As I am currently on sabbatical from the work-a-day world, I certainly did not set my alarm clock to wake me Tuesday morning. But sleeping late was not an option. The city of San Antonio decided that the best time to begin resurfacing the 700 block of E. Guenther was seven a.m. The jack hammers (as in the plural) tried with a sad lack of success to harmonize along side the heavy equipment which were sounding off with those insane robot beeps when traveling in reverse (which, from under my pillow, seemed to be the only direction in which they moved).

I'm assuming the plan is to, in a day or week or so (again, at the crack of dawn), lay down a fresh new surface. But I quite like the old road they've exposed. Hardly a rustic hardwood floor fortuitously revealed, but, nonetheless, a nice cement, charmingly battered and grooved by the diesel powered exfoliating devices. They've also rid the street of those damned speed-bumps (I know I shouldn't gush overmuch, as I suspect they will be replaced in good time).

Strange. I had a dream that previous night that my driveway had been resurfaced in black asphalt. It was late, when I walked outside in my dream. There was a full moon overhead. No cars in the drive. No gazebo. No detritus from the pecan tree. The bamboo back at the fence-line was still there, thick and primordial, no doubt hiding tigers or clowns or other typically sinister inhabitants of the dream world.

But maybe the dream wasn't really so strange and prophetic. Monday afternoon, a city worker wearing a florescent yellow vest canvassed my street, placing notices on the door of each house. The fellow paused on my sidewalk to pick up several of my crop of wind-fallen pecans. He had delivered a letter from Brenda Ann Garza, Pavement Engineering Projects Officer with the Public Works Department. Now, I've never met Brenda, but I'll give the benefit of the doubt and assume she runs a pretty slick operation down at the PWD. I was notified to expect the appearance of heavy machinery at any time between 7 am to 7 pm during a ten day period (beginning the very next DAY!), and as such, no cars could be parked on the street during those times. There were no threats, nor were there hints as what might be expected by the scofflaws. Not that I care. I never park on the street. But it seems that this message from Brenda of the PWD, made its way into my subconscious.

Also, the last major road work in this neighborhood was just around the corner from my house on the quiet little block of Constance Street. It was given a smooth, unblemished surface, as dark and dense as blackberry fruit leather. And I was dutifully impressed on one of those nights when I found myself conscripted into walking my neighbor's dog. It was absolutely black, a ribbon of an abyss, so that looking down as you walked was a bit unsettling. And the sky, when you looked up, was, by comparison, bright and lively, with the clouds smearing their lazy gauze across the disk of the moon. Ah, yes, the unnatural perfection of a paved surface. No wonder it made its way into the lower compartments of my brain, readied to be accessed when needed. Or, on a different metaphoric tack (and here I paraphrase from Macbeth), waiting for the pillows to discharge their secrets.

Thankfully the Tuesday morning cacophony was but a short-lived irritant.

I was able to escape the racket. Deborah called and invited me to breakfast. I met up with her and Ramon. I realized I hadn't seen Deborah since her very successful photo show she had shared with Ramin at the UTSA downtown campus. They both sold quite a few pieces.

Deborah is teaching a couple of Humanities classes at Northwest Vista (one of the local community colleges); curating and promoting shows at Bihl Haus Arts (a paying gig, I believe); and, off and on, selling her art. She seems to be doing pretty well.

Ramon is working on art for a few up-coming group shows. And he mentioned something about working on a play. He also continues to research and create coats of arms for Spanish surnames — works of art in watercolor. This is his life in retirement.

When they asked what I was involved in, I just sputtered something about November being national novel writing month, and I'd be doing one of those.

It made me wince, as I realized how I really have no plans. Just a novel … to be written for fun ….

I just got on to the www.nanowrimo.org site and signed up. The website is perplexing and far from user-friendly. Besides, it is torturously sluggish to navigate the forums. I managed to get to the San Antonio section. Oh, sweet fuck! What a bunch of self-involved wankers! Can there be anything more horrendous than listening to a writer talk about his or her novel or screenplay? Perhaps being waterboarded at Guantanamo. Perhaps.

Yes, I understand that some of the members of the site are naive teens or Christian housewives abuzz with thoughts of finally getting around to that romance novel … but, really, people. Really.

And here I'd put a lengthy dissertation on the brilliant novel I plan to write in the month of November. But my snarky bitchery above would make me come across as a hypocritical blowhard.

As if I gave a flip.

On the website's forums it appears that genera writing is king for this crowd. This would be the literary equivalent to calling frozen dinners or sugar frosted breakfast cereals food. In point of fact, they are no such thing.

But I'm beginning to realize that such aesthetic snobbery may well place me in the pariah box.

And so, on to the self-promotion section. My November novel, “The Pariah Box,” is a taut medical legal thriller about an alcoholic attorney who comes to the aid of his ex-wife, a gerontologist, who is being investigated for the apparent mercy killing of several silent screen-era nonagenarian film stars.

Wait wait wait. No. What I really want to write is a sweeping tale of lust and betrayal in Oliver Cromwell's court, where, Lila, a virginal handmaiden, with a terrible secret, finds herself protecting the Earl of Manchester's wayward stableboy who holds the future of–

Whoa! Scratch that! It couldn't be clearer. The direction is, of course, science fiction. Here we go. The space cruiser Epsilon Fantastique has made a diversion to to an asteroid in the Bellatrix system to replenish it's stockpiles of inflatons needed to fuel the scalar field drive. And there the octogenarian crew fall afoul to the virginal handmaidens of the serpent overlord by the name of–

Ah, fuck it. I'll just play it by ear.

I spent a three day weekend at the Austin Film Festival. This yearly event is often eclipsed by South by Southwest. If my quickie “research” via Google can be trusted, the film component of SXSW began the same year as the AFF. 1994. What sets the AFF apart, is that it’s principally a screenwriter festival. Many of the panelists, attendees, and featured guests are not likely to be known by general moviegoers. However, they make it a point to have at least one big name to slap onto the promotional materials. This year it was Oliver Stone … noted for such stellar screenplays such as Conan the Barbarian and The Hand.

The best thing about the festival is that it’s headquartered in the 19th century Driscoll Hotel. The swankiest edifice on 6th Street. The entrance off 7th Street through the Driscoll Bar reminds you how grand and eccentric some Texans used to be, with one boot in a cow pie, and the other on an immaculate carpet of a Swiss bank. The millionaire shit-kicker is now little more than a guise the monstrously well-to-do put on for BBQ photo-ops. Our ranching barons and oil moguls have always flaunted their humble roots. In fact, Stanley Marcus, of Neiman-Marcus fame, demanded that all his employees treat every person with the same degree of polite deference — the woman in the blouse with the frayed cuffs might be their biggest customer who just came off the Lear Jet from her west Texas ranch. This disinclination of Texans to dress up just because they’re rich, is now endemic throughout this country. And so, in the 21st century, that guy entering the Driscoll Bar in torn jeans, sandals, and a flannel shirt worn open over a faded t-shirt bearing some cryptic logo, may well be a Hollywood power-broker just off the redeye from LAX — it could well be that he will close a seven figure deal before he checks out … or maybe he’s just some UT student bar-hopping on 6th Street who really needs to use the can. As Ricardo Montalban, in the role of Mr. Roarke, insisted of his underlings: “Smiles, everyone. Smiles!” ‘Cause, well, you never know.

The AFF isn’t for the squeamish. It’s too expensive for the squeamish. But this year (like the other time I visited, maybe four years ago), I rode on Pete’s coat-tails. This time around, he’d submitted a festival promo trailer. And he won. The festival folks presented him with a full festival pass. In fact, I believe, 4 festival passes. He gave me one. I could hardly say no.

So, we pushed our way into the Driscoll Bar last Friday a bit before noon. We stepped into the cozy gloom of dark wood, deep carpet, and ornately stamped brass-work on the ceiling. It’s a long space with the semi-circular bar near the doors, a few tables scattered about, and as you walk the length, you pass a grand piano with bar stools surrounding it, and then comes about a dozen huge leather and cowhide sofas, facing one another two by two with low tables between. Then you come to a huge wooden railing where the lobby opens up, and you find yourself looking into a large, airy space busy with immaculately dressed hotel employees and the greater crush of slovenly conventioneers.

We descended into the lobby and turned into a side room and signed in for the festival. (We didn’t register at the hotel — we’d rented a cheap motel a few miles away.)

I attended several panels. Presently, they are all merging together in my head. Maybe after a week or so, I’ll process it all. Separate the useful stuff from the gassy chin music. I also watched a few blocks of short films, as well as a couple of features. About half great, half awful.

I put in an appearance at some parties. Hit a few places for free eats. Pretty much a fun time.

It’s hard for me to chastise my San Antonio film colleagues for not showing. If I didn’t have the free all access Pete Barnstrom pass, I’d certainly not have gone. But, still, I saw some familiar faces.

Janet Vasquez was in line with a friend for a screening at the Hideout. I saw Konise Millender at a couple of panels. Russ Ansley and Dago Patlan were there Saturday with their film students from Harlandale high school — and they returned Sunday, with a second batch of students. Modrea Mitchell-Reichert was all over the place. She’s pretty serious about writing for the stage as well as film. Also, I kept bumping into Richard Dane Scott. He wrote the excellent script for Operation Hitman. Beyond his obvious talent, he’s working hard and in a methodical manner to reach the point where he can make a living working as a screenwriter. My money’s on Richard. Also, I saw Drew Mayer-Oakes on Saturday. We leafed through the schedule of screenings and exchanged notes on what we thought might be worth seeing. Tim Caswell dropped by to talk to Pete. It was great to see him again. Tim’s a filmmaker, but he also created The OUTer Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction / Fantasy Film Festival. I saw Lisa McWilliams of the Mobile Film School on Saturday and Sunday. I’m immensely enamored of the concept of the Mobile Film School, where a group of film professionals with the requisite equipment travel anywhere to provide an intense film class to under-served school districts. Where do I sign up? It doesn’t hurt that their first project — and keep in mind they were working with high school kids whose school had no film department — is winning and placing at festivals, and it damn well should: In a Place Like This as a slick and moving short documentary. I first met Lisa while helping to run the Josiah Youth Media Festival (where the MFS’s In a Place Like This won best of show). That’s also where I met Remington Dewan. At the AFF, I saw him all three days. His short film, First Day at the Firm (which won best narrative film at Josiah), was selected to play at the AFF. He took advantage of his festival pass, attending as many panels as he could manage. He’s still just a kid, and I forget this at times; but he reminds me when he begins to explain how he must schedule his shooting, editing, and festival time around his school work. He’s sure to be going places, and clearly he has a wonderful and supportive family.

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I had a couple quick sightings of Oliver Stone. He was wearing a white jacket, and were it not for his retinue of bootlicks, one might have been excused confusing him for a waiter. During one of his perambulations through the Driscoll lobby, I whipped out my camera. But he moved too fast for my puny attempts as paparazzo.

Of course, if I really gave a toss about the man, I’d have attended one of the events featuring him. (That sounds harsh. I will readily admit to being a fan of two or three of his films.)

My blurry photo of Ollie, of which I will spare my gentle readers, was snapped while I was hanging out with a contingent of instructors from two of San Antonio’s high school film programs.

Here we have Dago, inexplicably giving Konise what appears to be a Cub Scout salute. Russ looks on bemused (and no doubt damn glad to be out of the HISD panel truck he had driven all the way from San Antonio to Austin, packed with hormonal teens).

Some of the Harlandale kids are milling around in the back.

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The Sunday morning “Hair of the Dog Brunch” was held at Ranch 616, a low-key hipster eatery at the intersection of Nueces and 6th Street. It sports a pleasantly hideous snake sign design by the inimitable Bob “Daddy-O” Wade. I guess that sort of forced kitsch has worn thin on me. Instead of snapping a photo of Wade’s work, I took a picture of the other side of the building.

Sadly frog legs were not an option at the buffet-style brunch. But I will give thumbs-up to what they were serving. The papas rancheros and scrambled eggs were tasty enough, but once you ladled on the tomatillo salsa, it was well worth the hike out from the Driscoll.

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There are all sorts of alcoves, patios, and balconies throughout the Driscoll if you need to escape the surging conflux. And, let me tell you, the level of unabashed narcissism projected by screenwriters (the successful as well as the hopeful) was simply staggering.

Here’s a view off one of the Driscoll’s balconies, looking off toward one of the modern hotels patronized by rubes and the aesthetically clueless.

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The festival sprawled all over town. There were screenings at seven different venues. Some distant enough to necessitate free shuttle buses out from the Driscoll. Also, some of the panels were held across the street from the Driscoll at another swank downtown hotel, the Stephen F. Austin.

As me and Pete were walking past one of the small ballrooms of the SFA Hotel, which at that moment was not being used, Pete wandered inside. He started dicking around with the PA system. Apparently the microphones were still switched on. I entered and took a few action shots of him addressing the crowd on the topic of … um, perhaps it was “Expletives in Your Logline: Hindrance or Fucking Asset?”

The festival-goers didn’t know what they were missing.

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Over the weekend I received a call from my sister. She had been contacted by a fellow book dealer we had met at the Fort Worth Book Show. He was interested in one of my more pricey items.

I’ve sent it to him this afternoon on approval. If all goes well, I will find myself with a hefty windfall — one of those life-changing events that can happen to the impoverished when significant cash comes our way.

I’ll just have to wait and see.

And maybe some day those folks who run the 48 Hour Film thing will send me my payment for the work which generated my last ulcer. I mean, hey, it only seems fair.

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I’ve been listening to LastFM.com tonight. You type in a specific artist, and you can listen to a generated playlist of similar music. An hour ago I typed in Ed Hall. They were a great Texas post-punk band. Much of the music that has been playing off their name tonight has been from some of their label-mates off of the Trance Syndicate label. But I wasn’t prepared for the Bad Livers (a wonderful Texas bluegrass punk band) doing a great bluegrass rendition of Iggy Pop’s Lust For Life, with banjo and fiddle in lieu of a guitar solo … and yet it rocks! I really should go out and buy every damn Bad Livers CD!

Outside the wind is picking up. Autumn is on the way, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I feel robbed of a proper Texas summer because of the endless cool and wet weather. Oh, well. Best to embrace the coming season. No one likes a whiner. The heavy atypical rains have created a massive crop of pecans loading down the tree over my drive. And as the autumnal cool front pushes presumptuously into town, the pecan tree can’t help but to release some of the under-ripe pecans weighting down the branches. They’ve been clattering down all night onto the tin roof of my house, as well as onto the steel roof of my pickup truck.

My neighbors are aware of the coming holiday. They are festooning their homes from mailbox to satellite dish with strings of orange lights, fiber glass spider webs, and ginormous pumpkins not yet carved into the sorts of apocalyptic jack-o-lanterns certain to put to shame those lesser contraptions which will grace the stoops of lesser homes in lesser neighborhoods. I live in ground zero of San Antonio Halloween insanity. This is where the poor kids commute for the best candy and the best decorated homes. It’s crazy in the King William neighborhood during Halloween. And now that Cat, my Halloween friend, is married and living in another city far far away, I might have to refrain from the festivities.

But maybe not. I still have two weeks to decide.

Dar and I have returned to our weekly hikes. We got sidetracked by film events that we both became enmeshed in promoting. The other week it was up at McAllister Park, on her side of town. Wednesday it was the Mission Trail, down in my realm.

It’s a time to bitch and commiserate and generally gossip about the folks we both know (chiefly in the local film world). I think it’s finally sinking in. Dar’s realizing what a potential monster she created in the SAL Film Festival. Its hugely successful first year has set into motion high expectations for the next year. This also means that she has the opportunity to solicit more and larger donations. I hope that all of the emerging independent filmmakers in San Antonio understand that for Dar this is a labor of love. This endeavor (at least in its current incarnation) is far from a cash cow. She passed all the funding dollars into the cash prizes; and the ticket sales were used to pay for the venue — the very swanky Aztec don’t come cheap, but for all those who attended the event, there can be no dispute that it was the perfect place to showcase some of the finest San Antonio short films. And the thought that the sophomore year of SAL will be on a grander scale, with more and larger cash prizes, well, I can only hope that all of us in the San Antonio film community understand the full implication. This is a film festival for us, done right.

And as me and Dar were dodging the cyclists zipping by on the Mission Trail, it occurred to me that 2007 witnessed the birth of two crucial local film festivals. SAL and the Josiah Youth Media Festival. It’s rare to find small film festivals (especially in their early years) offering sizable cash prizes. These two festivals each provided prizes totaling a thousand dollars. And in their first year. (Actually, Josiah provided the “cash” in the form of lines of credit at B & H, the premiere online source of film and video supplies.) This is significant. For those with a working knowledge of how film festivals work (and there are literally hundreds in this country alone), it’s clear why so many don’t offer cash prizes. Film festivals are damn expensive to run. And most of them pay staff. But to see tiny operations like SAL and Josiah manage to reward struggling artists with the most useful form of recognition — money — is a remarkable thing. What I’m getting at is that film festivals are often crass moneymaking operations that prey upon desperate filmmakers, who often pony up festival fee after festival fee in hope of exposure. Rarely are their films even deemed worthy enough to screen in the festival. But SAL charges no submission fee. And Josiah only charges 5 bucks. I’m proud to have been involved, in some degree or another, with both of these festivals.

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I met with Michael Druck that Wednesday afternoon at Jupiter Java and Jazz, on S. Alamo, pretty much in my neighborhood. The coffee there is phenomenal. I had a truly kickass latte, constructed by co-owner Vanessa. She and her husband John were gracious enough not to kick us out. As me and Druck were leaving, I realized we’d stayed there an hour after closing. John dismissed my apologies. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m still cleaning up.”

The reason I was meeting with Druck was that he was soliciting feedback concerning the feature he and Bryan Ortiz produced, Doctor “S” Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies. I was a bit uncomfortable giving critical feedback. I knew that Bryan was still working on adding to the edit, especially the audio. I’ve seen three of Bryan’s short films, and I felt fairly confident on what elements he would fix. I made a few suggestions to Michael. Ultimately I think the piece has the potential to find distribution through the avenues that Michael and Bryan have already considered … such as Troma Entertainment. It’s good to see that they are sticking with things. Michael is the guy you want on your team. Bryan is very lucky to have him as a producer. Not that I want to diminish Bryan as a filmmaker. He might be very young (as is Michael), but his understanding of visual story-telling is quite advanced.

I expect only success after success from Bryan and Michael’s Film Classics Productions. I only hope that once they finish this corny, campy feature, that they stop doing what I refer to as “intentionally bad” films. As a director/producer team, they are better than that. Mark my words, seven years from now they’ll both be lounging in their Malibu mansions while I’m hustling drinks with Three-card Monte in a seedy suburb of Saltillo.

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Last Tuesday night I attended the San Antonio Film Commission’s Film Forum. It’s a monthly affair. Last year it was held in the summer. But this year, it started late, in August. I really hope Drew manages to keep it running year round.

This October forum was all about audio in film. Great. We need as much info as possible. Too many zero-budget films have miserable sound.

The panel, moderated by Nikki Young of PrimaDonna Productions, included Frederico Chavez-Blanco, Roland Perez, Gerard Bustos, AJ Garces, and Rodolfo Fernandez. I only knew the last two gents, so it was a great opportunity to listen to some new voices.

Much of what was covered I already knew. Gerard had some useful and pragmatic information. He seemed to be a well-rounded generalist. He’s a camera guy as well as a sound guy. He cleared up a couple of misconceptions I had.

However there was a bit more hot air than I would have cared for as these experts in a narrow field of production began to pontificate. It’s hard to hold it against them. They were just geeking out to an audience who had a fighting chance of understanding their arcane lingo. But there was way too much chatter about preferred hardware and software, and not enough explication on the methods to get the best audio with the tools you already have. This sort of equipment fetishism wastes everyone’s time.

Also, I would have liked to hear more information about Foley work and ADR.

But, really, it was great having a panel of five sound specialists talk for an hour and a half.

The attendance could have been better. But it was nice to see Scott Greenberg. I don’t think I’ve seen him in a year. Also, Kevin Williams was there — Rodolfo handled all the sound work on his feature film, Sandwich. And Hector Machado, one of this city’s great actors, showed up. As did the beautiful and brilliant Laura Evans. Sometimes I think that our actors are more interested in the local film scene than our filmmakers.

I should point out that Rick Lopez and Russ Ansley were in the audience. Chadd Green, of PrimaDonna, was running the front of the house. And Lee Hurtado was al over the place, getting photos of the event. There were probably a couple of folks I forgot. And then there was the scattering of folks I didn’t know. But where were the three or four dozen San Antonio filmmakers who I do know of?

Guys … you gotta get out and meet one another.

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My little Guenther Street house is partitioned into three apartments. The property manager is obviously asking way too much, because the other two places had been empty for months. However, recently, one has been rented. The smallest, though, is still waiting, lonely and unloved. I feel the pain. But I wonder if the woman who rented the apartment on the north side of my building, scant weeks ago, is still enamored of the apartment she once called charming. She had gone to considerable length to assemble a canvas-topped gazebo at the end of the long driveway we both share. Last week, when I returned from a long day working for the Company, I nosed my truck into the drive. I noticed that what had previously served as a dense bamboo privacy fence between the rear or my house and the rear of the house on the next street over had been savagely eradicated. A once lovely lush green wall was now a naked hurricane fence — just wires and poles — looking into a lifeless backyard of a paint-chipped bungalow … obviously recently bought and in the midst of renovation before the big investment resale.

I guess I’ll one day get used to this. But what most irritated me was that I had written a short story where that stand of bamboo was an important plot point. There was supposed to be a wonderful garden of loquat trees and ferns and a fucking swimming pool hidden behind the wall of bamboo. But all I see now is a sad little backyard with a refrigerator on its side and a cracked and lopsided birdbath.

One of the great problems of augmenting the world around you into a fictionalized form, is that reality will be proved to be so slight and anemic, whereas imagination will offer color and grandeur. Of course the exceptions occasionally present themselves, and a real life event unfolds that could never have been imagined … such as Klaus Nomi, quantum gravity, and the Monte Cristo sandwich.

I believe the acme of social decadence is when a deep fried sandwich is universally embraced.

You must fight the down-turn of society. Do not fry that sandwich!

My sister was wondering if we should attend the Fort Worth Book Show (in our alternate guise of the Aldredge Book Store (actually, she’s been the one continuing the family business as an on-line entity, and I’m just occasional back-up)). I hemmed and hawed, putting things off until the last minute. I finally said, yes. Hauling inventory to a trade show can be a major pain, and I knew she’d not do it if I didn’t agree to help out. We both are (perennially) strapped for cash, so we decided to gamble.

I drove up Friday morning. Probably I should have contacted the friends I still have (or hope I still have) in Dallas, to arrange some quality time. But I’ve not been feeling very sociable lately. Nonetheless, I loaded up about 125 “collectable” books (chiefly on Texas history) and pointed my Ford F-150 north — I entered the Interstate flow of drunken jackasses who were headed to the Texas / OU Weekend. For those who aren’t cognizant of the north Texas folkways, the Texas / OU Weekend is when two college football teams (University of Texas, in Austin, and the University of Oklahoma, in Norman), along with boozy boosters from these two worthless institutions, descend upon Dallas, a neutral town which lies at the midpoint between the two campuses. They play their big yearly game in the Cotton Bowl during the State Fair of Texas. Dallasites, throughout the generations, have hunkered down, shuttered themselves inside, and, like Kansas farmers waiting out a tornado or a locust swarm in the deepest recesses of their root cellars, would only cautiously emerge on Sunday morning to assess the damage, count up the dead and the outrages committed against their young’uns foolish enough to be abroad during the spirited and unfocused bacchanal. What a way to pimp a city. The local news outlets play it up all fiscally fluorescent with the smiley faces wearing dollar signs for eyes by gushing that this pestilence generates over 17 million dollars into the local economy. Lovely. Thumbs up for the sports industrial complex — a big foam thumb.

Add Columbus Day to the mix to provided a three day weekend, and was it any wonder that on my morning drive to Dallas, I had to navigate three major accidents? It did make the drive entertaining. There were some very creative lane-changing strategies involving staccato horn-blasts and extended digits.

I’m not so irrational as to propose extermination for sports fans. That’s just nuts. But I do feel a certain affinity with British 19th century jurisprudence. They managed their social undesirables via “transportation.” Australia’s fairly well settled. And the Moon and Mars is still a bit in the future. One day … ah, one day. Currently, Antarctica seems the perfect place. Just set up a guacamole and beer pipeline along the sea floor of the Drake Passage, and make sure that a stable satellite feed of ESPN can be secured year-round to the plasma TVs of the dormitory Quonset huts at Faraday Station. And they can probably do something useful as they sit there watching their sports. Perhaps manufacturing tube socks. Or maybe spell-checking transcripts of congressional hearings. Probably they can never be made whole enough to enter into the complex society of the 21st century. But they can still provide a service, even if it is meager.

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An Antiquarian Book Show (or, Book Fair, as they might say back East) is far from the snooty affair one might imagine. Especially in Texas. Some of our bibliophiles hail from regions such as Balch Springs and White Settlement where the citizens have only recently learned to walk erect, or so my sources insist. But we welcome their custom and commerce, as well as the inbred older-monied folks from the magnolia ghettos of the 75205 postal code within Dallas County. As for the book dealers, all we need is enough to rent a table on which to display our choicest items. Hardly the recipe for elitism.

The sad fact is that the antiquarian book market is just shy of flat-lining. In the good old days, it was unheard to not cover your overheard for the show. But now, we’re all gambling. You’re just as likely to make a profit as to incur a loss.

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For the last decade or so, the Fort Worth Book Show has been held in the wonderful deco-styled Will Rogers Complex. This charming architectural gem was built for the Texas Centennial in 1936. (The State Fair grounds in Dallas, a similarly deco-styled project on a much more massive scale, was also created to help celebrate the state’s centennial.)

During a lull at the book show, I strolled around the grounds. This is where they celebrate the annual Southwestern Exposition and Livestock Show — formerly the Texas Fat Stock Show. The Fort Worth fat stock show isn’t until January, but there was still a critter-related event: they were having a miniature horse show just across a side street in one of the livestock buildings. These are huge buildings with pens for cattle, sheep, and swine. I missed out on those little horses. But, over in Cattle Barn #1, the weekly flea market was in progress. Treasures amide the manure.

Next I headed over to the Will Rogers Auditorium. Well, actually it’s three attached buildings: the Will Rogers Auditorium, Coliseum, and Pioneer Tower. The tower is in the middle and is visible for miles around.

There was nothing going on inside these buildings, but I tried the door into the tower building. Surprisingly, it opened. I’d forgotten how laid back it is in Fort Worth. I wandered around and snapped some pictures.

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By the second (and final) day of the book show, it was clear that we would do okay, but nothing to get too excited about. Too bad. Both me and Paula had each brought a personal prize book, because we need money more than we need books, no matter how personally valuable they might be. Neither book sold. A mixed blessing, I guess.

Here are two of my favorite book-dealers, Dennis and Dennis of First Folio in Paris, Tennessee.

It was nice to see many of these people from my previous life in the book business. But the ranks are thinning every year. Back in April of this year we lost Tom Munnerlyn, a respected and beloved fellow bookman. It’s really the passing of an era.

I received an email from Gemini Ink. I was turned down for the novel writing class. Wasn’t there something similar I was grousing about in the past on the blog? You know — the grand ignominy where they don’t even want your money. That’s rejection with teeth. “Screw you, your writing, and your money!”

Pardon me while I go crawl back beneath the rock from whence I emerged.

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Tuesday I left work a bit early to gather up all that I would need for the Brauchle Art Walk. It’s the second time I’ve been conscripted into this annual event. My next door neighbor, Dina Toland, teaches at Brauchle Elementary (which I just recently learned is pronounced just like the veggie). I was to represent the video arts, I assume. Last year I was stuck in the media room. Which was okay. There was a video projector and some speakers. But because I kept the lights low, the curious kids and their parents were few — scared off, I assume, by the creepy guy in the darkened room. The woman doing the macaroni arts demonstrations in the (very well lit hall) was getting mobbed. Mobbed! Maybe if I were more of the carney barker type, I could have coaxed the crowds inside. I’m not. This year I found I was in the same room. Actually I was prepared to have a little table in the hall or maybe in the cafetorium. But, nope. I was back in the media room.

Last time I ran a couple of movies of mine off my camcorder and patched the video signal into the projector and the audio signal into some speakers. And after half an hour of low attendance, I snaked an auxiliary video line into my field monitor and set it closer to the door so it could be seen from the hall. That helped a bit. But this time around, I found myself with a new set of speakers. There seemed no way I could get the audio out line from the DVD deck I had brought to fit into the speakers. If I could just unlock the computer that the projector was plugged into, it’d be fine. But it was a no-go. I pawed through the audio equipment case I’d brought. There seemed to be no arrangement of cables which could …. But wait! Using my wireless lavaliere microphone’s transmitter and receiver boxes and the mini to RCA cable (which I use to patch my iPod into my stereo), I cannily MacGyvered a robust audio signal into the media room’s speaker system. As long as my stale 9 volt batteries had a trickle of juice, I’d be sitting pretty.

And then it occurred to me that, other than the computer connected to the video projector, all the other computers in the room seemed to be unlocked. Seeing as I had five different movies on DVDs, I allowed one to play on the projector, and I loaded a row of four computers with the other movies — they all played the DVDs just fine. These computers were on an island in the middle of the room, and they faced the door. Why stop there? Against the far wall was a line of ten computers. I discovered that they all had access to the internet. I began opening browsers. The two machines on the ends and the one in the middle I set to my website (which I really should update). With the other seven computers, I surfed over to seven different short films I have posted online, and I set them to play.

And that’s pretty much how I spent the two hours. Greeting the few kids and parents who ventured in, and restarting any one of my 12 shorts when it ended.

I did take a few breaks to check things out. I was very impressed by a pencil vending machine in the cafetorium. Twenty-five cents seemed a bit excessive, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to have one.

Dina had roped in not just her neighbor Erik, but also two other artists on our block. Marlys Dietrick, who’s been getting so much attention this year with her art work, was set up beside another neighbor, Carlos Cortez. Carlos’ Faux Bois creations are a major element to San Antonio’s cultural identity.

I snapped a shot of Marlys talking to some art fans.

When she saw me, she told me that she had discovered my blog. I suggested that maybe, just maybe, she had been Googling herself. She saw no shame there and freely admitted to it.

Carlos’ wife, Hope Cortez, seemed intrigued. I admitted that I blog about all the people on my block. In fact I’d no doubt blogged about her. She gave that some thought, I could tell she wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

I made a point to snap her picture. And a few minutes later, her husband, Carlos.

And then I took some random shots of the artists and such.

As I headed back to the media room, Hope followed with her two teen kids. Hope sat down and started my short “I Do Adore Cream Corn” on one of the computers. She put on the headphones. Her daughter sat down and did the same for the “Treasure of the Perro Diablo.” Her son sat down and started “Figments,” the last film I’d suggest for a boy of his age. It’s not strictly “for mature audiences,” but it is about a business man’s existential dilemma.

As they were plugged in, one of the teachers who was helping out with the event came by and gave me a little swag bag with a Brauchle Cougars Frisbee, a thank-you card, some event-specific note cards, a little bag with a pencil and a cookie and some candy, and all this was in a mini tote bag that appears to be hand-embellished with a spray-painted cougar. Also, I was given a bottle of water and a plastic cup filled with little pretzels, those melba toast chips, and candy corn. Who would have thought candy corn would marry so well with the salty, starchy snacks?

Even if I didn’t get big crowds in my room, this doesn’t mean the general attendance was low. There were hundreds of people.

It was a very nice experience. And if last year is any indication, I can expect a 50 dollar check in a couple of weeks.

And now, as I sit here writing this, I referred to the “event map” to make sure I’m spelling my neighbors’ names correctly, my eye wanders over to the upper right corner. What’s this!? Over on the other side of the building — perhaps outside — I see this. “Drama with Joel Settles.” Damn! I’ve become I big fan of Joel, mainly through his work with Comedia A Go-Go. Wish I had know. I’d have stopped by to see him do his thing.

Saturday I attended the Adelante Film Forum, put on by the local chapter of NALIP (the National Association of Latino Independent Producers). Actually, it was pretty much single-handedly coordinated by Dora Pena. There had been a series of restructuring within the local chapter, and, when the dust settled, it looked like the Adelante might not happen this year. Dora decided to present us with a smaller, more scaled down version. She did a wonderful job.

The event was held at Gemini Ink. We started off with an opening address by Drew Mayer-Oakes. And then Dora introduced Mary Lampe, the Executive Director of SWAMP (the Southwest Alternative Media Project). I’d heard Mary give her basic spiel about getting funding through fiscal sponsorship at least twice before. But I find her enthusiasm and general optimism about film projects to instill a sort of mental health when I feel that movie-making is a no-win situation, or, as AJ Garces might put it, a black hole

During our lunch break, we had Kiko Martinez of the San Antonio Current as a speaker. He gave us hints on dealing with the media. When I first met Kiko, it was during the Josiah Youth Media Festival. He walked up to me on the day of the student workshops. I thought he was one of the teen filmmakers. But, Saturday, as I listened to him spin tales of a jaded journalist, I knew I’d never see his youthful face quite the same again. I enjoyed his candor and sense of humor. Also the lunch was pretty good. Mad Hatters catered, and they make some mean sandwiches.

Next we had Rosalinda Morales, LA casting director. She seems to know everyone. She had some useful comments about the value of placing a name actor in your film. Even if it’s a telenovela star who might be unknown to non-Spanish-speaking Americans. The potential for foreign sales will become significant.

After the Adelante I headed to Urban-15 for the Manhattan Short Film Festival. Herman Lira was coordinating the event. Before the door opened for the public, I sat in the performance space with the other volunteers — mainly kids from the Harlandale high school’s film program. We were given assignments on what we all would be doing during the evening. When my name wasn’t mentioned, I later asked George what I was supposed to do.

“You’re back up,” he said, looking surprised. I guess I should have known.

Amanda, visiting from her student life in San Marcos, had come down to act as Mistress of Ceremonies. She sported a short hairdo that a certain Miss N. Young might gushingly denominate as “sassy.” But, all of us Amanda Silva fans, always find her adorable, no matter how cute her coif might be. Here’s a shot of her next to René, Urban-15’s office manager.

We managed to draw a pretty good-sized crowd. Maybe 75 people. I hung out in the lobby talking with Cat and George. And I also took a spin through the courtyard that Hector and Rosendo had cleaned up for the intermission which would feature George’s signature aguas frescas. There were tiki torches and crisscrossing white Christmas lights. It had been raining earlier, but now the skies were clear and the breeze cool.

And when the crowd came out to take a breather and help themselves to refreshments, it brought memories of the first time I had ever been to Urban-15. My friend Michelle, who dances with their troupe, invited me to the Urban-15 anniversary party. That was probably 3 years ago. The courtyard was filled with lights and people and drinks and tacos. It was a warm, gracious, neighborhood event. And things haven’t changed. The events are just coming more frequently.

I headed into the performance space to watch the second half. I had already seen the first half as a sneak preview. I headed up to the third floor. This is where the choir loft used to be back when the building was a church. George and Cat had turned these rooms (which have windows which over-look the screening space) into balconies. I walked into a room with five chairs. Because the chairs on the floor below hadn’t yet been filled, these sky boxes were kept for the Urban-15 folks and their volunteers. It was a great place to see movies. Maybe one day they’ll install the wet bar and fondu station.

As a volunteer, I had the same rights as the paying public. I could vote on my favorite film. I chose a piece from Spain called “The Prestidigitator.” It possessed a wonderful combination of innocence and cynicism. The pacing and structure was impeccable. Acting, perfect. The lighting, sublime. And the camera work was flawless. There was some jib work that just flowed with an organic naturalness. There were places where I would have demanded a close-up insert shot, but the filmmaker never felt it necessary. And he was right.

Herman called me a couple of days later to tell me that the San Antonio winner was, I believe, either “I Want to be a Pilot,” or “Boris’s Complete Book of Rules.” The first place winner from all cities — all the venues around the globe where this contest / festival screened — was “One Hundredth of a Second.” I didn’t see this one all the way through. It was playing while I was checking the projection and sound equipment earlier in the week. I never made it a point to sit down and watch it with a critical eye because it struck me as profoundly manipulative, with a soulless, two-dimensional protagonist. But I guess people were moved by the exquisite cinematography and the gritty subject matter of photojournalism in war-torn regions.

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Sunday, I returned to the Adelante.

We began the day with Kat Chandler. I know Kat from her blog on the Storie Productions site.

Last year (or was it the year before?), I attended an event where Stacy Schoolfield talked about the feature film, “Jumping Off Bridge,” produced by her and Kat Chandler.

I was so beguiled by Stacy’s warmth and honestly that I navigated to the website of Storie Productions that very night. And ever since, I have been an avid subscriber to Stacy’s blog. Normally, I would only skimmed Kat’s. They both can be found on the Storie Production website. Stacy has a way of writing that can just break your heart. She talks about her work with homeless shelters, or perhaps her rescue animals, or maybe just hanging out with her daughter — and the writing is just so emotionally unguarded, but devoid of mawkishness. There is no way one can write in that manner without it coming straight out of the bones. Whatever it is she writes about — whether it’s her daughter going off to college or some bit about a dying bat on her downtown Austin jogging path — it’s all just perfect … and profoundly moving.

But now that I’ve heard Kat Chandler give her talk about low-budget independent filmmaking, I have her voice in my head, and I can now read her blog entries with a new sensibility. And don’t think I won’t. When Kat was up there telling you what you need to know (even if you didn’t know you needed to know it), it’s like coming out of the amnesia and realizing your are in the presence of your very best friend … whom you’ve forgotten for way too long.

After Kat, we had Mike Tolleson. He’s not near so charming as Kat Chandler (sorry, man), but he reminded me that I really need to be thinking seriously of the bigger picture if I really want to be a filmmaker. Business structure, CPAs, contracts, and all that soulless and horrendously expensive stuff that is the business side of show business.

What a mess….

It was killer weekend for film events in San Antonio.

Friday there was a screening of one of my favorite movies, Bajo California: El Límite del Tiempo, with the writer/director, Carlos Bolado, in attendance. I only found out about this Thursday. It was at the Instituto Cultural de Mexico in the Hemisfair complex. (If you can track this down, watch it. Film as art is such a rare commodity, and sadly it is so often found to be created by non-American filmmakers.)

I had to forgo meeting Carlos Bolado. I had the San Antonio Local Film Festival on my calendar since its very inception.

I’ll get to SAL in a moment.

But to continue the litany of film stuff … there was also the Manhattan Shorts Film Festival. It had its kick-off Friday night over at Urban-15. There were screenings Saturday night. Also, Sunday afternoon.

Also, there was the Adelante Film Forum, put on by the San Antonio chapter of NALIP (the National Association of Latino Independent Producers) — a two day series of workshops. I signed up.

And, as a part of the Adelante, there was a screening of Jumping Off Bridges, by Kat Chandler and Stacy Schoolfield. Saturday night at El Tropicano Hotel. I’ve been wanting to see Stacy and Kat’s movie for over a year, but I keep missing the opportunities — this time around I had agreed to volunteer at the Manhattan Shorts screening that night.

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I got off work a bit early so I could get to the Aztec Theater to help out for SAL. Again, I opted to take the bus. It’s very convenient. I’m four blocks from the bus stop, and the bus drops me off two blocks from the Aztec. And even though I think the new bus price of a dollar is outrageous, it’s the way to go. No expensive parking garage. No circling block after block, hoping for a meter (free after 6 pm). Just a little bas ride.

Dar showed up a bit after me. A few of her other volunteers were milling about, waiting for her to park her car.

Soon the complimentary beer and wine arrived. A keg of beer, and loads of wine bottles. As the volunteers were given their assignments — box office, refreshments, ushers, photogs, and such — I took to my role as the liaison to the projection booth. There were three DVDs I needed to make sure to get up to the guys working the tech up in the booth. Brant Bumpers had an extended version of his Heinz promo spec commercial. Brant showed up just a few minutes after me. I put the DVD into my pocket and looked around for either Bryan or Michael. We still didn’t have a copy of the post-SAL feature, Dr. “S” Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies. When Michael finally arrived, he leaned down and whispered into my ear, “Bryan’s at home burning the DVD — he’s three-quarters done.” And then Michael lifted his eyes and spied, I dunno, the San Antonio equivalent of Swoosie Kurtz. “Sweetheart! I haven’t seen you in AGES!” And I’m left staring at my empty hands. And then there was Pete. His doubly-accepted film fest promo hadn’t worked on the Aztec’s system. I asked Dar. She told me he was bringing a newly burned DVD. I called up Pete. “Yeah, we’re just about to leave. Is there any food there?” he asked. I explained there was just beer and wine. But it was free. I guess he and Lisa had fled when the babysitter arrived, and hadn’t yet had dinner. Dar came up and said I needed to see the award. She’s already told me about it. She had an artist friend, Albert Rivera, who works in metal design the piece. Shaped like a laurel leaf crown, but made out of prickly pear cactus.

The problem is, Dar couldn’t find it. We checked under the beverage table. Looked in the box office booth. Finally she realized it must still be in her car, and off she went (no doubt glad to escape, even for just a few minutes, from all the demands of volunteers, Aztec employees, well-wishing audience members who had begun appearing, and a few members of the press.

I went into the theater proper to see if Andy Miller and Erin Zayko were okay with the arrangements. They were the MCs of the event. Andy had a stack of note cards, and he wondered if there would be enough ambient light to refer to his notes. There would be a spot light hitting him, and it might be hard to read. He seemed unfazed and said he’d just make a point to memorize his notes.

Back downstairs, I saw Lisa. She said Pete was parking the car. I took the DVD and headed up to the projection booth. If there is one complaint I have about the Aztec, it’s that trying to get the attention of the folks inside the projection booth is a real pain. It’s a big, split-level space inside there. And I found myself having to hammer pretty loud to get them to unlock and let me in.

But we began on time. Dar had some preliminary bits screening while the house lights were still up. A sponsor’s promo. It was followed by Carlos’ music video. And then Pete’s SAL promo trailer. I did a quick and dirty head count and came to about 150. The theater holds about 485, I began to worry for Dar. She needed more paying patrons to cover the cost of the venue. Hopefully more people were still coming in.

And then the show began. Andy and Erin gave some basic introductory remarks. Andy then motioned to the guys up in the booth to begin the screening. Sam Lerma’s SAL promo, They’ll Suck You Dry, was supposed to play with the lights down. But the house lights remained up. I did my best to set things straight, but it took awhile. But by the time the first short film began, Bryan Ramirez’s excellent narrative, Nunca Sabes, things were as they should be.

And as I have seen Nunca Sabes four or five times already, I headed down to the lobby to see what was going on.

Bryan Ortiz showed up, bleary-eyed from four days of sleepless editing, with his newest cut of Dr. S, fresh from his DVD burner. Here is a shot of Dar, Bryan, and Druck — the Mistress of SAL, standing beside the brains behind Film Classics Productions, a very winning combination Friday night.

But it wasn’t just Bryan. Other people were still coming in. At some point, the volunteers had to start turning people away. That means there was almost 500 people! Very fucking impressive. I say that from my position of a novice impresario.

Great job, Dar!!

I could give a write up about the films, but it’s late. Maybe some other time.

At the intermission, I took the DVD of Dr. S up to the projection booth. And on my way back down, I saw someone I knew. I stopped to chat. At a lull, I heard, from behind me, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bosse.” I turned around to see filmmaker Jessica Torres. She was seated with three other members of the iChingoa team from the 48 Hour Film Project. The young woman seated beside her made some mention that I had attributed someone else’s name to her on one of my blog entries. I apologized and made sure to get her name in writing. She was Sarai Rodiguez. Of course! You’ll remember her from the short film, Trick or Tweet. You know, where she plays the witchy girl whose witchy mom turns her beau into a little chicken. Sorry about that, Sarai.

When Dr. S began, the audience responded very favorably. I only wish someone would have grabbed the microphone before the lights went down and ask if all the zombies in attendance would please stand. There were loads of actors (not to mention “actors”) playing zombies in Bryan’s movie. And I only saw two people show up in zombie make-up.

I eschewed the invites to an after party or two. I had to get up early for day one of the Adelante Film Forum.

Pete and Lisa Barnstrom were kind enough to drive me home. Here’s Pete slowing down just enough to allow me to hop into the passenger seat as he fended off the paparazzi.

A very successful evening.

I didn’t have to work today. Ah, yes. I remember this sweet freedom. Work, it’s really for rubes. Really.

I met Dar at the Aztec Theater. She was there with Adam, a volunteer who is helping to promote the SAL Film Festival. We were waiting on Bryan and Druck. They were going to play a rough edit of Dr. S on the Aztec’s system. One of the managers of the Aztec took us into the theater proper. I wasn’t aware that you could enter from the ground floor of the lobby. The only other time I had been to the Aztec (during the San Antonio Underground Film Festival), the audience entered from the mezzanine level. I thought the lower part was sealed off. But no. This is where the the organ sits, as well as all sorts of kitschy faux Aztec details, such as a gigantic circular meso american calendar which hangs over some sort of alter or something. I gather dry ice fog, or something along those lines, comes out of the floor. I can dig it.

When Bryan and Druck showed up, we went into the projection booth. All the Aztec crew were wonderful.

I got to see about three quarters of Doctor “S” Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies. It’s still a very rough cut. I was glad to see it. Filmmakers are rarely privileged to see their colleagues works in such raw states. It’s a shame, really. I learned a lot watching Bryan’s early edit. I consider him to be a very accomplished and wildly talented filmmaker. And I was able to glean an idea as to how he shoots, edits, and plans out his work.

There is still shit loads of work to be done. But I’m convinced Bryan will get it all done. I just can’t see that he’ll have any time to sleep. It’s damn impressive to push a feature through post production at this rate. But it’s shaping up very well. Funny, quirky, and damn stylish. Even if you are a zombie film bigot, such as myself, there is one comically gory scene that will have you choking on your Good & Plenty, but in a good way.

It’s shaping up into a wonderful event. I’ve been listening to Dar talk about this thing for quite awhile. A year at least. I am so proud of what she has been able to do, practically all on her own.

And for all you assholes who are thinking about NOT showing up, I feel someone should remind you: free beer and wine.

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The San Antonio Public Library (my branch, at least) no longer stamps their books. They give you a printed receipt, just like at the 7-11. I don’t care for this. What’s the problem? The price of ink pads are skyrocketing or something? So, I checked out three books. And tucked in one of them was a receipt that, when you read the fine print, would tell you when it was due.

I had to go downtown and pay $3.50 for overdue books. What a racket.

However, I decided to take my camera in and shoot a few snaps of the Chihuly sculpture. I’m not really a big fan of Dale Chihuly, but I always smile when I see his work — especially these sorts of larger installations.

I love almost everything about the downtown San Antonio public library. The playful postmodern architecture, the garish color scheme (referred to by the locals as the “enchilada building”), the meandering water sculpture, the grand central enclosed atrium, the upward flowing Chachuly piece — now if they could just allocate some funds for books and media.

(Click on the tumbnails for bigger images.)

I checked out three DVDs. This afternoon I watched one of them. Robert Anton Wilson: Maybe Logic. It’s a series of interviews with Wilson, interspersed with some of his lectures, as well as bits with his colleagues and friends. It was finished in, I believe, 2002. Many of the clips were of Wilson very infirmed, as his post polio syndrome began to lay him low — yet he never slipped into pessimism or self pity. It’s a bittersweet portrait of a major counter cultural icon.

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Late in the afternoon I printed up eleven copies of a two page prose piece and headed off to the monthly Gemini Ink free writers work shop. This is the second months that we’ve had so many attendees that we had to break up into two groups.

Jim, who runs the workshops, decided to break the group in half by pointing to those who were seated at the right side of the crowded table. We were to go into another room, and share our work there. One of us was selected as the facilitator. I was okay with that, because Michael was in my group, and he’s one of my favorite writers who shows up at these things. The only other writer I was looking forward to seeing was Elizabeth. I’d heard her read once before. She’s working on a book which if it isn’t strictly speaking a young adult novel does indeed involve an adolescent as the central protagonist. But most important, she has a strong voice. Yes, she’s a very good writer, but there’s a lot of good writers out there. A clear, distinctive voice, however, is a rare thing indeed. She’s got that. But she wasn’t at the table.

We moved to the other room and rearranged the chairs and set up a table. There were seven of us. And like most of these events it was a mixed bag of good, bad, and indifferent. Michael read a poem which is embedded in one of his huge, brilliant unpublished novels. But I didn’t much care for it. It was a bit too technical. But a surprise was this guy who had never before attended. He read from a work in progress — essay, short story, novel? He’s not yet sure. I wish I had got his name. He’s an older guy. Maybe in his early sixties. Damn good writing. Damn good reading.

When we were heading out, I noticed that Elizabeth was sitting in the other room. I guess she came late. I waited around (the other group was larger than ours, and they ended a bit later).

I asked if she would give me a copy of what she had brought to read. She handed me a copy. And she asked for a copy of what I had read. We chatted for a while, and then headed out.

For those who are curious, I wimped out this time around. I started two stories which fit within my “fictional blog” cycle, but they really were sucking. So, I followed a path of lesser resistance. I turned to an old email (which, actually, was printed in this blog almost a year ago in a somewhat different fashion). With a few slight augmentations, I printed it up and read it to my group.

Below the break is that version.

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Michelangelo Antonioni is Dead by Erik Bosse

Some of my clearest memories of my teen years were those spent in a darkened repertory cinema in walking distance from my home. There awaited me foreign films unlike anything that made it to my TV set. I’d drag my friends along, but they rarely accepted my invitations twice. They fidgeted in their seats as though they were waiting on the dentist. What they found tedious, I found thrilling.

Some of the devices that seem to have irked them were, in fact, simply innovative camera work. Such as a couple sitting at a cafe where the camera never leaves the tight shot of a cup of coffee as the dialogue unfolds. Ah, the economy of the visual language! Or, the opposite, where the characters engage in animated conversations about art or philosophy while moving quickly down the sidewalk, puffing aggressively on cigarettes. The camera rushes to keep up. The scene is disjointed with frantic jump cuts. Such energy and passion! Sadly, my friends yearned for stories of gigantic, ravenous sharks, or, even better, robots from a galaxy far, far away.

Why, I wondered, couldn’t they generate the same enthusiasm for a story about, say, a middle aged Italian man who paces in a hotel room, immaculate in slacks and a white shirt with tie? He flails about with a lit cigarette, hectoring an eighteen year old sex-pot wearing pajamas and sitting on the bed with her arms crossed in silent and accusing petulance. The man is probably wearing sunglasses, and he often stops in his tirade to momentarily preen in the hotel mirror. He will begin spanking the girl any minute now, but only after the camera has drifted its attention to the pigeon pecking about on the window ledge.

It was all sweet eye-candy to me. How about a picnic with young people? They are the slumming bourgeoisie, and are dressed accordingly: no suit coats or hats, ties loosened, cuffs unbuttoned. Women wear dresses and are barefoot — or maybe they have on tight black toreador pants and rumpled blouses. Turtlenecks and berets are always allowed. Cigarettes are items to hide behind, never enjoyed. Picnics must have wine and long loaves of crusty bread. Cheese and fresh fruit are allowable options.

Montages are the very life blood of these movies, and they can use any of the items already mentioned. Coffee, cigarettes, wine, etc. If there are quick shots of nature, the stamp of the modern industrial world should always be present: sparrows wash themselves in water pooled in a rut caused by a car tire; butterflies nose around the blossoms of a pear tree as a passenger plane roars across the sky; a field of barley undulates in the breeze, and the camera dollies left to reveal the mud-splattered Citroen, its rear bumper jacked up — a grimly petulant eighteen year old girl in tight black toreador pants changes a flat tire as her forty-year-old boyfriend leans against the front bumper sipping a cappuccino while in the back-seat the girl’s younger, effete brother lounges with his feet out the window while he smokes a cigarette and reads Balzac.

A misspent youth watching all these films invariably carves out a little realm in the brain where simulated versions of Truffaut, Antonioni, or Fellini can be cobbled together in real time in the mind’s own repertory cinema.

I fancy I can conjure up a short one right now.

We open with a tight shot of a masculine hand reaching across the cafe table to brush a fly off a pastry on a plate. Extreme close up of a single tear rolling down a young woman’s face. Oblique angle up at a church clock tower. Slow pan of birds splashing around in a fountain in the public square. Extremely tight shot of a masculine finger stroking the cigarette pack placed aside the pastry plate. Full shot in profile of a waiter at the back door of a cafe enjoying a cigarette — he’s deep in the shadows thrown by an adjacent building, but when he exhales, the smoke hits the sunlight as pure white. Wide low shot of the parish priest riding on his bicycle — he bounces over the cobblestones of the square and he rolls to a gentle stop beside two men sitting at a table near a fruit stand. Two-shot of the men looking up from their chess game. They smile at the camera (the priest). Tight shot of the priest smiling with boyish innocence. Two-shot of the men turning back to their game. Overhead shot of the chess board. A hand comes in and hovers, uncertain, over the white queen. Tight shot of the priest — shocked, he leans in slow and breathless. Tight shot on a pretty girl’s face. A pretty hand comes in and wipes a tear away. Tight shot of a masculine hand fishing a cigarette from the pack near the pastry. A pretty hand comes in and softly drapes over the man’s hand. Low tight shot of the church clock. Ten-thirty. It chimes once with a terrible reverberating clang. Medium shot of the fountain. The birds scatter in a panic. Extreme close up of a finger descending onto the white queen. It makes firm contact. Wide shot of the table near the fruit stand. One man stands and begins shouting. The priest crosses himself. Wide shot of the cafe table. The man stands abruptly, knocking over his chair. He snatches up his cigarettes and storms off. Close up of the girl. She’s gathered herself together now, with a sort of petulant resolve. She looks around toward the entrance of the cafe. “Garçon!” she shouts. Medium shot of the waiter at the back door. He looks at his cigarette. Tight shot of the cigarette. It’s just a little stub. Wide shot of the waiter. He tosses the cigarette to the ground and walks inside. Tight shot of the cigarette still smoldering on the ground next to a pile of garbage. A pigeon flutters in and begins pecking at a piece of pastry in the dirt next to the smoldering cigarette.

FINI

It’s a dull grind sitting day after day shackled to a computer making money for a hoard of faceless assholes I will (thankfully) never meet. How the hell can you folks do this?

Five days out of seven. Eight hours out of 24. Why the hell aren’t the suicide rates higher?

My current assignment was to have ended Friday (yesterday). But I dragged my carcass back into the beast’s belly this morning for half a day of overtime. And then, come Tuesday, I transition into another assignment. It threatens to suck on my soul for two more weeks.

My idea of running off to Mexico for November (National Novel Writing Month) probably isn’t going to happen. So, I signed up for a novel writing course at Gemini Ink. It’s a small class. Only five students. And I don’t know if I’ll make the cut. I sent in a short piece of fiction. They demand a work sample to help the instructor make up his mind. If I don’t get selected, I won’t feel too bad. I’m putting my credit card on the line here, ’cause this class don’t come cheap (thought significantly cheaper than even the cheapest month in Mexico, if you take into account the bus ticket down there and back).

The instructor is David Liss. I had never heard of the fellow. I just now — this very moment — put his name into the great meatgrinder called Google. Here is what the gentleman’s Wikipedia pages says:

“David Liss (born 1966) is a Jewish American writer of historical novels set in the business world, and of contemporary political fiction. His first book was A Conspiracy of Paper (2001), for which he won the 2001 Edgar Award for Best First Novel. He is a vegan.”

Dear me. But I should point out that in the current Gemini Ink catalogue, there is a quote from one of his books. It’s a passage of maybe 85 works. A thumbnail, for sure, but a damn well-written thumbnail.

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I’m going to have to squeeze the Adelante Film Forum into my upcoming film weekend. It’s going to be a tight fit.

Adelante aside, there is the San Antonio Local Film Festival (aka, SAL). Sadly, I have no film playing (although Carlos’ music video titled “evoL,” featuring the band November 2nd, was shot and edited by me. Friday, the 28th, at the swanky Aztec Theater. Cheap at ten bucks. You don’t just get the SAL show (eight shorts by local filmmakers), but you also get the world premier of Bryan Ortiz’s first feature film, Doctor “S” Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies.

That same evening is the opening night of the Manhattan Short Film Festival, being held at Urban-15. The 12 short films (from all over the world) will all screen three times: Friday evening (the 28th), Saturday evening, and Sunday afternoon. The audience gets to vote for their favorite. San Antonio is just one of dozens of venues screening these films: this coming weekend they will show to audiences all over the country and abroad. Check it out. I think I’m supposed to be on a discussion panel. I said yes to Herman, but I don’t think he told me when.

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I dropped a miniDV tape off with Oscar Hernandez of LatiFilm fame. He’s producing a show on, I believe, LATV, one of the local Spanish language TV stations. He interviewed me the Sunday before last. I spoke mainly about my trip last summer down to San Miguel de Allende and the short doc I made with Deborah and Ramon. But because the section with me will be fairly short, I gave him a copy not only of the 14.5 minute Dia de los Locos documentary, but I also my little experimental piece, El Jardin, which, at 3.5 minutes might be more useful. Besides, it features Rosalinda Coto, and who could say no to her.

We’ll see how it comes out.

Oscar is an interesting guy. He’s a promoter type through and through. As he told me straight off, “I’m not a filmmaker.” He wants to produce. That’s fine, because this city needs producers a hell of a lot more than it needs more filmmakers.

He bemoaned a particular project he had been working on that fell through. I’ve heard the story from both sides of this project. You bet — it’s a very small town. All parties seem relatively unscathed (if not unruffled), and they are all continuing on with their works. And so it goes.

Oscar pitched an idea to me that sounded damn ambitious, yet quite do-able. I told him to keep me in the loop.

I have a project of my own in mind. I need to flesh it out and create a clearly defined proposal before I start getting too deep with it. It seems too choppy to mould into a novel or a feature film. I think a TV show is the only way to go. I think it would play well as a bicultural cross-over show. A sort of Chicano X-Files. Perhaps do as AJ and Rick did with Alamo Heights, SA, and shoot every scene in both English and Spanish, so that both markets can be targeted.

The working title is the Cucuy Club (thank you Carlos). The Cucuy Club is a
southside ice house where Alejandro Carrasco hangs out, drinks, and, with his laptop, writes his popular blog, also called the Cucuy Club. He’s dedicated his life to researching the local latino folktales — those quirky supernatural cucuys. The sneaky chupacabra, la lechusa, the devil at the dance, ghosts galore, the ambiguous bulto, and several weirdoes of my own design.

Alejandro meets, of course, Amy Pearson, a post doc student working on her dissertation on South Texas folklore. She’s an unimaginative culturalist, who wants her oral histories pure and authentic. However, Alejandro is more concerned with what his readers might most want to hear, and that isn’t anything about primary sources and footnotes. The more hits on his site, the more ad revenue, and the easier it is for him to pay his tab at the Cucuy Club.

What intrigues me about this potential project is that it can be used as a showcase for the city. Characters meet in local clubs where local music is played. They talk out their ideas while walking though a gallery filled with the works of local artists. They interact in local restaurants and bars. And all the while the cheesy storylines play out against a cultural backdrop where traditionalism conflicts with postmodern consumerism. Faith verses science. Latinos confront anglos.

See if I can shape this up by the time the Adelante rolls around next weekend.

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Here are some shots of the little park where you can find the Espada Aqueduct. It was a nice day for a bike ride along the mission trail system.

There’s this freaky pecan tree in the park that seems to have arched its back, and rooted itself back into the ground.

(click for larger images)

Sadly, it’s not doing so well. The midpoint — the belly — is rotting away. I dub thee ostrich tree! All kneel. Kneel, I say!!!!

Last week I attended an art opening of one of my neighbors. Marlys Dietrick. She has a show in the Blue Star Arts Complex. It runs through this month at Three Walls Gallery. The show is called “Win, Lose, or Draw.” Marlys had a show earlier in the summer at the Flight Gallery. I provided a tiny audio element to the show. That earlier show had some great work. Drawings of imaginary creatures. And she has continued in this realm. The postcard advertising the show that she stuck in my mailbox (thus saving some postage) displayed two strange critters. Their images were on playing cards. When I snagged that card from my mailbox I really hoped that there would be 52 images in the show, and that there would be, for sale, limited edition decks of cards.

I got my wish. When I pushed into the gallery (the Blue Star is a very chaotic place during First Friday), I saw Marlys, looking glamorous in a black dress — she was talking to a small crowd of well-wishers. I leaned in and saw that there were indeed a few packs of playing cards in little plastic boxes.

I stepped into the space and there were the original pieces. All 52 (well, I believe there was a joker or two, so, maybe there were more). They ran the length of one of the gallery’s three walls on a little shelf. I love that she did the original art as miniatures. There was no scaling down. Card-sized originals, turned into card-sized reproductions. I only wish I had $60 bucks for a pack. Limited to, um, I forget — but under a hundred sets. Sounds like a deal (so to speak).

She had managed to provided something for each of the three walls. The cards took up one. And on the opposite wall was a very large colored drawing of another of her weird creatures. And on the third wall was a giant chalkboard with three categories concerning the big piece. The gallery patrons could write their own assumptions in chalk, thus defining just what that big critter might be.

I wasn’t feeling like spending too much time wandering the galleries. But I’m glad I showed up for Marlys’ opening. I also saw Herman Lira. He’s helping Urban-15 to promote their up-coming Manhattan Film Festival (still the best annual short film showcase to be found in this town). I took some of the small fliers from Herman and headed home.

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I have to get up damn early while working at the Company. I’m a working man. And to those who’ve never done such, it really sucks. For the next three weeks or so, I will have to make sure I am keeping my timecard consistent. The problem with this gig is that I have to wait two or three weeks to get my first check. I’m hoping this coming Monday will put a check in my mailbox. I’m tapped out. I scrounged up all my change a few days back and fed them into one of those coins-for-cash machines (since banks no longer take coins), and, thus fiscally flush, I have been living on Pik-Nik 50 cent tacos, until I went bust this a.m. Luckily, Deborah was having an art opening this evening for a new photo series. After I fed the last ten nickels into the parking meter near the UTSA downtown campus, I headed to the UTSA gallery to load up on the free eats.

Deborah’s series is called Hidden Middens. She roamed around her west-side neighborhood snapping pictures of the garbage that people put out for the municipal pick-up. I suspect she was using her cheapy point-n-shoot digital camera. She printed the images as black and white photos onto canvas; pulled the canvas onto stretchers; and added color with oil paints. Deborah has been working on this process for at least three series that I know of. And, from a technical stand-point, what I particularly like is that she thins out the oil paint until it’s almost like working with watercolors. The colors are sedate and vibrant at the same time. The canvases are, as I recall, about 12 x 18 inches. 14 canvases in all. They were hung in a grid. There’s a real art to hanging artwork. And the student, intern, or whomever hung Deborah’s show had yet to master that art. But the work itself was really wonderful. Deborah told me that UTSA had decided to buy some of the pieces for their collection. Either 8, or the full 14. She was surrounded by her fans and I didn’t get the full story. But that’s so wonderful! She deserves ever ounce of recognition.

It was actually a two-person show. Ramin Samandari, Deborah’s boyfriend, had ten huge black and white photo collages. They, like most of the work I’ve seen of his, were a combination of striking images, with a ghostly text superimposed. A previous series I’d seen had the poetry of Rumi (in English and Farsi) atop heavily processed and contrasty images. Beautiful work, but it always seemed that the image and the text components were fighting for my attention. These new works seem to merge text and images tighter. Close-up shots of cacti, very strong contrast, and the text (Baudelaire) had the look of quick but neat notations done with a grease-pencil on a glass plate. The text takes a subservient graphic role, representing information — more of a whispered conversation overheard in a crowded room which you have given up trying to understand.

I think both Deborah and Ramin are doing their strongest work I’ve yet to see from either.

And the free food was excellent. There were some sort of puff pastry triangles stuffed with goat cheese and brined grape leaves — also a huge fruit plate with three types of melons. UTSA does it right. Well, maybe they should have held back on the fruit plate and used that cash to pay a professional to hang the art.