Sunday night was the savage deadline for the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project.

The teams needed to get their final edit into my clutches no later than 7:30.

I showed up at the drop off location — the bar / lobby of the Alamo Drafthouse — at about five o’clock Sunday afternoon. I met with Monica and Pete, my volunteers. And then we waited. A couple of teams showed up quite early. But most came just under the wire. I was constantly checking the nine dollar watch I had bought for this event. Celina, from Texas Public Radio, was roaming around with her Maranzt solid state recorder and head phones and shotgun mike. When we were about five minutes from the deadline she moseyed up to me and stuck that mike in my face. She asked me how many teams wouldn’t make it — something like that. I was getting pretty antsy, because several people had told me or phoned me that there was a massive traffic jam caused by an accident on I-10 or loop 410. This was unfortunate, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. As I was giving some vague answer to Celina, my cell phone rang. And, knowing that it must be a freaked-out team member, the girl grinned and made sure the microphone was close to my mouth as I tried to console some poor bastard who was probably going to be late because of insane traffic. I probably said something inane such as: “Now, I’m not suggesting that you get out of the car and start running — but can you see the sign for the Drafthouse from where you are?”

18 teams made it before deadline. One dropped out. And one (the team from Corpus Christi — yeah, you heard right) had sent their tape via a friend of a friend who was driving inland. Seems that the courier, realizing that she’d miss the 7:30 deadline, decided to continue on to her destination. Long story short, the tape eventually made it to me, after quite a convoluted journey.

And then there was Galen Church and the Bulverde Gentleman. They made it to the Drafthouse, in time, I believe, but they couldn’t get their film off the laptop. They’d shot on high def, and were trying to get their editing software to print to tape or DVD on an NTSC SD format. When it was clear they’d not make the deadline, they just hung out with me at the bar ordering buffalo wings and imported beer as they tried various QuickTime formats, down-rez experiments, et al. They should have shot on standard definition. It’s a real cute piece, corny as hell, but funny and effective. And they shot in a format that the 48HFP does not currently accept. True, others shot on HD (why, I can’t even fathom), but they were savvy enough with the format and how their editing system could get that finished product to me in a screenable format. Finally, me and the Bulverde Gentlemen parted company at 11:30. The next day I met with Galen and got a useable version. And yes, that is allowed in the 48HFP rules. But the late films aren’t allowed to make it to the national levels.

Here are a bunch of photos of the drop off.

Last night I finally headed off to bed at about two a.m. I’d just received my final phone call from the teams asking guidance concerning the rules, and I decided to keep my phone at the bedside. But I didn’t get another call until maybe 7:30 this morning. It was one of the team leaders asking how he should go about shooting his piece. Aspect ration, frame rate, stuff like that. I was very pleasantly surprised. This was a team which had spent several hours working on a script and doing some serious pre-production. I was disheartened by the large number of teams who dived into production after two hours or so of getting the genres and elements. This meant one of two things was going on. Either these teams had written their script in advance, keeping it just vague enough to massage it to fit the parameters I handed out at 7 Friday night. Or, they were half-assing their pre-production. Both possibilities strike me as contrary to the spirit of this 48 hour development to post exercise.

Anyway, I told the caller what would be the least problematic way to shoot so as to cause as little problems as possible during the mastering process (what I’ll have to do Monday to make the two master DVDs which will play Tuesday). But it looked like he was going to do what he wanted, my hints be damned.

“You can shoot that way if you want,” I said, angling the box fan more toward my face. “I’m sure you won’t be the only one.” He thanked me and we said goodbye. I rolled over and went back to sleep. One of the reasons I so rarely give advice is that people so rarely take it. Fuck ’em.

Around 8:30 some Jehovah’s Witnesses softly knocked on my door. They were persistent because I suspect they’d seen me peeking out the bathroom window earlier as I watched them working their way down the block. Fuck ’em, too. I grabbed another hour of sleep.

I took it easy, catching up on podcasts and email. Around 2:30 I headed to Pepe’s Cafe for a late lunch.

Later in the day, I was back home, and I heard knocking. It wasn’t those pesky witnesses, but the PrimaDonna team. I guess Nikki was serious when she asked me earlier if she could shot some exteriors on my porch. It was AJ, Lee, and Gillan. They were waiting on Chadd, Nikki, and Danni, their actress. Janet, from the Film Commission was also on the team as a lowly production assistant. She showed up in her Jeep just as AJ and the lads began to unload gear.

I hung out for awhile and watched them shoot a scene. Eventually, I headed off to see if anyone was shooting over at Urban-15. Joey’s team was supposed to be doing some work there. But Herman explained that they’d already come and gone. I stopped to rubberneck a video crew in the Blue Star Arts complex. But as I failed to recognize anyone there (perhaps it had nothing to do with the 48 Hour Film Project), I didn’t accost them.

Over near Guadalupe Street, I stopped and took some photos of an old defunct Humble Oil gas station. I couldn’t resist. The place used to be encircled by an ugly wire fence. But now with easy access, I walked in and snapped away.

Back at my place, the PDP team was down to a final two or three camera set ups. They needed, as a prop, a hammer. They’d forgotten to bring it. And just minutes after I arrived, Janet — who had been sent to the Dollar General Store to get a hammer — drove up.

I hung back, snapping some more photos, and watched Chadd talking to AJ. Chadd was holding the hammer. I walked up and took it from him. He barely noticed. It had what I thought to be a horrid barcode sticker between the black rubber grip and the metal hammer head. I began peeling it off, but it was on there pretty seriously. Nikki was trying to get at it with here fingernails. A couple of the guys were saying it wouldn’t show. Eventually AJ, who either agreed with me, or just wanted this bullshit I was bringing to the moment resolved, fetched a roll of white tape and covered the (to me) offending sticker.

They rolled on the little bits they needed, and were off … with a promise of a night shoot two hours later.

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A nine o’clock tonight, the PDP team was back. The previous suspects, along with Raven, Marc Daratt, Laura Evans, Wesley Blake Conklin, and a lovely woman doing the make-up whose name I never got.

It’s always a treat to see Marc, Wes, and Laura. They are wonderful people, gifted actors, and people who I have always enjoyed working with.

I’m still vague on the basic story line. But it seems that Wes is a bad guy. The stocking over his head was my first clue. The gun, my second. But, of course, everyone had a great time.

The group struck the set at about 11:30 tonight. And they were off to another location.

The San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project kick off event earlier this evening was a great success. The traffic, on late Friday afternoon, was a real mess. No surprise there. But representatives of all our 26 teams were in attendance and on time for the genera drawings. Even the teams from Austin, Houston, and Corpus Christi!

The press was also in attendance. A young man from WOAI (the San Antonio NBC affiliate) was there with camera, though sadly I’ve forgotten his name. He got a couple of sound bites from me. We had Mike Greenberg (the senior critic of the San Antonio Express-News) — he’s following Travis Thomsen’s team, Dark Design. An embedded reporter. And Celina Montoya of Texas Public Radio was there covering the kick off — and she also will be following teams around this weekend. She began the evening with the kids from the San Anto Cultural Arts center, who are going by the team name of iChingao Productions. Next, she’s off for a midnight rendezvous with PrimaDonna Productions, who began shooting at 10 p.m. this evening.

Only one team decided to gamble with the Wild Card genera replacement. They seemed happy enough with their new genera.

I’m looking forward to see what all these filmmakers are going to bring in Sunday evening! Things are definitely moving along.

Everyone mark your calendars for this coming Tuesday, August 14th. We will be screening all the films produced this weekend. Visit the website of the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas Westlakes for times. Tickets can be purchased online.

http://www.alamodrafthouse-westlakes.com/

An update to our website is the addition of another screening opportunity of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project. On Sunday, August 19, we will present the Best Films of the San Antonio 48HFP. Following the screening, we will have our awards ceremony where all the prize-winning teams will be announced. The screening will be at Urban-15, just south of downtown San Antonio at 2500 S. Presa. Doors open at 7 p.m. Screening begins at 7:30 p.m. Tickets are $8 at the door.

If you have any questions, please call me at 210-482-0273.

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The above is what I just sent out to the SA48HFP listserv. (Whatever that is. Though I believe it goes to all the folks who signed up to receive updates on the website — and damn if I use it much at all. Shame on me.)

I spent the day running around, trying to make sure I had all my bases covered. Today was the big event. I needed to not screw up.

After big-ass-capiccino #1, I was deep into printing up all my paperwork I needed for the kick off event. Fearing that my last ink cartridge in my printer might punk out at any moment, I ran all the stuff through as “gray scale.” This uses less ink and works loads faster. I had a form I needed to personalize, but it was on MS Word. My Mac doesn’t let me work on those documents. So I emailed the file off to Pete, requesting the changes. By the time I’d taken a shower, I’d received the file back with the needed changes. Great! I then drove out to Fox News to pick up the 48HFP promo DVD which I had forgotten when I was on the air the other day. As I was in the parking lot I called Chadd to see if I could borrow PrimaDonna Production’s PA system. It occurred to me that I’d have a good sized crowd for the kick off. At least 50 people. I might need some volume. Chadd said I could come on over.

Me, Chadd, and Nikki quickly caught up on the standard San Antonio entertainment scene news/gossip. (Remember folks, we filmmakers, producers, and etc., all talk to each other — your gaffs and poor behavior (as well as your wonderful successes) are carried along the most ancient form of broadcast medium there is. The chin wag network.)

I then visited with George and Cat over at Urban-15. We’ve firmed up the 48HFP awards ceremony at their space. And though I had several things left to do, I wasn’t able make good my escape without being treated to lunch. On-site handyman, Hector, whipped up some vittles in the industrial kitchen, and we all set up a table in the Orange Room.

Next I drove home and ran through the check list and made sure I had everything I needed for the kick off event. I printed up the list of the genres which the teams’ representatives would pull from a hat. And I cut them into Fortune Cookie slips of paper. (As for the hat, well, the national folks had mailed me a box of supplies. Inside was the hat. The official hat. It’s some limp green felt shapeless semi-pouch. Hat? Well, out of curiosity, I pulled it over my head, and it stayed; however, I’d rather not be called in front of a jury and asked to proclaim this thing a “hat.”)

I made some phone calls to secure my judges for Wednesday night. And I called my volunteers to find out who could make it for the kick off event.

After all that, I realized things seemed pretty much in hand. I went for an hour long bike ride down the Mission Trail. I’d forgotten the headphones for my iPod, so I heard my phone the three times it rang. I pulled over and answered the 48HFP-related questions, and I moved back on down the bike path.

That was a precursor to my day so far. Loads of phone calls. In fact, I made a point to get on-line and pay my phone bill. (Poverty keeps me paying many of my bills only when they threaten to turn off service. I’d not got that prodding message concerning my cell phone, but I still didn’t want any surprises.)

I arrived at the Drafthouse at about 5:15, and dragged all my shit in. The PA, cables, easel, posters, Alston’s great painting, and all my supplies. I sat down in the larger bar area and finished the paperwork.

Around 5:30 Carlos showed up. He was gracious enough to set up the PA system and set all the levels. He also put up some signs.

Pete showed up next. I’d already learned that my three copies of the preliminary form that all teams needed to bring with them, had already been taken up by unprepared teams. Pete offered to drive to the nearby HEB to make some more copies.

Lee, my other volunteer, got caught in the monster traffic jam on loop 410. I’d received about three calls from panicky teams caught in crawling lanes just a couple of exits away. I told everyone not to panic.

Though I was trying hard not to panic myself.

I’d not set up the sign-in process very clearly, and I found myself having to do more work than I should have. But every one was patient and tolerant. Pete and Lee signed in the teams and handed out some forms they needed.

When I stepped up to the microphone and began making the announcements, I noticed Nikki, who was sitting in the back, making fluttering motions with her hands. I asked if she could hear me. She pantomimed for more volume. Before I could figure out how to fix the problem, Carlos was at the PA, kicking up the juice.

I made my announcements (meaning I read stuff out of the 48HFP production manual), and then I began calling teams up to draw their genera from the ugly hat. Some were happy with their selections. Some just shrugged (“you get DRAMA!” humf, whatever). And a few noticeably stiffened, stuck with something they obviously held in disdain.

And then, one minute till seven, I opened the envelope and read off the “elements.” Each team needed to have, as a character, “Ted or Thelma Butler, Personal Assistant.” And a prop: “A calendar.” And a line of dialogue: “Keep that thing away from me.”

And as I write this, I wonder if I lead some of the folks down the wrong path regarding the character. When I opened the envelope I saw: “Ted or Thelma,” (pause) “Butler, Personal Assistant.” But now that I look at it, I think what I was supposed to see was “Ted Butler or Thelma Butler, Personal Assistant.”

I’m gonna have to chew on the national people for giving a surname that is also a profession.

But I digress. The damage — if damage it be — had already been done.

I’m ashamed that I didn’t take more pictures, but I was trying so hard to look like I knew what I was doing. Next time, I’ll hand the camera off to someone else.

If folks haven't heard from me for awhile, it might be because I'm still shouldering my way through the belly of the 48 Hour Film Project. I'm loath to continue this gastric metaphor to it's final conclusion, but, nonetheless, I don't expect to emerge from this dank tube until some time in late August.

Some people have asked in pleasant chirps, “So, what's next?” I just shrug and say something vague about how I guess I'll need to find a job. It's sad, I suppose, to not have a plan. But that's my life up to this point, in five words or less. On my tombstone, I have to assume: “Erik, he had no plan.” But you take those occasional sweet moments when they come. This afternoon I rode out to Espada Park. I got off my bike and walked along the freshly mowed levee-top. A couple of swifts flew by me as though they were anxious to reach a destination. And, suddenly, they banked, changing direction, and moved slower. They playfully corkscrewed around one another like vines twining up the steel cable supporting the stanchion of a power line. All around me dragonflies hung in the air frozen with a near imperceptible quiver; and they'd zip here and there and park themselves just there, where nothing else is, and thereby they'd place their dog-ear marker upon the space-time continuum. These critters display a primordial design which seems more modern than Web 2.0 or Ikea. And as I walked, the close-cropped grass opened frantically with tiny baby grasshoppers excitedly leaping anywhere … and anywhere again.

That was nice. But I can think of no job which pays one to wander through parks while watching bugs and birds. If you know otherwise, let me know. I don't know if I do it well, but I do enjoy the work.

The day after tomorrow is the launch. The teams get their assignments, and off they go. Probably you could say they are the ones who should be worrying, not me. Fuck that. Making a quick and dirty movie is a walk in the park compared to running a large-sized event. All you gotta do is take some pretty pictures of dragonflies doing their thing as an early afternoon breeze heaves a river-side cane-break up and down as lazily and drunkenly as an unemployed filmmaker lives his life when not making a film in 48 hours. It's second nature to us, dammit, and we all know it.

But me, I gotta worry and fret and oh damn I have to do paperwork and keep up a fake smile like this is all some weird reality show. Perhaps it is.

I've said it before. I'll say it again.

All I ever wanted to do was live in a two room adobe shack in the Chihuahua Desert … and watch the dragonflies hang in zero G as they ponder the withered blossom of an ocotillo in exactly the same manner they did all those years ago in northern Gondwanaland.

But I need to get this show up and running and done with before I follow those ancient Anisozygoptera back into their fossilized realm.

I've secured a venue for a “best of” the 48 Hour Film Project. This will also allow us to have an awards ceremony. Today I spoke with George and Cat Cisneros over at Urban 15. They were all for it. I called up the national 48 Hour folks this evening, and it looks like a done deal.

Sunday, August 19, we will have our awards show with a screening of the very best of this, the first year of the 48 Hour Film Project. Be there at 7 o'clock. Tickets are available at the door. 8 bucks. Screenings begin at 7:30. If there are any changes, I'll make it known here (and, I assume, elsewhere).

You can pick up copies of the new Current and 210SA and read more about the 48 Hour Film Project. You'll learn that I was the “co-creator” of the 48 Hour Film Experience. Well, I was nothing of the sort. And I had to phone up San Antonio Film Commissioner Drew Mayer-Oakes (who I always assumed was the sole creator of the 48 Hour Film Experience — but for the love all of things holy, please don't quote me!), and let him know I never said no such thing … dammit! Weren't me. And then there was the piece written by Jessica Belasco. She made me laugh aloud. She had me speaking about these sorts of film races in general.

“Surprisingly, the films don't suck, said Erik Bosse, the coordinator of the San Antonio competition.”

You'll see there are no direct quotes of me speaking. Of course I said something just like that. And then she goes on to quote me (accurately, I'm pretty sure) in such a way that makes me look fairly cool. And as such, I'm a huge (and I mean HUGE) Jessica Belasco fan. She can do no wrong.

I’ve been tooling around on my bike the last few days shooting photos of this and that in my neighborhood and points to the south. It’s still damn humid … but, oh, blessed sunshine!

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Late Satuday afternoon, after stowing away my bike and taking a shower, I headed over to Russ’ new place in a quiet neighborhood tucked away off Austin Highway near the McNay. He had his friends from East Texas visiting him over the weekend. I’d met Gem and Jon maybe two years ago at a restaurant following a Short Ends screening. Russ has known them for about thirty years.

Because of Russ’ love of the infamously derided (and justly so) Corsicana fruit cake, his friends stopped in that town to bring him a prime example of the Collin Street Bakery’s “mouth-watering DeLuxe Texas Fruitcake” (and here I quote their website). And after a wonderful and delicious meal prepared by Russ and Gem, what most enraptured Russ was the unveiling of the fifth guest at the table. The hefty gentleman from Corsicana. The pristine shipping box fell away under an assault from a sturdy chefs knife Gem passed to Russ.

I must admit I politely allowed a portion to be placed on my dessert plate. I am now set for another two decades.

After dessert, Jon invited me and Russ out to Russ’ garage, which Russ has turned into a workshop — currently he’s building a camera dolly. Anyway, Jon, when he’s home in Kilgore, is in the habit of working on his art in the evenings in his studio. And he’s apparently a serious artist. He’d been working on a drawing out in Russ’ garage while the rest of us were watching a movie.

“Okay,” Jon said. “I’ve done a pencil drawing in here. It’s up to you guys to find it.”

Me and Russ wandered around the garage. We looked at the floor, the walls, the exposed beams. We checked out cardboard boxes. We finally gave up, baffled.

“Okay, where is it?”

Jon pointed to a metal bucket.

Pretty cool.

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One of the team leaders of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project (henceforth, SA48HFP), Lorenzo Lopez, used to work for one of the local TV stations. He managed, unbeknownst to me, to line up a spot on the local Fox affiliate morning news show. It’s great when other people help to make me look savvy and on top of things.

I met Lorenzo this morning at about 7:15. He had brought along a friend who shoots for Kens 5 (another local TV station) — this guy (whose name I’ve forgotten) was there to chronicle Lorenzo’s 48 Hour film-making endeavor. We should all have a camera crew following us around.

In lieu of a green room, we waited in the lobby. Eventually we were joined by a couple of other guests.

One of the station’s tech people came up to us and she asked who’d be doing the most talking. Lorenzo hooked his thumb at me. “Well, Erik’s the producer, so I guess he will.” I soon learned that despite Lorenzo’s years of TV news, he was much more comfortable behind the camera. As am I.

The woman began to place a wireless lavaliere microphone on Lorenzo. It was rather comical, because he was already wearing one, the receiver of which was attached to the Sony HD camcorder wielded by his electronic Boswell. But the woman didn’t miss a beat. She had Lorenzo wired up in a matter of seconds.

Soon we were escorted into an ante room which opened onto four studios and a very busy control room. Even after a whopping large cappuccino I’d had before leaving home, I was relatively calm. Lorenzo seemed slightly nervous. He peered through the glass window of a door into the main studio and made mention of the attractiveness of one of the on-camera talent — meteorologist, I believe (and am I really using that word??). It’s not that is was off-color or anything, but clearly Lorenzo knew most of these people. I pointed out that he was, indeed, wired up with a live microphone and surely someone was monitoring him. He just shrugged.

Me, Lorenzo, and his camera man, had been curious about a crawl we’d been seeing on all of the TV monitors around the building (which showed us the show in progress). It mentioned something about “Gore is still being sought in connection to rape.” Surely not Al? Maybe his son? There was another update. The rape happened somewhere in west Texas. And then we learned that the suspect was not related to Al Gore.

The camera guy shook his head. “But why would they keep announcing just the last name? Gore?”

“You kidding?” I asked. “I thought you’re in the media. We’re in the belly of the beast. It’s fucking Fox news.” I was about to throw in that whole Obama Osama thing, which, as I thought about it, was probably not Fox, but CNN, when the techie woman began piloting us into the studio.

Lorenzo, who obviously knows his way around a TV studio, knew what the vertical mirror on the outer edge of the studio was for. He gave himself a quick once over. I knew I was a lost cause, and continued into the studio. We were either at a commercial break, or the local feed had been exchanged for the national signal to show weather across the country or to return to the crucial on-the-scene reporting with the crews at the American Idol auditions in Dallas. Pleasantly controlled chaos — like any good production. The woman who would be interviewing us introduced herself. And I quickly forgot her name as the tech woman snaked a lav mike up my shirt. Lorenzo seemed to know everyone in the room. He made the rounds, shaking hands.

There was a comfy chair for the interviewer, and an overstuffed sofa for us. I took a seat closest to my interviewer. Lorenzo sat down on the other side of me.

“Erik Boss?” the woman asked me.

“Bosse,” I said. “Like a bossy person.” She nodded, smiled, and looked down at her clipboard in her lap. “And, um, your name again? I have to confess, I don’t watch much TV.”

She gave me a sweet smile. “Stephanie,” she said. I’ve checked the website. Make that Stephanie Rivas.

I believe we had a three minute slot. And it goes pretty fast. She began as if both me and Lorenzo would each be making movies for the 48 Hour Film Festival.

I did my best to channel Nikki Young (’cause she does this shit so much better than I could ever do). I tried to keep myself from speaking to fast, and said something along the lines of: “Yes, I’m the San Antonio producer for the 48 Hour Film Project. And Lorenzo is leading one of our twenty-five teams. He’s got to make a movie in 48 hours.”

Perhaps I came off as a robot, but I don’t think it went so bad. (However, as I was driving home, it occurred to me that I never mentioned where and when the films would be screened — maybe they placed a text crawl. Hope so. Also, I don’t think it was ever made clear that these were short films. Oh, well. Press is almost always good.)

After I untethered myself from the microphone, I whipped out my camera. I toggled on the flash — seeing as there were no cameras in the studio “on air” — and I took a picture of Stephanie.

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I headed home and caught up on some email.

Around one I took a proper bike ride. From my house to Mission Espada and back. About 20 miles. I stopped and took some photos of the recently defunct Mission Drive-In Theater and the adjacent Rosicrucian club house.

Out at Mission Espada I played around with some close-ups of an artist’s 3D depiction of the mission site sculpted on bronze or some other kind of metal which, in the onslaught of summer, becomes insanely hot. I want one of the local news stations to come out during a 104 degree day and blast the bronze courtyard with a liberal coating of Pam and crack on egg on that sucker.

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Back home, I had to decline an invite from Janet of the film commission to join her panel for tomorrow’s Film Forum at the downtown library. The topic is film festivals. And of the one or two times I have sat on last year’s panels, this is a topic on which I can legitimately pontificate. But I have made it known that I will be available at Ruta Maya coffee shop every Tuesday night until the weekend of the 48HFP. Kind of silly. Ruta Maya is only three blocks from the library.

But Janet should feel confident. They have, as panelists, Adam Rocha (who’s been successfully running his San Antonio Underground Film Festival for a damn long time); Graciela Sanchez (and she’s brought some amazing work to the Esperanza Center for their Cine Mujer — hands down the best of about a dozen San Antonio film festivals); Denise Crettenden (she and her husband run Seguin Film & Arts Festival, one of the most pleasant and laid-back local film fests — I always submit work because I enjoy attending their events); and Dar Miller (whose SAL — San Antonio Local — first annual festival, which is fast approaching, promises to showcase all the great talent here in Bexar County). I would have been in great company. But it’s a good panel. Try and make it. It’s free. Nikki Young will be MCing the event. And as the coordinator for the SA to SA (San Antonio to South Africa) Film Festival, she’ll be more than qualified to keep the panel on track and on topic.

There are several blogs I read where I really can’t keep up with the massive waves of prose generated. And Dennis Cooper is one of those. Curious as to how he ever finds time in writing his novels, I looked him up in Wikipedia, wondering if there was some sort of correlation between the beginning of his blogging life and the end of his publishing life. Well, it seems that he’s still actively writing for publication (you know, in those old clunky things they sell in book store — you can find them if you ventured beyond the racks of calendars, Harry Potter air fresheners, plush animals, and electronic handheld Scrabble dictionaries). I learned that Cooper considers his blog as a literary entity itself. Yeah, I like that idea. But daily 2500 word posts can be fairly exhausting to keep up with.

However, he often offers a post which is a series of pasted in images or YouTube vids.

Recently he threw in a whole slew of links to Roy Wood-related video links.

Roy Wood fronted the Move, one of the great late period psychedelic Brit bands. From about 1967 to 1972 they remained extremely popular in Britain. But until they morphed into the Electric Light Orchestra, they were pretty much unknown in the states.

My sister turned me on to the Move. I was skeptical at first. I hated ELO (and it should be noted that Roy Wood left that band after their first album). But Paula played me some the Move’s songs off a “best of” album. I was hooked. She always has good taste. It’s wonderful stuff — sometimes power pop not too far removed from the first generation mods (like the Who), sometimes straight-ahead ’60s brit rock (like the Hollies), and, eventually, pushing into the Slade glam realm. There are some songs with a clearly Beatles tone (such as the dark side of “Penny Lane,” “Blackberry Way”). Where would I be without “I Can Hear the Grass Grow,” and “The Lemon Tree” on my iPod?

But from the Dennis Cooper posting I learned something new. When Roy Wood left ELO, he formed something called Wizzard. It’s a crazy hybrid of George Clinton, Gary Glitter, and Phil Spector. I’ve watched several live performances of Wizzard on YouTube. Brilliant … or maybe awful? I don’t know yet. But I’m still intrigued.

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Thursday I had an appointment at PrimaDonna Productions. Nikki is running an acting summer camp for kids. She wanted me to show up as a filmmaking guest. She also requested the presence of Carlos Pina. Oh, I know how Nikki’s mind works. She wanted to show her kids some of my films, because they are, for the most part G-rated (what I like to call a Hard “G,” to hold my head high among the rough-and-tumbled world of renegade filmmakers), and many of them featured Nikki Young herself. They also featured Carlos Pina (in his capacity of actor).

But those were all wise reasons. The kids got to learn about the collaborative process. And they would certainly be interested in watching short films which stared their teacher, a woman they now know well.

We started with the kids taking turns as if me, Carlos, and Nikki were running auditions for commercials. They entered, introduced themselves, allowed for a short interview where we asked all sorts of impromptu questions, and then they had to read or recite the lines. We had, I believe, five kids.

When it looked like that portion was done with, Carlos leaned to me and whispered: “You’re gonna have to photograph me. No one’s going to believe I’m lecturing to kids.”

And he stood up and gave his story. There was a whiteboard, and he used it!

I’m not sure if Nikki really wanted us to get up in front of the kids and do a little presentation, but Carlos was quite a success. The kids loved him. Forget all his bluster about being a dark-core bad-ass, he’s just a sweet guy who makes movies about parallel universes infested with demons and crime lords, ambiguously working towards bringing about some sort of apocalypse. But Carlos has an unswerving moral code. Violence in his films is stylized to the point of artificiality. And, in his own life, he almost never resorts to profanity.

After Carlos’ presentation, Nikki allowed the kids a snack break.

And then we screened some of my short films. “Treasure of the Perro Diablo,” “The Price of Stamps,” “I Do Adore Cream Corn,” and “Operation Hitman.”

It was strange revisiting a bunch of my stuff. These aren’t all aimed at kids (and, hell, they certainly aren’t all good films), but they went over fairly well. Nikki starred in two of the pieces, and was a featured extra in another. Carlos was in all four. He also provided the score to three of the films.

The kids had some interesting comments. When they mentioned that they had trouble understanding some of the passages I was able to explain what the problem was — and usually it wasn’t because they’re kids, but because I screwed up.

As me and Carlos were saying our goodbyes, Nikki whispered that she was looking forward to reading about my take of the class in this blog.

Damn! First Carlos wants me to photograph him for the blog, and then Nikki ponders how this will play out in my silly little on-line journal.

I’m feeling the pressure.

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Friday I drove out to the Fox TV affiliate studio here in San Antonio. Lorenzo Lopez wrangled an invite for him and myself onto the Fox morning new show. I delivered a 48 Hour Film Project promo DVD so they can have some visual cut-aways. I don’t know how the show is structured. I stopped trying to watch TV because my television gets such poor reception. Anyway, Jessica Hernandez is the newscaster who’s producing our part. It’s a good thing that I’m no longer crippled with neurotic shyness when it comes to this sort of stuff (and, man, I’ve come a long long way), but I’d much prefer not to subject the gentle Monday morning viewers — who are no doubt cautiously feeding their raw hangovers a heavily-sugared steaming cup of Tasters Choice — to my bloated, slovenly visage.

“Oh, good lord! What is that? Brrrr…. Millie, you can pull the plug on the waffle iron. I’m heading back to bed. Call my boss, would you please.”

Monday night I took the chair at the head of the table during the Last Monday night at Gemini Ink. For those outside the loop, Gemini Ink is the most visible literary non-profit group in town. They bring in top writers to run classes and give readings. I’ve groused before about the prices for their classes, but my friend Jean made a point that they’re actually considerably cheaper than classes offered by other, similar organizations. She’s right. It’s just that I’m poor. Anyway, Gemini Ink offers a monthly free writers workshop on the last Monday of every month. It’s run by Jim Dawes. One of its weakness is also one of its strengths: you never know who will show up one month to the next. There are times when only six folks show up, and the awful writers out-number the passable ones. But the next month, it might be all gravy, and lots of it.

Last night we had plenty of good gravy flowing. 12 people showed up. Two decided to just observe. But ten readers is a pretty damn big group, seeing as there are only two hours to get to everyone. (Actually, I let the evening go from 6:30 until 9:15, so that everyone would have a chance to read and receive feed-back.)

Michael Faia was first up. He’s an extraordinary writer. He’s got at least two huge novels going. Hundreds of thousands of words. He’s an older man. Maybe 70? He writes with a density of Faulkner or Thomas Wolfe (though not so youthful and giddy as the latter) — stories that fold in upon themselves, told in pristine syntax and a marvelous flow of lovely, unexpected vocabulary. Michael does what I do when faced with Gemini Ink’s imposed four page double spaced limit. He pushes out his margins and manages to sneak in a 1.5 space between the lines. Also, no 12 point bullshit for him — it’s 10 point font. But who’s gonna gripe. He can write, yes sir. Monday night, three and a half of his four pages was a description of a car crash in progress. Brilliant stuff.

We had two poets, a novelist with her first chapter, a couple of complete short stories, a middle chapter of a young adult novel, and some works-in-progress where the authors are still deciding where the work is headed. All was refreshingly good.

We closed with a dense three page piece Russ had written earlier that day in a single, purging session. One of his strongest pieces, hands down. It, like Michael’s piece, had an automobile theme. And, like Michael, Russ was using a density of prose, complex syntax, and an impressive vocabulary. He also inserted this sense of velocity that kept things moving and always in focus.

Here is a blog where the story, with a few changes, can be found.

I only hope Russ doesn’t decided to edit this piece too much. He’s never satisfied with his creations, and is forever tinkering. He needs to walk away from this piece. It stands alone and complete damn well.

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Tuesday was another Erik Bosse event. And, like the Last Monday at Gemini Ink, I really didn’t do anything except show up, hang out, and turn out the lights when I left.

We had our second Tuesday night 48 Hour Film Project meet-and-greet at the Ruta Maya Riverwalk Coffee Shop in downtown San Antonio.

We had maybe thirty-five people show up throughout the night.

The first people who arrived were Sterling and Julian. They’re high-school students who attend Brakenridge. But more importantly, they work with San Anto, the westside arts organization. They directed an excellent short documentary that screened at the Josiah Youth Media Festival. They also were gracious enough to be panelists for the Media Now Workshops we had during the Josiah Fest on Saturday.

As the evening progressed, we eventually had appearances by team leaders Lorenzo Lopez, Andy Miller, Richard Galindo, Nikki Young, Michael Druck, Joey Carrillo, and Travis Thomsen. Maybe there were some other team leaders I over-looked, or maybe they showed up while I was talking to the media.

Kiko Martinez, with the San Antonio Current, showed up and did a quick interview with me. He placed a recording device on the table, and I blathered out all sorts of useless crap. I’d just downed one of Ruta Maya’s cappuccinos, so I was pretty wired. Actually, I believe, after a question concerning the San Antonio Film Council, I muttered something about, “well, this is better said off the record, you understand, but–” blah blah blah.

I then flagged down Travis as a good subject to be interviewed by Kiko. He is more articulate than I. He’s leading a team. And, importantly, he was involved in a similar contest last year, the San Antonio Film Commission’s 48 Hour Film Experience.

Just as Travis sat down with Kiko, Mike Greenberg of the San Antonio Express-News came in. I gave him the basic over-view. He told me that what he wants to do is to follow one of the teams through the process. Sounds great. I mentioned some of the teams I thought might make for a good story. Nikki’s team would be very organized and professional. Andy’s team would also be quite professional, yet no doubt achieve something of a free-wheeling party atmosphere on a set crammed with several charismatic extroverts; also, I quipped that the director of the new feature “Where’s Chloe?” was an integral crew member, and, after the stress of his own huge project, he is past-due for a nervous breakdown. Always good material for a newspaper article.

We’ll see if we can match Mike Greenberg up with just the right team.

During a lull, I noticed that Victor (Sterling and Julian’s teacher from San Anto) had showed up. I went over to their table. I told Victor that I was trying to get a teenage girl to lead a team. A couple of local filmmakers want to sponsor a teen team, and they would rather the director be a girl, to help balance out the demographics which, in film, tends to skew towards the dreadfully macho. Victor told me that one of his talented students is a girl. Sterling (or was it Julian?) pulled out a flip phone and called the girl. She was interested and free on the dates needed. The three turned to me. “Let’s do it,” I said.

We have the 48HFP teen team!

And I know they’ll bring it to completion.

I shook their hands. Next Tuesday I’ll get to meet the girl who will direct this team.

It was like Hollywood deal-making in miniature. It was also very sweet and cute (unlike Hollywood deal-making, I presume).

Herman showed up. I’d called him to see if he still wanted to lead a team. But his preferred crew had moved off to California. And money is pretty tight for him. But I think I might have got him on a team as an editor. Just what Herman likes to do and does well.

Lorenzo (who has a background in local TV) says he might have lined up some television interviews for the 48 Hour Film Project. That’d be great. We’ll see how all this goes.

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Today I received a call from Jennifer Belasco. She’s doing a piece on the 48HFP for 210SA, a free weekly tabloid that concerns itself with the San Antonio entertainment scene. I suspect that their
targeted audience is significantly younger than myself, but I have no choice but to sing their accolades. The three film-related events that have consumed my summer have all been featured (or will be) in the pages of 210SA. Thanks guys!

I was watching some documentary online about the history of the Situationalists, with the obligatory sound bite from Greil Marcus connecting punk rock with the Parisian postmodern highbrowery (a particular intellectual contortion which has always made me suspicious) — and that gave the documentary the opportunity to cut to Malcolm McLaren. He was seated in some sedate Hyde Park garden wearing some ghastly collision of pinstripe and tartan. But what made me smile was the text in the lower third region of the screen: Malcolm McLaren, Impresario. Sure, it was accurate. But still wonderfully old world pompous.

If only I were more enamored of this event-organizing, I’d give thought to placing that on a business card. Erik Bosse, Impresario. This recalls my business card I had in my early 20s: Erik Bosse, Agent Provocateur. The woman at the passport department barely rolled her eyes and suggested that I change that title on the “occupation” line to “student.” Ah, but those were innocent times. Try that today, and mom would be sending those Christmas fruitcakes care of Camp X-Ray (now, the new, improved Camp Delta).

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Carlos was by earlier this evening. He’s currently without internet access, and Time Warner Cable can’t come out until Friday. So, he stopped by and sent some emails. He’s got a couple of acting gigs up in Austin. One is a prison tough. And that’s something he can do in his sleep. It’s really just his El Picante (his own creation, a Mafia del Monte crime lord), but with a wide streak of overt cruelty.

While on my computer, Carlos apparently checked his MySpace account and forgot to log-off. Oh, but I was sorely tempted to go in and muck around with his profile. You know: favorite movie, Sound of Music; favorite music, hip hop and anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber; TV, Seventh Heaven and Sex and the City!!! But I didn’t. And now, after closing the browser, it’s too late. The password wasn’t saved. I’m kicking myself now.

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For some time now I’ve been aware of another Erik Bosse. Well there are two — other than me. The info that Google brings to us is a boundless bounty. There is a guy in Massachusetts who’s pretty young. Maybe 20? Rock and roller. Plays bass, writes poetry, and is a talented photographer.

As an art-minded guy, I’m curious if he’s pissed off that there is this old guy (me) polluting the googleability of his name — a name which, by all rights, should be unusual enough to be unique. Sorry, Erik.

But the real problem is Eric Bosse.

He’s maybe five years younger than me … but, as a sort of doppelganger, living the life I should be living.

Years ago I submitted a piece of prose to The Exquisite Corpse (a Louisiana Lit mag edited by Andrei Codrescu). It was turned down (probably because it sucked). Yet, Eric Bosse had no trouble getting published by the Corpse. I later discovered, as I was getting into film work, that Eric had also beat me to that. While living in Colorado, he had done a few films (and, it seems, continues to make films). And after visiting my friend Jo Smalley some years ago as he was working on his MFA at the writing program at the University of Montana in Missoula, I felt a strong twinge of envy — one day, perhaps, I could get into a MFA program. But wait! Eric Bosse, I believe, found his way to the very same Missoula MFA program. He’s done pieces for McSweeney’s, dammit! And while I’m sitting on my ass whining about — well, whatever — Eric is writing reviews on the works of some of my progressive heros such as Noam Chomsky and Greg Palast. Oh, least I forget, he has a collection of short stories coming out in 2008!

What the hell am I doing with my life?

Congratulations for all your successes, Eric Bosse!

There is mention, in passing, of me in Eric’s blog.

“By the way, there’s another filmmaker with my name out there–and he lives in San Antonio, the city of my birth, no less–though he spells his first name with a k. I’m quite sure he wouldn’t want anyone mistaking my work for his.”

But the truth is, I have no problem with people mistaking Eric’s work for mine. In fact, there is a misspelling on a link to a McSweeney’s page where Eric’s name is spelled with a “k.” Okay, the truth is, it looks like I’m the shit — McSweeney’s & all that. But ever since I’ve gotten into the habit of self-Googling (yeah, I do it — proud of it … and don’t look at me like that!), I’ve read a good amount of Eric’s prose. He’s very good. The themes we each explore aren’t so divergent. I mean, it’s not like one of us is writing romance novels or making Christian feel-good films.

As doppelgangers go, I don’t think I could do better than being in the shadow of Eric Bosse.

I’m still enamored of my little Nikon CoolPix point-and-shoot camera. I try and keep it in reach as often as possible. And I have amassed a collection of rechargeable AA batteries which I keep in a constant rotation through my charger. But sometimes there are those photo-opportunities of which I find myself faltering. It was back on Thursday, I believe. I was driving to my favorite drive thru taqueria on the southside. I was on a side street across from Roosevelt Park. I pulled up to a stop sign and watched, incredulously, as some guy on an old and rusty 1970s era touring bike pedaled past. He wore a Darth Vader mask. A maroon knit cap. A small cape tied around his neck which appeared to have been cut from a black sheet. And black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. As he glided by, I turned and looked down at the camera on the passenger seat beside me. I knew that to get a decent shot I’d have to circle a couple of blocks and try and get in front of him. But, it occurred to me that anyone who is willing to cycle around cocooned in black on a hot summer afternoon with a hundred and something percent humidity may well be capable of just about anything. I continued to my taco connection.

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It was a lazy internet weekend. I spent quite a bit of time waiting around for my landlady’s plumber to show up. And I ran through a whole slew of artsy films archived on UbuWeb. There’s loads of tedious crap (those fluxus bastards should be horse whipped for wasting so much footage on their meditations upon the painfully obvious). But there are great things throughout this site. And it reminded me of the power of film, even if all you can budget is 8-mm. I checked some on-line resources, and discovered that since my last foray into working with film, it had jumped significantly in price. 30%, or so. My directorial debut was a college-level independent project. “Mr. Ponygraph.” It was shot on 16-mm, with a few short flashback scenes shot on super 8.

I’ve a long history of film animosity. Back when I was in high-school, pissing away my time in photography class, I can recall the day when 35mm still film practically doubled in price. A couple of the Hunt brothers (of the Texas millionaire family), had cornered the silver market. I believe they got busted on it (perhaps the last time anti-trust laws had been enforced in this country). But even after it was revealed that the price of film stock had radically increased because the price of silver (a commodity necessary to making film) had been artificially bloated, the fact was, film stock never returned to its pre-1980 retail prices. So, with the advent of the digital revolution, I was quite pleased to see the handwriting on the wall. Kodak, Ilford, Agfa, FugiFilm, et al, had decided to gouge the public, and now their products were fast becoming unnecessary. Karma can move slow at times. But the problem is, film still looks mighty cool. And as I found myself thinking about a return to film — say, 8-mm — I was slapped down by yet another increase of film stock then when I last used the stuff, back in 2001.

I guess the answer is to steal it. And process it oneself in a bathtub with the lights off agitating the stolen chemicals with a stolen ax-handle. It’s time to return to art as an impolite endeavor.

Friday was a good day. Productive, fun, and full of surprises. I’d almost given up on these sorts of days.

I had a paying gig in the a.m. Pete’s been working on a promotional video for an educational program. He needed a second camera. This is the second time I’ve been on location with this project. The people he’s working with are very nice. I was on site at 9:30, and out of there by 12:30. We stopped for lunch and caught up on one another’s various projects.

Not more than 30 seconds after walking in my front door, I got a call from Drew. He said that was out scouting locations in the film commission’s van, and would it be okay if he picked up his mountain bike (which he had graciously loaned me many months ago after my bike was stolen — I’ve since bought a new one). Yeah, I said. Come on by. He confessed that he was in my driveway. I popped my head out. And waved to him and Janet. I wheeled out his bike (feeling a bit of a twinge in that I never got around to cleaning the chain — he’d loaned it to me immaculate, and I returned it to him otherwise).

Back inside I noticed that I had a message on my cell phone.

I called the number. It was a very pleasant woman who was calling around for an editor for a documentary she’s working on. She confessed to having little money. I gave her a few suggestions. I even mentioned that, if she wasn’t in a hurry, I might be able to help her out after I get this 48 Hour Film Project out of the way. She said she’d get back to me. It seems she got my number from Drew. When she said that, I felt doubly chagrined for that dirty chain.

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Because there was actually blue sky, I decided to head out for a bike ride. Along the Mission Trail I was able to see just how high the San Antonio river is running. In fact, I saw a big snapping turtle slowly making his way up a grassy slope beside the trail. He, too, finally had had enough of all that fucking water.

Way down at the southern end of the Mission Trail, the low water crossing at Mission Espada was closed because …. Well, this is why.

I returned back the way I had come. During any normal summer I would have been enjoying a strong wind at my back coming up from Mexico. But, nope, it was a blast from the east — more damp weather coming in from the Gulf. I guess more rain is soon on its way.

Back home, I barely had time to roll my bike inside before the mailman knocked on my door. He had a package. It was from the Aldredge Book Store. Meaning it was from my sister in Dallas.

It was a box of cereal. Or more specifically, a box of Frosted Krusty O’s. In the lead-up to the Simpsons Movie, the PR gods have transformed several 7-11s into impromptu Kwik-E-Mart (the convenience store chain in the Simpsons universe). And, it seems, that in these refurbished 7-11s, they are selling, along with Fritos and microwave burritos, some novelty Simpsons stuff.

This box of cereal has a festive and sickening Matt Groening (or Matt Groening-inspired) illustration of famed Krusty the Clown holding a bowl of garbage-infested cereal (carpet tacks, earthworms, mold, et al). And, because this box of cereal is being sold, not in the Simpsons universe, but in a Dallas 7-11, there is a tiny printed caveat: “Product shown is not representative of the actual product inside.” Because, you see, it’s really no more than a gussied-up box of corn flakes.

I wonder how long it’ll take before, in a moment of weakness, I rip open the box and drown those flakes of frosted corny goodness with some HEB soy milk? I suspect after a month or so the novelty will wear off, and it’ll be just another box of processed food sitting atop my fridge.

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As it drifted from late afternoon to early evening, I started to get ready for a dinner engagement for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. Josiah’s parents, Marcus and Nancy, wanted to treat the film festival team to dinner. And so, around 7, I headed out.

But as I was almost out of gas, I stopped at the Citgo across the street from the Church Street Theatre and Bistro. I slipped my credit card into the slot and discovered that I was using a monstrously slow gas pump.

As I was standing there, watching the numbers creep, I noticed a car pull up to the other side of my pump. A chunky ’80s model Buick or something. A beautiful woman in a Mexican peasant blouse and a shaw stepped out. It was Louisette. Louisette Zurita. One of my favorite actresses, even though I’ve only directed her in three tiny roles. But, mercy, she has presence.

We chatted some. She’s in Dora’s film, Dream Healer. But I already knew that. And I think that was why she was in my neighborhood. She said she was in her current outfit because of a show she’s in at the Stoli Playhouse. I’m very happy to see that Louisette is getting back into acting. I really need to start writing a script for her.

The Josiah wrap-up dinner was at Paesano’s in Lincoln Heights. It’s an up-market Italian restaurant I’d never visit were someone not treating me. The food, however, was great. Marcus ordered the calamari for everyone as an appetizer — the addition of fresh basil made it kick ass.

It was a wonderful evening, and the perfect ending to the first enjoyable day I’ve had in some time.

Please excuse my bitchiness in the following post. But, shit, this ceaseless rain has me ready to bite someone. If it’s not oppressively cloudy, it’s hammering down in sheets. This is not the San Antonio I know.

I received a phone call last week from Deborah about a video/media meeting of some sort happening at the Bihl Haus Arts space. I told her I’d be happy to check it out. And a couple of days later I got an email from Kellen about the event. Kellen runs the fairly new gallery (well, it’s almost two years old, and is just on the cusp of landing its non-profit status — but, all things relative, Bihl Huas is pretty new). The gallery has had some spectacular shows, not in any small part because of Deborah’s hard work curating and promoting the shows.

Anyway, I’m very found of the folks at Bihl Haus. And, besides, I like to keep atop of the film & video goings-on here in San Antonio (actually, I’m trying to live up to Drew Mayer-Oakes’ extemporaneous comment be made when introducing me to a local film audience as, “Erik Bosse, he’s, um, a man about town”).

The event was a meeting with a city governmental agency. I’ll not bother mentioning them, because I’m not exactly sure what it is they do.

Which brings me to my major problem with this meeting. I found myself roped into a presentation run by a gentleman by the name of McNeel. He’s an important architect of local public radio, TV, and internet. Also, he’s affiliated with SalsaNet. (Now I challenge anyone to spend an hour or more on the pages of the SalsaNet web site and try and find out what, exactly, it is they do. And look specifically at the page explicating the mission statement of the Public Studio project. I’ve tried, and I’m still baffled.)

Nevertheless, I was there with my sporty little Canon GL2. I also managed to coax Russ into this as well (of which I hope he accepts my humblest apologies). There were three other filmmakers in attendance (two with their cameras) — and I was glad for the opportunity to meet them. Also in attendance was a representative of NewTek. He was to have brought along the TriCaster Studio. The “studio in a box.” For some reason he arrived with the somewhat more scaled-down, TriCaster Pro. This meant we had to forgo a few of our microphones, as the Pro had fewer audio inputs (though in retrospect I think we should have brought a small soundboard). But this is all moot, as the TriCaster experienced some technical problems and shut down on us. Too bad. The NewTek representative held it together admirably. And McNeel shrugged it off as what it was, an unforeseen technical problem — these things happen. The sad thing is that the dozen folks who showed up were denied the opportunity to see how cool the TriCaster really is.

McNeel forged ahead, explaining to the people assembled his scheme to — well, I don’t really know. A lot of “digital convergence” buzzwords: “global village” this, “streaming content” that, and something about international markets.

I wondered (and still wonder) what makes our current state of affairs so much different from what he envisions? Every jackass with a computer, a video camera, and broadband access (and that’s a bunch of us jackasses), can do all this already. Barring the clampdown on Net Neutrality, we will continue to provide and distribute our own content.

I recall not so long ago — was it just last year? — I met Michael Verdi. He was running Node 101 out of the backroom of the Jump-Start Theater. And with extremely limited resources, he (and a handful of like-minded technophiles) helped to create FreeVlog. And those incredibly useful on-line video tutorials on how to create video content and then post them on-line are still there. The funding for Node 101 ran out, but Michael’s work is still out there — free and available for all who care to use it.

Michael could talk for five minutes, and you knew exactly where he was coming from and what he was trying to do. But this afternoon, I was in the Bihl Haus for three hours with McNeel, and I still haven’t a clue as to what he wants to do. What is his agenda? Is he wanting to help the group he was speaking to? Or does he want them to help him? One of the women there asked a question somewhat along those lines. The answer she got was an informative and entertaining digression; but, as a response to her query, it was delivered as a solid non sequitur. She was left perplexed, and clearly as SOL as the rest of us.

I can only hope that the meetings to come have some coherent agenda. The basic idea of utilizing the TriCaster as the powerhouse it was built for to deliver live content (in this case over the internet), and bring it into the reach of local arts organizations is laudable. I can get behind that. But that was only one of many ideas presented to these folks in a swirling miasma of vagary.

God forbid that this Public Studio project heads down the same road of, say, the San Antonio Film Council. Because, dammit, we don’t need another reason for the rest of the world to chortle about those fools in San Antonio with their muddled, unfocused ideas.

You got vision? Great! Nail it down in clear language. Because, of course, if you want to be in the business of communication, there’s one thing you need to be able to do. Communicate.