From Google, 11.05.08, 8am, CST:

Monday night.  November, 3rd.

I’ve not been very engaged on the blog writing front of late.  It didn’t help that last Tuesday, while I sat on the panel of the San Antonio Film Commission’s monthly Film Forum at the downtown public library, moderator Nikki Young mentioned on several occasions that my blog is a must-read, and had me blurt out the website.

It’s not that I’m lacking in anything to say.  My life continues to be an intriguing mosaic of little unexpected adventures here and there.  I have something of an ant’s-view, myopic it may be, of a substantial region of the film and video world here in San Antonio.  Actually I should get on the stick and use my blog to spread the word on three important events.

One.  The 2009 Luminaria Arts Night in San Antonio.  I’m co-chair of the film committee.  And, dammit, the submission deadline has already passed.  Maybe I didn’t do enough to get the word out — leastwise in my blog.

Two. There’s the San Antonio Film Summit.  It’s part of the NALIP-sponsored Adelante Film Forum, which will be this coming weekend.   The Summit will be Friday, November the 7th, at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center.  Free, and open to the public.  We hope to bring together the local production companies, independent producers, broadcast media, independent media, media educators, artists, activists, actors, and on and on.  We want to see where we are in this city in regards to time-based visual media.  There has been talk about a city-owned building which might become available to the film community.  Nothing so elaborate as Bergstrom Field in Austin, but something remarkable, nonetheless.  This Summit will hopefully also serve as a sort of needs-assessment from the San Antonio film community.  I’m banking on that most important triumvirate of San Antonio bureaucracies will be there to see what a diverse and extraordinary group we all are.  The crucial city offices I’m talking about are: The San Antonio Film Commission (attached to the CVB), the Office of Cultural Affairs, and lastly a group that so many filmmakers and artists forget about, the Economic Development Department.

Three.  Then there is, of course, the Adelante Film Forum.  We need people to sign up!  I believe it’s only 30 dollars, 10 dollars for students.  Check the website, in case I’m wrong.  www,napil-sa.org.  NALIP stands for the National Association of Latino Independent Producers.  If you check out the websites, national and local, you’ll see that their mission statement makes room for non-Latinos to be members.  Personally, I think it’s pretty difficult to make films in San Antonio and not fit into this mission statement.  Anglo I may be, but I’m not only a member of NALIP, I’m also an executive officer of the San Antonio chapter.  I feel I should point out that the NALIP-sponsored Adelante Film Forum, an excellent three day conference, is not geared specifically toward Latino producers or even filmmakers who are working on Latino-specific productions.  This year’s Adelante Film Forum, just like the previous three years, is bringing in producers, distributors, writers, and so forth, of all ethnic backgrounds who are open to all manner of productions.  Come on out, join me,  and get involved.

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The other day I attended a meeting with a local film group, and it hit me that I’ve become increasingly ambivalent to this whole film production thing.

I’ve been fumbling around in this city for half a decade, and it seems I’m nowhere near the position I need to be in to make a comfortable living doing what I want to do — and that’s making movies.  Well, I think that’s what I want to do.  But I can’t blame this city.  I just don’t seem to have the drive to make things happen for myself.

With the recent advent of a well-paying temp job (which like so many temp jobs could evaporate at any time, it’s akin to living on a month by month lease), I’m not so desperate in wondering where my next paycheck is coming from; however, with this vague financial stability I’ve found myself at a sort of crossroads.  I could remain here in San Antonio and concentrate all my energies on trying to get my own projects funded and made.  Don’t get me wrong, this temp job working as a copywriter for a major auction house up in Dallas (“guest cataloger” being the term they use) still keeps me under the national poverty level.  But that’s okay, I suppose, because I’ve never known anything else.  By working, say, two or three weeks every two mouths, I’ll still be doing better than any full-time retail job I’ve ever worked.  So, I’d be able to keep the wolves at bay and have loads of time to polish a script, seek funding, and so forth.  Appealing.  But this isn’t too divergent from the lifestyle I’ve managed here in town for the last three or four years.  And that obviously wasn’t working.  Where’s that feature script?  That novel?  That polished film?

My other potential plan would be to make another sabbatical down to the Big Bend, perhaps permanent.  As long as the auction gig is to last, it doesn’t seem to matter too much where I live.  They pay traveling expenses.  And the cost of living in the Big Bend is easily less than half of that here in San Antonio.  It’s an economically devastated region, don’t you know.  Besides, there’s not a lot to do there … well, you know, not a lot to do that costs money.  Hiking Closed Canyon, camping under the stars, biking caliche jeep trails deep into the Bofecillos Mountains, grabbing a free Spanish lesson from the borrachos who hang out under that huge salt cedar behind Rosendo’s store, or watching the javelina come down from the hills at dusk to drink from the river … these things cost nothing at all (well, you might want to pop for a few cerveza fria for los borrachos, ’cause who could be that pinche?).  So, the question remains, would I do a better job of making projects down on la Frontera?  First, I should point out that there is no shortage of great stories to turn into documentaries throughout the frontier borderland.  But the amount of support from their local film community is, last I heard, zero, as there is no local film community.  The self-aware dilettante in me is intrigued with the notion of being the big fish in the micro-pond.

I’m conflicted.

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Tomorrow is election day.  I got a jump on things and hit the early voting back on Thursday.  I had toyed with the notion of voting with the crowds tomorrow, but I decided to just get it over with.  I was over on the east-side of town, scoping out a building L. Darlene Miller, CCIM, Commercial Realtor and film festival promoter extraordinaire, threw my way as a possible studio space.  It was a bit out of my price range, but the fact that it was coded for office space as well as for a restaurant, I wanted to at least peer through the windows.  Can you imagine a home studio with a huge kitchen complete with electric fryer vat?  I kind of liked the place.  It’s on East Commerce.  It used to be an old house, and still has a curved, railed front porch.  But I decided that even if I had the funds, the place lacked a large central space I could use to build sets and stage more involved shots.

Next, I headed down Commerce, even further east.  The Claude W. Black Community Center was doing some solid business aiding the locals in all their early voting needs.  I felt a certain properness to be casting my vote for, I certainly hope, our first black president there in the heart of San  Antonio’s African-American community.

As my sister wrote on her blog (in response to her early voting experience), it was quite a thrill to vote for a presidential candidate who you really want in the office … and, of course, who you actually think has a good chance of winning.  I would feel a lot better about Obama if only he would stop his saber-rattling about increasing troops in Afghanistan.  Yes, I know this was mostly his attempt to look tough when talking alongside Hillary (whose rhetorical blood-thirst was second only to that of Lieberman); but, here’s the thing — I’m gambling that Obama is actually a screaming progressive leftist (and perhaps he actually paid attention to the time he spent with the Reverend Wright), who is cleverly concealed by a thin candy coating of semi-liberal centralism.  A feller can dream, can’t he?

After leaving the polling place, I made a stop at that huge, rambling series of east side cemeteries.  I shot some scenes of grave stones for a video piece I planned to do for the Centro Cultural Aztlan’s Dia de los Muertos show.  But I had to call Deborah and cancel.  I wouldn’t be able to do it.  I can’t seem to author DVDs on my computer anymore.  My Mac’s iDVD program has crapped out on me.  I think it happened either when I upgraded my operating system to Leopard (which has yet to impress me), or when I upgraded my video editing program, Final Cut Pro.  I do have a copy of DVD Studio Pro, but this son of a bitch has a learning curve like the Matterhorn.  I need a few weeks of intense study to master it.  I hated to, but I had to bail.

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Another current project is a proposal I submitted Friday to an artist-in-residence program out in Roswell, New Mexico.  Back when I applied for the San Antonio Artists Foundation’s annual grant, I figured I had a good 85% chance to get it.  This Roswell gig, I’ll give myself a 15% chance.  And seeing as I didn’t get the SA Artists Foundation, I’m pretty sure Roswell’s gonna turn it’s nose up as well.  But, hey, you have to play to win.  It’d be sweet to get the residency.  It’s for a year.  They provide a living / studio space and an $800 monthly stipend.    Roswell sits on the edge of the Staked Plains, aka Llano Estacado.  The fringe of the Rockies hits just to the west of town.  Take a two-lane blacktop towards the town of Capitan, and you’ll soon find yourself passing low mountains within the Lincoln National Forrest.  It’s wild, lonely, and beautiful.  And if you don’t mind appearing the rube, you can also look for UFO crash sites.  There are two not far from Roswell.  One’s on private property.  Another is at a really nice place to camp.  Oh, my goodness.  I believe I have just outed myself as a rube.

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Halloween.  Back on Friday night.  My friend Kat, is, I believe, currently in town.  I’ve spent at least two Halloween’s with her on my porch.  But this year she never gave me a call.  Kat lives an unusual life, and I would never make demands on her.  Either she calls me, or … well, that’s the only choice.  She goes from one bad relationship to the other.  And it’s marriage one season, annulment, the next, and probably now, some unstable and inadvisably young fiancee.  (For those regular blog readers checking their scorecards, this might not be the Kat you’re thinking of.  I know about five women named Cat or Kat.  This is the one who has on occasion advertised in the back pages of the San Antonio Current and, no, that’s not how I met her.)

So I wasn’t hanging out on my porch, handing out candy.  Instead, I walked to Chip and Becky’s place across the street.  They make a big deal every year.  Hell, you have to in this neighborhood.  Kids come in from all over.  As I’ve said before, the citizens are rich (except for me), the house are old, cool, and spooky, and the candy is damn plentiful.  So, yes, of course the kids will come to this neighborhood.  Chip and Becky are on one side of the street.  Their house faces that of Brad and Dina.  Chip has always struck me as a perennial Republican.  His wife?  I don’t know.  But across the street from them we have a clear case of a house divided.  Dina is for Obama.  Brad, McCain.  But in a clear and playful approach to bipartisanism, Dina and Brad’s house was dressed up as a clear McCain / Palin house.  Dina was dressed as Sarah Palin.  Her husband, Joe the Plumber.  Across the street, Chip took on the role as a serious Obama supporter.  Their yards were filled with political signs and all sorts of red, white, and blue festoonery.  Loudspeakers in the trees of each house were playing the most outrageous statements from each parties’ ad campaigns.  Clearly Chip came up with this scheme.  He kept shouting out what he though was the rhetoric from each side after it has been cooked down to its sugary essence.  “It’s either Socialist, or War-Monger.”  I was about to explain that only one was a dirty word, but I decided to shut my mouth.  Hell, I was enjoying the man’s tasty homemade chili and a comfy seat on his front porch.

These two families had also strung across the street what amounted to a clothesline on pulleys.  Hanging over the street was the “Undecided Voter,” his or her head was a box with a question mark on it, with the arms and legs made from streamers.  One of his hands held a sign for McCain (it was on Dina’s side), his other held a sign for Obama (on Chip’s side).  As the kids came up to the porch for their candy, they were asked (on both Dina’s porch and Chip’s porch) who were they going to vote for.  When they’d name McCain or Obama they’d get an “I Voted” sticker placed on the costume, and the dangling effigy would be pulled one way or another — toward the fake democrat house when Obama was mentioned, and toward the fake republican house when McCain was mentioned.  I can only say that Chip wasn’t pulling too hard with each Obama vote.  Because if he were being fair, that dangling “Undecided Voter” should have been hugging his house, the Obama house, after the first ten minutes.  95% of the kids said Obama.  The other 5% I guess had apolitical parents and they were just guessing, you know, and hoping for candy.  If only we could allow the children of San Antonio to vote, Obama would have Texas sewn up.

To Chip’s credit, he allowed this “Undecided Voter” to remain hanging over the street, poised above the curb on his side (the Obama side) until early this morning when a big truck thundered through and tore it down.

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Yesterday I decided to figure out how to burn the most basic  disk using DVD Studio Pro.  Nikki and Chadd at PrimaDonna Productions had been so kind as to burn me a DVD for a work sample which I sent along with my Roswell proposal, but I knew I had to come up with a method to do it myself.

I hit a few forums and message boards, and it seemed that many other people had experienced iDVD failure after upgrading to Leopard.  And to be honest, I wasn’t even sure where my iDVD program had come from.  I believe it came loaded on my G3.  I hunkered down Sunday and checked the internet sites of Ken Stone, Creative Cow, the DVX Users Group, and between all these resources, I found a streamlined method on how to use DVD Studio Pro to author the most basic DVD, free of any menus.  You load it into your machine and it starts playing.  A breeze, right?  There must be a simple drag and drop button.

Ha!  It took me an hour find a clear tutorial, and another hour to follow through with the instructions.  Add to that the time it took to get one burned.  On the first pass I utilized an incorrect compression.  There was also the hour and a half when I downloaded some freeware DVD burning program that was completely useless.

But I made a successful burn.  I now know how to make a bare-bones DVD Studio Pro disk, sans menu.

Software developers are either sadists or highly functioning morons.  Here’s my question?  Why is it that when I watch, say, This Old House, I can learn how to construct a hardwood floor, wire an entire house, or install a septic tank (true, I might do all these things quite badly, but, dammit, I understand the process and work flow), yet when it comes to Photoshop, DVD Studio Pro, or any number of music composing programs, I find myself spending three hours with an instruction manual, tutorial book, or a companion DVD, and I’m still perplexed and lost?

I want the guys who build my porch and snake my toilet in on the process of software development.

W.I.P. stands for Works In Progress. It’s a monthly series presented by the Jump-Start Performance Co. and the San Antonio Dance Umbrella, and held at the Jump-Start space in the Blue Star Arts complex. It’s a great place to see innovative performances. Last night there were maybe 20 people in the audience. This is about average. It’s a chance for the artists to receive feedback from an audience. After the performance, there is a critical response portion where artists and audience members engage in a conversation about the performance. Last night there were three pieces. One by choreographer Jayne King. Another by performance artist/actor Ana de Luna. And the evening ended with a great modern dance piece by Spank Dance Company, from Austin. I’ve only been to three W.I.P.s so far, but it’s just the sort of privileged position of peeking into the creative process before the final polish that I love. As an unabashed voyeur, I appreciate any chance to see art in the raw — pushing my way backstage, paying particular attention to that man behind the curtain, you know, that sweaty dude desperately pulling levers, picking his nose, and hoping that the fog machine will cover up all the mistakes.

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I was out riding my bike late yesterday afternoon. It was just a half-ride out to Mission Espada — meaning I drove with my bike in my truck and parked at Mission Park. This turns a twenty mile bike ride into a mere ten miles. Anyway, as I was pedaling crossing Espada dam, heading back to my truck, I noticed that the sky had turned dark and turbulent. What had minutes earlier been a strong and steady wind on my back from the south, switched to a chilly and blustery assault from the north. I shifted down to those wimpy gears I hardly ever use, to deal with the mammoth resistance of a serious headwind, and I found myself inching along almost at walking speed. All around me grackles were taking to the air in small flocks like packs of seasoned surfers who see that the waves have turned particularly feisty. They were strutting and scratching around all over the levy slope down to the river. And, for no discernable reason, six, seven, or eight would hop into the air and flap with crazed intensity into the brunt of the maelstrom. They’d inch along, just a bit faster than me, climbing higher and higher, and then, with a sickening lurch, the entire group would turn perpendicular to the wind, open their wings, and they’d catch that sweet wave. They’d be heading south now, the wind behind them, climbing or maybe diving, but moving like rockets.

The wind is still blowing out there, even though it’s approaching midnight. Just another autumnal cold front kicking my summer further and further away from me. I do, however, hope it adds to that wind of change which had better blow across this country come November 4th. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if McCain makes it into office. I still haven’t updated my passport.

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Tonight I was back at Jump-Start. Amber Ortega-Perez was doing a run-through of her new dance piece, “The Willing.” Performances Friday and Saturday nights. She’s hired me to video the piece. And so I flopped down on the floor at the apex of stage left. I went in for tight shots with my DVX. The image-stabilizing setting is pretty impressive. I mean, on a good day I’m fairly jittery (too much coffee today … and too much bad living for the last few decades), but the OIS setting makes a noticeable difference when shooting hand-held and when zooming in tight.

The piece is very strong, and Amber should be proud of all the hard work she and her dancers have done to bring it to completion. I’d attempt to draw in a crowd through this blog, but because I suspect that most of those reading this are folks involved in the local film community, I’m not expecting much. San Antonio film folks tend to lean towards a low-brow narcissism. Take away their buckets of blood, prop firearms, or anemic forays into sophomoric romantic angst, most would quickly become desperate and snappish, like a junkie forced to drink cold medicine. But, what do I know? Come one, come all. Amber Ortega-Perez has created a new dance presentation, The Willing, this Friday and Saturday at Jump-Start. It’s hip and artsy. You know — it’s the shit, the cat’s pajamas, the Yin to the low-brow narcissist’s Yang.

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Mornings have been chilly these last few days. The seasons are changing. This means I need to head to the hardware store and buy a roll of duct tape so I can weatherize (whoa! my spell-check recognizes “weatherize”) the broken window panels in my front door and my bathroom window. Last year’s tape has lost its stickum and dropped off.

Curious as to what the weather might be bringing my way, I got onto my favorite weather website, www.weatherunderground.com (because I love American terrorists from a certain era), and I was shocked to see a forecast for a few days in the future where the maximum temperature will be low 60s, and the night-time low, an insane 38.

That McCain-inspired passport is sounding more necessary. Because, you see, I can’t get to equatorial Africa (where it’s nice and warm, or so I hear) without an updated copy of that little blue book, entitled Erik’s Passport.

I was sitting at my computer after a long and relaxing bike ride sipping a big tumbler of hibiscus tea mixed with Topo Chico fizzy water and catching up on video broadcasts of Democracy Now streamed over the internet.  There was a musical break between guest.  Some groovy far-out jazz.  I was hoping Amy Goodman would announce the performer after the break — she doesn’t always do this.  It had a faltering beat, artfully off-kilter, and the brass and woodwinds were stabbing and shrieking all topsy-turvy.  I was thinking something sweetly pretentious from the ’70s.  My money was on the Art Ensemble of Chicago.  Nope.  It was Fela.  Fela Anikulapo Kuti, the Nigerian Afrobeat pioneer.  He’s one of those names I’ve heard for decades.  Always at the top of several of my musical heroes’ own musical heroes list.  For some reason I’d never got around to listening to his work.  I wasn’t expecting this fearless mix of Steve Coleman and Anthony Braxton.  Hop onto YouTube and type in Fela.  It’s brilliant free jazz with an west African beat and hints of R&B and soul and there are sometimes live shows featuring voluptuous dancers wearing little more than costumes created out of what I’m guessing is about eight ounces of coconut husks.

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Last week I received a phone call from Janet Vasquez.  She wanted to know if I would be available for the next Film Forum that the San Antonio Film Commission hosts at the downtown public library.  The fourth Tuesday of each month.  Begins at 6:30.  Free and open to the public.  I’ve been wrangled in to sit on a panel at least once before.  This time around the topic is Experimental Films.  Yes, I know.  It is unlikely I was at the top of the list.  In fact, Janet has brought in two legitimate panelists.  Leslie Raymond and Gisha Zabala.  They are the real deal, video artists who produce critically acclaimed work on a regular basis.  I’m beginning to think that Janet wanted me to represent Luminaria Arts Night in San Antonio.  I’m co-chair of the film committee, along with Veronica Hernandez.  And, yes, we’d like experimental films submitted.  (Actually, we want all sorts of film proposals submitted — get thee to the web site and make your proposal, be it narrative, doc, experimental, or none of the above: www.luminariasa.org.)  There was a moment when I thought, okay, I’ve done my fair share of experimental films.  You know, “El Jardin,” “The Prometheus Thesis,” “In Memoria / Wind,” “Melancholy” (with Russ and Christy), not to mention my fave, the “Generic Lemon / Lime Beverage” faux promo in my lone mockumentary.  But, of course, that’s kids stuff compared to the other panelists.

And then, today, I got an email from Janet asking for a bio for the Forum.  I looked at what I’d previously written for: a.) The Paisano Fellowship (denied); b.) The Texas Filmmaker’s Production Fund (denied); c.) The Artists Foundation (denied this very afternoon — thanks for fucking nothing!).  I came away with with a heady melange of sensations … all having to do with me being a a grand flop.  I also learned that my impulse to do as little work as possible and crib a previous written bio wouldn’t work.  Not because all the previous ones seemed crafted to alienate, but because they weren’t crafted for an audience curious to see folks involved in a field other than narrative moviemaking.  Here is what I sent to Janet:

Erik Bosse is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker who has been working in San Antonio since 2003.  He currently sits on several committees of local arts and cultural organizations, including Luminaria, and the San Antonio chapter of NALIP.  In 2006 Erik traveled to Mexico to produce a short documentary, “Dia de los Locos.”  He has been actively collaborating with artists, poets, choreographers, and indigenous rights activists.  Recent work has appeared at Cine Festival, Weeping Woman Gallery, and Centro Cultural Aztlan.  Next month Erik will be down in the Big Bend region taping interviews for his new documentary on one of the lesser-known cucuy stories, “El Bulto.”

Actually, this Bulto piece will probably be my Luminaria proposal (yep, I can make my own proposal, even though I’m on the committee … and with my track record, will be turned down — oh, the mortification!).  I’m heading down to spend a couple of weeks in Redford, Texas (aka El Polvo) with my friends Enrique and Ruby.  I’ll be there with my new camera, nosing around and shooting scenes of the recent flooding — the worst in recorded history.  The hamlet of Redford (population about 125) is a farming community at the southern tip of Presidio County.  The crops are watered by the Rio Grand.  The recent flooding has swallowed up all the tilled land in the floor plain of the Redford valley.  I suspect the water has slowly been receding in the two weeks or so since I last spoke with Enrique, but it’s going to take some time for the waters to completely go away.

I’m hoping there will be at least three interview subjects who will be willing to tell me on camera about their eye-witness accounts of bultos, amorphous floating entires whose ambiguous and never-articulated agenda can make them maddeningly terrifying.  Harmless, sure.  They’ll just scare you to death.

My new camera.  Have I written about this?  I have three unpublished blog entries I’ve not gotten around to posting.  I guess I have yet to share with my blog readers (whether or not they care) that I have recently purchased a Panasonic DVX100b camcorder.  I’m not presently in the financial situation to upgrade to the HD format, but the DVX is a damn fine workhorse.  The best standard definition camcorder in it’s price range.  Hell, it’s come down about a thousand bucks since I bought my trusty Canon GL-2 ages ago.

Here it is, perched on a tripod beside my GL.

I’ve been shooting here and there, getting to know it.  In fact, last week I was at Say Si meeting with Andy Miller and Travis Thomsen.  We were standing out front talking, and who should walk by but my favorite teenager and second favorite local filmmaker, Jessica Torres.  The last time I spoke with her and her mom it was all about buying a DVX — she was not yet sold on the idea of HD and she wanted her own Panasonic DVX100b.  When I saw her at Say Si I told her I had just bought a DVX.  She got a bit pouty, as if I were bragging.  “No,” I said.  “I’m poor, yet I managed to do it — so can you.”  She smiled and held up her hand for a high-five.  And I did not leave her hanging.

It’s all possible.  You just have to work for it.

One of my ex-students called me up recently.  He wants to make a film, but he doesn’t have a camera.  He’s from a continuing education class me and Pete taught on filmmaking, and I assume he’s at least 30.  Clearly he can budget for a cheap miniDV camera.  A trip to a pawnshop should reward you with a decent camcorder for about three hundred … maybe less.  And if you have a recent PC, it came bundled with Windows Movie Maker.  It’s essentially a free editing program.  So, if you want to make movies, buy a camera and a computer.  You have the tools.  Go to the library for some good filmmaking books.  Problems come up, look for solutions online.  Also, open yourself up to the local filmmaking community — anyone and everyone … professionals and like-minded amateurs.  But, the bottom line is, get off your ass and go out and make movies.  You have that camera and that computer, right? (Because if you don’t, you’re no filmmaker — this is like wanting to be a writer, but not bothering to purchase a pencil and some paper.  You are not helping yourself.  Why should I want to help you?)  Take your tools and use them, dammit!  Your camera and your computer are your paint brush and your canvas.  Go out there and create.  And then come back and share your vision.  (These words are, of course, directed more towards myself than this former student.)

Monday I received an email from Deborah that our friend Ramon had suffered a heart attack the previous Friday. He was scheduled for open heart surgery Tuesday morning. Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez is well known in San Antonio as an artist, culturist, Chicano activist, and a spiritual leader and elder of the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation. I expect he’s known to some through my blog. I spoke this evening with his former wife, Gloria Vasquez. She’d spent the day at his side, along with her three children and her and Ramon’s extended families. The surgery is over and as of last night he was still in intensive care. I hope for a complete and speedy recovery. I’ve seen Ramon on so many occasions sharing a ceremonious Indian blessing with sage smoke and words of deep truth, and so, at the risk of tarnishing my street cred as a confirmed agnostic, I’d like to think that the entire city is returning all those blessing. Ramon is one of my favorite people, and I expect to see him soon at some art or cultural event slyly whispering some inappropriate off-color comment that only those standing near can hear, causing me to unexpectedly snort and chortle as the canapé-set shoot me admonishing glares over their trifocals and the rims of champagne flutes.

See you soon, Ramon.

Here’s a favorite portrait I took a couple years back of Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez, the man, the myth, the legend.

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An unfortunate event has fallen on my friends in Redford, Texas.

My sister has been emailing me links for the last few days to news stories about the flooding in southern Presidio County. It sounded bad, and I would click over to the links and read the articles with squinted eyes, afraid I might see the name of someone I know from the region who had been swept away.

Heavy rains had swollen the arroyos in the region, but the real problem was the rising waters behind several reservoirs up the Conchos river in Mexico. There are little in the way of flood control systems, and when the waters crested the dams in Mexico, the waters rushed towards La Junta, that region where the Rio Conchos joins the Rio Grande at the international boundary where the Mexican city of Ojinaga faces the American town of Presidio.

It’s the worst flood in the region in recorded history. The international bridge is shut down. Dozens of farming communities in the flood plains of the Conchos and the Rio Grande have been swallowed up.

But it was the little farming hamlet of Redford I was concerned about. It’s on the Rio Grande sixteen miles downriver from the town of Presidio.

I finally broke down this morning and called Enrique and Ruby’s home phone number. I was surprised that someone answered the phone. I’d assumed that the entire village had been evacuated and I would have to call up their friend Roberto in Presidio to track them down in some FEMA trailer in Shafter or something. Ruby answered. And a couple of minutes later, with her on one phone, and Enrique on the extension line, the years melted away. It was back to those long and languid nights when I lived in Redford over fifteen years ago and we’d drink cappuccinos and talk of philosophy, science, literature, and local gossip. Since living there I probably haven’t visited more than once every two or three years — I hadn’t spoken to these important friends in about a year and a half. But soon we were on the conference call vibe chattering about Coen Bothers movies, the Large Hadron Collider, Schopenhauer, Herman Melville, Enrique and Ruby’s recent trip to Berkeley to talk at a scholarly symposium about the goddamn border wall, and eventually we got around to the big flood.

Enrique, in his slow and laconic manner, explained where the flooding was making trouble. There were swollen arroyos flooding the river road in both directions. Traffic couldn’t go to either Lajitas or Presidio. Enrique did explain that there was a rutted jeep trail that 4-wheel drive vehicles could travel from Presidio, but it was pretty rough going. They had been receiving their mail and emergency food via helicopter. I think we were talking about Melville (or maybe string theory) when Enrique explained that he heard the daily helicopter, and they would have to head out to check the mail and get supplies.

Below is an aerial photo lifted off the Presidio ISD website. The building at the lower left is the Redford elementary school. Just a few feet further below the image is FM-170, the only road through town. The school is directly across the road from Enrique and Ruby’s house. That big region of brown at the top would be the flood waters. The river is usually a quarter of a mile away.

I plan on visiting Redford for a week or two in early November.

Expect an update.

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This coming weekend will be the fourth time I will have attended the annual Manhattan Short Film Festival at URBAN-15. This year there are twelve films from ten countries. So come on out.

I’m going to be there both Friday and Saturday night. You’ll see me selling popcorn, pouring out complementary aguas frescas, tearing your ticket, hell, I might even be running the projector. This is best annual short film festival I have ever attended. It never disappoints. You also get to vote for your favorite film.

Click over to the website and read about the films:

http://www.msfilmfest.com/

You can now order tickets for the Manhattan Short Film Festival online through the URBAN-15 website:

www.urban15.org

Or go straight to the ticket site:

https://urban-15-group.ticketleap.com/

Of course, you can also buy tickets at the door.

WHO: Why, you, or course.

WHAT: Manhattan Short Film Festival.

WHERE: URBAN-15 Studios, 2500 S. Presa / San Antonio, TX / 78201.

WHEN: September 26 and 27 at 8 p.m. (either night — Friday or Saturday — you can see all twelve films: two hours of films, with an intermission in the middle.

WHY: Must you ask?

See you this weekend!

Earlier in the week I attended an advanced screening of Chris Eska’s “August Evening.”  It’s a smart, beautiful, and sensitive film (and not deserving of the shit review it received from the San Antonio Current).  I’m going back again tomorrow (Sunday) to show my support.  The distributor is waiting on the opening weekend audience numbers before fully committing to getting Chris’ film out into more theaters.  Sunday is the last day when the people in San Antonio can vote on this film with their pocketbook.  Come on out with me and $how your love.  I only hope that others would do the same for any future film I might make and then struggle to get into the market.  I also hope that San Antonio filmmakers (and those in town wanting to become filmmakers) will hurry out and see what can be done with: 40 thousand dollars, a clear purpose, and love of the craft.

A “shifting baseline” is a concept found in science and statistical modeling.  It’s often used to describe current systems whose behavior is different than that of the past.  For instance, the initial use of the term was in a fisheries study where the researcher found a need to show the deviation between the current population of a species of fish in a given region to the population level that had been previously encountered before human exploitation.  Back when  Robert Rodriguez made El Mariachi for 7 thousand (or whatever the amount was), many of us were so enamored by the wonderful product created for so little money that we all helped as midwives to bring about this inane period of budget fetishism.  And thus began the race to the bottom.  The bottom line.  The baseline shifted, each year, to a lower and lower budget.  After the digital revolution, it became moot.  We began to hear about filmmakers who were acquiring equipment by buying it from Best Buy and shooting the film in 30 days so that they could return the camera for a full refund.  These sorts of stories became the central kernel for so many press releases of low-budget films being created.  I only wish more of these films were worth watching.

What I would hope is that we let that micro-budget independent film baseline shift back towards aesthetic value.  Because the truth is, if you make a feature-length narrative movie for under a hundred thousand dollars that knocks my socks off, I could care less if you made it for 90 thousand or 9 hundred.  Why?  Because you probably fucked a few people over along the way.  If you make a feature narrative on film or HD and pay people a living wage for their work on the project, most likely the budget is going to start shooting up fast.  A hundred grand soon ain’t nothing.

Let’s have two baselines for independent features.  One for the cash-strapped under-funded underdogs who make heart-achingly beautiful pieces of art.  And another for the savvy first-time filmmaker who wrangles a shitpile of cash and spreads it around to all his or her colleagues within the community.

I want people to see “August Evening” so they can applaud a perfect example of the former.  This is unabashed art which has bubbled up from a disciple that so often strains to become simply entertainment.

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Around six I rode my bike downtown to Travis Park for the annual Jazz Alive free concert.  I’d never attended it  before because I love jazz, and most jazz performed for the hoi polloi is to real jazz as a Hostess Ding Dong is to an eclair.  I decided to go because URBAN-15 would be performing.  Also, I was almost curious to hear  David Brubreck, because he played with loads of folks I love … although I must admit that I have never found his compositions to be more than pretty and unchallenging.  I prefer my jazz gritty, scratchy, a bit dirty, and sometimes, yes, even ugly.  If I can understand the melodic structure, I want my fucking money back.  Give me Cecil Taylor, Anthony Braxton, Pharoah Sanders, Albert Ayers, and Sun Ra back before he learned to say please and thank you.

I guess my Brubeck bigotry will continue apace, because I didn’t stick around.  I stayed only for URBAN-15 and a leisurely chat with my favorite waiter from Tito’s restaurant.  I would have lingered, but I’m not a fan of dense crowds, and, man, that park was packed!

After peddling back home, I got in my truck and headed over to my current grocery store, the La Fiesta on South Flores.  Maybe this says more about my social life than I care to examine, but it seems that I do my grocery shopping mostly on Saturday nights.

I found myself in a little sweet interlude that is usually lost to San Antonians not living on the south or west sides of town.  The woman working the register was being assisted by her daughter, who I’d clock in at about eight years of age.  She was kneeling up on the counter, bagging the groceries.  Mom was polite and reserved, but the kid looked up and gave me a nod.  “How’s it going?” she asked.  I let her know it was going good.  “Glad to hear,” she said, and began separating the items her mom slid down the counter.  She gave a running commentary as she worked.  “Eggs go with the milk and cheese.  The tomatoes — oh, they’re plums! — they go in here.  Oh, here are some tomatoes.  Same place.  Dish soap and laundry soap together.”  The girl turned to her mother and asked, in Spanish, something about a woman named Ofelia.  Her mom shook her head, placed a finger to her lips for silence, and touched her watch.  “La media,” she said, meaning, I assumed, that this Ofelia would be there at nine-thirty.

Kids in the work place doesn’t always mean child labor.  Sometimes it’s just a kid hanging out with her mom because a babysitter crapped out.  And I’m fine with that.  We should all be good with that.  So many businesses are anti-family.  Not La Fiesta.  Bravo!  La Fiesta is pro-family!!   But fuck HEB, the evil supermarket chain in town.  They hate you.  And they hate your family.  And I bet they cheat on the crossword puzzles.

And, below, for the Google search quote:

I, Erik Bosse, take my business to La Fiesta.  Shouldn’t you?

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Last night was the ¡Presente! show at the Centro Cultural Aztlan gallery.  This being September, and September being FotoSeptiembre(tm) here in San Antonio, well, the show was photography.

The place was packed.  Mombasa Code played a loose jazzy latino soundtrack to the evening.  And there were even artists not known for photography showing work, such as Luis Valderas, Sabra Booth, George & Catherine Cisneros, and Erik Bosse.  For those who missed it, try and make future shows at Centro.  Malena and Deborah are bringing in some excellent artists.  Besides, the openings always makes me feel like I’ve been embraced into the hippest family I never knew I was part off.  Centro wants to be part of your family, so come on out.

Here’s my photo from the show:

I’m littering my day with chores of procrastination.  It’s eleven pm and I’m writing a blog.  Things must be desperate.  What I’m supposed to be doing is working on my Artist Foundation grant proposal.  Oh, and preparing film proposal submission guidelines for the 2009 Luminaria Arts Night.  But, nope.  I’ve rearranged my living room.  I hesitate to say that I’ve cleaned it.  And I really should clean up this shithole I quaintly call home.  In fact, I had to turn away a fellow filmmaker yesterday.  All he wanted to do was use my place to prep his actors — wardrobe & make-up — but the truth is, I’m sick of seeing the raised eyebrows when people take a glimpse at this midden pit.  So, I’ve shifted the gyno examination table under the air-conditioner (and, as the charm of this playfully exotic piece of furniture has clearly diminished, I think I might contact the owner of our local annual haunted house — I’m sure he can put it to good use).  I then placed my sectional sofa with its back flush against the fireplace.  I won’t be using that anytime soon (actually, it’s a faux fireplace, and good, because the birds like nesting up there).  I moved my stereo from my breakfast nook (where my desk and computer are stationed — I had been running my amp and speakers into my computer for video editing, but because I not longer have a dependable video deck (or camera to use as a deck) the sound equipment had been going to waste).  It’s been  ages since I have felt inclined to play my hundreds of CDs.  Usually I connect, on-line, to a distant hipster radio station, or else I run the paltry collection of CDs I’ve bothered to rip to iTunes.  But this is nice.  I’ve fed into my five disc changer “White Light From The Mouth of Infinity,” by the Swans; “Tanglewood Numbers,” by Silver Jews; “Laser Guided Melodies,” by Spiritualized; “Waiting For the Love Bus,” by the Jazz Butcher Conspiracy; and “Terror Twilight,” by Pavement.  Put the lot on random rotation and there you go.  “Punks in the Beerlight” following by “Rosemary Davis World of Sound” and I think we’re onto something.  I’ve also pulled two of my bookcases out of my gigantic walk-in closet (which is actually the 3′ x 20′ central hallway down the middle of the house that I appropriated back when the other two apartments were untenanted).  I crammed all my books and bookcases in there over a year ago when I was shooting a scene for a movie.  Shit!  That was during the filming of the ill-fated (and poorly titled) “Leftovers.”  Man, that was the spring of ’07, I believe.  I am indeed a lazy bastard  Anyway, these four bookcases were made by Dallas artist Buddy Mitchell for the defunct Chelsea Books.  They were made to sit atop six foot tall  bookcases to take advantage of high ceilings.  There was a rolling ladder to get to these high books.  But by themselves, sitting on the floor, these cases come up to my sternum.  I usually stack them two high, but presently I have two of the cases pulled from my closet, and they are back to back, an island in the middle of this room.  I’ve always wanted a standing desk.  I placed my little ASUS notebook on the surface.  Plugged in the AC power cord.  Plugged in the mouse.  Plugged in the snazzy portable folding keyboard.  And then — what the fuck — I lugged in the chunky VGA monitor that came with the Gateway Computer I took away after the demise of the Aldredge Book Store.

And here I stand, typing away, serenaded by the dreadful poignancy of the Swans.  I’ve a brace of red votive candles illuminating the keyboard.  I’m leaning here at this ecclesiastic station fiddling with these empty rituals of typing and waiting and waiting for a deep inspiration worthy of this jury-rigged cockpit of this spaceship running far into midnight galaxies.  The fuel, or course, is a heady mixture of procrastination and mixed metaphor.

There was another ill-fated feature film I worked on, this one during the tail  end of summer 2006.  Two years ago this week, I do believe.  Now, as it was back then, we have hoards of butterflies flitting about Bexar County.  They are to Monarchs as Border Collies are to Lassie — drab miniatures.  I believe they’re called snoot-nosed butterflies.  They formed denser clouds back in ’06, but I’ve been finding wonderful pockets of them on bike rides out around the southern missions — Mission San Juan and Mission Espada.  There’s a spur of the bike trail that runs between Mission Park and Rancho Charro.  The mesquite and pecan trees make a shaded tunnel, and when you roll across the asphalt with the free-wheel bearings making their speedy metallic purr — tickticktick — the snoot-nosed butterflies, startled, lift off from the links of the wire hurricane fence where they were drowsing and they become jubilant confetti that refuses to settle.  And, I swear, there was one of the little fellas about a mile further south that raced with me — keeping pace, and I was going fast —  and he and I ran nose and nose for a hundred feet, easy.

One of the problems typing at this station is that I have no internet.  This notebook is enabled with wi-fi, but none of my neighbors are caring enough to provide me with an open wireless connection off which I might mooch.  I am learning how dependent I’ve become of Google, to function for me as a dictionary, style book, arbiter of idiomatic usage, and an all-around idea-generator.  It’s back to the basics.  Hell, I might have to poke around this place.  Where the hell is my dictionary?  As I recall, it’s red.

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For those film fans in San Antonio who have been wondering when will a film come from here which we can be proud of, I have only to draw your attention to the Bijou theater.  Crossroads Mall.  You know, one of those Santikos joints where you can eat bad pizza, drink over-priced beer, and watch a movie.  The dates? September 19, 20, 21.  The film?  “August Evening.”

I still haven’t seen the film, but I know it’s the local-boy-done-good story of the last decade or two or three.

When was the last film of importance to have come out of San Antonio?  Maybe Pablo Veliz’s first two movies, back when he was relevant.  Yeah, that was back before he started making action films which one would assume were being ginned under the Ponderous Productions banner.

I have been keeping track of the feature films to come out of this city for the six or seven years I’ve lived here.  They’ve run the gamut of marginal to execrable.  Most, in the later.  Hell, I’ve crewed on some of those.

Perhaps it’s problematic to ask who will be the next Robert Rodriguez.  He’s an independent filmmaker, and we love him.  But sure as shit he ain’t no John Sayles.  What happened to you, Bobby?

But we have a hero, it seems, in young Chris Eska.  He’s from some small town a bit east of here.  And even though no one in the San Antonio film community seems to really know him, he’s done something so many of us want to do.  He created a feature narrative film embracing the quirky and beautiful essence San Antonio.  In short, an unabashedly regional movie.

And so, for those film fans in this town who want more than Double Daggers, The Innocence Saga, or the newest “intentionally bad” zombie or flick, plant your ass in a padded seat at the Bijou this coming weekend.

“August Evening,” I suspect that’s where it’s at, man.  That’s where it’s at.

It might be hurricane season for those poor saps living in the gulf coastal regions, but in my neighborhood it’s clearly sap season according to the pecan tree arching over my driveway.  My truck is currently encased in a mottled veneer of syrup.  Tonight I got out of my truck and leaned over the side rails to fish the grocery bags from the bed.  A gibbous moon, set in a mackerel sky, played behind the clotted clouds drifting aglow and to the west.  I had to peel myself off the side of my truck.  It took me back to boozy midnight breakfasts in Fort Worth at the Old South Pancake House where your forearms would adhere to the tabletop if you got too comfortable.

The trees know the seasons are changing.  And I too can sense it.  It’s been cooler in the mornings.  The summer is wrapping up.  I really need to put an end to these film events I’ve been coordinating.  They’re killing my summers.  Dammit, I want stress-free time to enjoy the endless sunny days and languid heat.

The Josiah fest is over, as is the 48 Hour Film Project.  In fact tonight was the final 48HFP conference call (though I still need to turn in my paperwork for my 2008 obligations to officially sunset).  But it all keeps chugging along.  I’m helping to get the word out for URBAN-15 for the Manhattan Short Film Festival which they are, again, hosting.  And then there’s the up-coming Adelante Film Forum, hosted by SA-NALIP.  As a member of the executive committee of the San Antonio chapter, I will be involved in some of the organizing.  Then there is Luminaria Arts Night.  I’m co-chair of the film committee.  It’s turning into a fairly serious commitment … and things are just going to get more hectic as the event itself approaches six months from now.

Did I mention that none of this pays?  It seems that all I ever do is attend meetings.

It helps that my sister wrangled me a temp gig as a “guest cataloger” for the Dallas auction house where she works.  Ten days of low-impact research & data-entry in the rare book department paid me as much money as two stressful months pimping the 48HFP.  I hope I can keep making periodic visits to the auction trough.

Monday night I headed up to the opening reception for the European Film Festival.  I’d planned to skip the EFF again this year because, two years running, it’s up on the far northside.  Call it the Boerne Film Festival and be done with it.  But for some reason I decided to make an RSVP phone call Monday morning and go see who might be attending the gala opening.  The upstairs bar was packed.  Of the 160 people mingling, I recognized seven people from the San Antonio film community.  Everyone else seemed to be poised (and posed) for the paparazzi (conspicuous by their absence).  The chocolate fountain chugged away on an adjacent table and waiters moved about dispensing free wine and mini quiches, but it took no great amount of time for me to feel topped-off by the desperate ambiance of abundant wealth.  Not even the delightfully hennaed toupee perched  atop a very familiar elderly man could hold my interest for more than half an hour.  I enjoyed an excellent wedge of baklava and washed it down with one of the most appalling glasses of iced tea it has been my misfortune to sample, and then I headed back to the southside, where a chocolate fountain is a scatological euphemism  and Chardonnay ain’t nothing but your co-worker’s baby’s mama.

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My friend Venus allowed me to share some wall space in her studio for last week’s First Friday.  She’s up on the second floor above the Jump Start Theatre in the Blue Star Arts Complex.  September in the San Antonio arts world is more properly FotoSeptiembre(tm), a chance to focus (so it were) on photography.  And therefore I printed up eight photos and framed them.  (Well, Deborah printed them up for me, and I owe her big time.)  The pieces were priced to move.  Yet they didn’t.  But Venus sold two of her postcard-sized prints for five bucks.  Perhaps that was the magic price point.

I could have expected a few of “my people” to have popped by, but they were busy on the other side of town with brisket and beer and wishing Andy Miller a happy birthday.  I can’t blame them.  Andy and Dar do parties right.

But not to panic, people.  My photo-dabbling continues into September.  I will be showing a photo in a group show at Centro Cultural Aztlan. “¡Presente!  Photography of the Present Moment.”  There will be work by dozens of photographers.  Many of the local luminaries, such as Arturo Almeida, Mimi Duvall, Ned Meneses, Kathy Armstrong, Ramin Samandari, Justin Parr, Sabra Booth, etc.  Come out to the opening reception. Friday, September 19th, 6-8 pm.  Eats, drinks, and music by Mombasa Code.

See you then.

HEB, the monopolistic supermarket chain here in San Antonio, closed down my neighborhood grocery store a couple of weeks back.  So now I’m trying to settle on which inconvenient grocery I will now use for my shopping.

Earlier in the week, I stopped by the La Fiesta (one of the very few competitors to HEB) located on S. Flores.  It’s maybe three miles away.  The problem is, while I was standing in line, holding a carry-basket in one hand, and a box of 12 Topo Chico mineral waters by one of the two handle slots, the Topo Chico box decided to open up.  It suddenly became lighter than a pillow.  And then came the sickening sound of a dozen glass bottles under carbonated pressure bursting as one.  I wouldn’t say I’m persona non grata at La Fiesta, but I’m a bit self-conscious with the idea of slinking back in there again.  And so tonight I tried a HEB over on Nogalitos.  Sure, it’s only about a mile and a half away, but I really do need to make a firm commitment with my boycott of those bastards,  We’ll see.

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Yesterday in the early evening I gave all the sixteen teams for this year’s 48 Hour Film Project their marching orders.

A representative from each team pulled a slip of paper from a hat.  It gave them each a particular genre.  (Drew and Janet from the San Antonio Film Commission got stuck with the dreaded “Western / Musical.”  This is an instance where you can choose one of two problematic genres.  I believe they are going for the western.)

The prop is “paint.”  And I know one team where a character will be huffing it.  The character is “Brad or Brenda Parsons, Water Expert.”  And the line of dialog is “What’s the worst that could happen?”  These three components are the same for all the teams.

Thanks Dar and Marti for helping out as volunteers.  And additional thanks to George and Cat Cisneros for providing their space for the kick-off.

Today I decided to drive around and visit some of the sets.

The Dark Design team was shooting not too far away in a large house over by SAC.  Matthew Jasso opened the door for me and introduced me to the small cast and crew.  Travis Thomsen, team leader, was upstairs shooting a scene.  He explained that I missed several gorier scenes earlier.  I only saw a few drops of fake blood.  Travis drew “Thriller / Suspense.”

Next I headed over to G2E Studios where the NALIP-SA team was camped out.  Team leader Veronica Hernandez had drawn “comedy.”  Roman Garcia was camera-ready with some new tats.  And Christopher Viltz was dressed quite nice — I believe he was the water expert.  The NALIP team seemed to be running harmoniously on Bud Lite and paletas.  Not too shabby in the craft services department, I’m thinking.

I then drove way the hell up north towards the Outer Cracker Belt where one tends to get lost in the proliferation of cul d’sacs and gated communities.  I finally found the Film Classics team, led by Bryan Ortiz and Michael Druck.  They were busy in a large, beautiful house, which I think belongs to actress Liz Moise Gonzalez.  Other actors on set were Rick Carrillo, Nikki Young, and Gabi Walker.  I hung out for awhile, sampling Liz’s guacamole and Alicia Walker’s PB&J sandwiches.  Film Classics were certainly on par with NALIP in the amenities.

For my final stop of the day, I drove way out to the westside to a wonderfully seedy bar where the Haunted House Studio team, lead by Carlos Pina, were shooting their last scene.  Erick Romero, Roz, and Priscilla were sitting around a table as Hector Machado worked the camera.  Armando was at a table further back editing earlier scenes on a laptop.  “Coach” Pablo, who had provided some stunts earlier in the day, was prepping the beer bottles and glasses of liquor with tea.  A woman named Shannon was taking production stills.  Inexplicably, she had her mouth wired shut.  Something one just doesn’t see every day — but, non-the-less, the sort of ambiance that never seems too out of place on a Carlos Pina set.

Other than these four teams, I’ve been in communication with six other teams since the kick-off.  Only two have encountered significant obstacles.  But as I’ve not heard anything recently from them, I’ll take the optimist’s path and assume they have resolved their troubles.

I’ll have to wait until tomorrow night to see who comes out the far end of the tunnel with a film completed for the deadline.

I admit I’m not very good at begging, but here I am passing the hat for something worthwhile.

I’m hitting the virtual bricks and pestering folks for a donation for the Josiah Youth Media Festival, the San Antonio student film event I help to promote.

www.urban15.org/film/index.html

We’re looking for a bit more funding to cover our advertising budget. I splurged and bought a street banner (check it out on S. Alamo St., near Mad Hatters), and now it’s time to pay up.

If you can spare 5, 10, 20 dollars (more!?!?), please click over to the front page of my website and use the PayPal DONATE button.

www.eyewashpictures.com

And if you need some official paperwork for the IRS, please let me know. We can arrange it. The Josiah Youth Media Festival is sponsored by URBAN-15, a nonprofit arts and cultural center. That’s right, it’s tax deductible!

Thanks!

Erik

PS: Oh, and come out and see some great films this coming Thursday, Friday, Saturday. It’s our second year, and we couldn’t be more impressed with the stellar quality.

And PPS: Thanks for the great people who already helped me out!