto Prestigiacomo, Luis Valdaras, Nate Cassie, Dayna De Hoyes, Rebecca Dietz, Rudolf Harst, Modrea Mitchell-Reichert, Victor Payan, Sandra Pena Sarmiento, Ethel Shipton, and Laura Varela.

These are the folks I who I already knew or who I met Saturday night. There were attendees of the Creative Capital retreat 2007-2009 who I know but didn’t show up. And there were folks who showed up, but who I don’t know. But the bottom line is, Saturday night at Joe Lopez’s Gallista Gallery we had a great show of the vitality and powerful diversity of the San Antonio art scene.

One of the folks brought down from New York was Cuban-American filmmaker Ela Troyano. She has come down with Creative Capital all three years. I found her very inspirational last year. And when I was in Newport Beach for the annual NALIP conference earlier this year, she was in attendance. I was cool reconnecting with her in California, and again tonight.

Felix Padron, head of the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs, showed up with his wife. He made a very heartfelt speech, praising the Creative Capital experience. I liked that he acknowledged Joe Lopez as a “national treasure,” “one of this city’s most important artists.” I couldn’t agree more.

At some point, Sebastian Guajardo came op and asked me if I’d like to be interviewed as an alum of Creative Capital. Two things to take into consideration. Sebastian is an outrageously charismatic guy recently hired by the San Antonio OCA. I can’t see anyone saying no to the man. Certainly not me. And my friends Deborah and Rose (who had started drinking earlier at Tito’s with margaritas) peer-pressured me into a couple of glasses of Chianti before Sebastian pulled me away.

Troublemakers.

And so there I was with Sebastian in one of the side galleries at Gallista. Linsey Whitehead of the OCA was standing behind the camera. Sebastian stuck a microphone in my face. I blathered some useless bullshit. I pity the poor bastard who has to edit my nonsense. But Felix, Linsey, Sebastian, and all the crowd at the San Antonio OCA are really working their asses off.

I had a great time. I finally met Shimi’s husband, Oscar Alvarado — he’s a very interesting guy. He credits Creative Capital for his recent and outrageous successes as a public artist.

I also had a chance to catch up with Anne Wallace. I love what she does. And I have an enormous amount of respect for her as an artist and as a person. I’m curious about an upcoming public art project she’s doing for the southern river extension.

It was a good night. Thank you everyone for showing up. And especially thank you Joe Lopez for being our host!

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Over the weekend I was at the C4 Workspace. The word was put out for volunteers. I headed over and helped to assemble about a dozen chairs and 14 tables, It’s all IKEA. I still don’t know if the IKEA master-plan is brilliant and very useful, or just plain evil. I love how the stuff is put together — intriguing puzzels. But how long do you think this stuff will actually last? I just don’t know. But we did what was needed to be done. I found myself working with Perla. I like her a lot. If I decide to rent desk space at C4 I really need to know that I will be surrounded by good people in this workspace environment. So far, they’re winning me over.

Below is a picture of tables and chair assembled by volunteers

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Sunday I headed over to the Attic Rep Theater, deep in the bowels of the Trinity campus. I’ve only been there on two occasions, but I expect that my third visit I’ll be, once again, opening up the browser on my iPhone, getting to the AR webpage, and reading the incredibly detailed directions. The directions are impeccable, but why is it that I never seem to be able to get my bearings on the campus?

I was there to see the final performance of Edward Albee’s “The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?” This was the San Antonio premiere. This surprised me at first, because I thought it was an older play. Not so. It first opened in New York in 2002.

Whenever I see a play — particularly one by an iconic playwright — I find myself breaking my response into two spheres. What I thought of the production. And what I thought of the writing.

The production kicked ass. But the characters were unengaging, the plot was overblown, and, quite frankly, the dialogue was not nearly so clever as one expects from Albee.

It’s a story of love, love’s betrayal through bestiality, and the eventual collapse of an all-American family. (Yeah, that’s right — I said beastiality, what of it?) I assume that Albee wants us to see this as a comedy, at least on one level. But if it’s also supposed to be this high (though absurdist) Euripidean tragedy, we really need something more transgressive than a man whose wife leans he’s fucking a goat. When Woody Allen handled the same material decades ago, it was slapstick. As it should be. (Well, as I recall, Allen was dealing with a sheep — maybe a man in love with a sheep is comedy, and the same with a goat is a tragedy?)

Now, I do think the play could be run as a thorough thigh-slapping farce. In fact, Shakespeare would have been incapable as seeing this as a tragedy. I mean, the guy’s fucking a goat. Part of me wishes that the Attic Rep would have gone pure farce. Basically, the goat fucker (let’s use his character name, Martin) and wife would be Rob and Laura Petrie. Everyone loves them. The perfect combination of hip and square. Sally walks into the office and hooks a thumb Rob’s way. “What’s with his long face?” Buddy looks up from Variety. “The wife caught him fucking a goat.” Sally reels back clutching at her throat. Rob shakes his head and says, with a weary smile, “Her name’s Gloria, and she lives in a little pen on a farm up in Bucks County.” Sally croaks, “But this is monstrous.” Rob toys with the keys of his typewriter. “Really? Is it all that different than what you have with Mr. Henderson?” Big laugh from the audience.

It just seems pointless to take a topic which Woody Allen and John Waters understood is racy … for 12 year olds, and build a Medea around it. Yes, I know it’s supposed to be absurdism. But, dammit, why do our great American and British absurdist playwrights create the most bloodless and uncreative story-lines? I blame the New Yorker magazine. Decades ago we began to see less Katherine Anne Porter, and more John O’Hara. Less of the magnificent Southern gothic of Flannery O’Connor, and more of the appalling suburban gothic crap of Cheever and Updike.

Albee takes absurdism and squeezes out the absurd so that it becomes, again, naturalism. The goat fucker … sorry, I mean Martin isn’t setting Sylvia up in some Greenwich Village love nest where he’s carpeted the floor with winter wheat. And don’t expect that the two of them, during their amorous encounters, share a fine Riesling from the same trough before retiring to the circular waterbed in the boudoir. But, nope, he’s fucking a goat in a field somewhere out in the country. Sure sure. Albee has Martin carrying around a photo in his wallet of Sylvia. Absurd? Maybe. But why hasn’t he put his goat friend on his life insurance policy? Why hasn’t he bought adjacent cemetery plots with her? Why isn’t it revealed that Martin has been sneaking around and paying for Sylvia’s pedicures and Pilates classes? I’ll tell you. Because this is half-ass absurdism. I’ll give some points for the bestiality. Hell, who wouldn’t. But we need more than that. This is the 21st century, Mr. Albee! I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. If someone doesn’t start fucking a corpse soon, or hot-wiring a UFO for a road trip to Uranus, well I’m outta here! Audiences need some stimulation. And they need it ASAP!

Now if Albee really had los huevos grande, he’d have had his hero on the receiving end of the goat fucking. Let’s push for a rewrite. “The Goat, or Who is Sylvester?” Really, I’m thinking it would have played Broadway a couple of week longers. Just saying.

But I digress.

The cast was great. Andrew Thornton and Rick Frederick were unstoppable together in True West earlier in the Attic Rep season. A little less Rick this time (which was sad), but they were both phenomenal. Gloria Sanchez (who I might have auditioned for a film years ago) brought this spunky Suzanne Pleshette energy to the piece, before the weird and wild deconstruction got into high gear. By that time, she was not just good. She was awesome. Robby Glass, as the teen-aged son had very little to work with. But he sure as hell held his own alongside Thornton’s fantastic energy.

The art design was also top notch. I loved the set. I was sneaking a photo before the play began. Little did I know that this Swedish modern room would be completely trashed by the end of the second act. And the trashing of the set was handled in such a smart and surprising manner.

Plays at the Attic Rep are damn pricey. I paid 20 bucks. But they are always sold out. Why? They give you flawless performances of incredible plays. I have no problem making these occasional splurges.

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I’ve been thinking about a film opportunity. There is no pay (of course, I never seem to pursue projects that pay). The concept runs something like this. What movie made you want to be a filmmaker? Take that film, and, with your own special twist, retell it. The run time, I suppose, is ten minutes or less. This is a promotional concept for a local film festival. There are some problems here. Much as there were problems when the Cine Festival wanted to get people to contribute to their Trailer Trash Fest (something like that), where filmmakers produced fake trailers for films. Both concepts place a large onus on the filmmaker to shoot at quite a few locations. I don’t care if this is two minutes or ten, that’s a lot of production to shoulder.

But, still, it’s an intriguing idea. The problem is, I don’t really know when I wanted to make movies. It was a slow-percolating process. I watched loads of classic and foreign movies in my teens.

The other day I was running some classic films through my head. The Third Man seemed a pretty basic story line. Guy comes to another city because an old friend has written him about a job. When guy shows up, he’s shocked to learn his friend has just died. He has arrived in time for the funeral. Next he learns his friend might have been killed. He begins to investigate. It becomes a mystery story. He eventually learns that his friend was actually a criminal, whose activities caused the death a many people. He then learns his friend is still alive. He betrays his friend by helping the police track him down. The friend dies. This time, the funeral is for real. Roll credits.

I’m thinking of taking a San Antonio specific story under ten minutes which can accomplish these plot points, be engaging, and still stand as it’s own story, it’s own film. We’ll see. Did this film make me want to be a filmmaker? Why not? I fell in love with it the first time I saw it.

Here, allow me to share a cautionary tale so that others might learn from my mistakes.

Some time back I agreed to video tape a dance piece. It was performed over three days. Excellent, I thought. Each performance I’ll set up at a different part of the theater. Up high for the wide master shot. And low to the ground, one night, stage left, the other, stage right. I’d done similar multiple camera shoots for live performances. But they had always been done with more than one camera during just one performance.

I hadn’t thought this out. It’s a modern dance piece with certain phrases seemingly open to the dancers’ interpretive expressions. But even in the most rigorous of pieces, there can be expected portions which are not identical from night to night. Add to the fact that the lighting wasn’t programed (some venues in town are certainly set up for this). This is turning into a much more stressful operation than I was expecting. True, the music is rock-steady from one night to another. The selections had been been burned to a CD, allowing for consistent run-times all three nights. This is what I thought was going to cover my ass. I also expected that the wide master-shot would provide my ass with a second covering. But, like an idiot, that final night when I took the wide shot, well, apparently I had used my camera earlier in the day and reset my frame rate. Very embarrassing. Very frustrating. I can use the footage, but it’s yet another level of technological hassle (also, it does look a bit different).

Below is a screen grab. I did get some beautiful images. There’s no doubt about that. It was a wonderful performance.

A long weekend. I also have to put my Texas Filmmaker’s Production Fund grant proposal together.

Most likely I’ll get turned down again (though about one of ten submissions get some sort of funding, and I like those odds). But the fact is, you have to keep putting yourself out there. As someone said in the Creative Capital alum session last night, “You can never overestimate just how infrequently people are thinking about you.” And certainly the Prince of the Proactive I am not. It’s work, man. Exhausts me just thinking about it.

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Banner day for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. Actually, it was last night. Russ Ansley dropped off twelve submissions from his animation students over at Harlandale. Harlandale Animation is shortened to HA! The exclamation point is, I believe, mandatory. The judging doesn’t begin until June, but I wanted George and Catherine to see what great work the HA! kids are doing, so I selected one I had already seen during a campus visit earlier in the month. It’s a funny piece (intentionally so, I might add) — they were impressed and quite amused. Expect a lot of animation this year at Josiah.

I also received an email from from an instructor with an international school in Taiwan keen to submit some of her students’ work. I wrote back and said that a postmark deadline knows no time zone — it just might take a bit longer to hit our mailbox. How exciting. Last year we had an animator in Iran who emailed a video file. Strong work, but she was two years too old to be qualified for our festival.

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What a weekend. Between this damn video project; my TFPF application; putting in some volunteer hours at C4 (they open the doors Monday!); a Creative Capital party Saturday night; and “The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?” Sunday afternoon at the Attic Rep (final performance), I’m wondering if I’ll have time to write my little four page story for Monday night’s free writer’s workshop at Gemini Ink.

It’s based on a real story where a cab driver and a well-known San Antonio artist find themselves sharing studio space in a west side warehouse which had previously been used as a lavishly decorated love nest by a nationally famous and recently deceased Chicano activist (well, recently deceased at the time of the story).

I loved these stories of the seedy underbellies of our cities. It’s really important history and should be written down and preserved, even if it’s locked in a time capsule and not to be opened for a hundred years. I don’t know if anyone here in San Antonio has been doing anything like this. Maybe in the past? In Dallas, where I grew up, it was the journalists. Sometimes they’d put these stories in essays or works of fiction, slightly changing the names. Sometimes these newspapermen would just share these stories in the bars amongst their friends. I grew up with these stories from my father, who was very enamored of local writers such as Gary Cartwright, Dan Jenkins, and Bud Shrake. These were our north Texas Damon Runyons and Joseph Mitchells — writers who cut their teeth hammering out obits, high school football stories, and Saturday night knifings. Let these guys write about these subjects (or anything they care to write about) in an essay or short story length, instead of two column inches, and they will blow you away. I was never too keen on Dan Jenkins (too much sports fascination there). But Cartwright (his great essays) and Shrake (his impeccable novels) were as much my youthful heroes as Bill Burroughs and Hunter Thompson. Still are. And it saddened me to learn of Edwin “Bud” Shrake’s passing earlier in the month.

If you’re a Texan, or if you love Texas, or if you hate Texas; please visit your local library, bookstore, or wi-fi access-point from where you can order from Amazon … and, dammit, get your hands on a copy of Shrake’s “Strange Peaches.” If you love Larry McMurtry’s “All My Friends are Going to be Strangers” (my favorite novel of his), but wished it had more dope smoking, violence, and political conspiracy, this book is for you. If you wonder why there aren’t more Texas writers like Terry Southern, this book is for you. If you want a taste of the true weirdness of Dallas in the mid ’60s by someone who was there — read this book, because this book is for you.

I would like to teach a college lit course on Texas novels of the early seventies. Sure, they’re all old white guys, but what are you going to do…? I know. American Lit 347; Texas Novels of the Early 1970s by Old White Guys. We’d read: Terry Southern’s “Blue Movie” (1970), Edwin Shrake’s “Strange Peaches” (1970), Larry McMurtry’s “All My Friends Are Going to be Strangers” (1972), and David “Sunset” Carson’s, Lament” (1973).

North Texas was a strange place in the early ’70s. I lived through it, but I was too young to understand just how freaky it all was.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying there was widespread cannibalism. Crop circles weren’t appearing in the field behind the Longhorn Ballroom. As a kid I never saw a cross-burning and I only knew a couple of people with Geiger counters. The weirdness was all underground. And this underground was everywhere. Dammit, it’s time we get out there and collect these great stories before all these hippy and beatnik folks die off.

Everyone, this summer, grab you video cameras, and interview the blackest sheep in your family. If not you, who? (Or is that whom?)

Just do it!

Shit. I’m pushing to finish a project due tomorrow. Some of the video footage is in a different frame rate. At least I have a new and faster computer which will make the render time less ghastly. I also have this other computer I can use between render sessions.

Last night I walked over to the Jump-Start Performance Company. They work with the San Antonio Dance Umbrella to offer this monthly Works In Progress (W-I-P) program of events. Tonight was the “WIP Creme,” the best of the 2008 – 2009 WIP season. It ran from the wonderfully inspired to that interpretive dance scene in the Big Lebowski by Marty the landlord. Well, not really. Though, I wish! That was one of Hollywood’s great dance moments. Goodbye Ray Bolger and Ginger Rogers, and hello Jack Kehler. But I digress. WIP is always rewarding. Full of surprises.

I had a short chat with Billy Munoz. His multimedia noir piece, the Case of the Neon Twins, will run June 12 – 20 at Jump-Start. He says he’s working with other video-minded folks and has a small studio space where they do their green screen work. All sorts of things percolating in this city.

In fact, when I noticed on FaceBook that Jim Mendiola was in town, I asked out to the Twitter world if he’s back in San Antonio to work on a project. I received a few updates. Jessica Torres told me he’s shooting a music video for Girl in a Coma. (Correct me if I’m wrong, Jessica, but didn’t you work on a Girl in a Coma video a few years back at Say Si? I remember seeing something during First Friday project in that alleyway when Say Si was at it’s old place.) Cosmo Inserra also was in the Mendiola loop, and told me about the music video (I think he said Jim was doing two).

That’s right. Cosmo Inserra.

Yesterday morning I woke up around 9:30. Made some coffee. And I wondered if maybe I hadn’t been too much the asshole the previous night posting my screed against Cosmo. Maybe I should quickly go in and make some modifications — you know tone it down. Anyway, I usually edit blogs the following morning over a cup of coffee. A late night session with spell check doesn’t always catch everything. This is kind of a pain. I post redundantly on MySpace as well as my WordPress blog. When I logged onto WordPress I saw that I had already received a comment on my blog from Cosmo. Too late to make changes. This is what happens when you wake up late. But before I could finish my first cup of coffee, read his comment, and assess the damage, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Erik?”

“Yep.”

“It’s Cosmo.”

Actually, he’s a very affable and likable guy. He found my frothing rant amusing. We had a long conversation as I fixed my second cup of coffee. The truth is Cosmo wants the same things the rest of us in the film world want. I hope he can make it out to local events, get to know those of us he hasn’t met, and maybe we can all start moving, as a group, in the right direction.

I’m wondering if both me and Cosmo aren’t creating more problems than solutions. I mean, really, my little snide attack was pretty easy to write. Ad hominem attacks are a breeze to hammer out. But I think we in San Antonio with an interest in the film and video and media world need to learn that we’re all in this together. Whenever I get an email from my friends over at the American Indians in Texas nonprofit organization, the emails are addressed: “Attention all Partners, Friends, and Allies.” We need to think this way. Maybe we don’t see all of our colleagues as partners or friends, but if we can’t even recognize another individual in the same business and with the same needs as an ally, well, we’re toast.

How does the San Antonio film world move ahead? It’s a serious question. And it’s on the minds of many people. In fact yesterday I not only received a call from Cosmo. I also talked with our film commissioner (and it’s always tickled me that Drew reads my blog); Veronica Hernandez, director of NALIP-SA; and Dar Miller, who heads the SAL Film Festival. True these are friends I speak with quite often. And they are all involved in the on-going struggle to bring a sustainable film and video industry to San Antonio. I only wish their voices were more often heard in local newspaper stories about San Antonio’s film future. All these three friends of mine were in attendance at the San Antonio Film Summit late last year which was part of the Adelante Film Forum. This is a slow process. It will take years. The proposed cinema program at Northwest Vista will help immensely to offset the vertical education problem this town has suffered in the media education department. Great high school programs. Lame college programs (with the obvious exception of Adam Watkins’ amazing work in digital animation at UIW). And then there’s this possibility of a media center in a decommissioned school in the Edgewood ISD on the West Side … a sort of Austin Studios in miniature. This is still an option which could happen. And it could move fast. I put much more hope in this Edgewood possibility than I do for all the sweet press releases coming from the San Antonio Film Council, the San Antonio Film District, or this Villa Muse thing. I’m tired of the snake oil. It takes a lot of tequila to wash that off the tongue.

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Yesterday and today I’ve been seeing loads of Twitter messages about preview tours of the new River Walk extension. The northern most region of the San Antonio River Walk used to be Lexington Street, right there at El Tropicano hotel. When it officially opens it will continue I believe all the way up to Hildebrand. There will be many quirky and arty areas along the way. Or so I hear. I can’t wait to check it out and see the grotto designed by my neighbor Carlos Cortez.

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The other day the sky was filled with wonderful scalloped cloud patterns. I took a couple of snaps on my way to Jump-Start. And later, while waiting for the show to start, I noticed several people on Twitter commenting on the strange clouds.

What’s really strange is this weird quasi intimate world of Twitter and FaceBook.

These fast-moving micro blogs convey little in the way of snarl and bravado and deep yearning heart, but, I have to say, there is something crackling and alive going on here. Simply put, it’s a new form of communication.

Last night, at Jump-Start, S. T. Shimi actually acknowledged me. I think she’s always known me as someone who patronizes Jump-Start, but FaceBook can push a face in the crowd to a face with a name. These sorts of social media sites are pretty good at bringing together local artists and their fans. My fanboy blogs praising the Methane Sisters resulted in that the brilliant Monessa and Annele now know who I am. That’s pretty sweet. And when I posted on the wall of the Attic Rep theater a question if there would be a Sunday matinee this weekend, I received a FaceBook reply from Attic Rep honcho Roberto Prestigiacomo that, yes, they would. I only sorta know Roberto. But with FaceBook, I’m almost there. Roberto replied via Facebook, one human to another, should he save a seat for me? Yes! This was my immediate response. So, we see that business is being done via FaceBook, and, I’m sure, Twitter as well.

Maybe these social media sites are making us all two dimensional and soulless, but thanks to FaceBook I got a little Hollywood hug from Shimi, and a little bit of time spent talking with Billy Munoz.

So, don’t be hating on social media. Good things can come out of it. You bet.

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I do my shopping down S. Flores way at a La Fiesta grocery store. It’s a charmingly funky neighborhood in the Harlandale school district. I love all the hand-painted signs. There’s a pet shop with signs on the wire hurricane fence surrounding their parking-lot advertising baby ball pythons for $8.50. Gerbils only five bucks. Wow. Just five dollars. And then I was struck with the realization that I really have no idea if that’s a good price for a gerbil. Surely, it sound a bit high were you to extrapolate by the pound, but maybe by the individual rodent it’s a tremendous bargain. I mean, you gotta have something to feed that baby ball python, right?

On those rare occasions I encounter a fellow anglo at the La Fiesta, it invariably turns out to be members of a marginally removed tribe, the trailer trash, AKA the there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-etc folks. He wore a stoner’s grin under his International Harvester gimme cap. She seemed quite proud of her skinny figure for a woman in her forties. That’s the sweet gift meth will provide. The down side were the two teeth missing from her smile. Ah, the smile. As I wandered the aisles, out paths crossed at least three times, and always she was angling for eye-contact. And the checkout I found myself behind this couple, my brethren. The woman looked up at the checkout girl. “Anita,” she said (for that was what was written on the girl’s name tag). “Anita, you’re working yourself ragged. Girl, let me buy you a soda. What do you like?” Anita said she liked Big Red. The tightly wound woman with fewer teeth than me squeezed by (giving me a wink — and I think there was a wiggle of her hips), and she soon returned with a bottle of Big Red. “Anita, ring this up on my bill. Enjoy yourself.” Anita did so. I was amused. It was really quite sweet. The speed queen turned to me and said she was sorry for holding up the line. She stuck out her hand. I shook it. And then she winked at me again. Maybe I’m reading too muck into this. Perhaps she was just suffering the onset of pink-eye.

But, really, what the fuck. I just want to buy my Ramen noodle and papaya. And, who knows, maybe check out those gerbils down the street.

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This evening I headed over to Say Si for a meeting of the Creative Capital alumnus from the annual weekend retreats here in San Antonio for 2007 and 2008. I was rather dismayed that only me and six other people showed up. That’s seven out of about 40 people. Not cool. And the seven artists who showed were all from the 2008 session. No one from 2007. What gives, guys? Something better happening on Thursday night?

(Oh, as Pete just pointed out, only the 2008 alums were invited to this. So, maybe the turn-out wasn’t so bad.)

It was good to see these people again. And there will be another chance to mingle for the current 2009 crop with folks from 2007 and 2008 Saturday night at Joe Lopez’s Gallista Gallery. I hope to see some of you guys there!

Tonight I also had the opportunity to meet new member of the Office of Cultural Affairs team. A wonderful guy with the great name of Sebastian Guajardo. I believe he said he used to work for the San Antonio Parks Department. He strikes me as a great asset to OCA.

I should also point out that when I arrived at Say Si, I heard the familiar refrain of, “E. Boss,” from the ubiquitous Jessica Torres. She is, of course, in the Say Si digital media program, doubtlessly doing brilliant work. I popped into the class room to see what she was up to. And then I spoke some with Ned Meneses, one of the instructors. Ned and Gisha manage to run what maybe well be the best youth video program in town. And yet they both seem to to find time to create excellent art themselves.

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Oh, yeah. Josiah Youth Media Festival. the submission deadline is coming down fast. If you are a filmmaker 21 years of age or younger, or know someone else who is, pop on over to the the URBAN-15 website — www.urban15.org — and download the entry forms. It’s free. And you might win some damn $$$! Spread the word. Postmark deadline of June 1st. Get a postal employee to stamp the envelope before midnight this Monday. Send it in. I’m talking to you Alejandro Rodriguez, Rosalva Gonzalez, Remington Dewan, and Raul Flores. I’m talking to a lot of you kids. Send us your work before midnight Monday. We wanna see it!

I’ve been holding my tongue in regards to Cosmo Inserra and his San Antonio Media Future Initiative organization. Actually I had typed out an eye-rolling blog some weeks back which I decided not to post. You know, all about how here we have another individual who is helping to Keep San Antonio Lame. (This, unfortunately, is a grassroots slogan along the lines of Keep Austin Weird.) We’re already suffering under Mark Sullivan and Al Frakes, and we now have another well-meaning naif to bring shame to this city’s nascent and ever-struggling media industry? Wonderful.

I have to confess I keep the man on my radar because he’s a sweet nugget of comic relief. Cosmo Inserra seems to be the Napoleon Madrid of the San Antonio production world. The difference is that I was able to meet ultra-fringe mayoral nut-case candidate Madrid on two occasions. Yet I have never met this Inserra chap. I see his nemesis (well, his off-and-on nemesis) Drew Mayer-Oakes all the time. Our film commissioner is out there interacting with us, the San Antonio media community. And to be honest, he doesn’t have to. His office is deep in the belly of the CVB, also known as the San Antonio Convention & Visitors Bureau. Drew’s job description is to bring large productions here. He is involved in spreading the word. Come and film in San Antonio.

When I moved to San Antonio, maybe a year before Drew got the job at the commission, I had been working some with the San Antonio Film Commission. And when Drew took over, the commission seemed to work more smoothly. But, unlike Mr. Inserra, I had visited the Film Commission webpage. I learned what this office could and couldn’t do. Back then I was mainly using the commission to pull shooting permits and gather advice on production-friendly locations. From the years I’ve known Drew and Janet, I’ve come to the conclusion that the San Antonio Film Commission basically provides two services which are funded by their meager resources. They help productions find locations; and they provide advocacy out-reach, getting the word out to the world that San Antonio is a great place to make moves. (And yes, I know, the commission also does other things. They provide a free online production manual. They post crew / casting calls on their webpage, as well as upcoming film events. They help to sponsor film festivals and local film groups — SAL, San Antonio Film Festival, NALIP, etc. They run the annual 48 Hour Film Experience. They throw a great annual mixer. They offer a free monthly film forum. Oh, yeah. Don’t forget all the hard work Drew and Janet have done to push for the Texas Motion Picture Alliance to force the Texas legislation to expand Texas film incentive programs. All this with a paltry budget of 350,000 dollars a year. Impressive.) The fact is, the San Antonio Film Commission needs to be removed from the bosom of the CVB — they need a larger staff and loads more money. Maybe one day!

But I’m writing about Cosmo. Here is a link to one of the SA Current’s blogs. (Thanks, I think, Sarah Fisch.)

http://www.sacurrent.com/blog/default.asp?perm=69508

This is the first time I’d heard of Mr. Inserra. He writes this “open” letter to Drew Mayer-Oakes (CCing everyone), demanding transparency concerning the San Antonio Film Commission’s behavior. He goes on the attack without first contacting the Film Commission. And from the vagaries of his emails it seems as though he has done no real research as to what the purpose of the San Antonio Film Commission might be.

So, one might wonder, just who is this unknown individual who has never met with and spoken to one of the most accessible city employees I’ve ever met … and yet who seems so horny to throw brickbats at what he perceives as an elevated ivory tower built by the blood and sweat and tears of the tax payers’ wallet. But if you’re some malcontent who is incapable of doing the most basic Google research (or attend the monthly free San Antonio Film Commission’s Film Forum at the downtown public library where you can meet and speak with Mr. Mayer-Oakes), and you lash out and attack one of the most benign bureaucracies in San Antonio, well, how are we supposed to judge you? Transparency? I can think of no city organization more transparent and open than the San Antonio Film Commission.

I might demand to see the financial statements of the San Antonio Media Future Initiative, but, really, that would just be me being an ass. The fact is, I like that it’s there. You know, like the Birch Society, to give me ironic pleasure.

Of all the things to get bent out of shape over — and fuck there are loads in this day and age — who would turn the sights on the San Antonio Film Commission? We continue to fight two illegal and immoral wars. We can’t shut down Gitmo because we apparently can’t recall the concept of the rule of law and process these poor bastards through the court system. And we still have military recruiters in our high schools. And Cosmo Inserra wants to bone the the CVB and the San Antonio Film Commission up the ass because, what? They’re not doing things they were never created to do?

Mr. Inserra, do a bit of research before you turn on the histrionics.

I did not intend to take this into two pages. But let me just say two more things.

First, this second tryst that the SA Current has had with Inserra —

http://www.sacurrent.com/film/story.asp?id=70158

–does make some good points. Large productions pass us by because: San Antonio lacks a large studio with the associated infrastructures; we have shitloads of wonderful film and video programs for teens but really nothing at the college level; the city and county aren’t behind us pushing for needed film facilities; and the San Antonio film Commission is too small and too underfunded to really shine.

(As a parenthetical aside, this quote from Inserra seemed rather strange: “He said it’s not fair to place blame squarely on Mayer-Oakes’ shoulders, but Inserra would like to see more return on taxpayers’ investment. ‘The money (for the film commission) needs to be there,’ Inserra said. ‘The $352,000 I don’t have a problem with. But it needs to be spent in the right places.'” Wow. Does Inserra not realize what a drop in the bucket 350,000 dollars is? I really don’t know what he thinks should be done with a city department with a couple of full time employees who are expected to travel often to festivals and conventions. It sounds like they’re doing a great job running on little more than spit and potatoes.)

And second, one of the things we do so well in San Antonio is turn against one another. All this bitching and sniping (lord knows I do my share — just look at the lines above) gets us nowhere. There are individuals and groups trying to bring the film community together. Drew and Janet are certainly on the front lines. As is Veronica Hernandez, the head honcha of NALIP-SA. And Dar Miller of the SAL Festival. George and Catherine Cisneros of URBAN-15 with their student film festival, the Josiah Youth Media Festival. Adam Rocha, with his San Antonio Film Festival, which has gone through three name changes and 13 years. Victor Payan and Sandra Sarmiento who will be running, for the third year, Cine Festival, the oldest Chicano Film Festival in North America. There are educators, artists, production companies, and independent filmmakers in this town who have worked tirelessly and often with little to no pay to bring people together.

And so I hope Cosmo Inserra can work with all these great people. It’s easier and a lot more fun to point fingers and tear things apart, but the truth is, we all need each other.

So Cosmo, come on out. There are events all the time all over the city. When you’re not working on productions, let us all get to know you … you know, outside of the social media world.

Laura Varela premiered her documentary tonight at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center. I had all the best of intentions to attend.

But I had failed to look closer at my calendar. It was the same night as the San Antonio Film Commission’s monthly Film Forum at the library. I’d planned to attend so I could help promote the upcoming Josiah Youth Media Festival. The forum topic for this month was child actors. Sounded like a great fit. And then there was the premiere of Laura’s Veteranos. Man! Both events began at 6:30. Perhaps, I told myself, I could sneak out of the Film Forum, and make it to the Guadalupe before I missed too much.

I never did.

I wasn’t prepared for the panelists. They were two of my favorite young actors. Gabi Walker and Campbell Westmoreland. Nikki Young was moderating as usual. And Dora Pena was also on the panel. Dora’s feature narrative, Dream Healing (staring Gabi), will be premiering in August. Dora also played a small role in a short film by Bryan Ortiz which featured Gabi and Campbell. (Nikki knows how to build a panel).

Campbell is now twelve, and Gabi, fourteen. I think I have these ages right. But they are damn articulate and were able to share some deep insight on their perspectives as child actors.

To the best of my knowledge these two extraordinary gifted actors — who are well on their way to fame and fortune — have something in common. Their first films used my house here on Guenther as a location. Campbell’s first film was Carlos Pina’s Up and Comings, which had scenes shot here in my place. Campbell said as much. He also spoke of his recent work with Robert Rodriguez and Richard Linklater. And Gabi’s first film (I’m pretty sure of this) was my Operation Hitman, with scenes set here at my place. She’s brilliant and beautiful and as much as I want the world to know this, I just keep hoping I can get a decent project off the ground and well-funded so I can work with her again, because one day she’ll be far out of my budget. What an amazingly charismatic and sensitive young actress!

Both Campbell and Gabi are just so smart and candid and perceptive. These qualities have helped them in their success. But what has helped them just as much is that they have incredible parents who are all amazingly supportive and as much of a joy to work with as their brilliant kids.

This is why I wasn’t able to pull away and head to the Guadalupe.

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As I was leaving the library, I did send a text message to Veronica Hernandez, requesting that she sneak out of Laura’s film long enough to call me. She called and I asked if the film was still going. I was hoping that maybe it started late and I could go sneak in. No, she said. It was just about over. From a short conversation it became clear I have missed a very strong film. I’m sure there will be other opportunities to see this important local film from Laura Varela.

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Earlier this morning I stopped by to catch up with George and Catherine at URBAN-15. This is the last week to get the word out concerning the submission deadline for the Josiah Youth Media Festival.

Deadline is June 1st.

I already knew that they had gotten their grant for the installation of a wheelchair lift, but I wasn’t prepared for the speed that the contractors would be moving once the funds were in the account. Things are going fast! The floor is being excavated for a stable foundation for the lift.

It could well be that all will be done by the end of the week. Wow! George and Catherine have been trying to get a lift in since they acquired this wonderful old church. Six years? The major performance space (this is where the film screenings are presented) is in what used to the church’s sanctuary, and this is up a flight a stairs. URBAN-15 has an office manager as well as a board member who have not been able to see events up in the sanctuary because of this major access problem. URBAN-15 has also lost certain funding opportunities because their primary performance space doesn’t have wheelchair access. The Cisneros have always worked hard to provide smaller screening rooms with wheelchair access, but they’ve always known how crucial it is to have full access.

And in only a few short days they’ll have that.

This is very cool!

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I did a bit or work for Josiah while at URBAN-15 and then I headed off to run a couple of errands. I returned at 2:30 for a little party.

Catherine had a birthday over the weekend, and so today I was invited to a celebratory lunch. Catherine and George’s son Antonio also joined us. He was in town for the sad reason that there had been a death in the family. But it was a nice time. I’m not sure just how old Catherine is (I have a vague working knowledge), but I think she needs to spread the word as to what forms of yoga she practices, how often she dances, her diet, and her preferred vintages of wine, because it’s clear she’s doing something right.

Happy belated birthday Cat!

This afternoon I was catching up on the blogs I subscribe to. One is the Live Journal kept by sci-fi author Joe Haldeman. After conveying a rather amusing joke he learned from Ben Bova, he segued into mentioning an interview he read in a recent issue of New Scientist with futurist Ray Kurzweil. It seems that Kirzweil has actually come up with a year when the “singularity” will happen. Around 2045.

For those out of the loop, the “singularity” is a popular science-fiction motif (which is also embraced as an inevitable occurrence by a growing number of forward-thinking tech-heads). In a simple sentence, the singularity is that point in time when our technology has advanced so far and with such increasing rapidity that we can no longer control or anticipate where these advances will take us. Computer science, artificial intelligence, and nanotechnology will converge to transform everything we know. Could be some sweet paradise … or it could a dystopian dead end (like the Matrix) or some apocalyptic scenario such as Sky-Net from the Terminator films. At the heart of this unfocused paradigm-shift is the concept of transhumanism, that point when humans and machines merge.

I love this sort of stuff. But I also love Frank Tipler’s Omega Point bullshit … and the Philadelphia Experiment and tales of the hollow earth and on and on.

Toss Kurzweil into the above company, it’s little wonder that he has more detractors in the scientific community than he has champions.

P. Z. Myers has chewed some on Kurzweil in his blog Pharyngula (a science site heavy on biology and evolution which often offers entertaining harangues against the Intelligent Design folks as well as militant theists). It’s not so much the claims of how technology might advance with which Myers has concerns, it’s the new-agey zeal that Kurzweil uses to proselytize this brave new transhumanistic world. Myers sees little science and rationality in Kurzweil’s writings and pronouncements.

Myers is especially critical of a graph Kurzweil uses to show how human technological ingenuity is progressing at an exponential rate. This acceleration of technology is at the core of his transhumanist thesis. It is an extension of Moore’s Law, which is concerned with the apparent exponential growth of computational power in computer technology. Robert Anton Wilson (was it in the Illuminatus Trilogy?) put forth his lampoon of Moore’s Law into something he called the Jumping Jesus Phenomenon — this concerned how long it took to double the accumulation of information since the time of Christ. Wilson postulated 1500 years. This brought us to “two Jesuses.” The doubling increases exponentially. Wilson claimed that by the year 1978 (when he came up with this playful notion) we had reached 256 Jesuses. And three years later that number would double again. I could be wrong, but I think that he extrapolated so that by the year 2012 information would be doubling every second.

But Bob Wilson was a trickster, a psychedelic stand-up comedian. Prescient? Sometimes. A provocative troublemaker? All the time. His Jumping Jesus scenario wasn’t supposed to do much more than amuse and maybe inspire. But the difference with Ray Kurzweil is he’s absolutely serious. In fact he’s been instrumental in creating a Singularity University. From what I can tell, this is a for-profit business.

Seems a bit creepy. But maybe I’m wrong. It could that Ray Kurzweil is gonna save our bacon from the evil and genocidal intentions of our future cybernetic overlords.

What I like about people such as Ray Kurzweil is that they are giving us a possible taste of our near future.

Personally, I have no doubt that the next 40 years will bring about changes we can’t fathom. Artificial Intelligence will be able to pass the Turning Test much sooner than we expect. And 40 years from now (probably much earlier) many people will be having their most intimate personal relationships with computer programs. And once that hurdle has been crossed, any popular movement opposing respect and rights for artificial intelligence will drop away. At that point we will seriously begin our experiment with transhumanism.

The reason I don’t see an apocalyptic war between humans and robots (such as the Terminator series) is because as machines and computer programs become more human, humans will be becoming more machine-like. This will happen in the next seven years as the hunger for novelty in our ability to interface with our hand-held computational devices will move towards miniaturization of hardware so that we are always wired in. Tiny processors will be implanted on our bodies. Audio implants in out ears. Visual implants might be a bit harder to do in such a short time. Perhaps they will be glasses. These implants won’t be some sci-fi device that connects with the brain. But give us 25 years. It could happen. If, as I suspect, the interface between the human brain and the digital world of computers is simply an engineering problem, things will get weird real fast when (if??) we find how to merge these two disparate computational devices.

And at that point, I’ll give you the singularity.

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Oh, yeah. I was actually planning to write about my new experience with SKYPE. It’s not quite Sky-Net, and it’s not yet Dick Tracy’s wristwatch video phone. But, damn, it’s still pretty cool.

Some technologies have to wait for a ubiquity of users. The Skype model is an internet interface that allows people to use the world-wide web for voice communication. In short, free phone calls for those with an internet connection. And soon was added a video component. Free video phone calls or people with internet connections.

When I first heard about Skype I didn’t have a web camera. So, all I had to get excited about was free phone calls. I already had that in the US with my cell phone service. Just call after nine pm. But now that I have a laptop with a camera built in, it seemed like a technology I should revisit.

My sister had bought a laptop recently. I though she might humor me in a Skype experiment.

First I downloaded the Skype program. Set it up. And then I called my sister on my cell phone. She was game. I walked her through the download and installation. Once complete, I called her over my computer. She answered the call. Cool. We were on a video phone call. And it was free.

It’s super cool. Everyone needs to get in on this.

My Skype name is:

rerikbosse

Until I get the hang of things, I might not have my Skype program open all the time. You wanna Skype me, feel free to let me know in advance via email (erikbosse@mac.com) or my cell phone (210.482.0273).

A free fucking video phone! That’s just crazy. Remember that scene in 2001 where one of the astronauts is talking to his family via a video phone? It’s just like that. Better. I mean you can conference-call. You can transfer files.

And all I can say is I can’t wait until all this will be done with brain power alone, once they place that lozenge-sized processor in my frontal lobe.

The singularity?

I fucking embrace it! Dammit, let’s all be early adopters. I’ll see all you guys on the other side!

Thursday turned out to be a full day of doing a lot of what, from an outside perspective, might appear to be unambiguous and perspicuous loafing. Perhaps so. But the fact is, I was exhausted.

I was up at dawn. And after a fast couple cups of coffee and a banana, I hopped on my bike and met Todd O’Neil over at C4 Workspace at eight. We spent a couple of hours painting the concrete floor with a light grey paint. An undercoat had been put on the previous day. Friday we’d put on the second and final coat. The space was coming along nicely. A conference room and a couple of offices will be framed off over the weekend. I like Todd’s concept of co-working and community involvement. I’m looking forward to have another place to work on my own projects other than at my home. This current situation just hasn’t been working out for me.

Back home I watched yesterday’s Colbert Report and Daily Show via Hulu.com.

And then I got back on my bike and rode out to Mission Espada. It’s been a few months since I’ve biked the full 20 mile round trip out to Espada and back. Lately I’ve been driving my bike out to that park next to the Mission Drive-In Theater and cutting the cycling distance in half. But not Thursday. I’d loaded up my iPhone with some fresh music. Bowie’s Hunky Dory, Foetus’ Thaw, and Animal Collective’s Here Comes the Indian.

At Espada, I chilled out under a little pecan tree overlooking the low-water crossing. There were a couple of cicadas droning metallically. I hope this will be a good year for the cicadas. Speaking of insects, I’m intrigued by these reports of Crazy Raspberry Ants. They’re an alien species which has supposedly escaped from some transport container at the Houston airport. Crazy ants are ants that move in chaotic, unpredictable manners. It’s theorized that these ants are related to several species found in the Caribbean. For some reason they are attracted to the electromagnetic fields of electronic equipment … as well as transformer stations. These are prolific critters with multiple queens per colony. A colony can run in the billions. And they swarm over these electronic and electrical systems and cause them to overheat and burn out. The Raspberry part of their name (it sounds so innocent, eh?) is because they were first identified by a Texas exterminator whose last name is Raspberry. But make no mistake, these surging and pulsating colonies of billions of individuals are on the march. They have been spotted at the very edge of San Antonio.

Shit! They’re gonna Kudzu us back into the Industrial Age.

The man or woman who knows the secrets of chromolithography and movable type will be akin to a GOD!

Every laptop in Texas soon will be fried and stuffed with the crispy corpses of crazy raspberry ants.

Crazy Raspberry Ants. This sounds like something you might order at Jamba Juice. Take my advice. Order it with a wheat grass chaser. We call that the Picnic in the Park.

But I digress.

I was riding back home, not too far from San Antonio’s famous Ghost Tracks, when my iPhone paused in the middle of “Queen Bitch,” and began it’s cricket chirp, indicating an in-coming call.

It was Veronica. It seems that the OCA refund for my NALIP national conference registration fee had come in. There was a check waiting for me!

“I’m on my way,” I said in my best Raymond Chandler declarative diction.

Veronica was at the NALIP office downtown at the Radius Center. Well, I wasn’t going all that way on my bike. Just getting home was exhausting enough.

Once at the house, I changed vehicles. I drove my truck to the Radius.

Some shit was going on with big inflatable mascots. There were several in front of the Municipal Auditorium. And there was apparently a big Godzilla up on the roof of the Radius. I never looked up, and had to learn this fact via FaceBook.

According to the Radius FaceBook info, these big inflatables was some sort of ad campaign — some sort of PSA exhorting folks to wear seat belts … that idiotic “Click-It or Ticket” propaganda spiel.

Inside the Radius I found Veronica. She gave me the check. We caught up on the important film stuff. And it was she who reminded me that Jefferson High School was having a free screening of their cinema program that night at the Alamo Drafthouse.

We both knew we had to attend.

So I said goodbye, and we agreed to meet again in about three hours at the Alamo Drafthouse.

I got there early. And when Adam Rocha, the head of the Jefferson film department, saw so few people in the audience, he wisely asked Liz, the manager of the Drafthouse to push back the screening from 6 to 6:30.

This worked well. By 6:30 there was a good audience. I was sitting in the back. Drew Mayer-Oakes, the San Antonio Film Commissioner, joined me. As did Francis Santos (writer, filmmaker, and Jefferson teacher). And Veronica showed up soon as well. There was also Jessica Torres, teen filmmaker prodigy. And Jessica’s mom, Sandra. Also, young filmmaker Alejandro Rodriguez was hanging out.

It was a nice night. Like most other local high school media programs, we were treated to a wide range of quality. From the somewhat painful to the inspired. But the work was all honest and unpretentious.

Well done, Adam, and all of the kids who are part of the Mustang Cinema Club!

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Friday morning I spent a couple of hours over at C4 again. Todd and I, with the help of Steve Vanderver, put the second and final coat of paint on the floor. It was clearly an example of working out a set of muscles I don’t normally use. Repetitive twisting, leaning, lunging. Sore along the sides of my ribs. The floor looks damn good, though.

As we were closing up, some guy that Todd and Steve know from the social media world drove up. I’ve forgotten his name. He’s in promotions and public relations. A wonderful Runyonesque character. Were we in New Jersey (well the New Jersey of my imagination), he’d be styling a rumpled two-piece suit in seersucker or sharkskin (depending on the season) while constantly checking in on the cell phone with his bookie.

We all took a late breakfast at El Mirador. This is the second time I’ve been to this famous local restaurant. I just don’t get it. The food’s good, but really it isn’t that spectacular. Yes, there are a couple of exotic dishes peculiar to interior Mexico I should sample before being so dismissive. But my two tacos were wrapped in store bought flour tortillas. I mean, really, even I can make a flour tortilla. Do it all the time.

After breakfast, we all went our separate ways. The rain had returned. And as I was driving home, I received a call from Pete. He was on a shoot, and he needed a mini audio cable. He gave me the intersection, and I said it’d be there straight away. I stopped at the house, picked up one of the curly mini audio cables I use for my wireless lavs, and I headed north on I-10. I thumbed on my iPhone app. “Say Where!” I spoke into my phone, “San Antonio, Texas.” And then I spoke the intersection. It quickly searched. And then Google Maps came up showing downtown San Antonio. The location of my truck was given as a slow pulsing blue dot. My destination was marked by a cartoon red-topped pushpin. My route was shown in purple. Love it when technology works. Maybe it wouldn’t be so thrilling were it to come through all the time.

Cable delivered. Back home to work some on a video edit I’d been paid for ages ago. The new MacBook White is tearing things up. It’s my editing computer now. Not only has it made good friends with my DVX (that’s my newest camcorder to those not of the video geekdom), but I also was finally able to wire my JVC NTSC monitor so it would out-put the video signal coming from Final Cut out through my deck (in this case, my DVX). This is great news. For as long as I’ve owned this new camera, I hadn’t been able to patch the monitor through it’s RCA outputs. Next I need to wire my stereo back into my video editing system. It makes a huge difference when dropping in Foley tracks, composing music, or matching dialogue from various camera set-ups. Weird, but I haven’t worked on that level of audio for video in over a year. My more recent pieces have been arty pieces with provided music or basic sound effects.

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I was loafing about on the sofa this afternoon, hiding from the thunderstorms, and watching bad movies on my new laptop via Hulu.com.

As a kid I’d seen “At the Earth’s Core.” And doubtlessly on many occasions, back when local late night television programing was awash with movies. I never cared for the film. Not that it’s awful. I enjoy many awful films. But it was like the producers and writers just never got the coolest part of Edgar Rice Burroughs novel. They’re inside the hollow Earth! A huge enclosed space 7000 miles in diameter. The inside of this massive shell is covered with oceans, mountains, jungles, a variety of humanoids, even fucking dinosaurs! How cool is that? The whole place is lit by a central sun floating up there at the very center. There’s even a geostationary moon, casting the only night — a perpetual night — on one particularly blighted region of this world within a world, called Pellucidar.

But this 1976 film doesn’t deliver much of that at all. They’re in some vague gigantic cavern system with jungles and mountains and cavemen and dinosaurs … but the weird light is supposedly caused by the glowing magma 20 miles overhead. That’s just stupid.

I get a sense that actor Peter Cushing was having a lot of fun. He co-stars with Doug McClure (you might remember him from such films as “Satan’s Triangle” and “SST: Death Flight”). The monsters (and they are aplenty) are mostly men in rubber suits. They do offer a bit of cornball charm. And I quite like the beginning of the film. Cushing and McClure climb into their Victorian-era phallic burrowing machine and they wave to members of the press and crowds of well-wishers before plunging into the bowels of the Earth. I wish we’d been given a bit more of this cool steam punk art design before we find ourselves in the land of reptilian rubber costumes.

An aside. While making a cursory search over to Wikipedia about this film, I encountered a phrase which, inexplicably, I’d never before encountered. Slurpasaur. This is the tongue-in-cheek term for a particular type of cheap special effects — when you need a dinosaur, you film a live lizard with horns or fins glued to its body. And then you use split-screen or rear projection to make it look bigger. Perhaps use a bit of slow motion to make them look like lumbering beasts, instead of foot-long iguanas. Slurpasaurus. Yeah. It makes me smile. Here’s a little bit from Wiki:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miniature_effect#Slurpasaur

And this sweet lampoonery of a scientific paper on Slurpasaurs:

http://www.angelfire.com/ego/g_saga/slurpasaurs_article.html

I never cared for these lame special effects tricks. Ray Harryhausen with his stop-motion work was the coolest for me as a kid. And I even developed a guilty pleasure for men in rubber monster suits. But those real live lizards with shit epoxied to them …. Please. I was much too sophisticated to be a fan. But, now, in retrospect, if I knew that the campy industry nickname for them was Slurpasaurs, I’ve been all over that stuff.)

I find it odd that, outside of the Tarzan franchise, Hollywood seems to have been so disinterested in the work of Edgar Rice Burroughs. To the best of my knowledge, most of it’s in public domain. And it lends itself quite well to those quasi steam punk films that seem to come out every three years or so. (The next seems to be this Sherlock Holmes film with Robert Downey, Jr. as the titular character. It seems more Frank Miller than Arthur Conan Doyle, and that bums me out. But the trailer looks pretty cool.

Eventually Hollywood will find the right combination of producer, director, and super star to lay down a John Carter of Mars or a Pellucidar blockbuster franchise. I’m just baffled as to why it hasn’t happened yet.

I was standing in front of the beer section of the La Fiesta grocery store on S. Flores trying to talk myself into a six pack of Bohemia when a guy politely reached in front of me. He snagged a 24 ounce bottle of Dos Equis. “To start off,” he said with a quiet smile in that sort of guy speak that men use with other men they haven’t yet sized up. He then pulled down two 24 ounce cans of Lone Star. “To finish with.” And he spun away, in a cloud of denim, and was gone, taking with him that buoyant wisdom of blue collar pragmatism.

“Hey, guy, don’t rush off,” I could have said. But it was too late. I grabbed some beer of my own, and scuttled away.

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Sunday I helped Veronica video-tape a recital put on by the Ballet Conservatory of South Texas. I’d seen a performance a few months back at the Carver which was quite impressive. This time the venue was the auditorium at the Alamo Heights High School. Great space. And we got to see all of their dancers. Not just the good ones. All of them. Some who were very young. Not only had some of these kids not yet taken up smoking (the ballet vice, or so I’ve heard), but I’m not convinced that they were all at the point of eating solid food. Stick these little girls in foam rubber suits sculpted in shapes of pea pods and rhubarb stalks, and, well, we’d have been at an Anne Geddes photo shoot. What am I saying? It was really sweet. And, you know, a quite receptive audience … of giddy parents and grandparents.

I was glad to see Amber there. As an important member of this city’s dance community, it seemed natural enough. But she explained that her interest in the Ballet Conservatory of South Texas was a bit more personal. First, she was one of the teachers. And, second, her son was one of the male dance students … one of a very small number. I was also surprised to see Angela Martinez (of Slab Cinema fame). Her and Rick’s adorable little girl is one of the dance students with the Ballet Conservatory of South Texas.

The arts and cultural scene in San Antonio seems small because it’s so interconnected.

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Later that night I headed over to Victor and Sandra’s place for a party to welcome them back from their recent trip to Europe. Also, Sandra’s mother was in town. And, also, do Sandra and Victor (AKA Pocha y Payan) really need a reason to have a house party?

It was actually a small gathering. Heavy on couples with kids. Dora and Manuel Pena were there with two of their kids. Dora’s firming up a date for the premier for her feature. We’re all looking forward to this! Late summer, early fall. Keep your ears to the ground. And there was Guillermina “Gisha” Zabala and her husband Enrique Lopetegui. It seems Gisha has been pregnant for months, but has only recently begun to show. The truth’s out now! They are both very happy, and hope to learn if they will have a boy or a girl this week. Veronica and Rick were there with their two daughters, Emily and Mia. Sandra Torres was there with her husband and their daughter Jessica.

Sandra loaded up a slide show on a computer, and we all pulled chairs in and watched, drinking, and eating desserts. With computers and digital technology, the old entertainment form of the slide show is returning. It’s suffered a bad rap. But I’ve always liked personal slide shows. There’s usually enough of an idiosyncratic edge to give the whole experience the feel of outsider performance art.

Pocha ran the show, with supplemental comments by Payan. The best part of the evening is when Pocha gave us a playful dissection on the sexual interpretation of the six huge Cluny Tapestries. I don’t think I’ve heard the word “engorged” so many times in one night (and perhaps that speaks more about me than anything else — perhaps something I need to rectify).

It was a wonderful time. I was surrounded by people I care about. And we also all got to catch up on the chisme of the San Antonio arts world. It is currently in the slightly-bland to juicy phase.

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Today I surfed over to Phil Plait’s blog, Bad Astronomy. He posted a video link which is incredible. It’s taken outside of Fort Davis in the Davis Mountains of Trans-Pecos Texas. This is where the McDonald Observatory is located. And on the night of the Texas Star Party, this guy shoots a time-lapse sequence of the sky. It’s a very short clip. You see the Milk Way rising over the horizon. It comes up bright and clear. This is us, looking at the heart of our own galaxy, and it is so cool!

http://vimeo.com/4505537?pg=embed&sec=4505537

Now as I was waching this video, I was also playing (on my new laptop) the current archived radio show of Ben Judson. This radio station link may only last for a week. Check it out. And if you miss it, you have to listen to Ben’s weekly show, Free Jazz Hour, Mondays at ten pm. Where? Go to KRTU, 91.7, the great radio station at Trinity University. Anyway, play this video (which has no audio), and give it the soundtrack from the Free Jazz Hour. If the current show (May 18, 2009) is no longer available from the archive, no matter. Any of the music Ben programs will add greatly to the experience. His show is a must.

http://stream.krtu.org/archive.html

Scroll down Monday to 9pm. Merge the two. Video and audio. Go for it. It rocked me.

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This blog seems not to have lent itself to a photo opportunity. And here, in a desire to add visuals, is a photo I took here in my neighborhood. I quite like it.

I have mixed feelings about “Making Hay,” Tom Otterness’ installation of three sculptures in the park across from Mission San Juan. It’s quirky and playful. I like that in art. But it doesn’t seem like a proper fit for the neighborhood. I suspect (though I do not know) that there was insufficient community involvement into this project. I believe it’s slated to remain at this location for a total of two years. The work is on my cycling route. It stood unmolested for a few weeks. The vandalism started small. People began pulling handfuls of hay from the wire stays attaching it to the large humanoid figures. After a month one figure had been completely denuded. The other two looked very shabby.

Last week I was heartened to see that the work had been completely restored. I walked into the field and waved to the workmen who were putting the final touches to Otterness’ work.

In the back of my mind I was a trifle pissed off that the vandals hadn’t been more creative. I was hoping someone would perform some grand and transformative transgression to “Maying Hay,” giving us something weird and wonderful.

I think we’ve all enjoyed creative vandalism popping up in unexpected locations. For some reason this crudely depicted devil horn graffiti caught my fancy. It was just so unabashedly adolescent. So, you know, fuckin’ A!

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The other morning I discovered that my hot water heater isn’t working. I’d actually planned to shave. That was out. The shower was a better eye opener than two cups of coffee. And as I sit here typing this up near midnight I realized I never crawled around on the floor to see what the problem is. Hopefully it’s just a case of the pilot going out.

I was up early, having decided to attend the San Antonio PodCamp. This is an annual event which is entering the third year. It’s run along the lines of a “bar camp,” which is a sort of free-flowing ad-hoc conference where the attendees decide on the agenda. Jennifer Navarrete put it more eloquently in her opening remarks. The venue was the El Tropicano Hotel. It began at nine. I decided I’d take the bus. And, what the hell, I’d treat myself to breakfast at Tito’s. A kickass migas plate and coffee.

I think I got on the wrong bus. I thought I was on the S. Alamo line, which actually goes down Lexington and drops one off right at El Tropicano. But this bus took me down St. Mary. Close enough. I got off at the Radius, and walked two blocks.

Janet Vasquez was there. And Rocket Ron was running to camera for the live pod cast. Kaye Cruz was running around hooking up computers to projectors. Dar Miller eventually showed up and joined me at a table up front. She’d been the one who’d reminded me about this event.

We stayed for several presentations and discussions and left at the lunch break.

Dar offered to give me a ride home. I suggested that we stop at C4 Workspace for a quick visit.

C4 is a venture that Todd O’Neil is putting together. He’s the sort of person you expect to be at events like SA PodCamp. In fact, as I was riding the bus earlier, I had seen, via his Twitter feed, that he wouldn’t be able to attend because he was busy getting his new space together. He gave an open invite for people to stop by and check out the place.

Actually, one of the presentations at the PodCamp was about the phenomena of co-working. Susan Price of Firecat Studio was making the presentation. She mention a couple of local co-working places. Firecat has a monthly co-working day. First Friday. And when she mentioned Todd’s new place, she mentioned that it was at St. Mary and King William. And I lifted up my iPhone and thumbed over to the Twitter app and added: “It’s at 108 King William.”

Little did I know that Todd and his crew — though busy painting the walls — were watching the live feed from the PodCamp.

Anyway, I was getting curious about this place. It’s in my neighborhood. It’s called C4 Workspace. The “4” is in the superscript. C to the fourth power? What? Maybe the C is for carbon. Isotopes are set up with superscript numbers. The problems is the isotopic number proceeds the element abbreviation. Besides, there is no Carbon 4 isotope. Maybe it’s a molecular form of carbon. You know, like fullerene (AKA the buckyball) is carbon 60 … but I believe the 60 is a subscript, not a superscript. I thought it might be a reference to a Scrabble tile. Two problems there. The numbers that follow the Scrabble letters (and that the numbers follow the letters, this is good) are set in subscript (and this isn’t good). The second problem is that a “C” is worth only three Scrabble points, not four. I give up. All that’s left is plastic explosives.

But I digress.

When Dar and I showed up we were waved in by a woman named Debbie. She and Perla gave us a tour. And there was a guy we were introduced to, but he was busy painting the walls and I didn’t get a chance to talk with him and I can’t recall his name. After a few minutes of looking the place over, Todd returned from an errand.

It looks like they might be able to make the June 1st opening. They have a lot of work still to do. I plan to volunteer starting next week. And I’m giving serious thought to renting a desk space here.

Check them out:

www.c4workspace.com

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Monday Night:

Hey, what do you know? I’m sitting out on my porch typing this blog on a fancy new laptop. And if I want, I can suckle wireless connectivity off my own network. But before you follow my lead and leap into the 21st century, head my warnings. The road to hipdom carries quite a cost … and not just financial. Today I visited three places which, in usual circumstances, I do my best to avoid at all costs. The Apple Store. Wal-Mart. And a protracted phone session with tech help from the subcontinent … which lasted just long enough for the supermarket to close for the night, leaving me with little more in the fridge than three onions, a jar of mustard, and some zucchini which has, quite inexplicable, suffered freezer burn in my lower crisper tray. (Get your head around that potential emergency casserole nightmare.)

I’ve been hitting a wall with certain limitations on my beloved Mac PowerPC G4. What was pushing the sci-fi envelope in the year 2000 is nine years later beginning to feel like navigating the Autobahn in a Morris Minor.

I had some savings to blow (just don’t let the tranny crap out in my truck, or ditto on my prostate) and so I decided to go for a laptop. And because I want to keep with Apple (for reasons of software and familiarity), I only really had two choices. The Apple family of laptops runs about four flavors. Two, for some reason, no longer offer a firewire port. Both of my camcorders prefer to output via their firewire outlets. The obvious choice would be a MacBook Pro. It’s a great machine, with loads of options. But even at the most basic, it’s around two grand. The other choice was the basic MacBook, what is referred to as the MacBook White, because it’s cased in cheap white plastic (notoriously prone to cracking). But in January, Apple upgraded this line with more RAM, a faster processor, and a new and faster video card.

The specs beat my current computer by quite a bit. For a thousand bucks I could get a portable computer that would be able to do significantly more than my current desktop computer. It would have no problem running my video editing software. And I can now work anywhere. Access the internet anywhere there is an open WiFi. I did, however, add a hundred bucks upgrading to 4 gigs of RAM.

I’m sure there are PC laptops that can best the specs of my new Mac, but this is now an extension of my Mac desktop, my iPhone, all all that email and calendar and software cross compatibility. And seeing as how I have no plans to begin working with HD video for at least another year, I feel I’ve made a decent choice.

But I can’t sit out on the porch all night. There’s a cool breeze coming in, which is nice, but it’s not deterring the mosquitoes.

Inside now. Weird in that I have two computers sitting on this one desk. Actually I’m glad I bought that wireless mouse for my little ASUS netbook. It’s also perfect for my new MacBook.

I know I shit on Apple Stores. And they are grim places. The phoniness is so thick that it lingers in ones blood stream hours later. This is expected, and I’ve somewhat learned to adjust. But in San Antonio both of our Apple Stores are in shopping malls. And that’s a double whammy of phony wrapped in phony (my head is still spinning and I suspect that the only adequate cure would be to attend the cock fights in that tin shack behind Jasper’s Pick & Pull outside Ardmore, Oklahoma). But I survived the Apple Store. In fact while they were doing the RAM upgrade, I headed over to the North East School of the Arts to talk to two of Konise Millender’s cinema classes. I like Konise’s kids. And not just because they’re accomplished filmmakers, but also because they always ask lots of questions.

Back home I printed up all the forms for my Humanities Texas mini grant. I’d been making the final touches earlier in the morning — since six, actually. And so now I took the final paperwork to URBAN-15 to get a couple of signatures. Unfortunately, a family emergency kept both Catherine and George from making it in. This is still okay. I think we have time to hit our deadline.

I did some work there for awhile. And then I headed back home with the plan to take a bike ride down to Mission Espada. But back home I couldn’t ignore my new computer. I powered it up and plugged it into the the internet. Nothing. I took that same ethernet cable and put it back into my desktop. Nothing. Well, either my service was shut off, or my cable was the problem (the latter was my assumption — one of the ends had lost it’s plastic snapper lock).

So I headed to the closest place I could think of that might have an ethernet cable. Wal-Mart. Way the hell down on SE Military. But I needed it. I had found myself without internet. Forget a water heater crapping out on you … this is serious stuff!

Wal-Mart. People say love it because it’s so cheap. That is patently wrong. The cheapest ether cable was 15 bucks. And when I decided I needed to get a wireless router, the cheapest one was 45 dollars.

Yes. Like an idiot I bought a wireless router at Wal-Mart. Let me implore you, do not do this. The over-priced piece of shit was a Linksys brand. NEVER by from this miserable company.

At least I was smart enough to hit the bike trail before trying to set up the router.

It was a beautiful day. And I enjoyed an early evening bicycle ride. One of the areas I went by was this sad demolition site. This is the rubble of the first screen to fall at the old Mission Drive-In Theater. I’ve heard they plan to keep one standing. But still, it’s so sad to see one of the few remaining drive-ins to go away.

Back home I began the process of setting up my wireless network. I knew it’s be fairly straightforward. Hell, I’d helped my sister set up hers. But I wasn’t prepared to be Linksys up the ass. I set my password to my network. I’d gone through the entire set-up. But afterwards, I wasn’t able to sign onto my new network. I tried with my new laptop. I tried with my ASUS netbook. I tried with my WiFi-enable iPhone. And after a while one tends to give up. I called tech support. Those assholes charged 10 bucks to my credit card to walk me through the process. The problem? The password I chose by using the Set-Up Wizard doesn’t seem to work for anything at all. In fact I learned that my actual password is unique randomly generated series of letters and numbers. This information never came out during the automated set up.

Ah, the price we pay to check out email and watch old Buster Keaton films via Google video whilst sitting on the front porch sipping chardonnay.