At seven Sunday morning I awoke to the moving van in my driveway. My new neighbor was moving in. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa reading. And, as it was way too early to face the day, I limped into the bathroom, downed some aspirin (I’m beginning to resemble Robert Blake in “In Cold Blood”). I dragged a fan into the bedroom, and hoped that it’s noise would cover up the sound of the movers. It did. And the aspirin worked it magic. I got up at nine, my knee not so painful. I listened to some podcasts from the Skepticality site and sipped on a large cappuccino. Eventually I had to walk the neighbor’s dog. And then I had to go help Carlos move.

I stopped at the PikNik for two 50 cent tacos de papas rancheros, and I headed my way north. The only CD I had in the truck was a fairly boring album by David J. I tried the radio, but when I got some hate-filled hot air from Duncan Hunter, the vile Republican candidate who won the Texas straw poll, I had to do what I always do when turning on the radio — I had to turn it the fuck off. Everything that is wrong with America is embraced by Hunter as everything he thinks is wonderful about our country. Again, I would thrill to think that the fundamentalist mythos of these swine, what with its notion of heaven and hell, was fact. Were it all true, the satanic jackasses like Hunter would eventually be roasting in the fires of hades for all of eternity.

At Carlos’ place, I was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of stuff to be moved. He had two rooms filled, floor to ceiling, with boxes. And they were mostly small boxes in a variety of dimensions. Also there were two rooms where nothing seemed to have been yet boxed up. A computer still running. A fish tank filled and burbling away.

Shelley had taken Rockie to the new place in Sequin. Carlos’ parents were up from the Valley, visiting — they were also at the new place. Because of a cock-up with U-Haul, Carlos couldn’t get the truck until three in the afternoon. I arrived at about 12:30. Me and Carlos loaded up his van and my truck. Pete soon showed up and we loaded up his truck. And then we began pulling stuff from the house and staging it in the driveway. We were pretty confident that the morning rains were gone for good. Blue skies with nothing but little puffy clouds.

At three me and Carlos drove to the U-Haul place. The smiling, polite guys who worked there were all either massively stoned or else they were still adjusting their meds towards that sweet spot with regards to their Prozac prescriptions. The four guys drifted unconcerned about the place, and it took 45 fucking minutes to politely over-charge us, hook up a tow bar, unhook the tow bar because they decided it wouldn’t handled Carlos’ van, and then when I opened the back of the truck and pointed out that the heavy-duty dolly Carlos had paid for wasn’t inside, they said they’d fetch it. They never did. Me and Carlos had to go inside and wheel one out on our own. I could understand if they were busy, but they weren’t.

Back at the house, Pete had lugged out another hundred boxes or so. And then Wendy showed up with her van. She had a friend, her teenage brother, and one of his friends. We put them all to work. Things began to move pretty fast.

One of the boxes made me smile. It was obviously a gift. A fondu set. Like really, no one buys a fondu set for himself. I could be wrong. But it was the brand name that struck me. “Tuscany Fondu.” And, let me just get this out in the open. Of all the strippers, exotic dancers, burlesque queens, and ecdysiasts who I have appraised and assayed over the years, the one who took me to that heady and intensely fearful place where you think that, whoa, dude, it can’t get any steamier and spicier than this, would have to be, no contest, Tuscany Fondu.

But I digress.

Shelley showed up. She set to breaking down the huge fish tank.

And then the rain began. We moved as fast as possible. We all got soaked, but soon we had the mammoth truck filled. The problem was, there are still a lot of stuff in the house. But Carlos decided that we should begin to caravan to the new place.

It was a long drive. The new place isn’t really in Sequin. It turns out it’s about ten miles north of the town, and then another five miles through farm roads and unpaved roads. Maybe closer to Luling.

Very isolated. But the place is nice. It’s a prefab home. About the size of two doublewides assembled together. Central air. A well with an automated pump.

The area countryside is a bit too generic for my tastes. It’s on the edge of the coastal plains. Mostly post oaks, some mesquite and hackberry. Carlos has mentioned farming on the place. I could see that. It’s flat and open. But if I were to buy a plot of land in this general part of the country, I’d be looking at land solidly in the hill country. I like the cedars, prickly pears, the hills, the nasty outcroppings of rock, and the vistas. But Carlos and Shelley seem happy. And Rockie took me on a little mini tour. She seems to love it. The place is in a pocket of south Texas oil fields I did not know of (the “Luling Oilfield,” according to the Handbook of Texas (Online) — the bible of all things Texportant*). There’s a prevailing odor of natural gas that you find in Texas oil fields from Iraan to Vidor. Pretty stinky, but I guess the locals get used to it. The place does seem to be producing the stuff. There are those pumpjacks all over the place — bobbing their giant insect heads up and down, bringing the crude to the surface.

One of the more amusing things was that Shelley removed the fish from her aquarium and put them into an unsealed styrofoam cooler with a piece of cardboard laid across the top as a lid. I was a bit perplexed. We had some plastic coolers which could be sealed. And there was also the traditional prospect of plastic bags. Fish are transported that way all the time, as I recall. Anyway, I decided to snap a picture of this young man with a cooler in his lap, because I knew I’d have a nice opportunity an hour later to photo him with wet pants from sloshing fish water.

I was not to be proven incorrect.

Wendy and her crew quickly made good their escape after unloading her small van. Me, Carlos, Pete, Shelley, and Carlos’ father eventually emptied the moving truck.

Carlos has plenty of odd stuff. Here we see Rockie struggling under the weight of a prostetic leg. Carlos reminded me that it was a prop from one of is films.

Yeah. Prop. I use that all the time to explain away, you know, stuff … and things ….

I made it home about 11:30 pretty damn beat.

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*”Texportant.” I was a bit embarrassed coining this phrase just moments ago as I added polish to the post. But it was so dumb, I thought to leave it in the blog entry. And then, curiosity nibbled. I did a Google search, expecting, I dunno, maybe 20 hits. It’s Madison-Avenue-obvious, right? Not by a long toss. It’s a pure grade “A” Google virgin. So, folks, get crackin’ with that texportant.com; the incorporated town of Texportant, Texas; or, hows about, Texportant Industries — you can manufacture ceramic grommets, for all I care. Sir, or madame, consider it a gift! From me, to you. Texportant. But act soon, or you’ll be snookered by some out-of-state upstart who’ll snatch up that domain name and push his on-line gift items down our collective craw. Oh, you know the ilk I mean. The Tony Lamas of Minnesota. But he goes by many names. You’ll know him by the umbrella in his gun rack, his furtive attempts to nibble the corn husk wrapped around his tamales, or his incessant demand that you refer to his country-home on a huge tract of undeveloped land as a “ranch.” “Please, sir, could you use it in a sentence.” “It’s texportant, when speaking of that famous home just outside of Crawford, Texas, that we refrain from using the word ‘ranch’ until folk start lassoing and branding heifers on the property.”

I guess I need to call Carlos and see what time he needs me to help him move on Sunday. He, Shelly, and Rockie have finally found a place. It's way out in Seguin. I'm not sure how much help I can be. My knee isn't getting any better. The good thing, I suppose, about living alone — as well as being currently unemployed — is no one else is subjected to my Tourette's-like outburst of profanity when I do seemingly benign things such as lift my left leg to put on my pants, or make a move to depress the clutch on my truck while driving. On top of that, a cold has settled down on me, and I don't expect it to moisey off for a week or so. Actually, I just hobbled in from a trip to the HEB where I got a fifth of generic DayQuil, and that stuff's pretty impressive. It should get me through Sunday.

Carlos and Shelly have been looking for a place out in the country for some time. One of the reasons is so that they can have enough land for the horse that Carlos' father has given Rockie. It's been at the family farm down in the Rio Grande Valley until Carlos can get a big enough place. Carlos wrote a blog about his new place recently. He recalled one of the preliminary visits before the paperwork went through when he walked to the dead center of the property and just stood there, letting it all sink in. “I felt a calm come over me for the first time in two years and knew this was it.” As I read, I was there with him. The sense of peace, and the chance to commune with nature. But I almost forgot, I was reading one of Carlos' blogs. The next sentence put me straight: “Any horror movie could be made here.” That bit made me smile. It reminded me of what I told guests who came to visit my loft on the top floor of the ancient, dilapidated Continental Gin Building I had in Deep Ellum over a decade ago. I would muscle open the huge horizontally rolling door, and when we'd stepped into my space, I'd let it roll back, slamming it's massive weight against the cement pier that passed for a door jamb. A thumb across a single light switch would cause over a dozen banks of fluorescent lights to shuttered to life, dimly illuminating the 4,000 square foot space. “You understand that no one can hear your screams now,” I would causally say sotto voce as I walked across to check the answering machine beside my fridge. “What? Pardon? What was that you said???”

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Yesterday I finally got around to putting a load of laundry through my washing machine. Phil had returned from his overseas trip, and I no longer have access to his washer & drier which, at least in my opinion, was part of the whole dog sitting contract.

As I was pinning the clothes up on the line, I heard some distant thunder. Not a dark cloud in the sky. It was one of those cinematic moments. Some far off rumbling can do a couple of things well in a films soundtrack. It's great for foreshadowing — even if all it's foreshadowing is a thunderstorm. It can also give a sense of the prevalence of the natural world; it may never rain, but there is the potential chaos of nature still out there. I made the latter interpretation. This is common in San Antonio (though more common in the spring, but the weather patterns this summer were so fucked up, that all bets are now off) — moist air will march its way from the Texas costal plains or up from Mexico (almost always coming in from the south) and the scattered clouds (huge, though often sparsely clotting an otherwise blue sky) will occasionally coalesce and let loose with a deluge which is only dumped on a fifty acre plot of San Antonio.

Yesterday, my washing line was on that fifty acre plot of land that got soaked. Before I could run out and pull the clothes off the line, my street had become a river. Nothing I could do. I left them out there. They'd dry one day … right? Ten minutes later the rain stopped. Blue sky, birds singing. I decided to grab a late lunch at a Mexican diner two miles away. There, the streets were completely dry.

I would leave the clothes on the line over night. Maybe they would be dry the following afternoon.

And so today, around noon, I was catching up on some podcasts, and I heard thunder in the distance. I craned my neck to peer out the kitchen window. Blue skies, tiny white puffy clouds. But there it was, thunder again. I refused to make the same mistake twice. I might never have any dry clothes.

And so I put on some pants and headed outside. My porch was enshrouded by a miasma of cheap perfume. My first thought was that the sporty red Miata convertible parked out front was a new purchase by my landlady's daughter-in-law. She sometimes comes over to work on the property. But I was wrong. The car belongs to my new neighbor. Hey, I have a new neighbor! I wish people would tell me these things in advance. She was sitting on her porch on the north side of my house, smoking a cigarette (the odor of which could simply not dominate that of the perfume).

The biggest innovation in smoking trends (beyond those places where you can and cannot legally smoke) is that so many people now don't smoke in their own homes, but step outside onto their porches to smoke. Strange, really. What do they care? But the last seven people who lived in the other apartments in my building all smoked, yet they never did so inside their apartments.

Anyway, my neighbor introduced herself to me. I've lately been pretty good with names. But … I dunno. Valerie? Vickie? Velma Vandermark? I'll have to ask again. She seems nice enough. 40ish. Psychotherapist. Fancy car and a crappy apartment. There's a story there, I'm sure. But, because we're sharing a wall, I hope to hell that her story is a simple and quiet one.

Good thing I took down my slightly damp clothes. We had another deluge today. A bit longer lasting.

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I stopped by Tito's Tacos for a late lunch today. There is a new waitress that looks so much like Catherine Keener that I was suspicious that Ms. Keener was in town going underground to study for a role (or, Catherine's look-alike kid sister, Elizabeth). I no doubt managed to freak out the woman by staring at her so much. Not only do I think Catherine Keener's one of the more interesting actors working, I also think she's very beautiful.

I hope I didn't scare her off — she was very polite and nice, but I got a sense she'd never worked a waitress job before. Older novice waitresses seem to have a high attrition rate. If you see her, be kind, tip her well. I believe her name is Karen.

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When I posted my last short piece of prose, I received a comment from Jennifer Saylor.

“OK, that made me think of Tim Powers and James Blaylock. Damn, I really wish you’d write a science fiction novel already. A kind of sci-fi answer to Blaylock and Powers.”

I often find myself encountering literary references on Jennifer's blog about authors I know of … yet whose work I've never read.

And, so chagrinned, I visited the downtown library yesterday and checked out a book each by Powers and Blaylock.

(I should point out that, at one time, I owned a quasi-steam punk novel by Blaylock (“Lord Kelvin's Machine”), but I just couldn't get into it at the time and I guess I sold it.)

So now I'm dipping into Blaylock's “The Last Coin,” and Tim Powers' “Anubis Gates.” I decided to first crack the Blaylock novel. His prose is playful and fun to read, but it's ultimately as soulless as that of Frank Belknap Long. And therefore I'm alternately reading R. K. Narayan's “The Guide” to give me something to turn to that provides a deeper nourishment.

I think I understand what Jennifer was talking about. Powers and Blaylock play around with what I call “hidden histories.” Like John Vernon's “Peter Doyle,” which mishmashes history to fit a more tasty matrix, Powers and Blaylock use verifiable historical tidbits to bolster their imaginative fantasies.

This is something I've been involved in for at least 15 years. My stalled historical novel set in the Big Bend region in the 1870s had a time travel element as well as a fantasy subplot involving a giant sentient spider who was vaguely connected to the local folklore reaching back before the appearance of the Europeans.

But, back to my San Antonio pieces. I want to bring these “hidden history” elements to the forefront. I'm currently working, through my little prose pieces, on a new mythology of San Antonio which pumps up the fantasy elements. This city is famous for its ghosts — they're everywhere. San Antonio gave the world the millionaire cryptozoologist, Tom Slick. We also must admit giving birth to Whitley Strieber, the most famous UFO abductee. There are Latino Cucuys all over the place. This is ground zero for weirdness, at least in the state of Texas.

I made some changes to a short story I wrote a few nights back, and took it to the monthly free writers’ workshop at Gemini Ink. The last Monday of the month, 6:30 to 9 at night.

I remember some years ago, my sister read me an interview with Robert Smith of the Cure. The band was performing in, I believe, Egypt. And Mr. Smith (who the brit media at the time was snidely referring to as Fat Boy Smith) decided to go swimming in the Mediterranean to prove to himself (and also, one must assume, the press) that his famous drinking binges hadn’t irreparably ravaged his body to the point where he couldn’t take in even a modicum of exercise.

It’s becoming apparent that one of the reasons I continue to hammer out crap for this monthly writing group is to prove to myself that I can write something more focused and aesthetically potent than this blog.

Yep. It’s a simple act of exhibitionism. Just me reading to folks who gushingly praise (or pretend to praise) my little efforts.

I’ve placed a link to the piece on a back-dated blog for Friday, the 24th. It’s a confluence of three events. First, the night last week when I spent some time on the porch of my neighbors, the Tolands. Second, the fact that author and neighbor Sandra Cisneros seems to have bought the house across the street from her beautiful home. And, lastly, a recurring theme I find myself working with which involves eccentric inventors keen on over-throwing the laws of physics.

The piece is choppy and one of my less successful. It needs some serious editing, but I don’t know if I care enough about it to make the needed changes. But, again, I was writing for an audience of about ten — that’s the number that usually shows up for the Gemini Ink gatherings.

Actually, it was a bonanza Monday night. Jim Dawes, who runs the monthly freebie, decided to break us into two groups. I believe that ultimately we had about 23 people show up. That’s by far the most I’ve seen in the year I’ve been attending the workshops. I’m afraid that I chose the least interesting group — I could hear the others laughing in the adjacent room. We had very little laughter in our group. Way too much poetry (most of which hurt to hear); add to that a guy who brought in photocopies of a paragraph (an idea for a larger work), and a woman with a first draft of a letter to the editor, and it should be no surprise that my eyes were on the clock much of the time.

One of the amusing things to happen Monday was when this pleasant young man in his young twenties sat down beside me. He looked fairly familiar, but I couldn’t be sure if I’d seen him before. A couple of minutes before Jim got the group moving, the kid turned to me.

“Aren’t you Erik Bosse?”

It took me aback. I’m not used to getting that. But because this summer has been fairly heavy with me in the public speaking mode — introducing several film events, and, I keep forgetting, my three minutes on a morning TV news show alongside Lorenzo Lopez — I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me.

I admitted that he was correct. He smiled at my confusion. Said that he was a friend of Natalie Goodnow, a woman who taught a summer program at the Guadalupe Cultural Center. And I’m pretty sure I saw the guy in Natalie’s company one or both of the two times I spoke with her.

His name is Josh. And he read a short essay-in-progress out of a little notebook he carries around. He explained that he usually travels by the bus, and writes while riding around. Very nice stuff. I hope he comes back.

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Monday night (actually very early Tuesday morning around three or four) I got up to see the full lunar eclipse. It was in full eclipse when I went out to check it out. This was a particularly notable eclipse because of the striking red color of the moon while in our shadow. Lovely.

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I really screwed up my knee over the weekend. It had been awhile since I’d put some serious distance on my bike. And so I hopped aboard and did 20 miles. The next day my knee was stiff and tender. So, thinking the best way to deal with pain was to work through it — but in moderation — I rode ten miles the next day. And day after that, it was clear I had made a big mistake.

I’ve been hobbling around the last three days in some major pain. For the folks like me who have no insurance and no money, our health plan is often self-diagnosis over the internet. Dodgy business. But probably not much worse than the health plans of those fellow citizens who have insurance. Well, my malinformed self-diagnosis is tendentious. And if indeed this is correct, the good news is that it isn’t fatal. Also, it should clear up eventually if I take it easy for awhile. The pisser is that for the last three days the pain has been increasing.

Time, finally, for direct action. I just came back from the HEB supermarket with a cold compress and an Ace bandage. The cold compress is a $1.09 bag of frozen Brussels sprouts. And the problem is, I really like Brussels sprouts. I’ll have to see how long I can put off eating my medical aid. As for the bandage, it’s not the Ace bandage from my boyhood. This one is self-adhesive, and the fabric is treated with some sort of polymer which, by itself is only very vaguely sticky, but it sticks wonderfully to itself. No doubt another byproduct of NASA in the Tang and Velcro column of successes.

Thank you NASA and you folks in Brussels! (So do I call you Flemish or Belgium?) You know, I’m feeling much better now!

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Something went all screwy with my iTunes. The other day I opened my browser and all the sudden my iTunes program began to update itself even though I didn’t tell it to do so. And then it automatically proceeded to make a back up of my iPod. I shut everything down. But it kept trying to do the same three times in a row. I finally let it do it’s thing, thinking I was just being paranoid and controlling. But what it did was to erase my iPod and then replace it with the tracks on my computer which were collated in my iTunes folder. These were two different music collections.

I immediately deleted iTunes. My plan was to load up the program again. But even though iTunes is free, my antiquated operating system was incompatible with the latest version. So I worked my way through old iTunes available on line. Found the version compatible with my O/S. But when I tried to download the software, I was told by my computer that I could not do this because I had, somewhere on my hard drive, scraps of a newer version of iTunes.

Fuck. It looked like a ploy to get me to dig deep and buy the latest species of cat — Panther, Ocelot, Mountain Lion, or what the fuck ever — so that I can return to the wold of computer health.

Well, that’s not going to happen anytime soon. So I have been exploring online music alternatives. Many radio stations allow free online access. I’ve played around with quite a few. But what I discovered last night (while poking through the links listed on the website for The Wire magazine) is a site, www.last.fm, where you type in a band you like. I just put in the London Apartments. Hit the return key. And music started up by a great band I have never heard of before called Adorable. Oh, wow, now there is this incredible piece that has all the elements that I love in Mercury Rev — they’re a band from Sweden called Love is All. The playlist keeps going. I’m looking forward to some of these other, “similar” bands with names like The Sarcastic Dharma Society and Pale Sunday.

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At the bottom is a photo I took tonight of the full moon. These cheap point-and-shoot digital cameras can do some amazing things. But low light conditions are a mess. Sometimes you can push them to give you something interesting. I quite like the grainy images I put on this blog the other month of the Blue Star silos at night. This picture is equally as muddy, yet is also fairly groovy.

I’m placing it here as a thumbnail. Click on it for a larger image.

Saturday morning I made it over to Zarzamora and El Paso for a “blessing and dedication” of a new mural on the Westside Mental Health Clinic building. It was done by artists working through San Anto Cultural Arts — in fact, it’s their 34th mural.

Adriana Garcia was the lead artist (that’s her in the photo below dressed in blue). She worked with over 15 artists to bring this huge multi-panel project together.

I saw loads of familiar faces. Victor Payan was there videotaping the event. I saw Joel Settles of Comedia A Go-Go fame. Marisela Barrera. And Annele Spector & Monessa Esquivel: two very sweet women when they are taking a breather from their notorious Methane Sisters personae.

They sure know how to turn it on for the paparazzi.

Also, Jessica Torres and Sarai Rodriguez, director and actress (respectively) of “Trick or Tweet,” the San Anto entry for the 48 Hour Film Project. They were working the crowd, handing out El Placazo (San Anto’s newspaper) and asking for donations. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bosse,” they said with the faux seriousness of wise-ass teenagers.

Clearly, the Westside Mental Health Clinic was the place to be today for those interested in the San Antonio art scene. Of course if you also needed to adjust those meds, all you had to do was walk past the table with the complimentary aguas frescas and push on inside.

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After a cheese enchilada plate at Andy’s Tacos, and after walking Phil’s dog (he’s supposed to be back Sunday, so I’d better clear out his fridge and do another load of laundry asap), I headed over to Bihl Haus Arts. Deborah was having an opening for her photo project she did this year through Bexar Land Trust. She took a few groups of kids and seniors out with cheap point-and-shoot digital cameras during the spring and summer and helped them develop their compositional skills and their artistic sensibilities. Today was the big show. Kellen and Eric put on a nice event — the works were displayed wonderfully and the refreshments were plentiful (that’s why you gotta get to these places early). And Deborah did a great job curating the show and working with the students.

Eventually I decided I should head over to Centro Cultural Aztlán. I had mixed feelings about that event. It was Mary Harder’s latest IFMASA film showcase. I’m very fond of Mary, but her desire for the films that show at her events to be family-friendly and spiritually uplifting, has made much of these shows top-heavy with Christian films. I’m not a Christian, and I find most Christian films aesthetic failures because they lack subtext. They are moralistically monochromatic — they show us right and they show us wrong. Real moral dilemmas are encountered when one must navigate those grey areas one encounters in the real world. Those bristly environments are where real stories are to be found.

I did stop by. It was just a few blocks from the Bilh Haus. I’d be an ass if I didn’t.

But one of the films screened, “The Book”, was a perfect example of the problems of Christian films. I’d seen it previously. It was submitted to the Cine Festival last year. I was one of the judges. I can’t recall if it played, but I do know I gave it hight marks as a judge. It’s a tightly produced work. Clean audio. Killer lighting and camera work. Solid editing. Some uneven acting and painful music, but I won’t torpedo it for that. What I will complain about is the script. The book in question is the Bible. It changes the life (for the better) of one of the characters. But we never learn what it was in this book that impacted him for the better. You can’t just wave a magic wand — here, the Bible — and expect the audience to believe that it transformed a human being. The salvaged character said something to the effect that “the first time I read it, I didn’t believe it; the second time, I fought it; but the third time, it took complete hold of me.” And that’s it. Of course what really pissed me off was that the character who ultimately becomes transformed by the “Book” is a homeless man, yet he’s a reader, an autodidact. The Christian man who ultimately “saves” him (a sweet, compassionate police detective), visits the homeless man in his make-do shack. The place is filled with books. The detective pulls volumes randomly and reads the titles — the homeless guy voices his take on these classics. War and Peace. Moby Dick. And then they come to Darwin’s “Origin of Species.” “Ah,” says the detective, “the big bang theory.” The homeless man looks up, surprised. “So, you know your Darwin.” “Oh, yeah. But I just can’t agree with him that all this order came out of all that chaos.” This sort of idiocy just reenforces the stereotype that Christians are anti-intellectual illiterate morons. I am offended as a writer, as a reader, as a human being. The insipid crap spouted out about Tolstoy and Melville grabbed at my stomach roughly enough, but when some lazy ass can’t even do a basic Google search to manage to cobble together a quickie poison pen sneer at Charles fucking Darwin, well the entire attempt to pull me into a state of suspension of disbelieve failed — it failed because the writer trots out his or her ignorance in such a grossly obvious manner.

But I digress. Here is an out of focus photo of the event.

It was nice to see Malena and Denise. They are keeping the ship of the Centro afloat in the uncertain waters of the San Antonio arts world. Judy McMillan was there. She’s everywhere! I love to see that sort of commitment within the film / theater community. Mike Martinez was in attendance. And Rose. And, of course, Mary Harder, who looked rather glamourous. At the midpoint we were treated to a “Master Magician” (I don’t recall the guy’s name, but Malena, who sat down beside me on the back row, whispered to me: “Magician? He teaches Spanish at Incarnate Word.”) The magician pulled Mary up for one of his more involved tricks. She was as excited and ultimately mystified as would Nikki Young have been. (Nikki loves magic acts, and she said she was going to show, but I guess she got roped into something else — I can hear her now, teeth clenched, “Dammit! No one said there’d be a magician!”) Also, Bryan and Druck were there, flying the Film Classics Productions flag. They screened their excellent recent short, “Last Chance.” Their piece was done in 48 hours. It’s so much better than most of their local peers could do in four months. I think I must have seen it six times so far, and it never drags.

I made my escape at 5 p.m., ’cause my ass had gone numb. Those damn metal folding chairs are to ergonomics as tacos de chicharron are to a champaign brunch.

Click here to read a new short piece I read recently at the Gemini Ink monthly free workshop.

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http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2007/08/28/just-enough-time-for-gin-and-tonics/

I've had a few people asking me what's next for me.  These questions strike me as ambiguous, though I'm sure the curious friend or acquaintance thinks he or she has asked a straightforward and legitimate question.  I see there to be two interpretations.  A.) “What is Erik's next production gig?”  (And as much as I cringe at the notion that running film festivals is “production work” — because the work involved is absolutely anathema to creativity — it is still a fair question.)  Or, B.)  “What is Erik's next scheme to manage to pay his bills?”

As I see no production gig on the horizon wagging cash my way, the only pertinent interpretation is the latter — question B.

Actually, I received a phone call yesterday morning from a very pleasant robot.  The pre-recorded voice announced that the Company needed me for a temp job for three weeks in September.  The Company is where I pick up occasional cash scoring standardized tests.  I haven't pursued work with them since the first in my 2007 trifecta of (paid) film event jobs went into high gear back in May.  I turned my back on the height of the summer scoring season to involve myself in more interesting work … though these film events certainly paid less than the Company's $9 per hour.

And so I will have another month of financial cushionary, thanks to the ISDs nationwide “teaching to the test,” and thus destroying yet another generation of young people who we should be better preparing to save this planet we've fucked up.

But I digress.

Maybe October I'll take some time off to head out to West Texas or New Mexico.  I'm not sure if me and the other two members of Proyecto Locos will be visiting San Miguel de Allende for the Dia de los Muertos celebrations (that would fall on November 2nd).  Need to get together with Deborah and Ramon and sound them out.  However, that might mess up my November which, if you have not yet marked your calendars, is National Novel Writing Month.  I think I'll give it a try this year.  One month to hammer out a 50,000 word minimum novel (which is pretty slight for a novel — but whatcha expect for a month's turnaround?).  But if it comes down to a trip to Mexico, or writing a novel in a month, I'll always take Mexico.  Of course, I really don't see why I can't do both.  Maybe I'll head down to San Miguel in November and write a novel down there.  I've already decided on the cyber cafe (the G-Spot) in which I'll work.  Maybe I should stop kidding about this and find out how to make it a reality.

I could petition sponsors from among my friends, family, and the rabid internet fanbase of this blog.  It'd be like one of those disease marathons for a cure, but the funds, unfortunately, wouldn't be going to doe-eyed youngsters in electric wheelchairs or complicated body braces … just to me, Erik Bosse, to defray the cost of a room at a rustic colonial period pension and the daily infusions of huevos rancheros and tortas milanesa and cafe con leche necessary to fuel the great work.

Please, can you dig deep to help this middle-aged lay-about continue his irresponsible existence in an exotic locale?

The BIG DAY … una vez más. If Tuesday’s 48 Hour Film Project wasn’t hairy enough, you might want to revisit it with the 48 Hour Film Project “Best of” Screening & Awards Ceremony. I know I did.

I spent today folding the last of the programs. I bought 13 gift bags and filled them with the modicum of swag I had. I even drove to Wal-Mart (yes, fucking Wal-Mart) to buy some frames for all the awards I’d printed up. 19 awards. 19 frames. Add the gift bags, and it seems I’m burdening myself with some serious over-head which will cut into my meager profit of the whole endeavor. But, really, I would feel like a royal piker if I just handed out limp printed paper — “Here ya go, sport, try not to wrinkle it.”

Carlos and Adrian came by to help me with the set-up for the event. I’m glad Carlos was able to see some of the 48 films. He wasn’t able to make the screening on Tuesday because he was on set, I believe, in Austin. Unfortunately Carlos’ film didn’t make the audience’s cut to move on to tonight’s screening, but he decided to show up to see what his peers were up to.

We got to Urban-15 at about 5:30. I knew that George was inside involved with a board meeting, or something important like that. So we waited until someone came out. After five minutes Catherine and her son Antonio drove up. The meeting was going on in the basement, so we started setting things up in the sanctuary (aka, the performance space), and the Yellow Room (aka the Mirror Room) — the Yellow Room is where Urban-15 sets up A/V equipment for people in wheelchairs; one day they hope to get an elevator, but this is the best they can do at the present.

As I was setting up the box office area, Amy showed up. She wanted to volunteer her son, Douglas. He’s pretty young, but Amy wants to get him involved volunteering in arts projects to help get him into NESA (one of the arts magnets in San Antonio). They turned out to be indispensable working the front of the house. I put Adrian upstairs tearing tickets and passing out programs. Carlos helped out doing whatever needed to be done at any given moment. Like any good filmmaker, he’s flexible and can move seamlessly from task to task.

Around 6:30 things were getting fairly intense. The space was filling up fast. Catherine was asking if I thought we should move the plastic adirondack chairs up into the orchestra pit. I said yes. And at that moment Travis arrived. He asked what he could go to help. I turned him over to Catherine.

And then my Masters of Ceremony showed up. Jade Esteban Estrada. “Gay Latin Icon” is, I believe, how some reviewer designated him. His own website (www.getjaded.com) is less effusive: “Jade Esteban Estrada, the Master Entertainer.” I’m willing to agree with both. But there can be no dispute that the guy looks great in a tux. We went into the upstairs lobby and talked over the night’s agenda. He’d already researched the whole history of the 48 Hour Film Project. Wow. He certainly came prepared!

George was busy patching a microphone into the sound system for Jade. I took Carlos over to the video player and soundboard and let him run tech.

When I mentioned the awards certificates, Jade asked to see them. He didn’t care that I had them in an ugly blue plastic storage bin. I offered to stack them on the stage. He said that would be much better. When he wondered if he would have an assistant to help with the certificates, I muttered something about how I could do it. Jade, ever the consummate professional, didn’t skip a beat. “Perhaps there’s some glamorous person in the audience we could ask.” I agreed with him. No one wants to see or hear me. “You know many of the beautiful extroverts in this room, Jade,” I said. “Think of who would be good.”

“Well, I think I saw Vanessa Reyes around here somewhere….”

“Great,” I said. “She’s gorgeous and engaging.”

“There she is,” Jade said. “But, oh, she’s wearing blue.”

I had no idea what he meant by that. “But blue is good. Let’s ask her — she’ll be a hit. What’s not to love? Just look at her!”

We asked, and Vanessa agreed.

I had to rush away because we were getting too many people coming in. I began cautioning the people lining up that it might be standing room only.

The full audience number was probably 140. It did indeed become standing room only. At 7:30, when the screening was officially to begin, we shut the doors with a “Sold Out” sign outside.

When Jade began doing his thing, it all smoothed out. He’s a truly gifted performer. Intuitive, charismatic, and eminently watchable.

The night would have given me a fresh ulcer were it not for Jade controlling the audience, Amy running the box-office, and Carlos handling the video / audio. I can’t thank those guys enough!

We broke for an intermission midpoint. And like most every other Urban-15 event, the audience was invited to the basement space for complementary aguas frescas, which are always deliciously designed by George Cisneros.

After the break we had some drawing for door prizes. And then the second half of the films began.

And just like the Tuesday screening, I was nervously pacing about. I nosed around trying to see how I could be of use.

Eventually the films ended. And Jade began to do his stuff again. I only wish we could have given him a spotlight.

I took loads of bad photos of the event. Lee was busy snapping away as well. If it’s okay with him, I’ll post some of his photos on a later blog.

My favorite photo ops have to be iChingao Productions (these kids are pumped and a little crazy — they are also damn good filmmakers); Fat Bird Productions (students from Saint Mary’s Hall with the help of their teacher, Carol Parker, who is not just the director of this piece, but also gives us a very cute and quirky performance as the antagonist of the piece); and Princess (three filmmakers from Brackenridge High School — all guys — who did a wonderful meditation of growing up that swept the audience awards of group B). I guess I like these three teams because I met all these kids at the Josiah Youth Media Festival earlier in the summer. They might be kids, but they are serious about what they are doing.

After all the awards were handed out, I wandered around shaking hands when people offered. And I made sure that those people who were still hanging around who I felt I could ask to help with the clean up were roped into a quick shut down of the event. Mostly we were moving chairs down to the basement. Carlos, Adrian, Pete, Marcus, and Antonio moved damn fast. Seven minutes, I’m guessing, and we were all ready to pour out a celebratory bottle of wine and toast the success of the night.

Congratulations to all those involved — filmmakers, crew, actors, sponsors, audiences members, the helpful folks in the local media, and the volunteers. I take all responsibilities for the rough edges in this first year of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project, and I want to thank all of you for those very frequent moments when this whole production moved smoothly.

Let’s to it again next year!

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Here are the awards presented:

Best Film Audience Award Group A: Dating Danielle
Best Film Audience Award Group B: Golden Birthday
Best Costumes was a tie: Trick or Tweet; No Man’s Land.
Best Musical Score: Last Chance
Best Special Effects: Golden Birthday
Best Graphics: Dream Job
Best Use of Line of Dialogue: Dating Danielle
Best Use of Prop: Trick or Tweet
Best Use of Character: Dead Man’s Hand
Best Sound Design: Cat of the Month
Best Cinematography: No Man’s Land
Best Acting: Cat of the Month
Best Editing: Reflection
Best Writing was a tie: Dating Danielle; Blinding
Best Directing: Last ChanceBest
Best Film: Reflections

Friday turned out to be a long day working towards the final 48 Hour Film Project event — the Awards Ceremony. I printed up the programs, got the DVD mastered, printed the certificates, and hauled 96 chairs up two flights of stairs (with the aid of Pete, who was conscripted at the last minute). I dropped by Drew's office downtown and picked up some freebies to hand out — some things cluttering up the San Antonio Film Commission's offices.

I was at Urban-15, using their copy machine, until nine Friday night. George and Cat had left a couple hours earlier to pick up their son at the airport. I should point out, again, that I do not believe in ghosts. But I do possess a very active imagination, and am as susceptible as anyone, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are a fairly big thing in San Antonio. Growing up in Dallas, I heard my share of local urban legends involving ghosts. But rarely did I meet anyone who had claimed to have seen a ghost. In San Antonio I know quite a few folks who readily admit to having seen ghosts. Let me pause for a few seconds and count who comes to mind. (Fifteen seconds later.) I just came up with eight people. And with all the talk around Urban-15 about their ghosts — the present benign entities, and the raucous ones that George said had been exercised a few years back — it should not have surprised me when, just Wednesday, I was working in the basement on a project, and I realized that I needed a file off Catherine's computer. I wandered about the rambling property and I couldn't find anyone. It appeared I was left in the building alone. I called Cat's cell number. She answered, but it was a bad connection. I wanted to know which hard drive the file might be on. But she could only hear bits of what I was saying. Things like “it looks like I'm here all alone.” Anyway, I swear she replied: “Oh no! Did you see something?” The implication was not lost on me. However, Friday night as I was sitting at a table in the Yellow Room folding programs, I heard a few distant sounds that made me stop and listen more intently. They were most likely doors on another floor squeaking as the air-conditioning wafted so slightly to cause them to move a fraction of an inch. Or perhaps the copy machine in the other room with those little squeaking servo motors making themselves known so quietly under the noisier chug chug chug of the copier's illumination arm slamming back and forth. Hell, what I was hearing were slight, distant sounds which could have been caused by any of a number of things. But the one thing that took me quite aback was the clear and unmistakable sound of a shoe on the linoleum — just one step — on the threshold between the Yellow Room and the kitchen. The two rooms are separated by a four foot high counter, so I was easily able to look up and see that no one was there.

A trick of the mind, I have no doubt.

But I began to pounder what is it that makes us afraid of ghosts? Even just the ideas of ghosts. Outside of gothic novels and Hollywood, no one dies from a ghost encounter. Maybe the urban legends has someone dying of fright. But most “authentic” ghost stories are about someone having a very unsettling encounter, and little more. They're just spooky. End of story. I think it comes down to this notion of an encounter with the irrational. This is similar to the fascination people have with UFOs — or more specifically, the aliens purported to be aboard them. In the common lore, these otherworldly critters are intelligent and almost resemble us — but they aren't human. Their presence and their intentions are incomprehensible.

One of my favorite legends of the border is the Bulto. Bulto is Spanish for package, parcel, bundle. I heard about the Bulto in Redford, which is on the Mexican border in the region of the Texas Big Bend. The Bulto is an amorphous blob which one might encounter in a lonely stretch of the desert in the daytime or at night. People find it terrifying in it's ambiguity. What does it want!?!? It simply hangs there in the air — an irrational apparition.

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn't take a leisurely tour of the old church which houses Urban-15. I didn't have a flashlight, but I probably could have scared one up (so to speak). Also, there are plenty of votive candles around the place. I guess it comes down to a couple of reasons. First off, I would be searching, ostensibly, for something which I don't believe exists. And that seems pointless. Then there is the fact that that imagined footfall had given me the willies. If I had butched it up and took a candle-lit tour of the second floor of the old dormitory and the choir loft over in the sanctuary, I would have had to embrace the endeavor as a legitimate ghost-hunt. Basically I'm a writer, a story-teller. And when I'm not in the midst of a short story or a film script, I'm usually working on narratives in my head. I suspect that most writers and filmmakers also do this all the time. When I'm, say, walking through downtown at night, I find myself conceptualizing the autobiographical “me,” or else some fictional character moving through the city in my own footsteps: I consider camera set-ups; back-story; narrative presentation, such as first person, second person, or third person omniscient; and so on and so on. So, if I decided to poke around the darkened church at 2500 S. Presa with a flickering Lady of Guadalupe candle, I would be very deep into creating a ghost story narrative in my head (and I love ghost stories — MR James, Sheridan Le Fanu, Arthur Machen, William Hope Hodgson, and all those guys continue to resurface on my reading list over the decades). My suspension of disbelief would cranked up to 11. Ultimately, I guess I just wasn't in the mood to scare the crap out of myself.

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After setting the alarm at Urban-15, I headed home. My neighbor Phil is in England for a week visiting family. And because I'm such a soft touch, I'm having to walk his dog twice a day. Actually, I believe he thinks I'm walking his darling pooch four times a day. But, dammit, with Erik's pro-bona pet-sitting, you get very little. Mainly I make sure the pet doesn't relieve itself on the carpet, nor starve to death. And I feel confident coming clean here. Phil's not gonna be reading my blog — hell, he doesn't even have a computer.

But last night, I spent about 15 minutes looking everywhere for my key to Phil's house. It seemed I had lost it. I noticed that the Tolands (my next door neighbor's) were hanging out on their porch with the Witties (who live across the street). I headed over. I was pretty sure that Jerry had a key to Phil's place. I asked, and he said he'd go across the street to his house and get it. I was invited up onto the porch for ice cream. I had already missed the gin and tonics, but ice cream is always a treat. Eventually Jerry came back with a key. We spent some time gossiping about the folks in the neighborhood. And when we came to Phil, the two couples on the porch wanted to know how he was coming along in his renovations to the back rooms of his house. One thing led to another, and soon we were all heading to Phil's place. Actually, it was rather creepy. Fueled by gin and tonics, the two couples issued a running commentary (mostly praiseworthy) in the language of realtors. Much of what Phil was doing to fix up his place seemed to me like a massive yuppification project, at the expense of the historical elements of his 1940s era home. The neighbors praised his choice of large appliances, cabinets, and creation of new closet space.

So, beware. Don't go handing out your keys to just anyone. You might encounter some unscrupulous ass like myself who lets your tipsy neighbors in for a tour.

In my defense, these are people who love Phil. Besides, he&apo
s;s dragged me in to see his renovations even when I'm not conscripted onto dog patrol.

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It's almost midnight tonight. And I need to head over to Phil's place. It's time to switch my laundry from the washer to the drier. Also, I believe there's a bag of fresh spinach in his fridge — so, I think I'll make some spinach & tuna salad for a midnight snack. Oh, yeah, I guess I really should also walk that dog while I'm over there.

Well, Tuesday night was bound to arrive … eventually. The big screening of the first annual San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project.

When I answered an ad off Craig’s List all those months ago, I don’t give much thought to this thing really happening.

I just now looked back in the email archives. It was all the way back in October 25 of 2006 that I sent the following email:

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Dear Mark, Liz, and Christina:

I found your listing on Craig’s List for a local producer to bring the 48 Hour Film Project to San Antonio.

My name is Erik Bosse. I’ve been involved in film and video production for the last five years. And for three years, I have been living and working in San Antonio. I am very familiar with the film and arts scenes here. I am a member of three local film organizations, Short Ends Projects, IFMASA, and NALIP. In the last few weeks I have helped with the promotion of the Manhattan Short Film Festival as well as the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Experience, which was sponsored by the San Antonio Film Commission. I have worked, in various capacities, with half a dozen local production companies. I have taught filmmaking and have sat on panels at local film and music forums; and, as such, I have no problem speaking in front of crowds. By January of 2007 I expect to begin contract work as the blog writer for the San Antonio Film Commission. I write, produce, direct, and more often than not, shoot my own short narrative projects. I have a GL2, a slew of sound equipment, and I edit on Final Cut.

I think I’d be perfect for the job of local producer for the 48 Hour Film Project. All the components of the job are things I have done many times before, and always with great success.

Please find attached my resume in PDF format.

Feel free to peruse my website:

www.eyewashpictures.com

You can see many samples of my writing and short films.

If you would like references, I’d be only happy to provide them.

Feel free to contact me at your connivence. Thank you for your time.

Erik Bosse

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Shit, I sounded so eager and enthusiastic. Little did I know that in May I would find myself up to my eyeballs in political nonsense while trying to organize a seemingly simple and straight-forward local film event. An ordeal? You bet. But I made it happen. And people did show up. And I got on with my life. (I also managed to squeeze some morsels of pleasure out of the whole thing.)

And then I found myself scrambling to make the first annual Josiah Youth Media Festival a reality. It happened. The attendance wasn’t quite what I had hoped for, but, in retrospect, it was a nice first year event.

So this 48 Hour Film Project should be a lazy mid-summer buggy ride. My email made me sound like a natural for this stuff. Top that off with two recent film events which I coordinated, and I should have waltzed through the 48.

So, why am I so numb? And I’ve still loads of work to do. Getting ready for the “Best Of” screening and awards ceremony. Getting awards certificates printed. Ditto on the programs. Set up the screening space. Create a master DVD for the event. Square things with some of my sponsors. Petition my friends for volunteers. And on and on.

Last night our judges met and they came to agreement on all the categories. Also, I spent a couple of hours tabulating all the audience ballots. The audience favorite for group A wasn’t a great surprise. But the huge number of votes cast for the audience winner in group B was unexpected, but, I think deserved.

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Tuesday I showed up at the Alamo Drafthouse at about 4:50. I tried to figure out how they were going to run things. Turns out, for the most part, they weren’t there for us. That would have been fine, if only I had known this in advance. I found myself with too few volunteers. The Drafthouse, it seems, doesn’t take tickets (actually I don’t know if this is true, but one of the employees pointedly told me this). If I do this again (a big “if”) — and if I do this again at the Alamo Drafthouse (which is still a possibility, as they are really great people) — well, I will make it a point to bring a troop of burly volunteers who won’t put up with any crap. In retrospect, I needed my own crew of ticket-takers. But I just didn’t know this. And it became something of a free-for-all.

Pete and Lee were indispensable making sure everyone got the required ballots. And Monica arrived for the second block of screenings just when I needed some more help. I felt sort of weird conscripting Kareem (who I’m hopping didn’t have to pay for a ticket) — but he helped some with handing out and collecting ballots.

Because I had two theaters playing two different programs twice in the course of the evening with a thirty minute over-lap, I found myself rushing from theater #1 to theater #8 often.

Six o’clock I introduced the screening in theater #1. Then I headed over to the other theater. Made sure the ballots were being handed out. And made sure that the projectionist (who was great!) knew when I would make my intro of the PA system, and then, when the screening would commence. And I made the introductory remarks, and the first screening of theater #8 began.

I panicked a bit because there were only eleven films screening in theater #8, but thirteen in #1. And I need to close each screening with a Q & A session with representatives of each team. This would last about 30 minutes. And my fear was that by the time I finished the Q&A for the audience in theater #1, the last film would have long ago ended in theater #8. I sent Pete over to theater #8 to do my job if I couldn’t get there in time. I’ve seen him in front of audiences before. He could handle himself. Better than I, actually.

When the credits of the final film rolled to the top of the screen in theater #1, I headed up to the front, switched on the microphone, and called filmmakers to the front to let them talk some about their experiences. It seemed to go well. No one hogged their time over-much. And when the last filmmaker walked off, I made my “thank you all and see you next year!” and hurried my way through the milling crowds and made it to the corridor and all the way to theater #8.

The house lights were just coming up. Pete was at the mike saying some opening remarks and then he noticed me and turned things over to me. I hope I didn’t disappoint him. Because I wasn’t gleefully grabbing away the microphone. Public speaking is not one of my favorite things. Nope. It’s not.

I ran the same dog and pony show.

And then I had about thirty minutes before I had to do all that over for the two second screenings.

I did a quick and dirty cursory head-count from the back of all four screenings. It seemed fairly impressive. Six hundred in all. But when I get the final count of ticket sales, I’m expecting maybe four hundred. I heard so many people saying how they were just buying one ticket and attending two screenings. I applaud their resourcefulness, but, dammit, I’ve been busting my ass on this project for two months (it’s been my full-time job) — and a percentage of the ticket sales eventually goes to me. I still don’t know the final figures, but I’m beginning to realize that for the last two months I’ve been working for about five dollars an hour. Oh well, at least I’m not punching a time clock.

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The best thing about the screening was the films themselves. Out of the 24 pieces we showed, there were 14 that I quite enjoyed. Nothing was execrable. Well, not when you realize that they were all cobbled together in 48 hours. In fact, there are eight which I’ve enjoyed watching more than once, and would be happy to see again.

I might provide my one critique on the films once all the dust settles from Sunday’s awards ceremony.

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What follows are some photos of the big event. About half of the pictures were taken by Pete. Once he realized I was trapped into the glad-handing mode of the event organizer, he took my little digital camera from my hand, and roamed around, snapping pictures.