I’ve been making myself crazy with an old video assignment. I promised the client I’d get the deliverables (what a word!) to FedEx today (Saturday). But I kept finding glitches in the video files. I spent this morning going back in and pulling out one frame here, two frames there, and occasionally patching a bit of b-roll over some particularly egregious bits. This involves rendering and re-rendering the sequences (all 22 of them) and then exporting them as “uncompressed” DV QuickTime files. There was a point in the early afternoon when I did some quick calculations. As one of the stipulations of the assignment was to ship the segments as media files on DVDs, and as this would entail four DVDs, I figured that it takes maybe fifteen minutes on my computer to transfer circa three gigs of information to a DVD, and a further 45 minutes (give or take) to burn the disk … times 4 … and, fuck me Aunt Fritzi, the laws of physics just wouldn’t allow me to make it to the lone FedEx in town that is open on Saturday, seeing as it shuts down at 5pm.

So what was a lad to do? It was a lovely day out — the first such in weeks — so I said screw it and treated myself to a bike ride.

I guess I’ll get back to work tomorrow. I mean, I can’t ship the stuff until Monday, right?

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Last night I went to see the Methane Sisters in “As Filthy as it Gets” with my friend Alston. This is the second year that Annele Spector and Monessa Esquivel have put on this bile-filled punk rock musical that they have written and in which they star … brilliantly, I might add.

I had hoped that their characters of May Joon and Ann July would be involved in different situations, but for the most part the piece was the same as last year. That’s not a problem, because I love the show. But I guess I was hoping for more of a continuation in the characters’ lives. True, there were some small changes. One being a new Sam Lerma music video of the duo in compromising situations with their studly groupies. There might have been a new song or two (but Alston reminded me that they didn’t incorporate the song Annele and Monessa performed for the Jump Start anniversary show earlier in the month: “Oh Your Balls”).

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. Fictional they my be, and with tongues firmly placed in cheeks (if you know what I mean), but dammit they do capture the flailing playful train-wreck of punk in its prime — in short, they play back the best memories of my youth. Ann and May, on vocals, are backed by the skeleton two-piece band of Squidley Royale (Marc Montoya) on drums, and Terrible Paulsy (Paul Mata) on Guitar. “Back on Crack” could have been Bratmobile in their younger years. One of the new songs — and I can’t recall the title — was their menstruation song. I don’t know who was laughing harder, me or Alston, when May Joon leaned down to shout at Ann July’s crotch: “Plug up that hole!” It’s definitely one of those you-had-to-be-there moments … but trust me.

One of my favorite titles from a Charles Bukowski book is: “Shakespeare Never Did This.” He was both acknowledging the greatness of the Bard while at the same time distancing himself from the “master” so that each everyman and everywoman would know that this Bukowski chap might be expounding upon topics such as drinkin, smokin, & screwin. And Annele and Monessa, as practitioners of the living theater, are doubling up on old Buk. Because, with the Methane Sisters, you can say with low-brow certainty: “Shakespeare sure as shit never did this.”

Carry on girls! I’m betting on “As Filthy As It Gets, The Movie.”

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Tonight Pete had a one night only one-man-show at the Cadillac Lofts downtown. The postcard invite kept it fairly vague. “Pete Barnstrom, New Work.”

Pete was a 2007 recipient of the Chez Bernard Award from the Lifshutz Foundation, via the Artist Foundation of San Antonio. This event was an opportunity for viewing the work he did under the grant.

The space was maybe 1200 square feet. An alcove had a video piece projected on the rear wall. Two flatscreen monitors displayed related video work on the other two walls. This was a work in keeping with those Sesame Street short segue films (although I’m at a loss to recall that filmmaker’s name).

And then there was another piece projected on a hanging translucent screen (allowing for viewing from both sides). This was some distorted cut-up montages of beauty show footage with occasional flashes of the number 72. Lisa told me that it was in reference to the “72 virgins” promised in the afterlife to certain fellows. She explained that the sound track would have explained it, but the incidental chatter of the people in the space effectively drowned out the audio. That’s the problem with so many industrial spaces. They look super cool, but cement floors, plaster ceiling, and rows and rows of huge windows makes for an acoustical nightmare.

There was also a reel of Pete’s film work playing on a loop catty-corner to the free food and drink station.

And in the corner, where the windowed walls met, was a larger than life voodoo doll in Pete’s image. It was hanging over a little bucket of large needles — an interactive work.

Michelle LaHomme was sitting on a window ledge near the effigy. Pete commissioned her to build the doll for him. It came out quite nicely. I talked some with Michelle and Paul Scofield (local actor, writer, and artist) — they’re getting married this summer. Congratulations Michelle and Paul!

As for the voodoo doll, I can only assume that it serves as Pete’s foil against potential detractors of this, his maiden voyage into the world of art (as opposed to entertainment) — you know: “Didn’t care for my stuff, you say? Well, I had a big voodoo doll on site with pins to stick into my eyes and vitals. Wasn’t that enough?”

But, Pete, really, you didn’t need that self-deprecative device. Everyone seemed to be having a blast. However, whenever one has a chance to throw work Michelle’s way, it is always rewarding — she never fails to create something wonderful (who can forget a little someone named Ms. Dee O. Durant?).

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Oh, Christ, I just realized it’s only two weeks until my birthday. My plan had been to head off to the Big Bend or maybe central New Mexico so I might toss a bedroll on the floor of the Lincoln National Forest for a few days. But unless my truck magically begins to get a thousand miles per gallon, highway, it ain’t gonna happen. Besides, I have to be on hand to walk my neighbor’s dog that week because he’s off to try and track down his errant daughter (23, going on 13), who was last seen in Tennessee. For all I know, she’s living on cat food and crack and incubating baby number three (wow! that came out like a couplet straight from a Methane Sister song — I tell you, that kind of stuff writes itself (Monessa, Annele, if you’re reading this, let’s do lunch, I think you need a third writer!)).

Finally, sunlight! I was actually hoping that my neighbor Phil would go visit his girlfriend up on the northside for the weekend. That’s when I’m saddled with the task of walking his dog. One of the benefits is I get to use his washer / drier. Well, what he doesn’t know …. Yeah, my washing machine works fine, but I have no drier. And it’s been too cloudy (and beastly cold) to hang laundry on the line. But not today.

I exchanged a few words with my neighbor Michael as I lugged my laundry basket down the side of my house (the washing machine is on the back porch, and a trip down my driveway is the easiest way to get back there). This isn’t my new neighbor, Michael. This is Marlys’ husband — they live in the house next door. Michael and his teenaged son were in my side yard tearing down and rebuilding their wooden fence. Seems their dogs keep getting out of their yard and terrorizing the mailman. I was a bit taken back that I had missed such neighborhood drama — I mean, it’s not like this sort of stuff is happening while I’m at work.

I had a couple cups of coffee as I caught up on a few blogs I subscribe to. Novelist Dennis Cooper is still fighting bronchitis in Paris. He’s been posting scanned pages of a lit magazine he edited back in the late ’70s and early ’80s called “Little Caesar.” Today I was treated to 44 pages of issue 12. The issue was titled “Overlooked and Underrated.” The idea was to have literary luminaries write essays on what authors they thought should be re-examined.

There’s a nice piece on Mary Butts, a free-spirit modernist British author who hung out with Djuna Barnes, Jean Cocteau, and Aleister Crowley. The short piece was a memoir by Oswell Blakeston, who also seems to fit into the overlooked and underrated category.

Also, Jonathan Williams added a free-wheeling reading list covering M. P. Shiels, Roland Firbank, Paul Metcalf, et al. Williams created the Jargon Society, one of the great American small literary presses. I discovered Paul Metcalf via the Jargon Society.

This “Little Caesar” also has a one page plug for the author Denton Welch by James Purdy. He suggests that John Kerouac was influenced by Welch. This is something I’d never heard, and I’m not sure if I believe it. I discovered Welch through William Burroughs. He praised Welch’s singular voice. The character of Aubrey (a sensitive character who wandered through many of Burroughs’ works) is claimed by Burroughs to be based on Denton Welch. And I know that Kerouac was very much interested by the books his friend Burroughs suggested he read, and I don’t doubt Kerouac read Welch. But I can find nothing in his work that makes me think Welch influenced his novels.

Welch is a writer difficult to describe. His work isn’t self-possessed enough for it be called belles-letters. But, in a sense, it is that art for arts sake. Most of his best known works are very autobiographical. He was a British writer who, at a very young age, was involved in a crippling bicycling accident, and he spent much of his short life bed-ridden. His short-lived literary fame came because of the strong support Edith Sittwell gave his writing. He was a master of describing nuanced elements of objects which most people would over-look, and he would infuse these things with potent emotion.

Anyway, in the “Little Caesar” piece, James Purdy highly praised the first thing he ever read of Welch, a short story titled “When I was Thirteen.” I’ve never read short stories before by Denton Welch. I immediately did a google search. I assumed the story was in public domain, so I hoped to fine it reprinted on a website.

What I found was this:

http://storiestogo.blogspot.com/

It was a blog some guy had been building (now deserted, it seems) with audio clips of stories read aloud. One of the stories was Denton Welch’s “When I was Thirteen.”

And so, I let the piece play though as I made a big pot of lentil stew with plenty of onions, potatoes, calabacita squash, garlic and jalapenos. While chopping veggies I was treated to a very well-read piece. I don’t know if the reader was the owner of the website, but he did a great job. And, man, the story was incredible. Probably one of the most beautiful examples of adolescent homoeroticism I’ve ever encountered (although I won’t claim to know that particular genera quite so well as Dennis Cooper, Jonathan Williams, or James Purdy).

Check out this audio clip. And there are other great stories on this Stories To Go Blog. Sample them while enjoying a nice big bowl of stew.

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On my way to the back porch to pull my laundry from the washing machine to the clothes line, I stopped to see how my neighbors were progressing on the fence. I was quite impressed. Those dogs ain’t gonna be going nowhere.

After hanging up my laundry, I got a call from Pete. He was at a gallery space downtown preparing it for a one-man show he’s got coming up. He wanted to know if I wanted to see the space. I said I’d try and make it over.

I was too damn cold for a bike ride, but the sun was out, and I felt I should do something. So, even before Pete called, I decided to amble down to the riverwalk and stroll downtown and take a few photos, if the view here or there suited me.

There’s a full moon out today. Well, damn close to full. This afternoon on the riverwalk I saw it nestled next to the Tower of the Americas — but in this photo I don’t know how well it comes out.

And, well, I know he’s a shy feller, but this member of the local fauna is far from uncommon around downtown San Antonio, or, well, any downtown in this country. Ah, what an adorable little rat!

And here we have another couple of images snapped from down on the riverwalk.

It was a slow day for tourists downtown — I had the place pretty much to myself. I did encounter two different groups of Australians and three interchangeable retiree couples in warm-up suits and birding glasses.

I'm been in a very unproductive funk for … well, most of January. There's a sort of rank cabin fever vibe hovering over this place. Especially these last few frigid days. True, I roused myself from bed early enough to get the trash hauled to the curb. But after a late breakfast while meandering the internet, I finally had to get out of the house. I decided to head to the downtown library.

I headed up to the fifth floor to grab a few science titles. In the evolution section I saw a couple that looked appealing. “The Monkey's Bridge: Mysteries of Evolution in Central America,” by David Rains Wallace. And “Darwin's Blind Spot: Evolution Beyond Natural Selection,” by Frank Ryan.

The Wallace book might not be too heavy on the science, as the writer appears to mainly be a nature writer with a passion for central America. But, still, the isthmus of the Americas has been at the center of several contentious theories of species migration, particularly megafauna and human beings. From a quick glance at the jacket blurb, it looks like the author isn't so much concerned with big mammals of the Pleistocene, nor the intrepid people of the Paleolithic. Rather it seems to be an analysis on the spread of more mundane flora and fauna along the north-south route during the very beginning of the Pliocene epoch 5 million years ago when North America and South America finally cozied up to one another.

The book by Ryan appears to be an overview of Lynn Margulis' endosymbiotic theory, and the greater concept of symbiosis as an engine driving evolutionary change. But I see no mention of Dr. Margulis in the acknowledgment section nor in the introduction. She does receive a few pages according in the index, but as one of the most important thinkers in the field, I would think she's be all over the place. Well, we'll see.

I also picked up three DVDs.

“A Face in the Crowd.” My sister has spoken favorably about this over-looked classic many times. I have seen maybe half an hour of it on TV some years back, and thought it powerful. But I'll finally get to see the whole thing. Directed by Elia Kazan. Starring Andy Griffith (who was so phenomenal in “No Time For Sergeants”) and Patricia Neal. Script by Budd Schulberg.

“My Dear Tom Mix.” (“Mi Querido Tom Mix.”) This is a Mexican film that came out in 1991. According to the DVD cover, the script was adapted from a short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Someone needs to alert the fine folks at the Internet Movie Database to this. It sounds like a bitter sweet magical realism film about a woman and her imaginary friendship with a Hollywood cowboy actor.

“I Am Cuba.” This is a film I only know for it's famous long opening tracking shot, a single take that is beyond breath-taking. I'm hoping the rest of the film is even close to the visual over-load of the beginning.

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There's a nice little nostalgia site, PLC Link Dump. They had an embedded YouTube video. It was a music video from the band Critters Buggin. For anyone who was around Dallas in the 80s you'll no doubt have memories of Edie Brickell and New Bohemians (found memories, I don't doubt, as they made very pretty, inoffensive music). I have no idea what Edie (AKA, Mrs. Paul Simon) is up to these days, and nor do I care. However, I've, for some years, been a big fan of Critters Buggin, now a Seattle band, and made up of three members of New Bohemians, as well as a member from Ten Hands, another high-profile Dallas band from the eighties.

But other then clicking on the YouTube button to hear a great Critters Buggin song (Brozo the Clone), I was completely taken by the incredible claymation in the video. There were a few moments when I thought it might be from one of Karl Krogstad's early pieces, but the work was way too intricate and organic. I quickly found out it was from a well-known animator (though unknown to me) named Bruce Bickford.

I next discovered that there is a newish (2005) documentary on Bickford titled “Monster Road” (which, sadly, is not yet available on NetFlix). I did head over to the website of “Monster Road” director, Brett Ingram. He's got some nice videos of some earlier work of his on his website.

Ah, sweet serendipity!

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There have been some amazing technological innovations that I'm all over. These are things that have recently become ubiquitous which certainly do improve our lives. See, I personally can't envision a world without sun-block, rechargeable batteries, digital photography, wireless communication, and I could go on and on until I end up sputtering out with things I don't really use like Viagra and portable dialysis machines (though, those sound grand!). But the one thing I think is wrong on all fronts is the leaf blower. Electric or gas powered. Doesn't matter. Because someone could come up with a solar powered leaf blower that was silent and I'd still pan it. The noise of the god damn leaf blower is just scratching the surface of the idiocy of this hellish device.

Let's put this into context. It wasn't just crushing boredom and general ennui that forced me out of the house this afternoon, it was also because there was some damn noisy machine screaming in the apartment on the southside of me (note: I'm still the only person occupying this tri-plex). It was no doubt the landlady's son working a carpet cleaner, or something.

When I stepped outside, I noticed I needed to retrieve my plastic trash barrel from the road where the garbage men had cavalierly tossed it. And as I was doing this, I noticed that an electric leaf-blower was sitting on the sidewalk. Ah, so the landlady's son was not rug-shampooing, he was leaf-blowing.

But as I placed my trash barrel alongside my porch, I saw a man walk up to retrieve the leaf-blower. He was not my landlady's son. He was some aging golden-haired surfer new to me. He walked up and introduced himself as Michael, my new neighbor. (Note: I'm no longer the only person occupying this tri-plex.) He said we has a chef, recently relocated from San Francisco. He apologized about the leaf-blower by explaining that he was “a real clean freak.” He couldn't abide by the pile of leaves that had collected around the door of his new place. I won't argue. There were loads of leaves there. If I were a neat freak (and, um, I'm not), damn if I'd be happy to strap on a leaf-blower and begin spreading all the waste here and there and well, I guess I'd have to put it somewhere. I guess I can't put it in other people's yards (well, can I?) so I guess I'll just blow it all out into the street. Great. And so now, Mr. Fucking clean freak, what do you do with a big ugly mess of dead leaves in the street in front of your house? I say: Fuck leaf blowers and the assholes who use them! If you're green, you mulch the leaves into your lawn with a lawn mower (probably of the push-mower variety) — or, more likely, you add them to the compost pile. Okay … not so green? You do what I did as a kid. Rake, bag, and sweep up the detritus. How hard is that? I tell you, it looks damn neat.

So, Mister chef from San Francisco, clean up your mess, don't spread it to the rest of the block. But, welcome to the neighborhood! Just place the crème brûlée on the back porch, and all will be forgiven.

Those wonderful days of false summer have been driven back to south of the border. It's winter today, and there's no other way to look at it. Wet, cold, and just plain miserable.

I spent today much as I spent yesterday afternoon and evening. Working on my submission to the Dobie-Paisano fellowship. The work seemed straightforward enough. The submission form is a cinch at only five pages. One of the problems is that I'm very squeamish at promoting myself. I was up pretty late last night trying to make myself sound just wonderful … without verging into the realm of either preposterousness or self-deprecation. After a couple of hours of grueling typing, I thought I'd got there. I decided to reward myself by heading out and picking up a few tacos. I'd been typing into the proper fields on one of those interactive PDF files that allows you to add content. I guess I really wanted those tacos, because it slipped my mind that you can't save in this PDF thingy. I watched as about five hundred words of of blood and sweat and typing fizzled into that digital void where nothing ever returns.

I decided I had to get out of the house — before I ground my teeth down to nubs — and return to the process after a late night snack.

The truth is, I can usually recover most of what I lose in these situations (usually caused by power brownouts), just so long as I don't wait too long. When I returned I was able to plow back into the big white space (this time on a word processing program with which I could save) and recreate a palatable approximation of what I had inadvertently destroyed.

The other component was the work sample. I decided on six short stories. About 25 pages in all. It should be simple. I had the pieces written. But they were certainly not in proper formatting. True, the proposal documents mentioned nothing about manuscript formatting. But, really, how else would a writer professing professionalism deliver the goods? Besides, I expect that at least one member of the judging panel would be from the publishing field. I'll spare my readers the tedium of describing my attempts to do this on a computer without a decent word processor program. But I'll hit the highlights — these poor little works of prose were messaged into publisher-proper form, and then: downloaded, uploaded, emailed back to myself; and, they were rudely forced through exotic file protocols (there are various copies of each story on my computer with at least four different file extensions) … and then I had to print out three copies of each.

This last important item I had actually planned for in advance. Yesterday I drove down to the office supply store on SW Military. I wasn't fucking around. I picked up three cartridges of black ink.

While looking around for the ink aisle, I looked up and saw George Ozuna. We chatted for awhile. He told me that he's working to get his high school students over at the Film School of San Antonio (AKA Harlandale High School) to this year's Tribeca Film Festival. Very impressive. You go, Harlandale!

So, anyway, I soon had the ink issue covered.

And the printing of it all worked pretty well. It's just a lot of printing. (Note to those who do a lot of printing of just basic text: put your printer setting on “grayscale. ” Unless you need vibrant black on expensive paper, you probably won't be able to tell the difference. It puts an ink jet printer into over-drive, not to mention it makes your ink last longer.)

But, as I've learned from editing video projects, if you've got a two hour project and you begin five hours before deadline, you've actually got yourself a five hour project. It's just one of the physical laws of the universe. Getting grant proposals, such as I was working on, finished and to the post office by postmark deadline is no different.

I was stumbling out the door at 4:38. Almost all post offices in this city close at five on weekdays. Yes, there is one the closes at, I believe, 11:30 at night, but it's all the fucking way up at the airport.

But I was doing good, right? Twenty minutes to spare with a post office five minutes away. I was fifteen minutes ahead of things.

I didn't have a large envelope, so I headed out with about ninety pages held together in three clumps with some paperclips. I knew I could buy a mailing envelope at the post office.

At the post office I grabbed a mailer, stuffed my pages inside, and I scribbled the address on the front. I sealed it and walked up to the postal clerk.

And then I realized I was supposed to include a check. The submission fee. I had no checkbook.

Fuck.

I had the guy sell me the envelope. Because, well, I'd already written on it. There was no way I could go home, grab my checkbook, and make it back. The place would close in just a few minutes. It looked like I'd have to make the drive out to the airport.

I walked out into the parking lot, and just as I was just about to get into my truck, the obvious hit me. The post office sells money orders.

I spent maybe thirty precious seconds trying to decide whether to castigate myself for not thinking of this while I was at the checkout counter, or whether I should high-five myself because I had suddenly figured out how to save myself a protracted trip out to the north side to visit the airport post office.

I removed my head from my posterior and I made it back inside before they closed the doors. I got the proposal off in time.

The truth is I have about as much chance of landing the Dobie-Paisano as I do of winning a Christian Bale look-alike contest. But, as they say, you gotta play to win. And maybe, just maybe, if I entered enough Christian Bale look-alike contests, one day I might make it. You know, the intersection of a superior hair day with just the right lighting.

For those not hip to the Texas lit scene, we, here, have a certain fetish for our regional authors. Well, that's probably putting things too strong. We used to have this regional respect for Texas writers. Now it's hard to find anyone under the age of fifty who even knows who J. Frank Dobie is. And I can hardly blame them. He was really not that good a writer. But it was really about a community of writers — Dobie, Roy Bedicheck, and Walter Prescott Webb were just the tip of a huge renaissance of Texas letters. The Book Club of Texas, the Texas Folklore Society, and Texas Institute of Letters. All these august entities have Dobie's fingerprints all over them. He was a writer, a gadfly, a folklorist, and one of the first of what has come to be known as a professional Texan (think of Ben K. Green and Molly Ivins).

J. Frank Dobie had a bit of land near Austin — about 250 acres, with Barton Creek snaking through it — and he bequeathed it to the University of Texas in Austin. There is a small house on the property. And UT has created two fellowship programs that allow authors to spend half a year out at Dobie's spread, where they can write in solitude. One of the fellowships is for writers who are established; the other is for those with a more humble track record. Both offer impressive stipends — impressive to me, that is.

I have, of course, applied for the latter, the Jesse H. Jones Writing Fellowship. The Dobie-Paisano website lists all the recipients back to the very beginning, 1967. It also gives more detailed bios of recipients back to the year 2000. And of the seven recipients of the Jesse H. Jones Writing Fellowship from 2000 to the present, all of them have MFAs, a history of having been published, and they are pretty much all on staff at universities. So, it looks like I just pissed away a postal money order, don't you think?

Oh, well. One has to just keep slogging away, trying one's best to assemble successes.

The thing that bothers me is that of all the 79 recipients of both awards since the beginning, I'm somewhat familiar with the work of 13. Okay. Let's look at the first 24 years. That covers it all for me. Those 13 writers are in the 1967 to 1990 phase. 1991 to 2007 (seventeen fucking years), I have never heard of these people. I'm sure they are all wonderful people. But where the fuck are the Billy Porterfields and Gary Cartwrights of today?

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A new NetFlix day. Cobra Verde. The Herzog madness continues! Of the five film collaborations between Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, I'd seen all but Cobra Verde. This was the final film they did together. It's an historical piece dealing with the slave trade. The cinematography is stunning. The scope of the piece, impressive. And Kinski is gnawing on the scenery of two continents! As lush and poignant as this film is, it doesn't get under my skin like so many of Herzog's other pieces. There are probably four scenes that I'll carry with me for years because of their huge scope and brilliant art design. And Kinski does some great intense scenes. But it's kind of scattered. The script seems to be the problem. And maybe that's because it was adapted from a novel. There is too much plot clattering around in the background. But I highly recommend it. This is what a big budget (well, biggish) extravaganza with a cast of thousands (well, many many hundreds) looks like when it's directed by an artist and not some fucking Hollywood hack.

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It's halfway through the first month of the year. I didn't make any resolutions (leastwise none I'll admit to here), but it's beginning to look like another wasted year. Even at this two week point.

I've generated most of my energies so far this year into two project proposals. The Luminaria. And the Dobie-Paisano. The former I might get. It'll pay me a pittance which will no doubt be mostly eaten up by expenses. And the latter is not gong to happen. (However, I've formatted some stories into a proper state, so now I can start submitting them (and, well, you know, begin to collect those sweet rejection letters and emails).)

And a job? I need to look into that. I can maybe float for another month. I have two likely sources to try and tap. I think that's what I'll be doing tomorrow. Looking for a job. And may god have mercy on my soul.

(Damn — I’m behind on another posting. This is two or three days old.)

I must have had my phone on silent. I looked across the desk early Thursday afternoon and saw I had a message. It was from Dar. She wanted to know if I knew that someone was writing bad things about me on the internet. I had a suspicion what she was talking about, but I couldn’t just speculate. I mean, could you?

When I got her on the line, she explained. I realized it was as I had assumed.

I rarely pick up the Current. True, it’s free, but it’s just not very relevant to my life. And therefore I’m not sure if the article from the Current I read online was published only on the internet. The piece was a sort of year in review of the San Antonio art scene as covered by the Current.

(I’ll ladle out the candor — I found the piece on my own because I was googling my name. I do this every so often. You know, to see if anyone’s writing about me. And, finally, it paid off!)

Months back I’d written a blog about an article (the cover story, in fact) that the Current ran during the summer on Mark Sullivan and his San Antonio Film District. Current reporter Ashley Lindstrom (apparently also googling her name), wrote that “Local filmmaker Erik Bosse took issue with the Current’s story on his LiveJournal — calling it a ‘near puff piece.'” Wow. She certainly could have quoted the nasty stuff. I mean, I was much more trenchant than that. Bitchy, in fact.

She goes on to write these two passages:

“According to the San Antonio Film Commission’s website, the last major feature film to utilize the Sake Studio space where the SAFD is located was All the Pretty Horses ….”

“… a recent visit to the SAFD’s significantly updated website — at least since I was there last — suggests a holy turn of events. According to Jessica Matthews’ District bio (in which her title isn’t mentioned), SAFD is ‘an incredible opportunity for the Body of Christ here in San Antonio!!'”

The truth is, there was actually nothing unpleasant directed against me. But I was rather dismayed that the Current’s up-date contained little more than information lifted from three different websites? This is journalism?

Sally Baxter, Girl Reporter, is spinning in her grave clutching her little stubby pencil and fliptop steno pad.

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My NetFlix fix arrived late today. I was starting to get worried. But at 4:30 I heard the familiar footfall of my mailman’s boots on my wooden porch, and then there it was, the pleasing clack of my mailbox lid dropping shut.

It was Les Blank’s documentary of the making of Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, Burden of Dreams.

I consider myself a fairly serious Herzog fan. I can think of 12 films of his I’ve seen. When I saw Aguirre: The Wrath of God at age 14 or 15 I was floored. It was the most amazing movie-going experience I’ve ever had. There are times in our lives when we are perfectly ripe for particular artistic experiences, and these two trajectories (that film and my life) intersected at just the right time. And so I was a bit taken aback when I realized there was a documentary (and a rather well-know one, at that) about the making of my second-favorite Werner Herzog film.

Anyway, I’ve finally remedied that spot in my ignorance. Tonight I watched Blank’s film. It’s incredible. The photography of the Amazonian rainforest is stunning. The indigenous people are presented in a humanistic manner without being overly romanticized. Herzog, as always, comes across as the most insane person you’ve ever wanted to have as your best friend.

One of the things I learned from this film was that Jason Robards and Mick Jagger were originally cast. Not only that, but Herzog shot almost half of the film before Robards came down with dysentery or something. And when Robards returned to the states for treatment his doctor told him not to return to the jungle. Jagger eventually had to leave. He had a Rolling Stone tour coming up. But one of the treats of the documentary is that you get to see a couple of scenes with Robards and Jagger. Shit! As much as I love Klaus Kinski as Fitzcarraldo, the scenes with Robards makes me wish that version had come to pass. I haven’t seen Robards so sweetly hammy since his intense performance in A Thousand Clowns.

This blog is published redundantly on both LiveJournal and MySpace. For those who read this blog off my LiveJournal site, you will have missed the MySpace reply Lee made to the previous blog entry. He wrote:

“I have an interesting relationship with Herzog as a filmmaker. He’s one of those artists I respect and admire and just flat-out like while having experienced very little of his work first-hand. The one of his films I’m most familiar with is (obviously) Grizzly Man, which I loved. But he’s such a memorable personality away from the camera, so unique unto himself, that I feel I know him much better than I do. Does that make any sense?”

There is undoubtedly a moving authenticity about Herzog when you see and hear him speak. One of the greatest rewards of his documentaries is how he includes himself within the pieces. He generates that sort of warmth and candor that makes you feel like you’ve known the man all your life. I can place my entrance into the cult of Herzog the personality even more specifically then when I entered the cult of Herzog the artist (in my teen years with Fitzcarraldo). It was 1986, I was 23 living in San Francisco and working in the warehouse of Rough Trade Records. There was a little repertory cinema in the Mission District … I can’t remember it’s name. It was small, and played some great films. Anyway, when I saw they were going to screen two Werner Herzog documentaries, I hightailed it over. They showed Ballade vom Kleinen Soldaten (Ballad of the Little Soldier), which gave some insight — certainly for American audiences — what was really happening in Nicaragua at that time which was forcing indian children who had not one political atom in their bodies to pick up guns and engage in one of the dirty little proxy wars the US was bankrolling in Latin America. And then there was Herzog’s mountain climbing piece, Gasherbrum – Der Leuchtende Berg (The Dark Glow of the Mountains).

This last piece, for some reason stuck with me more. What I most remember (and this was over 20 years ago) was Herzog interviewing the subject of the film, a well-known mountain climber. The mountain climber is relaxing naked in a hot spring. He’s in this outcropping of rock pooled with steaming water and there are snow-covered hills all around. Herzog is asking the man why he does it. Why does he risk life and limb to climb? The camera moves in and takes a close look at the climbers naked feet. Toes are missing from frostbite. The climber digressed into something more grand and abstract than simply man verses mountain. He smiles — as can only the most confident men sitting naked in hot springs with cameras pointed on them — and shares a recurring dream. He said that in this dream he was always traveling around the world on horseback. Just him and the horse. Herzog — refusing to play the dispassionate and objective documentarian — piped up that he had almost the exact same dream. “But in my dream I’m on foot. And I’m walking the Earth with a dog.”

If women really want to understand men, they need to watch Werner Herzog films. Getting into sports is the wrong method. That’s the way to understand boys, not men. And, ladies, if you attended a public elementary school, you already know all you need to know about boys (those chummy sumbitches sure do
like their jostling and butt-slapping, let me tell you).

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I really need to start looking around for a job. I frittered the day away doing very little. I did, however, work some on my November novel (which has been pretty much languishing since the end of National Novel Writing Month). Also, I finally got around to sending off my proposal for the Luminaria Fest that this city will hold in March. I’m more than a little curious how it will play out. I’ve been hearing some very unfavorable accounts concerning the administrative structure (or lack thereof) — to the best of my knowledge, this event has not yet hired an Artistic Director.

We’ll just have to see. I’ll certainly be there whether or not my proposal is accepted. True, the event could come off stellar. But if not, even a desperate clusterfuck can be fun to watch … while enjoying a four dollar beer and gnawing on a cajun turkey leg and talking to vendors who are set up to sell their ceramic skull-shaped bongs.

Today also saw the arrival of the UPS truck. I’d ordered a Century Optics 16:9 widescreen adapter.

I’ve wanted one of these little lenses for my Canon GL-2 camcorder for as long as I’ve had the camera — five years or more. I was always put off by the price tag. $850. Wow! And what does this lens do, you might ask? Well, it’s all about aspect ratio. The rectangular shape of a TV screen is 4 wide by 3 high. DV camcorders are pretty close. 3 by 2. But many video movie-makers want something that looks more like a Hollywood film. And this gets confusing, because there are a lot of different formats. But, suffice to say, those movies all have a hight to width ratio where the width is greater than a TV screen. And so 16 by 9 became a good compromise for a cinema-like formate. In fact, it’s the native format of high definition video. But for those poor bastards (like me) who can’t afford a fancy high def camcorder, there are several ways to give the look of 16:9.

To the best of my knowledge, there is only one “prosumer” level miniDV camcorder that can shoot in a native 16:9. And that’s the Canon XL2. It has a somewhat larger CCD chip. But I don’t have that camera. Next, there is the option of an anamorphic lens. Such as this wondrous little 16:9 device. But that’s a lot of money. However, because of the way it bends the image, it allows use of the entire CCD chip, even though said chip is shaped as a 3:2 rectangle. The lens stretches out the images. The image is later unsquished by your editing software. Another way to get this 16:9 effect is to use the setting that is on most cameras. It’s listed under the menus as “widescreen,” “16:9,” or a “letterbox” setting. And almost all the time, what the camera is actually doing is automatically masking off a bit of the top of the frame and a bit of the bottom of the frame and then inserting a bit of code so that your editing system recognizes the images as anamorphically distorted. You will need to reformat it in post-production. And then there is the method I have always used. And that is to shoot in the normal 3:2 SD (that stands for Standard Definition, not to be confused with HD, or High Definition) video. When I capture the clips and begin to edit, I will eventually digitally lay a stripe of black over a bit of the top and bottom of the frame. The reason this method is better than using the camera’s on-board faux 16:9 setting, is that I am able to shift the frame up or down if something unexpected happened. For instance, if a microphone was being boomed from above, and you can see it just peeking into the top of the frame, you have the latitude to shift up a bit and have it hidden behind that upper black stripe you’re using to give the impression of 16:9.

However, Century Optics (now, Schnider Optics) has decided to discontinue their video anamorphic lenses. It’s no surprise. All HD camcorders have no need for these devices. They operate in a native 16:9 format.

And when I stumbled onto the Century Optics website, I was amazed to see these lenses are now priced at $99. I suspect I bought one of the very last ones.

I’m not sure just how good this thing is. I’ve done some test footage and I can’t see that there is an increase of resolution with the lens. But I’ll do some more work with closer images.

Here are three images — all frame grabs of video footage. I almost never use the auto-focus on my camera, but for some reason I used it here. These are thumbnails. Click for larger images. The first image is using the Century Optics lens.

The second is using the camera’s internal 16:9 setting.

The final is shooting in normal 3:2, and then masking the top and bottom.

What I’ve learned is that, lacking the Century Optics lens, I have been doing it the right way. But I still need to work with this new toy and find out if it’s really giving me an edge.

[This is a posting I should have uploaded several days ago. I wrote it Saturday night.]

It was pushing noon today, when I sat down at my computer and enjoyed my breakfast and coffee while watching, via the Expanded Cinema blog, a short documentary by Les Blank, Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. (And thank you Emvergeoning for hipping me to this site). It seems Herzog had challenged Errol Morris to get off his ass and make his first film (Gates of Heaven) by promising that he (Herzog) would eat his shoes if Morris made his film. And eat shoe he did. This piece is so watchable because Herzog is always a wonderful subject for interviews and impromptu statements. Check it out. Les Blank later created a feature-length documentary about the making of Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo. It’s called the Burden of Dreams, and it’s in my NetFlix queue.

Speaking of NetFlix, as I was watching the shoe-eating, the mail arrived. My new NetFlix delivery. A Zed and Two Naughts. This is a Peter Greenaway film from the period when he was most relevant — a film that for some reason has passed me by over the years.

Before I could decided whether or not I wanted to fire it up, Russ called. He was half-hankering to buy a sailboat. There was one for sale up at the sailing club at Canyon Lake he belongs to. He asked if I’d like to head up with him. Sure. I was game for a road trip.

It was a perfect winter day. Well, my kind of winter day. It might have got up to about 80. (Hell, right now it’s 63 degrees at one a.m.) Out at the lake there seemed less activity than one would expect on such a beautiful Saturday. The boat owner wasn’t there, but Russ had spoken to him. And he set up a ladder and climbed aboard the boat, which was parked on the yacht club’s property, propped up high on a trailer so that the long keel wouldn’t touch ground. But it seemed that the boat, though quite sound and very cheap, possessed a couple of bumps which had probably affected the structural integrity of the hull. Fixable, certainly, for a price. But Russ wasn’t in the market for a fixer-upper.

We headed back to town. Russ had picked me up at my place, so we were heading to the Southtown area. We took the S. Alamo exit off I-35. We were on the access road waiting for the light to change so we could turn onto Alamo.

The sun was hitting us in our eyes, and we were trying to figure out what the truck in front of us was hauling. It was packed with what looked like a bunch of yellow paper. I could see pieces of the stuff falling off. But they fell too fast for paper. Corn husks from a tamale factory?

Close.

We got nearer. The truck was hauling tortilla chips. Not in bags or boxes. But heaped in there as though they’d been shoveled aboard. If they were bound for a restaurant, I want to know that place’s name … so I can avoid it.

I had a flash. If only this truck could accidently broadside a delivery van of Pace picante sauce. What a horrific roadside snacking opportunity. A bit too tempting for the accident investigation officer who arrives at the scene as the ambulance crew and tow trucks are busy all around him. “Please, um, excuse me. But … mmmm … this is really excellent. I haven’t had lunch yet.” “Pardon, Agent Fleming, but that’s not a pool of salsa.” “Oh, my goodness. Not again. You mean entrails, don’t you?” “Or worse.” “Oh, good lord, you don’t mean to tell me–” “That’s right, sir, a chorizo delivery truck was also involved.”

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Alston dropped by around 6:30 and we walked over to the Jump-Start Theater. The place was packed for their annual anniversary party. I saw a few people there I knew, but not many. It was a treat to see Samantha. She’s in town for a couple of weeks visiting her family. Pete was there. Rick. Mary and Jade.

The show was broken up into three acts with two intermissions. Each act had it’s own pair of MC’s. The entire show was about four hours. The theme was a nautical motif — we, the audience, were ostensibly on a cruise aboard a big boat.

I think I had a bit more fun last year. The good stuff was a bit sharper and more rewarding. But it was still a great time.

Some of the highlights were:

Company J. This was five or six women from the Jump Start repertory. They were doing a jazz age USO dance routine in cute nautical outfits, complete with sailor hats. Monessa Esquivel was one of the dancers — braided pigtails and cat-eye glasses suit her.

The Guadalupe Dance Company presented us a great flamenco performmance with three high-energy women.

La Colectiva gave us a playful short one-act piece. And I’m pretty sure that was Marisela playing the macho club singer with the goatee.

Urban-15 shook the place up with three numbers. At the beginning of the last bit, their dancers snaked about the audience dragging people to the dance floor. It always blows me away when I see them perform. Very visceral, primal, and joyous. I hung back from the dance floor to take a few photos (or, as Alston put it, “Hey, you bailed” — and she was right).

The third act was promised to be singularly raunchy. Those of a sensitive nature were invited to visit the placid waters of the lobby where they might avail themselves of passing a donation along to one of the volunteers at the box office.

The Methane Sisters were the MCs for the final third of the evening. They performed a sweetly spastic homily to the wondrous testes. The girls, May Joon and Ann July (as performed by Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector), were backed up by their band, The Crip G Band (a punk-perfect passionless coked-up assault from a drum kit and an electric guitar). The “sisters” wore nurse outfits.

“On this cruise ship,” Ann said, adjusting her bra, “we’re all supposed to do something other than just entertain — you know, have a day job.”

“We’re working in the clinic,” May Joon clarified. She snugged the little nurse hat down on her wig.

“It puts us close to the drugs.”

“Yeah, the drugs.”

“And the, um, the ….”

“The appliances,” May Joon added.

They fed the audience constant reminders about the upcoming Methane Sisters show at the Jump-Start. Three weeks, starting this Friday, Jan. 11th. This year’s show has new stuff. But even if it didn’t, I’d go anyway. The Methane Sisters rule!

The highlights of the third act were:

A skit by Comedia A Go-Go involving sodomy, transvestism, a stripper club for handicapped patrons (Hot Wheels), and, of course, an in-depth examination of the immigration issue.

Buttercup performed a beautiful low-fi experimental rock duet which started languid, with one of the members wandering the audience providing the vocals through a bullhorn (I know that doesn’t sound languid, but somehow it worked out that way), and eventually the piece segued into a more power-pop bit with drum kit and guitar.

The Peace Posse laid down a quick duel rap in slangy jangly Spanglish praising
the two great human pursuits, la revolución y la mota.

The evening ended with at least a dozen Jump-Start stalwarts in cocktail attire politely dancing and eating fire to a recording of the sappy song The Morning After. It took me quite awhile to figure out the significance. It was, of course, the theme song to the movie The Poseidon Adventure. And, indeed, we were soon treated to the best part of the dreary film. The scene where the giant pleasure ship is flipped over by a huge wave was projected on a screen above the fire-eaters. And as the folks in the movie were being tossed around by the shifting ship, the fire-eaters begin to do the same. All were thrown to one side of the stage. And then, as the Poseidon rolls upside-down, the fire-eaters, one by one, went screaming and tumbling across the stage to the far side.

What fun.

New Years Day was a sad waste. If it’s any indication of what the new year will offer up to me, I’d like to spin again.

I started the day off with coffee. Nothing strange there. But because my newest espresso machine has been sluggish to pump out a cup, I decided to reexamine my coffee makers. I lined up all three little espresso machine, plugged them in, loaded them with water and coffee, and set them to GO! They all gave me less than I expected. Much of the water was wasted through steam. The oldest seemed to perform the best, but take the longest — and I mean really long.

When I poured the coffee from all into a big cup, I had a decent cup of tasty, strong coffee. But what an ordeal.

The problem, I assumed, was mineral deposits. Limestone. I pulled a jug of white vinegar from the cupboard. The plan was to descale the lime deposits that were clogging things up.

Here’s the trio puffing and steaming away. The whole place smelled rather pleasant, like a thousand Cub Scouts were dying Easter Eggs … in a sauerkraut factory.

They all performed like champs. And they spat out some impressive limestone sludge. But when I began the next step — pushing through just water to rinse them out, the two oldest defaulted to being sluggish again. And by the time I got around to the third steam rinse with the newest machine, it became as useless as the rest.

Maybe I need to go buy some more vinegar and keep boiling this through over and over until I can make a cup of espresso again with the ease of old.

Or maybe I just need to push all these machines to the curb and rekindle my romance with the simple practice of making cafe de olla.

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I received my second DVD from NetFlix. Volume 1 of UFO. This was a British sci-fi drama that came out in 1970 and 1971. The producers are the same folks who created those marionette shows like Thunderbirds. Then they made live action series like UFO, and, later, Space 1999. I’m not sure when the series aired in the USA, but I saw them as a kid. Maybe a couple years after they showed in England. I remember watching them with my father who was a big UFO aficionado. It certainly appealed to both kids and adults. The shows often dealt with themes such as adultery and drug addiction. But also there were guys in futuristic space planes shooting down flying saucers.

That the show isn’t as cool as I remember is no great surprise. But it holds up better than I expected. Imagine the Avengers without the banter and the camp. The costumes are damn tight (the costume designer was also one of the producers — a husband & wife team), and there are so many very low camera set-ups where a svelte actor or actress walks into frame, walks down a corridor-of-tomorrow directly toward the camera, and the shot continues until the crotch completely fills the screen … before the editor cuts to the next shot.

Good stuff. Nice for nostalgia as well as low-brow entertainment. But I’ll wait awhile before ordering the other volumes in the DVD box set.

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Yesterday I stopped by the new offices of PrimaDonna Productions to serve on a panel to help evaluate one of Nikki’s young acting students. It was me, Laura Evans, and Bryan Ortiz. We’d done the same for a couple of other students last month, but one of the girls wasn’t able to make it. So this was the reschedule night for her.

It was fun. This girl (who I believe is 11) has really come along since I first saw her almost a year ago. She is a natural when irrepressible exuberance is called for. The sort of high octane moxie you see from kids in toothpaste commercials. But she’s been working on more nuanced acting exercises and can play smaller, more heartfelt scenes much better. Local actor John Montoya, who had been visiting the PrimaDonna offices, agreed to stick around and help with this young actress to show us some improv work. They were great together.

I was impressed with all the work this child has put into improving her acting chops. And, as always, I’m so impressed with Nikki’s work as a teacher for young actors.

During a break, I asked John Montoya if I had heard right.

“You were in a Dolph Lundgren movie?”

“Oh, yeah. Missionary Man. I went to Dallas to see it screen. It’s really good.”

Bryan Ortiz was also intrigued.

“Man, I gotta track this down. I’m serious, I really like Dolph Lundgren.”

Personally, I wouldn’t go so far. Sure, Dolph plays a pretty good robot (or whatever he was in Universal Soldier — a sort of super zombie quasi robot??), but can he carry a film? I’ll have to check out Missionary Man when it comes to a Blockbusters near me. Dolph is not only the star, but he is listed as writer and director. Hell, why not. If Sly Stallone also could manage this creative trifecta as well, while still managing to walk on his hind legs, there is no reason Dolph Lundgren can’t do the same.

Congratulations, John Montoya (AKA, Johnny the Hottie) for appearing in three feature films in as many years (and one, I assume, was a paying gig)!

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After leaving the PrimaDonna offices, I motored downtown to the Ruta Maya Coffee House for the monthly film mixer that AJ Garces has been coordinating. The place was packed. I had to hunt out a parking space on a side street. The first person I saw when I walked in the door was Janet Vasquez of the San Antonio Film Commission. Janet’s presence always sets a positive tone.

As we chatted, I glanced around. I saw Andy, Pete, Veronica, Russ, Joey, AJ, Pablo, Kerry, and all sorts of people scattered around at various tables chatting away. Probably about half of the people in the place were filmmakers, producers, actors, and assorted fellow traveller who showed up for this film mixer.

Everyone seemed to be working on some project or another. It seems that things are really happening around town.

And speaking of things about town, Joey was there trying to alert people about the open house tomorrow at Cine Studio, the new production offices created by brothers Jesse and James Borrego. It’s at 2342 S. Presa, just a few blocks from the Urban-15 Studios. This is a First Friday event, albeit a bit off the beaten track. Joey mentioned that he’d be helping to curate a screening of local short films.

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I was listening to www.last.fm with the Dictators as the suggestion band. This makes the web site / application look for music in the style and genera of the band you entered.

The Dictators was a hard rock proto punk band — imagine a melange of equal parts MC-5, Blue Oyster Cult, and the Ramones. Anyway, there came up a song by the Chesterfield Kings. This was a great punk era band that created a sound and image indistinguishable from those gritty garage bands from the ’60s like the Sonics, the Monks, the Sir Douglas Quintet, et al. But here these guys were doing an extraordinary cover of Merle Haggard’s death row tearjerker, Sing Me Back Home.

And, therefore, I am now listening to the only Merle Haggard CD I own — a two
CD set, The Lonesome Fugitive: The Merle Haggard Anthology (1963 – 1977).

Sadness and heartache drips from the walls when these songs sigh out of my speakers. The song playing right now is “(My Friends are Gonna Be) Strangers.” This song title was morphed into the title of my favorite novel by Larry McMurtry, “All My Friends are Going to Be Strangers.” The emotional impact of the song and the novel can be summed up by this wonderful Merle Haggard couplet: “The only thing I can count on now / is my fingers.”

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Friday night.

I’ve just returned home from the open house at Cine Studios. The offices are in an unimposing old single story building on S. Presa. It’s one of my favorite neighborhoods in San Antonio. There’s a quirky stretch of S. Presa between the the Southern Pacific tracks and the highway 90 overpass. There’s the Wildcats Cheerleader training space where lucha libre events are often held. There’s the old Piggly Wiggly store which has seen several incarnations in the few years I’ve lived in town — the Wiggle Room, an arts and performance space; and now an artists studio. Can’t forget my local lunch haven, Pepe’s Cafe. There is the Urban-15 Studio. Farolitos Restaurant. And the HEB grocery store where I shop. It’s the neighborhood where I get my truck’s oil changed. Where I bicycle. Where I shoot scenes for my movies. And I’m happy to see Jesse Borrego investing his money, time, and good name into a business in this wonderful bit of San Antonio. Maybe his presence will help the locals who live further north drop their irrational fear of that bit of town south of the railroad tracks.

First I stopped by Urban-15 to see how things were going with George and Catherine. I hadn’t seen them in about three weeks. As I pulled up to their space, I saw their son, Antonio, walk inside. I almost didn’t recognize him, as he’d sprouted a beard. He was in town for Christmas from his final year at film school in NYC.

Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. George, Catherine, Rene, and Antonio were all back in the dormitory, where they had closed off the office, the “yellow room,” and the kitchen. Back in early December they’d lost their building manager, and without him to finish the work he’d been doing on the central heating units, they’d been reduced to heating a smaller space. They’re still looking for a replacement for the position.

George and Catherine had other plans, so they weren’t able to drop by Jesse’s open house. But Antonio was there for awhile, mingling.

I left my truck at Urban-15 and walked the two blocks to Cine Studio.

The building is a narrow row of four or five offices. The larger space on the corner is where an area for a band had been set up. There was a buffet set up for eats and drinks. And a table for a silent auction. Art work was hung on all the walls. Jesse stepped up to a microphone and explained the vision of his new production company. He thanked his partners and other artists working in the neighborhood. And then we had a blessing of the building.

This is one of the things that makes San Antonio very special. The Coahuiltecan people (the descendants of the indigenous folks who built the missions), as represented here by the non-profit group the American Indians in Texas at the Spanish Colonial Missions (AIT-SCM), seem to be on hand for all the important ceremonies, especially involving the arts.

This time it was Isaac Cardenas. I’d not met him before. But his name has come up quite often when speaking with other members of the San Antonio Coahuiltecans. Jesse Borrego is also a member of one of the families that identify themselves as Qualitechan people.

After Isaac finished the blessing, I went up and introduced myself to him. One of the things he does is work with boys and young men from families with abuse. In fact, this ties in with one of the programs of AIT-SCM, the Fatherhood Campaign. He’s a very warm and caring person, and still completely pragmatic. I’m glad I decided to flag him down and introduce myself to him as he was leaving.

It was an interesting melange of people who came and went throughout the night. The place was pretty well packed for the three hours I was there. However, the room set aside for screening local films was rarely packed.

Too bad. There were some nice pieces screened. Some I had seen before, like Chadd and Nikki’s Dating Danielle; AJ’s Crush; Joey’s Nestor-Fest & his trilogy What To Do in a Zombie Attack; and Antonio’s Katrina doc. I also got to see a few new things. One was titled Shot. It was produced by the San Antonio production company Laszlo Rain. Very slick. I thought the story was pretty weak. But the productional values were damn fine. What one would expect from Laszlo Rain. We also were treated to a trailer for Pablo Veliz’s newest feature, Double Dagger. It looks really corny — ’cause, you know, it’s an action film. But, that aside, the trailer kicks ass. Plus, it’s got Manny Garcia as a major character. I’m going to have to track it down when it’s released in, um, I believe Pablo said, May.

There was a point in the evening where some guys were playing a trailer for some sort of documentary, and there was this weird scraping noise. I thought at first it was the sound track. But it just kept getting louder. It soon became apparent it was coming from the half-opened door to the street. I peered across the room to the door and I saw these metal blocks slide by, making a hell of a noise. There was someone standing on top of these two metal blocks, which I quickly recognized as gas tanks from automobiles. Annie, who was sitting beside me, stood up and muttered that this she had to see. I quickly followed. It looked like some freaky performance art. I could only think that it was part of Jesse’s open house.

When I stepped onto the sidewalk, this is what I saw.

The image can’t quite convey the performance. Two men in cowboy hats with stetsons and bandanas around their faces like bandits. They stood, back to back, atop two steel gas tanks, their feet strapped to them like they were wearing weird skies.

These had to be pretty heavy pieces of metal. And so, they had to keep a clear “leftright, leftright” rhythm.

The gas tanks gave them considerable additional height, so their heads were damn close to the wooden overhang of Jesse’s long building. When they came abreast of the entrance to the CineStudios, they began to hand out flyers.

But people weren’t enough in their comfort zone to get the offered stuff. I took another photo and then I stepped up to get whatever the guys were handing out. The one facing me offered his hand. And as we shook, his eyes, above the bandana, were so somber and guileless that I began to assume that they were some sort of religious nuts. You know, walking across Texas on top of gas tanks. I’ve heard stranger. I took a flyer and a postcard and watched as they rounded the corner. I made a discussion not to follow them. I knew they would have to dismount soon and toss their props into a truck and drive off. I didn’t want to spoil the mystery.

I stepped into the offices of CineStudio. The flyer was a piece of typing paper with two stanzas of gibberish. Above the “poem” was two words on two separate lines. “Ajax,” in bold. “Essentials,” in italics. On the bottom left of the page were three names. “Gerald Ford Saddam Hussein James Brown.” And on the bottom right, in rubber stamp: “Reissue by Alas 2008.” The postcard offered little more clarity. The image is a color photo, in profile orientation, of the downtown Greyhound bus station during the daytime. It’s clear that it is San Antonio because you can see a VIA bus. As I look at the postcard now, I notice that the building in the background seems to have some graffiti at th
e very top. Or maybe it’s some important info placed their via photoshop. I’ll have to take a closer look later with a magnifying glass. On the back side is a line of text — part of the laminated card, but placed at a careless angle as though it were a rubber stamp (it isn’t): “THE PROMISE OF INSECURITY.” In caps. And at the bottom is another line of printed text: “This interruption is brought to you by Alas.” And then there is an adhesive Avery address label on the back that reads, “DOWN TOWN SAN ANTONIO / GREYHOUND BUS STATION / LOCKER # 204 / 9:00AM, JAN. 5 – 6:00PM, JAN. 7 / 2008.” This sticker has been placed atop another sticker, and I can read the info underneath. It’s basically the same stuff, but the dates are Dec. 8th – 10th, 2007.

And the meaning?

Dunno. Pure Dada, I hope. It’d piss me off were I to discover that were one to visit the Greyhound terminal on the days and times listed one would be presented with a Toblerone bar or a fucking Zune.

I assume that these hombres had already clumped around the larger crowds of First Friday down at the Blue Star Arts Complex and then traveled down Alamo Street. And when they realized they still had thousands of flyers and postcards left over, they remembered that there was something arty going on down south presa way.

And even though I screened my own Kitty Loves a Rug Sucker to the thunderous applause of half a dozen people, I would have to say that these cowboy pranksters were the highlight of my night.

But filmmaker Ranferi Salguero singing Smoke on the Water came a close second. I would have sworn the guy was too young to know the lyrics to a Deep Purple song.

I love this guy’s shirt. Click on the thumbnail.

Welcome to the neighborhood Jesse! I was so happy to see so many wonderful people from such diverse backgrounds come to a space on the wrong side of the tracks.

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Oh, hey, if you need something to do tomorrow night — Saturday — you have only one choice. The annual Performance Party at the Jump-Start Performance Space. Doors open at 6:30. Entrance? Only a $5 suggested donation.

Let me be more specific. If you only attend one night of theater this year in San Antonio, you MUST make it Saturday’s Performance Party. I blogged about last year’s event. Check back in the archive.

Gotten Into Mom’s Mescaline Stash

It was a sublime blast. One night only. Be there … or I may never speak to you again.

(A late New Years post, where I’ve pasted together several recent failed blog postings.)

It’s a weird limbo time of the year. Last week I only knew it was Thursday by the midmorning sound of the garbage truck. I have no job, no project. And not much on the horizon. But that was when my first NetFlix DVD arrived! Thanks, Paula.

Angel-A. An extraordinarily beautiful film centered around a breathtakingly lovely woman. I expect both from Besson. It’s shot in black and white, which works great, especially when you’re filming in Paris. It’s a wonderful post-modern noir love story.

There’s an interesting driving imperative about NetFlix. Usually when people loan me movies to watch, I take forever in getting around to them. But because I can’t get the next one without sending back the last one, it’s quite a motivator. I mean, dammit, I want to maximize my return — well, the return of my gift.

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With this New Year, I’m finding myself thinking in terms of fresh resolutions for 2008 as well as a general accounting for 2007. This is something I tend to avoid. But I’m so appalled by my accomplishments in 2007 — even more rudderless than usual.

True, I involved myself in a lot of fun events. And many actually paid. I crewed on a feature film. Helped with audio on a documentary by a South African filmmaker. Co-produced a dance video. Promoted/produced three film screening events (NALIP’s Meet the Makers film series; the Josiah Youth Media Festival; and the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Festival). I recorded audio for an experimental film shot in Mexico. I coordinated the Urban-15 Holiday Laser Show. I helped with some other people’s projects (such as Dar’s SAL film fest). And I’m sure I’m forgetting stuff. But I did almost nothing that I can claim as my own. Yes, there was the still incomplete final Short Ends Project short I did. But that’s little balm. As I mentioned, it’s still incomplete. And I have to say it is my only film which made its way into production which I have not brought to completion. I’ve produced and directed 15 short pieces. On film and video. Narratives, documentaries, experimentals, and industrials. And the last thing I did, was the only one that gave me problems. I think I need to either finish it or just throw it away. Either way, I need to move on. Do new work. Get better. That’s always been the idea. But I’ve just stalled out. Become paralyzed by the stark realization that I’ve accumulated a body of work which has little about it that is worthy of praise.

I don’t know what pisses me off more. When people younger than me bitch about how they have yet to achieve success, or when those older do the same thing. The former, of course, make me feel like a major loser. That later make me feel that things aren’t likely to get any better. And then there are those optimistic fools with no real plans who are convinced that they are just a few months away from tremendous success — they are carrying, in their heads, their responses to probing interviews by James Lipton and Charlie Rose. They bemused me, but mostly they’re just in the way.

I was talking to a friend recently about how unpublished writers and unsigned filmmakers are the most vulnerable and exploited classes of people in the entertainment world, the Sequined Ghetto — yes, I like that. They are completely thrown by flattery and the mere whisper of success. They empty their bank accounts — even go into debt — signing up for MFA programs, film schools, and they pay reader fees, consultation surcharges, and they squander money that should go to their families to support the staff and administrators of film festivals and writers conferences. They have no advocates. The untalented are fleeced and fucked, and the ones with promise (I’ll be kind and round up to 1% of the lot) are cheated and chiseled upon until they get around to hiring a pricey support staff of agent, manager, lawyer, and accountant.

The absurdity of “having people,” is having to have people.

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Saturday I spent the evening with Russ editing some on Melancholy, Christy Walsh’s experimental dance video. We’re a bit behind. But you get what you pay for. And me and Russ are prime examples of what a “zero dollar production package” will get you … if you’re lucky. We will finish it, and it’ll look great. But it’s hardly been a high priority for the either of us.

Recently Russ got the bug to dive back into editing. He slapped together the scene where Christy’s character gets drowned. He scored some great music, and then he processed the shit out of the footage with a couple filters from the Magic Bullet software. It came out damn dramatic. So now we’re back on track to finish it up.

It might not have fallen so far behind, schedule-wise, were Christy not currently living thousands of miles away in Korea, on a one or two year ESL teaching gig.

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Jennifer pointed out that my NetFlix account also allowed me to watch a certain amount of movies online, at no additional cost. Wow. Thanks, Jennifer. But the problem is that they don’t offer the service to Mac users. Something about DMR compatibility. I could probably do it if I owned a much newer Mac with an Intel chip as well as well as a recent version of Windows for Mac. I don’t. So I’m screwed out of eight (or is it nine?) hours of selected online movie-watching. What Jennifer giveth, the Digital Millennium Copyright Act taketh away.

If you’ve got a PC, a fast connection, a hankering for movies, drop me a line, I’ll see if I can hook you up.

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Sunday was a perfect winter day in San Antonio — not near so common as I’d like them to be — seventy degrees, not a cloud in the sky. I took to the Mission Trail on my bike.

I kept forgetting that it was the weekend … during the holidays. But I wasn’t the only one with the idea of enjoying the parks along the southern reaches of the San Antonio River. Most people were out fishing, playing with their kids, walking dogs, or, like me, biking. But I guess there was other activity not so innocent. The Park Police were cruising around in their ATVs, hassling people. It wasn’t until I took a break at the southernmost mission, Espada, that I began to hear the sporadic muffled explosions of fire crackers. I guess that’s what the do-right boys were trying to curtail.

It’s getting so no one can have any fun anymore. A man can’t even stagger out into his backyard on the stroke of midnight, New Years Eve, and discharge his shotgun (or what have you) without having the neighbors dropping a dime on him to the cops, or worse, the Homeland Security. That’s a horrible way to start the New Years, what with gramps hustled off to Guantanamo.

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Two perfect days in a row, Sunday and Monday. Knowing that a cold snap was approaching, I headed again to the bike trail Monday. Not feeling over ambitious, I put my bike in the bed of my truck and drove toward the missions. As I eased through the intersection of Roosevelt and Steves I noticed I was coming up on a pigeon standing in my lane. I took my foot off the gas and slowed a bit to give the critter a chance to flutter out of the way. And I got closer. No reaction. It had to be able to see me. It was in profile, and staring at me — unflinchingly — with it’s left eye. And I got even clo
ser. Perhaps it was blind in the left eye? Maybe despondent from the holiday hubbub? Sadly, we will never know. It expired beneath my tires with a soft crunch.

Now I’m not one to believe in omens, but, fuck! I’ve never seen a pigeon not clear away from an approaching car. And as a tendril of superstitiousness snaked it’s way about the jangle of appalled guilt of crushing a bird, I thought it best to consider the event as a symbolic representation of the receding carcass of the old year. Death, followed by rebirth … right?

But what to make of the next bird incident not even an hour later? I was lounging in the sun on a rise above the river out near Mission San Juan, and I happened to look up into the branches of a tree above me. There was a large bird perched up there and it peered down on me. It was some sort of hawk or falcon. Had word already gotten around? But what did a no-nonsense carnivorous bird of prey care about some urbanized lice-infested kissing cousin to the dove, the symbol of peace and passive wimpery?

The bird seemed fairly unconcerned about me. So, after the shadows started to get long enough, I decided to get back on the trail. The cold front was coming in with serious bluster from the north, making me fight while pedaling back as though I was going uphill.

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It’s been fairly quiet on my street the last week or so. Because school is off for the holidays, there is not that pesky steady flow of students, teachers, and parents using Guenther St. as a short cut. Also, many of the neighbors seem to be out of town. But every so often I get a knock at the door. Hope, from across the street, dropping off some cookies. Deana presenting me with a little gift bag containing a card from her hubby and kids and a t-shirt, recognizing me as a “Proud Member of the Gunther Gang.” Ah, neighborhood nationalism …. The neighbors here are really pretty sweet.

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I remember these nights. These New Years Eves where I find myself sitting at a keyboard, writing, trying to keep warm, and glancing at the clock every now and then to see if it has magically transformed from the old year into the new. I fancy that if I tried hard enough I could turn up about a dozen such descriptions from old letters, emails, journal entries, and, now, blogs. Most likely they would all say the same sad old refrain of loss and unrealized dreams, carelessly hidden beneath a wee coverlet of wry and brave self-deprecation.

In lieu of resolutions, maybe I should try and peer into that 2008 might have to offer. One of the problems I have with this exercise, is I have already committed myself to promoting two film events for the second year. Josiah and 48 Hour. Don’t get me wrong, I in favor of these events. But I want to get back to doing creative work.

Okay. There is a kids film — a project to which I’m attached. I’m currently polishing up the script treatment. (And would you look at me — it’s a paying gig!)

I’m hoping to be able to make it to the annual NALIP conference in California.

Also, I’d like to make it in June to the Writer’s League of Texas’ Agents & Editors Conference in Austin.

My sister has convinced me to submit some work to the Dobie-Paisano Fellowship Program. And I’d better get working, the deadline is two weeks away.

I have two novels I’m in the middle of and sporadically adding to.

There is a short experimental film I’d like to do in February.

Deborah and Ramon want to start looking for funding for another Proyeto Locos film (Proyecto Locos being our collective nom-de-nick).

And then I need to start gearing up this coming week and begin looking for ways to find funding for the Josiah Youth Media Festival — time to teach myself to become a grant writer.

Also, I need to give serious consideration if I want to run this years San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project. I’m divided at the moment. It’s a load of work and pressure, and it really doesn’t pay all that much. I just don’t know if I want to get on that treadmill again.

Hmmm, all I see from the above is a tissue of unfocused, tenuous projects. And this is all I got. Shit. I mean, that’s it. Please, just don’t tell my landlady and the credit card companies.

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I headed out before the midnight hour and wandered toward downtown. I watched the fireworks begin to launch at midnight in the area around the Tower of the Americas.

It was quite nice. There were no crowds — I was far enough away from the crush of downtown. So, to all, Happy New Years!

Wednesday

Well, Christmas has come and gone.  Now I just have to wait out the next week until all this holiday malaise begins to dissipate.  It seems that the only things people are capable of doing in December is to plan parties and go on  shopping excursions.  God forbid you want to get your gall bladder removed, your toilet snaked, or get the paperwork finalized on that important restraining order.  “Sorry, but our offices are closed for the holidays.  If you'd like to leave a voice message, please press 1.”

Monday I made the quick trek up to Dallas to see my mother, sister, and aunt.  Thankfully, my aunt deposited some money into my bank account so I could afford the gas.  On the way out of town, I filled a near-empty tank.  63 bucks. Wow!  I guess it'd been a while since I last spent so much on gas.

There were loads of cops and state troopers out pulling people over.  Speeders and drunken weavers, I guess.  I saw three accidents.  The most dramatic was off the highway.  A fire truck and three cops cars were on the access road, and men in uniforms surrounded a sports car laying in the grass, belly up.  One of the firemen was holding open a large book.  I almost wanted to pull over and take a closer look.  Was it a bible, with him giving the last rites?  Or was he, perhaps, frantically flipping the pages of the instruction manual to Bell County's newest purchase, the Turbo Slicer 5000 Jaws of Life?

It's been another financially lean year for me — as it has been for the other members of my family.  We decided to keep it basic.  Small gifts.  And I sure wasn't bringing much with me.  I arrived at my sister's place while she was still slaving away at the bookstore where she works.  I used to do that.  And working retail on Christmas Eve is pretty irritating.  You get to see panicky assholes who are willing to buy absolutely anything — ANYTHING!  “What do you mean you don't have any Far Side calendars?  It's a tradition!  I get one for my nephew every year.  Okay, I guess I'll just get … this one.”  “Um, this might not be appropriate, sir.”  “What's not to like?  Robert Mapplethorpe's Positively Male.  Fishing, right?  And boxing and sky-diving I bet.  Kid's gotta grow up eventually.  Oh, and I need that gift-wrapped.”  “Yes, sir!”

The next day — Christmas — we picked up our mother and drove to our aunt's place.  We had a late lunch and opened gifts.  My sister always gives me great stuff.  She's the only person who can buy me clothes that I'll actually wear.  And if she gets me music or videos, they're unfailingly things I like.  This year she got me a six month membership to NetFlix.  My first DVD (which may well be speeding my way now) will be Angel-A, a recent Luc Besson film I'd not even heard of.  I've also added to my “queue” a bunch of obscure Herzog documentaries as well as disk 1 of the boxed set of UFO, the British sci-fi TV series from 1970.  I'm curious if it's anywhere as cool as I recall from my childhood.

Paula also gave me the audio book (in CD) of Amy Sedaris' I Like You.  It's her quirky book on entertaining.  Paula wants me to loan it to her after I listen to it.  She's curious how a book that is so fragmented and compartmentalized could have been turned into an audio book.  Well, I listened to the first two disks on my drive back to San Antonio last night.  What she's done is to have placed the recipes as files on the final disk (though I haven't put it in my computer yet).  And when she comes to a sidebar, there is the sound of a bell, and Sedaris (who reads her own book) says in her gushy voice: “Sidebar!”  I've never read the book before (though I've seen Amy Sedaris interviewed on chat shows during the book tour — so I know the basic concept of the book), but it does indeed work well as an audio book.  One of the joys of listening to Amy Sedaris is when she has soothed you into her girly world of taffeta, napkin rings, and Jell-O molds, and then she shifts into passing out advice on how to remove vomit stains, or, perhaps, she'll share the joys of planning theme parties such as Pol Pot Luck.  I'm looking forward to listening to the rest of the disks.

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My perennial obligation in this neighborhood (the price I pay — above and beyond my rent), is that I have become the poor prat who walks Phil's dog when he's out of town.  And for this holiday season he's off for about a week. 

I stepped out today, noonish, walked two doors down, and snapped the leash onto Cutesy.  As we headed out for the basic three block walk, Emma rushed up and danced around us.  It seems this hyper-active Chihuahua (and I guess I'm in danger of redundancy) had escaped from her backyard.  She lives over at the end of the block.

She manages to escape fairly often.  And true, I have feared that Emma might one day get run over by the cars that travel a little too fast down this street.  But, she's not my dog.  And I really don't care enough.  I mean, really, we're just talking about a yappy Chihuahua.

But today, as I was walking Cutesy down Constance Street, I noticed that a car showed, stopped, opened it's door, and Emma leaped inside.  Ah, her owner has come home.  But it soon became obvious that this was not the case.  The car sat there at the stop sign.  And I knew that the two women inside were looking at the info on Emma's tags.  The owner's name, address, and phone number is indeed on the tags, but I already knew from another neighbor that Emma's owner wasn't home and that the phone number on the tag was a home phone — so, for the moment, at least, the information was useless.

I watched with more bemusement than anything else as these busybody do-gooders slowly turned right on my street and began looking for the address.  I walked back towards Cutesy's place and past Emma's house.  The car looped around, and rolled to a stop at the address on Emma's tag.  Exactly 25 feet from where they had coaxed the dog into their car.

As a frizzy-haired co-ed in a $200 sweater carried the poor pooch to the porch, I called out.

“She's not home.  The neighbor at that house over there already tried.”

The girl furrowed her brows and walked up to me.  She seemed unfamiliar with the notion that dogs, at times, run free.

“What should we do?” she asked.

“Well, Emma manages to squirm free every now and then.”

“She doesn't get run over?”

I assumed it to be a rhetorical question.

I explained that the fence was too high to return Emma to her yard.

“Of course you could just toss her over, like a football,” I suggested.

“I could take her home,” the girl said.  And then she looked over her shoulder to her mom waiting in the car.  “Oh, but we're going shopping.”

This was going nowhere.  I was trying to inch my way clear of this bubble-head — a sort of virginal Paris Hilton.

And then apparently a thought crossed her pristine, uncluttered mind.

“Would you take her?”

I was tempted to see how she's react if I were to reply that “Look, lady, I wouldn't touch that shit-eating flea-bag even if you promised me a quickie in the backseat of your mom's car.”  But, always the gentleman, I took Emma, tucked her under my arm, and headed on my way.

I tossed Emma into Phil's house along with Cutesy.  One of my neighbors who watched this transpire said she'd alert Emma's owner to drop by my place when she got home.

Fucking people!

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Thursday

Deborah came by yesterday to drop off a little gift.  Her and one of her daughters had spent a day making some candles in mason jars.  I put mine on the window over the sink.  It's burning right now.

She told me that she had left the Bihl Haus.  She'd been helping them curate and promote shows since Kellen and Eric had launched the gallery a bit over two years ago.  But she wanted to spend more time on promoting her own art work.  It sounded like a wise move.  She's had a couple of very successful recent shows.

When Deborah asked if I was doing anything for the up-coming Luminaria event, I said that the whole thing seems fairly antithetical to what artists actually do.  The website is unfocused.  And most of the local artists with whom I've spoken have observed that it just doesn't seem to be a good fit for what they do.  You know, make art.  However, if you're a firedancer, and you don't mind performing for free, this might be the thing for you.  (Not completely free.  As the city promises to pay “out of pocket expenses,” I do think that you can probably get reimbursed for the gallon of gasoline, box of Diamond Matches, and the body glitter.)

Deborah has been talking with a couple artists who also have spaces at the Blue Star Arts Complex.  They're planning to open their studios.  Maybe there will be an overflow.  And maybe I'll make a little experimental video piece and screen it at a space at Blue Star.  I'm thinking that the theme of the piece, in keeping with Luminaria, will be Fire.  And if it's a success, I can move on down the line to the other three of the four elements (five, if you count Rubidium).  So, all I'll need is two dozen tiki torches, a fur bikini, a Zoot Suit, 300 votive candles, a svelte Chicano hipster, a pouty sex kitten, three of Satan's vile minions (gender unimportant), and a case of cheap yet adequate Texas wine.

Hey, maybe I DO need to petition the Lunimaria folks.  This is starting to sound like some serious “out of pocket” budgetary cabbage.

I've a writing for hire gig I really should be attending to, but I'm a great procrastinator. I'll find a way to put off anything. And here I am, putting of a writing task … by writing.

Tonight I took in a free screening of a new Sigur Ros documentary. It was advertised at 1100 Broadway — at the intersection of Broadway and Jones. Now, the only place I know in that area is an old building which houses an antique shop and the studios of several artists. This is the building where a large shell of a space was used for a NALIP video slam. The acoustics were execrable.

Anyway, I drove down to Alamo Heights and picked up Alston. And when we rolled up to the building at 1100 Broadway, it was, as I feared, the same space of the NALIP event. We had arrived early, as the advert had requested. But there were hardly any people there. In fact, the folks putting on the event (and I'm still a bit unclear on who was running things) were still moving a projector screen around, trying to find the perfect spot. As people slowly showed up, we all waited outside on the sidewalk. Alston drew my attention to the screen. It was a wide roll of paper (like a photographer's backdrop) suspended from a couple of light stands. Seemed low-tech, yet smart enough. Alston wondered if they were going to bring in chairs. I said I thought not.

Eventually we were led inside and people began sitting orderly on the floor in front of the screen. They made sure to consolidate space in case more people showed up. But the man who seemed to be running the event pointed out that most of us would have to move, because we were in the way of the video projector.

I turned around. Surely the projector was high enough over our heads on that folding table behind us. There was the DVD player, a little mix board attached to the portable 2 speaker PA system, and … and I saw no projector. That's when I realized it was on the floor under the table. I've never seen a projector set up on the floor. The people spread out, creating a little corridor down the middle. Alston wisely decided to relocate. I followed. We had originally positioned ourselves on the inside wall, thus trapping ourselves in case we decided to flee. We moved to the wall with the most empty space — the best escape route.

The acoustics weren't so bad during the music sections (most of the film). Yes, there was plenty of hot reverb, but that was mostly lost in Sigur Ros' signature sound — loads of sustained mournful chords and the occasional warm reverb of feedback. But when we'd get a break to listen to members of the band speak, they were completely incomprehensible. They all spoke English, and I don't believe their accents were all that thick. It was that damn cement floor and plaster walls and ceiling.

I'm not a huge Sigur Ros fan. Their music is a bit too pretty for me. It fits certain moods, but still, for some reason, their music just doesn't speak to me. I like it when I hear it. I like being around it. However, I do not seek it out.

But, because their sound is so cinematographic, it worked beautifully as the background score to this lush film. The images were stunning. I'm not surprised to find Iceland a photogenic country, but the team who put this film together had a great aesthetic sense of light, composition, and texture.

The premise of this band documentary is that Sigur Ros, after their years of success, decided to give back to their home country of Iceland. They put together a series of free concerts spread out to small towns throughout the island during the summer.

It's so sad that these socialist utopias in north-western Europe have such cold weather, or I'd've expatriated myself abroad yesterday. And so, for the time being, I hang out here. I saw a man tonight, as we left the movie, riding a bike. He wore short-shorts (which did not flatter his physique) and a sleeveless t-shirt (so, god knows where he was keeping his cigarettes) — and he seemed quite comfortable. I won't say it's balmy tonight, but it ain't cold.

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Tomorrow, around noon, Carlos will be paying me a visit. He wants to use my place as a location for a scene in a short film he's doing.

I just don't have the energy to clean this place up. But I'll guess I'll drag my ass from bed tomorrow and throw everything into the bedroom and hope he doesn't need to make with too much set design.

And now I really need to get to work on my writing assignment.