All posts by REB

Fact: The Brontosaurus Never Ate Grapes

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Sunday morning Jorge stopped by to treat me to a birthday breakfast. We headed to Pepe’s Cafe, and had a very pleasant hour or so of talking about this and that. Thanks so much, Jorge!

But I had to get back to the house because Carlos was stopping by to shoot some scenes from his trilogy of short films collectively titled Chort/Shorts. Armando showed up. He’s one of Carlos’ regular actors. I consider Armando to be one of the finer non-actors acting in town. He has no training that I know of, but his intuition is usually correct. Also, we had Christopher on set as an actor. He’s the son of Annette Romo Schaefer — Annette’s an actor herself, but she also run’s Rome Talent Agency. Chris is still in high school, but he has a very strong presence. He’s professional, focused, and damn quick if improv is needed.

There was also Carlos’ little girl, Rockie. It fell upon me to do more in the line of childcare than helping Carlos in a crew capacity. The best bit was when Rockie wanted to go for a walk. About two blocks down Guenther we came upon a little girl with what I at first thought was a lemonade stand. As we got closer I read the sign.

“Cookies or Grapes, 50 cents.”

The little girl might have been even younger than Rockie. But her mom was there. I asked for two orders of grapes. The girl filled a sandwich bag with grapes, and she handed it to Rockie. She began filling up another bag, and I noticed an elderly gentleman from the neighborhood as he walked up behind us, smiling.

“Hurry, honey,” the little girl’s mother said, giggling at the whole absurd thing. “We’ve got a line.”

As the kid was putting grapes in my bag I turned to the mother.

“I feel I should ask, but has she washed her hands?”

“Oh yes.” And then she smiled. “She also washed the grapes.”

I was waiting for the kid to pipe up irrepressibly with the phrase, “with laundry soap,” but she was all business.

I took my bag of grapes. Paid my dollar. And as me and Rockie walked away, I mentioned something to Rockie about how that little girl had just made a dollar, thinking this might be a learning experience. “Yes,” Rockie acknowledged. But then, of course, she began talking about dinosaurs. Apparently dinosaurs don’t eat grapes.

“Not even the Apatosaurus?” I asked.

“No.”

That seemed like quite a broad statement to make. I’m sure there’s not a single Brontosaurus (what old fucks like myself call the Apatosaurus) who would turn nose up at a succulent cluster of grapes drooping upon the vine. And then I remembered that grapes, and all flowering plants (the angiosperms), didn’t begin even their most rudimentary evolution until many of the dinosaurs were well into extinction.

Chalk one up to the girl with the grapes.

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Monday afternoon I took the trolly downtown to attend an artist orientation meeting for the upcoming Luminaria fest.

The meeting was being run by people from something called CE. A quick snoop on the internet, and I’m assuming these folks were from the marketing and public relations firm, the CE Group (Communications and Events). They have offices in both San Antonio and Austin.

I’m curious as to when they were brought aboard. The main woman hustling so much of the hot air from up at the podium had her boosterism dial cranked up to 11, just a hair clockward of the “Amphetamine Weather Girl” setting.

When some guy in the audience wondered aloud — during the Q&A session — “why had it been decided to have this arts event during the week of SXSW, the biggest arts festival in the state, and on the VERY DAY of a downtown San Antonio St. Patrick’s parade?” The CE woman did her job nobly, and fell on a sword of someone else’s responsibility by simpering effusively. She apologized for a scheduling decision that most likely came out of the mayor’s office … or some other city organization.

In the world of public relations, you get what you pay for. And, man, CE was delivering the goods.

I was, however, heartened to hear George Cisneros’ name mentioned several times as the man who came up with the name of the festival. It’s a great name and he should get the credit.

I saw representatives from several theater companies (Blue Frog, Majik Children’s Theatre, Jump-Start, La Collectiva), a dance company (Urban-15), cultural organizations (Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, American Indians in Texas), film (NALIP), printing (Stone Metal Press) … but I only saw one person who I knew that was planning to create a work as an individual artist. True there were obviously individual artists in attendance, but just none I knew. Most of the painters and sculptures of my acquaintance who I’d spoken with in the last months about this first annual arts festival had been curious, but after they looked at the information on the web site realized there was no place for the sort of work they did.

I hope this unforgivable oversight into basic community outreach is remedied for next year.

When the cheerleading and the question and answer period ended, we were all broken up into groups. Dora Pena had been selected to oversee the film people. An excellent choice. And as we — the folks in her group — gathered to one side of the room, I noticed that poor Dora had made the mistake of backing herself into a corner. Literally. I stood back, looking on bemused, knowing Dora could handle herself. But, as I scanned the faces, I wondered just who the fuck were these people? I didn’t know them from the art community. I didn’t know them from the film world. Just a bunch of humorless, earnest twats (in fact I believe one indeed introduced himself as Ernest Twat … or am I thinking of the guy who played bass on the final Circle Jerks tour?). They sure were making a lot of demands for their 200 buck artist honorariums. Bottled artesian water and exotic Bosnian chocolates just aren’t in the budget. Two hundred clams are all you get, guys, ’cause the flack-catchers from the CE Group don’t come cheap.

Bitchery aside, I am looking forward to Wednesday. Dora has set aside some time in the afternoon when our group can go check out the film screening space. It will be in the ground floor of the old Kress Building. I love poking around in old buildings.

Maybe Ana de Portela will show up to join us. She was mentioned as one of the artists providing work for the film/video part of Luminaria, but I didn’t see her at the meeting. I haven’t seen Anna in a few years. And actually, I believe I’ve only met her twice. She’s one of Alston’s friends. Most of her art I know from her web site and reviews in local papers. I’m still not sure if I really care for her work, but she amazed me with the incredible charge of her personality. I was also glad she decided to pose for one of Deborah’s Tara series. I only wish I had a bigger scan to poach and post.

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I’m hoping Anna will help shake things up in the Kress building mid March.

Oh, yeah. There’s also my piece. I guess I’d better start working on it. I believe the first step is to write a script. You see, if I want my 200 dollar honorarium, I gotta produce.

So, watch this space. I’ll have more information about my short experimental video to be titled “The Prometheus Thesis.” It will be screened March 15, downtown San Antonio. More info concerning time(s) and location when I know more. Also, I’ll stick it up on the web for my out-of-town fan-base. (Make no mistake, I’m very popular in Asheville, North Carolina — go Bulldogs!)

It’s Different in First Class

Fiction

Last summer I was flying back to Texas from California. I had driven out west on a road trip with an old friend, and he popped for my return passage. It was the first time I had flown since 9/11 and the increased airport security. After a series of tedious indignities I discovered, at the boarding kiosk, that the plane had been overbooked. But before I could voice my disapproval, I was informed that the airline would happily upgrade me to the first class section.

There is something wonderfully nostalgic about the Burbank Airport, which I believe is officially the Bob Hope Airport. The deco charm is still fresh about the concourse and boarding areas. As for the final boarding, passengers cross the tarmac like in a Humphrey Bogart movie. I moved with a knot of passengers up the impromptu staircase which had been rolled alongside my plane.

They had apparently already seated the first class passengers, because when I entered through the flank of the DC10, the stewardess, upon glancing at my ticket, flashed me a genuine smile and cut me from the herd. I was gently escorted through a curtain into the front portion of the plane. She sat me down beside a tanned and bearded man in his late fifties. He looked up at me with a pleasant nod, used his boarding pass as a bookmark, and placed his Peter Hathaway Capstick Reader into the little pouch on the back of the seat in front of him. He introduced himself as Gerald Westdale, but I should call him Gerry. His grip let me know I wasn’t sitting next to just some other old man.

“So, what line are you in?” Gerry asked, stroking his beard.

I made some vague mention of independent film.

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you Texas movie boys!” he responded with a grin. “My nephew works over at Lions Gate. He says no one fucks with the Texans. Uncle Gerry, the boy will tell me, you don’t cross the likes of Tommy Lee Jones, Bill Wittliff, even Robert Rodriguez, ’cause they’ll fuck you back harder’n a heifer.”

I tried my best to convey a noncommittal smile.

“Boy don’t know much about the cattle business,” he added. “But he’s passionate.”

I asked what Gerry did for a living.

“Ought to be retired,” he said. “Least that’s what the ex-wife keeps telling me. But I can’t just sit around playing cards or teaching myself golf. Nope. I broker large equipment for small outfits. The oil business, you know. Used to be wide open territory here and abroad, especially back in my daddy’s day. Now I’m mainly working for smaller concerns drilling Texas, New Mexico, and some in the Gulf.”

Once in flight, with the “fasten seatbelts” sign off, Gerry made sure we were both well taken care of with champagne. “The only time I drink champagne,” he told me with a declarative simplicity as the stewardess filled our crystal flutes, “if when I’m airborne.” The two of us clinked our glasses and took a sip. Gerry looked out his window and then turned back to me. “What else would you drink above the clouds? A beer or bourbon? Naw. It’s got to be French, bubbly and, if possible, drier than a dust devil.”

Throughout the flight I don’t think there was ever a moment when we didn’t have a drink in hand, and it was refreshed constantly, as if by magic. He did most of the talking, which was okay. As a raconteur, he delivered the goods.

We both ordered the poached salmon. And when our lunch arrived we fell silent as we ate. I discovered that one of the reasons to fly first class is that the aisles are wider, so that flight attendants can always come to your aid with more liquid refreshments, even during that time when meals are being distributed.

“I have a little hobby,” Gerry said solemnly. And then he smiled, his cheeks now bright red from the wine. “Not so little, really. It has become a damn expensive hobby. It’s what I’ve heard, at times, referred to as adventurous gastronomy.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Like eating those poisonous puffer fish. Or drinking coffee from civet cat scat.” And I started to giggle because of the way those last three words so gracelessly tripped off my tongue, and, well, because of the wine.

“That amateur shit’s for kids and tourists,” Gerry replied dismissively. “Condor egg omelets, or maybe skirt steak from a giant panda — that’s what I’m talking about. Rarities. Don’t let anyone steer your otherwise — endangered meat is the sweetest.” He twisted around in his seat and looked straight at me. “There’s a pygmy sea tortoise that comes ashore on Tiburón Island — that’s in the Sea of Cortez — and the inhabitants of the island, the Seri tribe, make this incredible stew from the little endangered tortoises.” He smiled and looked off into space. “Yes, I played the game. All above board. The local government agreed to provided me, as a gringo, with a license to harvest one, and eat it. Let me tell you, it put a dent in the wallet. But if heaven serves lunch ….” And then he sighed. “But it’s unlikely I will ever have it again, what with the new laws in Mexico concerning endangered species.”

Gerry turned away and watched the clouds go by out his window for a while.

“My next such meal,” he suddenly said, turning back to me, “was a pure guerrilla operation. Completely under the radar of those goddamn government agencies. I headed out to Grand Comore, an island in the Indian Ocean. Just me and an adventurous cordon bleu trained chef. We put out the word what we were looking for and we waited.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “The Comoros, that’s coelacanth territory.”

“And that salmon me and you just ate — as dry and soulless as airplane food tends to be — would get four stars from Zagat compared to the goddamn coelacanth, if you’ll pardon the French. And speaking of the French, that’s where my chef was from. And he tried everything in his repertoire. I mean, the fish was pretty damn big. We tried it fried, baked, poached, sauteed with shallots and fresh basil — and fresh basil isn’t so hard to come by on Grand Comore, just so you’ll know …. Um, where was I?”

“Not so savory,” I said, smiling up at the stewardess as she refilled my glass.

“The only thing that came close to acceptable was with it boiled and ground up, you know, like gefilte fish. And why not? The gefilte carp is also pretty much a boney prehistoric fish.”

“But you don’t crave the coelacanth like the Mexican turtle soup?”

“Oh, sweat lord! We spent 12 weeks in the slums of Tsudjini just waiting for a fisherman to find one of those fossil fish. The anticipation was extraordinary. And the reality … oh, dear me.”

“Hey,” I said, with a giddy slur. “I have a fossil fish story. It’s not a living fossil. And, well, it isn’t really a fish.”

Gerry nodded with an indulgent and encouraging smile.

“Maybe twenty years ago,” I said, “the second time I dropped out of college, I went out to spend a month with a friend on his cousin’s ranch in West Texas. The cousin had to deal with some legal issues or something. And it was really just me and this guy house-sitting. Not a working ranch. No animals.”

I tore open a packet of peanuts and let them slide into my mouth. While chewing, I continued.

“I was clearing some brush off of a flat level of ground half a mile from the ranch house. And I realized I’d found a fossil. At first I thought it was a fish, but as I kept digging, it was turning into a pretty big fish. Dinosaur? I was getting excited. My friend had left for a few days to attend his sister’s wedding back in Austin, so it was just me and a shovel. When I finally uncovered the fossil, I realized it was a trilobite. A monster of a trilobite.”

“Oh?” Gerry leaned forward. “How big?”

“Volkswagen,” I said.

“You’re saying it was eight feet from nose to tip of the pygidium?”

“The what?”

“Its behind.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I measured it to eleven feet by six feet.”

“This is incredible. It’d be the fucking Loch Ness monster of the Ordovician!”

“Well, hold on there. The Loch Ness monster is, well, it’s like a monster. I’m talking about just a little … well, you said it — Volkswagen.”

Gerry leaned forward and pulled a bag from under his seat. “This is very exciting. The largest trilobite known — and I can’t recall it’s name — well, it wasn’t even close to three feet long.”

As Gerry dug through his bag, I tried to recall that summer out at the ranch. It was twenty years ago. And one of the things I didn’t share with Gerry was that this friend of mine often drove his rickety Subaru down to Terlingua to buy peyote from a Mexican rancher. The stuff tasted awful, but it was very interesting.

Gerry unfolded a geological map of Texas, and then he refolded it so it was only showing the trans-Pecos area of the state.

I was about to place my finger on the region, a little dot between the Chinati and Bofecillos mountain ranges which is called Casa Piedra, when I noticed that the whole area of the Big Bend region on Gerry’s map was colored orange.

Now I didn’t have to look at the map key to know that orange represented depositional material. In this case, lava flows and ash fall. The whole region suffered cataclysmic volcanism — and this happened well after the reign of the dinosaurs, and certainly the trilobite. Any such fossils would be well buried under the volcanic material. In fact, that’s why my friend had to drive so far to get peyote. The stuff prefers limestone rich soil.

Having studied a bit of Texas geology I knew all this stuff. But somehow I never let science fact and my dim memories of a summer lost years ago to surface in my mind at the same time. They were simply not compatible pieces of information. And then the whole thing about this gigantic trilobite. I know how big a trilobite is supposed to be. True, back then I only knew their basic shape. But, over the years, with reading and nature films and such, I added pieces here and there, filling in the picture of natural history. But this particular memory was never allowed to be reanalyzed in the light of reason.

Gerry was waiting. With his knowledge of geology, I knew he’d think me foolish were I to point to Casa Piedra, so I let my finger drift over to an empty region to the east, near the little town of Sanderson, where I knew there were plenty of exposed limestone beds of the ancient Permian seas which would be logical trilobite territory.

He made a mark with a stubby pencil, and mentioned something about alerting his wildcatter friends who scouted for oil fields in the region to keep their eyes open for weird fossils.

As Gerry dropped off into a doze somewhere over the Painted Desert, I began trying to untangle fact and fantasy, those spurious knotted tendrils of memories. After half an hour I accepted a plump pillow from a flight attendant and decided to give up, and so I allowed the uncertain past to fall away as quickly as Burbank Airport was receding from behind us in a billowing contrail.

New Short Story

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I invite my blog readers to cruise over to my fiction site where I've placed a new short story.

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2008/02/11/its-different-in-first-class/

It's entitled: It's Different In First Class. The story is about Burbank Airport, adventurous gastronomy, and the noble trilobite.

As there are no scary zombies nor any nudity and only a modicum of blasphemy, it's perfect as a bedtime story for those of you with youngsters.

I mean, really, you have no excuse not to give it a read. It's only 2034 words. That's, like, nothing. That's like a Denny's menu or an instruction manual for an IKEA foot stool. Just loads more fun to read. I'm serious. Imagine the thrill you felt the first time you encountered a Denny's menu and you realized you could have a pork chop — a motherfucking pork chop — for breakfast!!!! Now increase that rapture ten-fold. There you have it.

It's Different In First Class.

Keep the nitroglycerin tablets and the dramamine within reach.

Yeah, check it out.

You'll be glad you did.

Candle in the Short Stack

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Yesterday Dar took me out for a birthday lunch.  It's an endearing custom of hers — she bequeaths birthday lunches upon her friends.  She'd also invited three other friends of mine (well, that I know of), but because it was a Thursday afternoon, no one else could make it.  The two of use met at Cascabel on S. St. Marys in my neighborhood.  It's interior Mexican cuisine.  I had the enmoladas.  They're basically enchiladas with mole sauce.  It's a more literal nomenclature.  En-chil-ada, is a corn tortillas dipped “en” CHILe sauce … and then usually rolled around some filling.  With enmoladas, the CHILe has been replaced by the MOLe sauce.  Also, they serve their nopalitos (diced prickly pear cactus pads) cooked, but cold, like a salad. Also, if you go to Cascabel Mexican Patio, don't overlook the coffee — ask for their cafe de olla.

Dar had to get back to work, but because I'm a gentleman a leisure (or, one might say, unemployed) I was able to saunter over to the downtown library where representatives from Humanities Texas (formerly Texas Council on the Humanities) were giving a free two-hour grant writing seminar.

I entered the auditorium and took a seat.  They had rows of tables set up with packets of literature set out.  It was quite a turn-out.  I saw Kellen from Bihl Haus Arts.  Marisela Barrera from La Colectiva.  Pete was there.  Also Lee.  The guy from Ruta Maya coffee shop whose name alludes me.  Pedro with the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center.  And I even saw Lisa McWilliams from the Mobile Film School — I guess she'd come down from Austin.  And just before the seminar begun, a voice behind me asked if “any one is sitting here, young man?”  It was Catherine Cisneros from Urban-15.  She took a seat beside me.  Great.  Someone to exchange sarcastic notes if the afternoon took a pompous nose-dive.

But it was very informative and enlightening.  There were not only heavy-hitters from the offices of Humanities Texas, but also a central figure down from Washington from the National Institute of the Humanities.  We also had the head of the Texas Commission on the Arts.  They all seemed thoughtful and approachable.  Well, as much as you can expect from a bunch of middle-aged white guys.  They all might want to think of placing into key positions women and those not melanin-deficient.

Before the program began I had the opportunity to speak for a few minutes with Eric Lupfer, Director of Grants & Education with Humanities Texas.  He asked me what I did and who I was with.  I jumped right in and explained that I had submitted a grant to his offices two years ago.  I didn't get it — and I let him know it was no hard feelings, feller.  But I did remembered his name from some emails.  He asked me the name of the project.  I replied that it was a documentary called “Dia de Los Locos,” and how it was about a cultural and religious parade down in San Miguel de Allende.  Eric looked up thoughtfully.  And then he looked down with a smile.  “It was with Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez and Deborah Keller-Rihn, right?”

Maybe the guy has a photographic memory, but at that moment he slipped into hero status for me.

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I went home, and because I had received a phone call way back on Monday night from Christina from the 48 Hour Film Project, I knew I had to return the call.  The problem was — did I really want to do it again?  I still don't know the answer.  So putting aside the “want” element, I called her up and said I'd do it again.  So, I guess I've committed myself.

And then I headed back downtown to Ruta Maya coffee shop, just two blocks from where I'd been a couple hours earlier at the library.  It was the first Thursday monthly film gathering that AJ Garces has been orchestrating.  The turnout was quite a bit more meager than last month.  However, just as some guy was about to take the stage with the acoustic guitar, Nikki Young leaped up, grabbed the microphone, and began pitching something.  Maybe it was about TXMPA — Texas Motion Picture Alliance — but the acoustics in the place are execrable, so the only thing I understood was when she got around to singing me happy birthday.  That was very sweet of her.  And I had to explain to the well-wishers that my birthday was actually coming up on Saturday, but thank you thank you.  However … now that I reflect on the evening, it has occurred to me that no one offered to buy me one single measly fucking drink.  Friends?!?!  I wonder!

Well, I'll get over it.

The weird thing about last night at Ruta Maya was that there was a small film crew scurrying about.  They had nothing to do with our group.  And I couldn't help but think that the man with the camera resembled Travis Pettty, a fellow student of mine from the film department at UTA — we're talking maybe six years ago.  I didn't want to bother him because he was working.  But eventually he came up to me.  “Erik?”  And, yeah, it was Travis.  He's still working production in the Dallas area, but he was down in San Antonio working on some sort of auction show for TV — cable I believe.  Something about auctioning off dates.  A reality show?  I didn't have enough time with him to figure it out.  It hardly mattered.  Nothing that would interest me.  But I was glad to see Travis who seemed to be working quite comfortably and successfully in the industry where he wants to work.

Nikki mentioned something about calling me up on my birthday proper (Saturday) and singing happy birthday to me a la Marilyn Monroe to JFK.  Me, I think the girl's all talk.  Breathy and sexy to me, on the phone?  She's blushing just reading this.  Or maybe that's me blushing….

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Yesterday it was a birthday lunch.  Today it was a birthday breakfast.  Deborah invited me out.  I suggested Farolitos on South Presa.  The place is just a little unpresumptuous family-run Mexican diner.  But today they had some sort of on-site transmission with a big truck from one of the local Spanish language radio stations.  Thankfully they kept that business outside.

It's always good to see Deborah.  But she was suffering a cold or seasonal allergies.  Poor thing.  But is was a good chance for us to get up to speed on one another's projects.

Apparently our waitress had overheard Deborah making a comment about my birthday, because after we had finished eating, I looked up to see two of the waitresses heading our way with something on a plate with a lit candle sticking out of it.

The plate was placed in front of me.  The two waitresses began singing Happy Birthday.  The other patrons thought what the hell, and they joined in.  After the singing stopped, the dozen or so people in the restaurant applauded.  I blew out my candle.  It was stuck in a short stack of two tiny pancakes with a piping of cake frosting making a spiral.  It was, in a word, adorable.

(Really, this is how it is, living on the southside of San Antonio.  This is the sort of stuff that makes me pause when thoughts of leaving rise up.)

And because it was the perfect day, I took a bike ride down to Mission Espada.  It was at least 83 today, with hardly a cloud in the sky.  A bit of wind from the south.  Down at Espada, the end of the Mission Trail, I set down my bike and sprawled out on the levee slope.  I think I fell asleep for about half an hour there, lounging in the sunshine.  I complain about a lot of things.  And I've already been heard to say that 2008 is a miserable year.  But if I can just look at everything in my life through the lens of my afternoon spent sprawled out on a hill overlooking the San Antonio river, maybe there's hope yet.

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Back home I took a shower and headed over to Urban-15.  I met with George and Catherine and we talked about strategies for this year's Josiah Youth Media Festival.  One of the things I want to do is to get some known movie-makers involved in the judging and/or our day of workshops.  If anyone reading this blog knows how I can contact Bill Wittliff, please let me know.  I rather assume he lives in a world removed from email (and don't snub the Luddites, 'cause come the insurrection, they'll be the ones pulling out hand-presses and trays of type so the samizdat can roll on out).  Anyway, if anyone knows of a Texas film giant (and there are at least a dozen current drawing breath), and if that guy or gal might wanna reach out to the young folk, please let me know.

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A package arrived the other day.  And because I had already received an email from my sister explaining the under no circumstance should I open the package until my birthday, I waited.  And waited.  I told myself that I would open it tonight at midnight.  I weakened and opened it around 10:30.  It was a Celestron SkyMaster 15×70 pair of binoculars.  Clearly my sister had paid attention to my blogs about astronomy and my jonesing over a basic entry-level pair of star-gazing binoculars.

Okay.  So as I'm trying to figure out how to attached the tripod adapter attachment, the phone rings.  I look at the display on my cell phone.  It's my sister.  Busted!  And I almost didn't answer it.  But I can't not.  You know how that is.  When I answer the phone, she wants to know if I'd like to go ahead and open the package early.  I could have lied.  You know, pretend to walk my way through the procedure, pretend to be surprised, blah blah blah.  But, no.  I let her know I'd weakened.

She was okay with it.  She said the present was from her, our mother, and our aunt.  And I had her on the phone for awhile as I took the binoculars and a tripod down to the back of my driveway … so that the neighbors wouldn't see me roaming around with a pair of huge fucking binoculars (cue the sound of half a dozen mini-blinds closing at once).

They do appear to be the perfect entry level star-gazing binoculars, but I need to get this tripod adapter figured out first.

Anyway, it's now officially after midnight.  And I'm even older.  I guess it never ends.  I never expected to see the other side of 40, and yet it keeps dragging along.

I guess I'll go ahead and accept this year forty-fucking-five.

Cheers, y'all.

Are You Or Have You Ever Been a Member of the Friends of the Salt Cedar Society?

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My property manager of this triplex in which I live is rather nosey. Perhaps it comes with the territory. This quality of hers has very little impact on me, as I mainly interact with my landlady. So feel free to call me neurotic, because yesterday as I walked outside, I saw her car parked in the driveway beside me truck (it’s a very wide driveway). I assumed she was waiting on a potential renter to look at one of the apartments. And as she seemed to be in a doze (perhaps sleeping off a hangover), I decided not to rouse her. I turned left and headed two door’s down to Phil’s house. He was out of town, so I was walking his dog. So, as me and Cutsie were passing in front of my house, it struck me that perhaps the property manager noticed me in her rearview mirror. And if so, she’d probably think that I was harboring an illicit pooch (pets being verboten in my lease agreement). But, what did I care? I had truth on my side. After a short jaunt down to the river and back, I noticed that her car was no longer in my drive. I thought nothing more about it.

Fast-forward to this afternoon. I was heading out for a bike ride and I saw this guy standing in front of my house. He said he was waiting to look at the apartment. We chatted for about fifteen minutes, and then I saw the property manager drive up. She and the potential renter introduced one another. And then I asked her, “How have you been?”

“Busy, busy. Working like a dog.” And then she smiled at me. “Woof woof.”

Well, it doesn’t take Father Fucking Brown to read between those lines. Or am I just being paranoid?

Hmm….

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I was at the library the other afternoon browsing through the fiction stacks looking for some inane low-impact reading. Man, I must have been in a bad mood, because it all looked so awful. I thought to find one of Huxley’s earlier novels. I remembered Chrome Yellow (his first) to be unpretentious and whimsical. Maybe they’d have Antic Hay or Those Barren Leaves, as I’d never read them before. Nope. There was Point Counter Point. His first serious novel. Not really what I was looking for, but I got it anyway. I also picked up The Paradoxes of Mr. Pond by Chesterton (which might help to excuse my Father Brown reference above) — the appeal was that I’d never heard of this title, and I recall enjoying very much his The Man Was Thursday. And then I ambled over to the science-fiction section. Again, it all looked so awful. I randomly grabbed a Philip K. Dick novel that I’d never heard of before. Eye in the Sky.

That night I flopped down on the sofa and leafed through each and finally decided to start on the Dick book.

I hadn’t read him since I was a teen. And soon I realized why I never got deeply into his books — I don’t think I’ve read more than two novels and a handful of short stories. The problem is, he’s just not a very good writer. What will keep his books in print for decades to come is the stunning creativity of his work. The ideas are dazzling, but the writing feels very rushed and expository with no character development. And like so many of the novels from the so called golden age of science fiction, the ending is rushed, truncated, and far from satisfying. This is a problem I usually ascribe to novels written to be serialized in pulp magazines. However, I do believe Eye in the Sky was a paperback original. But the man was incredibly prolific and perhaps the only way he could get any payment from Ace Publishing was to hurry the manuscript off in the mail. Make no mistake, there are great ideas in his work. In fact, I’m afraid what will happen to Hollywood (where creativity is as common as Victoria’s Secret outlets in the Pennsylvania Dutch country) once they have filmed every novel and short story written by Philip K. Dick. They’ll have to start interacting with LIVING creative beings.

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I was pleased to receive an email today that a video job I had sent out had been accepted. The pay isn’t much, but it came when I needed it. It’s actually a mixed blessing. The assignment was for an online video tutorial service where you can learn anything. “How do I macramé a bustier?” “How do I play electric bass in a speed metal band?” “What is the proper way to eat escargot?” These folks over at the Expert Village website got the answer. The reason I equivocate is because I not only produced a set of video tutorials for a particular subject, but I also functioned as on-camera “talent.” (And no, the videos have nothing to do with the consumption of invertebrates.) You see, I am far from a fan of my own “acting.” I get by (one day at a time) reminding myself that I never have to watch the stuff. To put a positive blush on the assignment, there was no tension between the production side of things (myself) and the talent side (again, myself).

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A couple days back I got an email from my sister. I was instructed that if a certain birthday parcel arrived before my DOB, I was to hold off on opening it until that day. It came earlier this evening. Shit. It’s rough going to leave something be. You know. Like a present. I’ve slipped that package under the medical examining table that dominates the living room. Out of sight, out of mind. We’ll see how that works out.

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I know of three large salt cedars scattered around San Antonio. The salt cedar, also known as the tamarisk, is an alien species brought to America in the early 1800s as an ornamental. It has been thriving in the American southwest, most notoriously along the Rio Grand river valley.

I’ve already written about my friend Enrique’s desire fight the bigotry against this universally hated plant.

He has created the Friends of the Salt Cedar Society, but it’s a word-of-mouth group only. Not yet official. But make no mistake, I am an early inductee into the FSCS.

Don’t try and google the phrase “friends of the salt cedar,” or even, “save the salt cedar.” The general consensus seems to be an almost universal final solution of extermination.

I say, hold back on the herbicide. Take a look at the noble Tamarisk. Here’s a particularly tall local specimen — it’s in line of sight of Mission San Jose. I’d guess it’s about thirty-five feet high. Those black blobs on the grass to the left are medium dogs for scale. (Click on the thumbnail for a larger image.)


Here we see a close image of the foliage, which are sort of feathery needles, somewhere between pine needles and cedar foliage.


So, the next time you hear some goddamn arboreal bigot speak disparagingly of the grand tamarisk, softly query him or her with a “why must you hate … you goddamn arboreal bigot?”

It’s all about forging coalitions and building bridges.

Half a Hectare of Plastic Grass

Uncategorized

I understand there were parties all across this great land of ours yesterday celebrating whichever two teams were battling one another for the Super Bowl prize (which, for all I know, is an enormous gold-plated bowl). I celebrated with way too much coffee and Mike Leigh’s Secrets & Lies. I’ll take a Mike Leigh movie over sports any day.

However, Saturday night, I attended a party one might consider fairly close to something like a Super Bowl party. I had been invited to Urban-15’s Carnival party. George and Catherine aimed their satellite dish towards Brazil, and about 30 to 40 guests lounged in the basement space watching the parade on a big rear-projection screen. Friday and Saturday were the parades from São Paulo; Sunday and Monday, Rio de Janeiro. (I believe that’s how it breaks down.) I should point out that one of the remarkable differences between the Super Bowl and Carnival is that Carnival has more nudity, and as such isn’t so deadly dull as a bunch of overly-padded wankers chasing a big inflated chicharrón up and down half a hectare of plastic grass.

Urban-15’s dance and drum troupe get much of their inspiration from this Brazilian bacchanalia, but I prefer their local variation to the insane opulence of what Carnival (at least the televised parades) has become. Sadly, it ain’t Black Orpheus anymore. (And if it still is, in the gritty back alleys of Rio, I might have to head down there next year.)

All in all, it was a very nice time spent with some wonderful people.

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I should be out looking for a job. But instead all I did today was to run a few errands, got caught up on a couple of science audio podcasts, and enjoyed a nice bike ride.

Here’s a photo I took noonish.

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The river is two blocks from me, and from here I can look across the San Antonio river at this line of silos. They are on the edge of the Blue Star Arts Complex. Artists rent out the silos as studios. I’m quite taken with this view. In the foreground is a line of palm trees, and I often shoot through them to frame the composition. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve posted very similar shots before on this blog. Visually, I find it a compelling “prospect” (a word we rarely use anymore to convey the idea of a scenic view, so at the risk of sounding oh so Hudson Valley School, I’ve placed it in quotes).

It’s barely into February and I’m glimpsing hints of spring. No tress budding yet, but the crickets have started up with their electric drone, and this morning I saw a chaotic nest of field ants swarming and hundreds of them were wearing wings (this is a behavior I’ve always associated with spring or summer).

I don’t doubt that famous groundhog is similarly confused.

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My novel-writing group is meeting again after a holiday hiatus. We’ve worked out an arrangement with the fine folks at Gemini Ink (San Antonio’s premier literary non-profit organization).

Tonight we discussed an excellent short story by Rebecca. (I guess she fell behind a bit on her novel, so she let us read an earlier piece.) Rebecca’s from Mexico, and the piece in question was previously published in a magazine from Spain. The version she provided she had recently translated into English. It’s a beautiful piece of gritty, urban magical realism. She struggles a bit with the American idiom, but even via a translation-in-progress, it’s clear she’s a gifted writer.

We also discussed an eighteen page chunk of my current novel-in-progress, The Cucuy Club.

It’s odd to hear people make comments on a first-person narrative I’ve written. The piece is about as autobiographical as one can get and still be called a work of fiction. You know, that Frederick Exley or Janet Frame kind of thing. And so when readers start passing judgment on the narrator, it can start to get under your skin like some sort of accidental group therapy session.

“Oh, is that what you think? Well, fuck you!”

But they were kind.

Stealing the Empanadas From My Mouth

Uncategorized

I need to get out of this funk. I’ve pretty much been hiding. I believe it was in one of the novels by Camilo José Cela (perhaps it was La Familia de Pascual Duarte) where this great line came from that has for so many years been lodged in my head: “Sometimes the best course of action is to drop out of sight like the dead.”

I have half a dozen projects that I need to get working on, and I mean Right Now! Some of them even pay. But the best I’ve been able to do these last few days is to hole up and watch movies. It seems this unproductive malaise has been going on for months now.

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The San Antonio Public Library needs to place a large red banner over the main checkout station warning: “If that DVD is even one day late, we will fuck you up.” I mean, what gives? I had three DVDs one day late. I thought, maybe a buck fifty, total. Woman punches some buttons and then demands six bucks. Purely punitive, that’s what I say. I could have treated myself to the finest lunch special at Pepe’s Cafe, and still had enough for a newspaper or an empanada.

So, I’m off DVDs from the library for awhile. Leastwise until I can get some money coming in to underwrite my carelessness.

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Friday night I got a call from Konise who runs the cinema department over at NESA (North East School of the Arts) — one of the San Antonio arts magnet high schools. Konise wanted to know if would be interested in helping to judge the new batch of kids auditioning for the cinema program. Sure. It was an easy yes. I like Konise. Besides, seeing as I’m entering into year two as project manager for the Josiah Youth Media Festival, it made sense to keep the lines of communications open with the student film programs around town. Also, Konise mentioned that it was a paying gig.

The only potential snag was that it was for the following day. However, that wasn’t a problem for me, as my social calendar was only slightly filled for the weekend. It did occur to me that what with Konise’s last minute scramble, I probably wasn’t choice number one. Ah, well … maybe I was at least choice number two.

Later in the night, I walked down to the Blue Star Arts Complex for First Friday. It was quite nice out — clear sky, cool but not cold — and so I was a bit surprised at the low turnout. A pleasant surprise, I should add. I don’t much care for the insane crush of First Friday during the warmer seasons. I stopped by a few spaces and then headed up to Venus’ studio She had told me at Pete’s show the other week that she would have her studio open. It’d been awhile since I’d seen her open for First Friday, but now that her baby has arrived and, of course, changed her life, she’s decided one of the changes will be more time working on the artistic side of her life. We hung out and talked. She’d brought five new pieces — manipulated digital photos of some designs she’s painted on sheets of foamcore board. The pieces were framed and up on the walls of her studio — the whole place is painted in a mottled saturated red. They looked great surrounded by red. She’d also made smaller postcard-sized versions of each of the five new pieces, and was offering the copies for sale, three for five dollars. They were flying off her table.

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I was up fairly early Saturday morning. Well, early for me. It helped that I had been to NESA before, so I knew the quick way there.

I pulled up into the parking lot at the same time as Konise. We went to the cafeteria to check in and then we headed to the film class. It was me, Konise, and two other women who work in her department. It turned into a full day of auditions. We met with maybe twenty kids. I don’t know how the entire process works. Maybe the kids had already been winnowed through a previous vetting process. Maybe not. I was just this guy hired for the day. But I was impressed with the kids. Most were 8th graders, hoping to get into NESA the next school year. True, most had appalling taste in movies. I can forgive them … I guess, because, well, you know, they’re kids. The problems is that many adults are equally clueless. Folks, if someone asks who is your favorite filmmaker, don’t answer Steven Spielberg. He has no decreeable style. You have, in essence, just admitted that you like to eat paste — with mayo, on white bread — or that you are giddy from the rumors that Peter Jackson is slated to direct a live action Smurfs movie (you heard it here first!).

I think what most impressed me about the kids was the writing assignment. They were supposed to choose one of three prompts and write a story with the prompt as the opening lies. They had about fifteen minutes. Everyone (except maybe two or three) wrote exceptional story ideas. Their use of descriptive language displayed a facile confidence with playful turns of phrase that I had not expected would run so smoothly from the fingers of middle school kids. What most confounded me was that only half of these talented writers admitted that they often wrote. Many hardly ever wrote or read, that is, outside of school projects.

Maybe what this tells us is that kids are all good writers up to the ages of 12 or 13, and when they enter into high school, that’s where their literary talents are squashed. High school english classes have no room for creativity what with all the focus on structure, style books, critical reasoning (whatever the hell that is), and of course preparing the kids for the standardized performance tests. The American educational system is a laughing stock among the rest of the first world. The energy wasted prepping kids for these tests have done more damage than illicit drug use, teen pregnancy, bullying, Pokemon, and fluoridated water.

Lockjaw and Rattlesnakes

Fiction

Maybe two weeks back I’d encountered my former neighbor, Alex. I’d been strolling along the riverwalk, dodging the tourists and idly snapping pictures with my little digital camera. As I was about to walk under the Augusta Street bridge near the downtown library, I heard someone call my name. It was Alex. He was sitting up on a little region of tier benches halfway up to the street level. He and an old black man were eating hot dogs and drinking sodas. I headed up. Alex introduced me to Mr. Wilkins. I shook the man’s hand. He wore worn and cracked army surplus boots, a moth-eaten pea coat, and an orange knit cap.

“He’s staying over at the SAMM shelter until he gets on his feet,” Alex told me. The man finished the final bite of his hot dog and wiped his fingers and mouth with a napkin which he then placed in his coat pocket. It was mid-January, but, as is often in San Antonio in the winter, quite warm when the sun is out. I thought he must be roasting in that coat.

“Mr. Wilkins played drums for Lightnin’ Hopkins,” Alex said softly, turning to Wilkins with a deferent smile of respect.

“Weren’t nothing more than three months at best,” Wilkins said with a slow and easy East Texas draw. “Back in 1953. Know the year, ’cause that’s when I joined up with the Army.”

Wilkin’s pulled a half-smoked plastic-tipped cigarillo from a shirt pocket and fired it up with a butane lighter.

Alex asked what I had been up to.

I began my current patter of unemployment and poverty, but quickly cut myself off when I looked up to see Mr. Wilkins screw the cap back on his bottle of soda and slip it in his coat pocket to be enjoyed later.

I faltered mid-sentence and changed the subject.

But I guess Alex must have registered my unfortunate financial state, because it wasn’t too long before I got call from him asking if I’d like to help him tear down a barn on his brother’s land out in the country. “It pays a hundred dollars a day. We’re thinking it’s a three day job.” That sounded like two days more than I was capable of putting up with Alex’s manic moods, and I could tell from his voice that he was running turbo-charged at the moment. “Hey,” he added, “we get free room and board.” When he paused for breath, I said, yes, I would do it. He laughed as though that last bit of sweetening the pot had put me over — but the fact was, I had no other idea of how to get enough cash to make my landlady happy, and the end of the month was coming up fast.

The next day Alex stopped by my house early in the morning. He looked hungover as hell, which was fine by me. It kept him subdued. And I like subdued in the morning. He muttered something about how his thirty year old Volvo might not be the best choice of vehicle, so we took my pickup truck. I’d already prepared a thermos of sweet black coffee.

“We’re going to Uvalde,” Alex said. “Take the highway to Castroville, and keep going.”

As I got onto highway 90 and headed west, Alex made his way gratefully through two cups of my coffee. It put life back into him. In fact, it chiseled off enough of the rough edges of hangover so that he could get some shut eye. He curled up like a baby, clutching the pillow he had brought along. He had ducked his head under the shoulder strap of his seat belt so that it brushed his ear, but he seemed not to notice it. I found his soft snores soothing as I sipped coffee and headed into the scrub brush barrens of the lowest reaches of the Texas Hill Country.

Alex’s brother, Francisco, is a doctor, but I have never talked to him long enough to find out what sort of medicine he practices. He’d bought a little ranch along the Nueces River, about thirty miles north of Uvalde. The property fronted the river and moved back maybe a mile and a half into the low hills up from the river valley. It was lovely and lonely. Prickly pear cactus, low mesquite tress, and a little clump of squat cedar trees surrounded by a field of prairie grass.

When me and Alex turned off highway 55 and rolled over the cattle guard at the entrance to the property we saw a doublewide trailer at the end of a caliche road. There was a gleaming SUV parked out front. When I rolled up beside the trailer, the door opened, Francisco, his Italian wife, and their five year old daughter, Martina, came out smiling.

Alex had told me that his brother brought the property a year ago. He wanted to build a proper house as a vacation home. “All they’ve got is a trailer right now, and he’s too embarrassed to invite his friends to come out and stay in a fucking trailer. Can you beat that?”

Francisco, Lena, and Martina invited us inside for lunch. We all had pasta salad and some sort of seafood bisque. I could see that Francisco and his wife were playfully dismissive of Alex — he being one of the black sheep of the family — but Martina absolutely loved him. In fact, the little girl was crushed when her parents announced that they all were going to head out to Lost Maples State Park, a few miles north. But we, Francisco asked in the form of a statement, we would know what we were supposed to do? Right?

Alex nodded, of course. He told them not to worry. Enjoy their afternoon.

As the family went about loading picnic items into their SUV, I followed Alex down a path and over a hill and came upon a humble shack. Not a barn, nor a cabin. Something in between. It possessed a rustic beauty and I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to destroy this building.

“Well,” Alex explained, “they say it’s infested with black widows, rattlesnakes, and rusty nails infected with tetanus. They worry about Martina. You know how it is.” He led me to a pile of tools and handed me a twenty-pound sledgehammer and he took the largest crowbar I had ever seen. “Where do you think we should begin?”

“What?” I asked. “But you’ve done this before, right?”

“No experience necessary, man,” he said with a grin. “We’re tearing down, not building up.”

I entered to see what we were up against. There was no foundation, and that was good. A dirt floor. One entrance. Inside there were three rooms. The pitched a-frame roof was visible, as there was no proper ceiling. The walls that divided the rooms were more like horse stalls with very high sides. Rooms as cubicles. Two wooden pillars helped to support the roof beam. They were fixed into the ground with concrete, as were the four wooden corner posts.

Alex seemed under the impression that we’d hook up my truck to these center posts and pull the whole place down and then smash the boards into small pieces with the sledgehammer.

“That’d stretch it out to three days, right?” he asked.

“What don’t we just douse it with gas and torch it?” I mused.

“No fucking way,” he hissed, looking around like someone had heard me. “That’s the obvious, of course. But we’d be out of here tomorrow. It’s a hundred dollars a day, man. A day!”

I told him we’d need to remove every board from the outer and inner walls, and every board in the roof. At the end of each day, we could make a bonfire of the pulled boards. “‘Cause if your brother’s afraid of spiders and snakes, a big pile of lumber is just as bad — probably worse.” And then, and only then, we could drag down the supports.

Alex was nodding excitedly.

“That’s why I brought you along. You see the big picture. This is exactly what we need to do. And now you’re making it into a four day job. Maybe five! Brilliant!”

Alex was wrong. It was a three day job. Well, three and a half, if you count our first day.

It was quite an ordeal. And, indeed, we found a few rattlesnakes (one buried his fangs into the toe-leather of my left boot, and I dispatched the poor critter with a small ball-peen hammer). However, that little piece of Uvalde County history — that humble cedar board abode — was, as agreed by all parties, stripped down and burned, and even the rusty nails, doubtlessly pre-dating the Coolidge administration, had been yanked free, gathered, and placed in a plastic trash barrel for Francisco and his family to use in any manner they desired.

On the last night at the ranch me and Alex were tending the bonfire of the roof slats. We were both exhausted and drinking beer that we had managed to sneak past Francisco, who was strangely puritanical in these matters (or, perhaps he knew his brother too well).

I turned to Alex.

“Remember that guy, Mr. Wilkins?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Lightnin’ Hopkins.”

“Oh, right. A righteous guy. Ends up homeless. Fucked over by the American dream.”

“His one claim to fame,” I said. “Playing with Lightnin’ Hopkins. I can’t stop but to wonder if maybe there was more to his life–?”

“He was in the military. Must have killed some Japs.”

“Joined in the fifties, so he said.”

“Maybe saw action in Korea,” Alex said. And then he lowered his beer and looked to me. “What you getting at?”

“What is your Lightnin’ Hopkins story?”

“Um, I guess that’s it. That Mr. Wilkins guy.”

“No,” I said shaking my head until I could feel just how drunk I had become. “What makes your life important. You know, your mark on the world.”

“Hey, screw you,” Alex said forcing a smile, but I could see his lip trembling on the edge of irritation. “That old fuck — Wilkins was it? — was probably lying. And what do I care? I fucking hate the blues!”

The next day we drove back to San Antonio. And much like the drive out, Alex kept silent. He was dozing because of two quarts of Carta Blanca he picked up at the Shell station in Uvalde where we gassed up for the ride home. It was the one time I wished Alex was awake and chattering and full of his own brand of excitable giddy bullshit, because all I was left with was the chatter of my own mind, asking again and again, what have I done with my life … after four decades? I’m not even a bit player in the successful life of another.

As we passed Lackland Air Force Base, Alex roused himself.

“You know, I might not be Lightnin’ Hopkins’ drummer, but in February me and Billy Martin are going to do a guerilla performance art piece at the Alamo.” Alex turned to me. “You want in on the action?”

“Is any one gonna get hurt?”

“Naw,” he said, and he fluffed his pillow and twisted around to get comfy again. “But we’ll probably get arrested. Fuck. It is the Alamo. Goddamn Daughters of the Republic of Texas!”

“Sounds fun,” I said. And I smiled at Alex, but he was turned away from me. “Count me in.” I’m not sure, but I thought I could hear his soft snoring.

Warm Puddles of Drizzle

Uncategorized

The video assignment I was supposed to get to FedEx back on Saturday has finally gone out late this afternoon (Monday). What an ordeal. If it's accepted, I will get 200 dollars. But because of all sorts of technological cock-ups (compounded with my own feckless and lazy nature), what should have taken about 15 hours, took a turn into a very long dark tunnel. And it might not even be over. Of the 22 video clips I sent in, I'm afraid five or six were improperly compressed. Because they are meant to be streamed over the internet, it might not be an issue. But until I get that check, it's still hovering over me, ill and uncertain.

I spent several long hours last night reconfiguring video files. I'd sit down at my computer, follow through with a few keystrokes, and then wait while my Mac rearranged countless ones and zeroes into specific configurations. Each session took six to nine minutes. I'd set things in motion and retreat to the sofa and read some more. By three AM I was done … and I had managed to read three short stories from Herman Melville's Piazza Tales, as well as about half of Damon Runyon's In Our Town.

But when I awoke this morning to burn the DVDs to send all the stuff off, I discovered that my mighty Mackintosh's DVD drive (Mr. Jobs would prefer we call them Super-Drives) has begun to fight me.

As much as I might be getting pissy to the point of violence because of my computer's current ills, I should point out that I've had this machine for five years or more and it has given me almost no trouble. It still has all its original teeth, and has no trouble jumping the back fence when it's feeling frisky.

Anyway, I took a deep breath and headed over to Urban-15 to ask George if I could borrow his monster quad Mac G5. He graciously waved me to the basement space where his multimedia editing station was waiting. I hooked up my external drive and proceeded to cruise high-speed through the process of burning four DVDs.

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Today started out cold and wet. I was on dog patrol in the early hours, and as I was walking Cutsie, my grumbles — my sotto voce profanity — concerned not just the failings of technology, but the failings of the weather experts who had promised a sunny day in the low seventies.

I should have just waited — it'd've saved my stomach lining the acid wash of despair. Because by early afternoon, it all cleared up sunny and warm and even the puddles of drizzle seemed to have instantly vanished as though some unseen omnipotent hand had depressed a gigantic chromium lever in that great porcelain room in the heavens.

Over near the AT&T Center (not a place one goes to pay the phone bill, but, as I understand, ground zero of this city's sports industrial complex), one can find the main FedEx station. It's only about ten minutes from my house. The place stays open until 8:30 at night. Early this morning I was afraid I'd have to take advantage of the late hours. But I was able to get the stuff dropped off by 4:30.

This gave me plenty of time to head home and print up multiple copies of a new short story to take with me to the free monthly writers' workshop at Gemini Ink. It's held on the last Monday of every month.

(It's a good time, and there are some damn fine writers reading their stuff. Come on out people. If you've read my stuff — like this — you'll clearly know that amateurs do indeed attend. And did I mention, it's free?)

The piece I read tonight is entitled Lockjaw and Rattlesnakes.

It's over on my fiction site.

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/

Last Thursday I realized that final Monday was coming up. I hammered out this piece that evening. And because I'm the world's worst editor, it's still damn close to it's original raw state. However, tonight, as I was reading the piece aloud I realized, with high embarrassment, I had overlooked a few typos my spell check could not have caught.

Therefore, the version uploaded is cleaner — but no doubt still messy.

And that doesn't even address the question of structure and content. Personally, I'm not too fond of this piece. It's clunky and divisive. The opening coda seems crudely linked with the ending.

The piece originated as a bit longer. But because the free workshop limits the participants to four pages, I went in and ripped out a couple of passages that went nowhere. I think it was wise to strip out that stuff. It ain't going back in. But I think my desire to thematically link the beginning with the ending will necessitate drawing the piece out longer. This probably means adding another 25% of text. The question is, of course, do I care enough about this piece to try and fix it?

I guess it all depends. If only I can rationalize “fixing” this piece as a wise move while procrastinating work that will actually pay me money … well, consider it done!