Back on February 23rd I attended the Olvidate del Alamo show at the Bilh Haus art space. The show is an annual recontextualizing of the time-worn admonition to always Remember the Alamo, but seen through a Chicano/a lens. The show opened on the anniversary of the siege of the Alamo. And tonight, 13 days after the opening, the show closed. Of course, as all Texans are taught, the siege lasted 13 days.

Tonight was a weekday, so the attendance was quite a bit smaller than the opening night. Maybe 60 people as opposed to the couple hundred crammed into the small space back on the 23rd. This time I decided to bring along my video camera. Maybe in the next couple of days I’ll get around to posting a new video blog. I did, however, take some photos. My camera takes very nice video images, but the still shots it takes often come out too dark. I tried my best to pump them up on my computer.

Above we have my friend Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez. He started this Forget the Alamo show four years ago. And it looks like it’s well on the way to becoming a tradition in San Antonio. He’s standing in front of one his paintings. It sold on the opening day.

This is Javier Vasquez, Ramon’s youngest son. Above him is a recent painting which he did just for the show. In fact, Ramon said it’s Javier’s first piece of art. I think it’s quite well done. For those who can’t make out the iconography from my bad photo, you’re looking at William B. Travis playing a fiddle while the Alamo burns.

My good friend Deborah Keller-Rihn (who is the curator at the Bilh Haus) was there with half a dozen of her students. I hardly see her anymore since she started teaching. I’m not even sure where she is. But I think she’s out at Northwest Vista, which is part of the Alamo Community College District.

When the final poet had finished, and the people were milling about (the sandwiches and wine had not yet been exhausted), I sat down in a folding chair on the front row and removed my camera from the mono-pod. The door opened and I saw, from the corner of my eye, a swirl of color sweep in. As I was looking down, concentrating on disassembling my camera equipment, the first thing I saw clearly were snake skin cowboy boots with silver toe caps peeking out from a silk robe in garish colorful arabesque patterns. I followed upward and saw the handsome face of a man with a tight-trimmed beard and a twirled
Daliesque mustache. He wore magenta sweeps of eye makeup under and out from his brows. And he sported, perched on his head like a hat, a lucha libre wrestling mask in gold and silver.

I’ve lived in San Antonio for three god damn years and I’ve just now had my first David Zamora Casas sighting. If not the most famous local painter, he’s clearly the most infamous. I know so many people who know him, it’s bizarre we’ve never before crossed paths. Deborah’s photographed him. Alex’s sub-leased a space to him. Jimmy Fletcher (AKA the Moocher) has been offended by him. Nicole parties with him. Cat (AKA, Mistress Cat — who I haven’t heard from for over six months) used to frequent gay bars with him. Everyone seems to have a David Casas story. Both he and Sandra Cisneros are our local luminaries whose reputation (good and otherwise) proceeds them. And as a gay chicano artist/activist with a penchant for the flamboyant, all sorts of outrageous David Casas stories have made the rounds. I can only hope that they are all true. And me …? The only thing I could think to say to him after he exchanged a couple of words with Deborah and began to move on, was: “Love the boots.” To which he paused, blinked, and said: “Thanks.”

If that exchange wasn’t lame enough, I have to confess that I didn’t even take a picture of him. Or his boots.

This morning I dropped by Urban-15 to meet with George and Catherine, and talk about the up-coming Josiah Youth Media Festival they will be organizing later this summer. I'm to be hired on to coordinate the event. When I arrived, George escorted me down to the basement space where he was meeting with one of the newest curators over at SAMA (the San Antonio Museum of Art). David S. Rubin has the lengthy title of the Brown Foundation Curator for Contemporary Art. He was displaced from New Orleans by Katrina, and has been with SAMA about six months. I'm not terribly keen on the contemporary stuff that SAMA shows in it's rather limited modern gallery. The Asian, Oceanic, and Latin American collections (especially the Latin American Folk Art collection) are where they shine. But David seems well on his way organizing special shows.

I'm not sure if his visit was a courtesy call he makes to all local artists (George has been doing innovative video art, multimedia, installations, and conceptual pieces for over three decades), or if he was looking for items to add to a show that will debut in October.

I took a seat in a chair a bit back from them. George and David sat at a computer work station, and George loaded up a DVD with some of his work on it. I knew he'd done some big, prestigious pieces, but I hadn't realized how secure is his place in the international art scene. He was talking about a time, probably 25 years ago, when he was in New York City, hanging out with avant music icons like Steve Reich, and they'd go out to hear Pauline Oliveros. And whereas I like the playful, quirky world of art here in this city, George was talking about a milieu a long way from San Antonio, and not just removed in years and geography.

One of the shows that David is planning is a retrospective of psychedelic art. He made a few comments about how he saw a transformative watershed in the art world where a whole new color pallet was introduced. He made some mention about Frank Stella. And then he mentioned something about Op Art. “So,” George said, jumping in, “you're having poster art?” David shook his head. Before he could clarify, Catherine wandered in. She picked up a Mexican blanket. “These traditions are older than Frank Stella,” she said. “The red dye is made from the crushed bodies of the cochineal insects.” “Ah,” David added, “but that's not a psychedelic color.” George stood and unfolded the blanket. “But this pattern sure is,” he said. Catherine pulled out another blanket with bright saturated colors. “These are all natural, fluorescent dyes.” And I just leaned back, smiling. The old tussle between the academics and the traditionalists.

“You've bit off something pretty big,” I said with a laugh. “The word psychedelic means so many different things to different people. You're wanting to make some sort of bridge where Frank Stella and Bridget Riley connect Kandinsky to the current crop of post modernists such as …?” But before I could get him to tell me who he considers the current crop of psychedelic artists, the cross talk began between him and George; the former speaking of historically vetted post modernists who have enjoyed high profile representation of the big time NYC art dealers, and the latter bringing in drugs, technology, and shamanistic traditions.

David laughed and said something about how he knew what he meant by the term psychedelic. I laughed also. He'd better do a good job of conveying those nuances in the program and and other contextual material which will accompany the show. Because I know exactly what psychedelic art means. And clearly George does as well. And I can say without a slightest doubt, we all have radically different images in our heads.

All I can say is, pass out fistfuls of psilocybin at the door, and you can hang toothpaste tubes or Thomas Kinkade posters on the walls, and the visitors will be enraptured.

I followed as George and Catherine gave David a tour of the building. We went up into the old sanctuary which has been converted into the dance practice studio, as well as the screening and performance space. The projector screen which will electrically lower when needed, has arrived but still needs to be installed. And George told me that he and Catherine are still reviewing the proposals from the architects who are vying for the contract to expand the performance space. We then walked down to the greenhouse, which has been converted into George's office. Herman was in there on the phone, pricing equipment needed for the Smithsonian video art installation. I walked out to the courtyard with Catherine. We watched the goose and the rooster scratching the ground over by the west wing of the building.

George and David walked up behind us. “We have wildlife,” he said.

“Livestock,” Catherine modified.

“Very nice,” David said, looking around.

“The rooster attacks me,” Catherine told me in her soft voice. “He thinks I'm a rival.”

“Is that why you're holding that broom so tightly?” I asked.

She smiled. “The goose is the great love of his life.”

“One day,” George said, hands on his hips, “we'll find a nest of eggs watched over by that goose and her rooster.”

A man who does construction and building maintenance around the place walked up behind us. He tugged on his ponytail. “The gooster might turn out to be a delicious animal. And if not, I expect it will hold it's own in the cockfight ring.” He nodded decisively, and ambled off into the greenhouse.

After David left, I talked with George and Catherine about the Josiah project. There's a lot of work to do. But on the bright side, they do have a budget. If things work out the way they should, I'll get some decent pay. However it didn't help that when George dropped by the Leftovers set last Saturday, Russ walked up and said: “I hear you're giving Erik a job. He's working on this particular project for food. Are you paying him in food or money?”

George pursed his lips. He turned and poked me in the belly. “I'll have to wait and see how much he eats.”

That's right. I'm just here for the amusement of other people.

It's nice to live on the set. The call time was seven in the morning. I set my alarm clock for 6:30. Plenty of time to load up my espresso machine, shower, and check my email. And I was ready.

It had been a cold night, and as I really don't have a heater, our kid actors and their moms were rather chilly, even inside. I no doubt seemed callous, but I was moving lights and other equipment to stage all the stuff in my front yard. And I was warming up quite nicely.

I set up a basic lighting scheme where I lifted all my blinds, and supplemented the sunlight coming through the windows with a couple of Lowell Omni lights aimed at a white plastic party tablecloth hung up on a couple of c-stands. This is like a giant light box. I usually use a white shower curtain, but I like Russ' tablecloth version. I'm sure it's cheaper. Besides, the material is thinner, and easier to work with.

We broke for lunch and then the production moved to the parking-lot of NewTek, up on the far north-side. The scene we were going to shoot was a traffic jam. Robin had planned to shot it on the road in front of NewTek, as there is hardly any traffic there.

When I drove to the location, I missed my turn, and doubled around. There was this beautiful stretch of road behind a sign which read Road Closed. It was an area of a soon-to-be residential development. (One of the areas under development had a billboard with the contact info for realtor Dar Miller — I wasn't aware the girl was such a big wheel at her company as to be billboard-worthy.) When I got to NewTek, I mentioned the road to Robin. She's been thinking of using it, and when Russ and Rudolfo showed interest. We drove out to scout the place, and decided it would serve our needs.

We borrowed a large crane from NewTek, a massive Jony Jib that puts me and Pete's Cobra Crane to shame. We headed out to the closed road. Several kids came out to add their cars. I'm guessing it was some of Tracie's high-school friends. Eventually we had 15 cars to fake a traffic jam.

This is the sort of stuff I love. We spent maybe four hours shooting half a page of script. But we kicked ass on the production value. Robin and Kevin wrangled loads of cars and the crane. I'm looking forward to seeing this scene cut together. It turned out to be a very fun sequence to shoot.

And Kevin's mom, Pamela Kay Nations (I think I have her name right), arrived for a visit in town just in time to portray the woman who rear-ends Anne's character's 1971 Sedan DeVille. She did a fine job. And no Cadillacs have yet to be harmed in the making of this movie.

Call time this morning was 8pm. There is a real problem with a good sized cast and crew in a small location. I knew things were off to a shaky start when everyone began tromping inside to claim a space for their department or personal station. I have two rooms — bedroom and living room — which are supposed to be the set, and a tiny breakfast nook (my office) off an equally tiny kitchen. I had assumed that craft service, make-up, wardrobe, and equipment staging would all be set up outside.

I was one of the major contributors to confusion, as I had thought we were shooting several indoor scenes. I thought that because our first camera set-up was an interior. So I was constantly moving lights and props out of or into the shot.

And then, I realized that most of the day would be spent outside. It was still rather chaotic. Personally, I had already resigned myself to people moving my stuff all over the place — I was okay with that. But I was getting jittery as all those light stands, and cables, and electric cords became all jumbled up, and store where they stood from a prior set-up; what we really needed was a clear plan of coordination. People were constantly shifting to make room for one another. A certain amount of chaos is to be expected. But I feel we were struggling and tripping over ourselves unnecessarily. Were it not for the versatility of Kevin, Mark and Erin, who, in addition to their specific crew positions, did double-duty as the lowly production assistants, when needed, we would have drowned. Actually, Mark is that one person all successful productions have. The secret weapon. That individual who is always in motion. Two steps ahead of whatever you need to have done. He knows how most every piece of equipment works. And if he doesn't, he figures it out faster than it would take for you to tell him. The Marks of world are almost always taken for granted. But take them out of the equation, and everyone suddenly wonders why they are having to work twice as hard.

From what I could see, we got some great footage. You can't go wrong with Anne Gerber. She's. of course, a breathtaking beauty. And she always gives a playful quirkiness to every take and every set-up. She can give more just standing and looking off into space than most other actors can generate in an entire feature film.

Our three boys were on top of things throughout the day. They are fascinating to watch interacting. And Rick Carillo gave us some strong performances throughout the day. Working with him was truly one of the rewarding things about the Garrison production. Here, he's playing a much more lovable character. He oozed charm. Ezme even gave him a cool mono-chromatic tattoo which was revealed in his shirtless scene … which quickly followed his trouser-less scene (well, semi-trouser-less, seeing as they did remain around his ankles).

I made the mistake of applying sunscreen after the poisonous rays of the sun had already done their ugly work. I'm feeling it now, and expect it to be worse tomorrow. I'm amazed that other fair-skinned people were unaffected. Robin and Erin seemed none the worse from their exposure. It's not fair.

I'm beginning to appreciate just how cool my neighbors are. After Cara headed out in the mid-morning, she invited us to park in her driveway. Matt and Jackie were fine with us hogging their driveway with the prop car, a sweet 1971 Sedan DeVille. Jerry, across the street, waited until our lunch break before firing up his weedwacker. And my next door neighbors, Marlys and Michael, decided to put off repairing their fence this weekend so the noise of electric saws and hammering wouldn't screw with our production. If there is an asshole on my block (other than myself), her or she is stewing in dark anonymity.

George Cisneros dropped by the set during the afternoon. I think he uses my street as a short cut to his studios over on South Presa.

Nikki was on set to coach our kid actors. The day started out pretty chilly, and never got really hot. She remained in a long draping sweater that fit her in a very flattering manner. On her down-time she had found her way into Ezme's make-up chair. So, of course, she was looking pretty damn glamorous. Even more than usual. I should have taken a photo of her. But I had my video camera out, and got some footage. As I was following her across my front yard, one of the kids (I think it was Cameron) looked up and breathlessly told Nikki that she looked like a vampire. Can there be higher praise from an adolescent boy? And then it struck me that Nikki would make a great sexy and sophisticated vampire queen. Why had I never made that connection before? Hmm…? Maybe I need to write a new script.

As the sun came close to dropping behind the mansion across the street, we took our dinner break. Me and Russ set up a jib shot, which panned my bed, where Anne's character and her three boys are sleeping, all piled together. The script called for Anne's character to get up and meet her current lover and get it on with him in the other room. One of the boys is supposed to awaken, and give us a sour expression as he hears the sounds of passion from the next room. As we shot the close-up of our actor Dallin blanching and then covering his ears, I was in the bedroom with Russ, looking at the monitor to gage if the shot had enough light. When Robin shouted, “Action,” I heard someone, in the other room, making moaning noises to give Dallin something to react to. I don't know why, but I immediately knew it was Nikki. First off, I should point out that it wasn't even close to being realistic sounds of love making. It was so unexpected that no one said anything. It sounded like an octogenarian's adenoidal whimper when he discovers that the cafeteria has replaced his favorite carrot and marshmallow salad with lime jello. I assumed that Nikki was trying to avoid the whole sex thing. I mean, you know, they're kids. And with the second take, where Nikki did it again — and this time the cast and crew did their best to suppressed giggles — I grabbed up my own video camera. But as I maneuvered around through my kitchen to surreptitiously record Nikki, she made some comment about how she'd keep quite for this take so that Rudolfo could get could record clean audio.

“Dammit,” I said, and all eyes turned to me. When everyone saw my camera poised hopefully on the mono-pod, the laughter just let loose. “Yeah, well yuck it up. That was supposed to be on my next video blog.”

After Nikki and our kid actors left, we did the final scene, where Anne and Rick's characters get PG-intimate on a faux moon-lit sofa. After we shot all the video we needed, Anne and Rick gave us the audio only of sweet love-making. Take one, Anne began cracking up. Take two, we cut, because the ceiling fan was squeaking. For the next take, I snuck around, again, with my video camera for some behind the scenes footage. Anne realized what I was planning, and her expression of uncomfortable disapproval made me back away but quick. That take was the keeper. The overhead lights were off now, so Anne and Rick didn't feel so uncomfortable. In fact, they were getting creative. Anne was scratching at the fabric of my sofa as she moaned. And Rick was breathing hard and heavy. And when Rick began kissing the back of his hand to really sell these sound effects, I found myself grinning like crazy as I watched Robin shaking with suppressed laughter.

This is just the sort of perfect moment that should end all long and successful days of shooting. We met our page count and only went 25 minutes over our intended wrap time. And we wrapped on a laugh.

A day well done, Robin and company!

I know I really should be straightening up around here for the shoot tomorrow morning. Leftovers: Day 5 will be shot here in my place. It's about 11pm. I probably shouldn't be writing.

I've rearranged my enormous closet (the hidden corridor running the length of this house) and have shoved three bookcases in there, along with all the books. Man I'm exhausted. How to people get this sort of stuff done AND hold down a job?

After shifting around some boxes and furniture this morning, I took a break to check out the final day of Marlys Dietrick's art show. She's my next door neighbor. The Flight Gallery is in the 1906 space on South Flores. The front of the building is Andy Benavides' framing shop. And as I walked to the counter to ask directions to the gallery, I noticed Laura Varela. She's one of the more promising local filmmakers, who has at least two documentary projects in the works that I know about. She explained that she had an office in the building. She led me back to the Flight Gallery.

I really like Marlys' work. It's a series of pencil drawings of nonexistent life forms. The title of the show is “Survivors: Those Who Continue, or Live After.” I'm assuming the theme is the continuation of life, independent on the existence of humankind. It was here before, it'll be here afterwards. The detail of the work brought to mind the work of Victorian naturalists. I love that stuff. In fact, were I ever to get a tattoo, it'd probably be something like one of Ernst Haeckel's drawings of a radiolarian fossil.

I then spoke with the owner of the building to see if I could arrange to use it for a location for my up-coming Short Ends Project short film. He showed me a workroom that would be perfect. We'd have access at night and could use the loading dock. This will be the first time I've ever paid for a location. But it had everything we need to sell the scene.

Then I rushed to the deep southside to pay on my internet service before they shut me down. The line was long, and it moved at a crawl. My cell rang. It was Carlos.

“Hey Erik, do you have some electric clippers?”

“What? You mean for hair? Yeah, I do.”

“You going to be home in about thirty minutes?”

I judged the line.

“Yes,” I said, with a modicum of authority.

“Great! I'm coming back from Luling with Adrian. If it's okay with you, I'd like to shave his head.”

“Sure thing.”

“You see, I'm thinking of doing this mockumentary where–”

“Look, if I didn't ask what you were doing in Luling, I'm not going to pry about the head shaving.”

“What? Um, I'm getting a bad signal. I'll see you soon.”

Back home, as I'm cramming more stuff into my hidden room, I hear Carlos banging on the door.

He's holding his video camera. Adrian is leaning on my porch railing. It seems that they were checking out property. Carlos and Shelly have been looking for a nice home in the country, with enough land for at least one horse and a small recording studio. Carlos showed me some still images on his camera's monitor, while he and Adrian provided commentary concerning the pros and cons of the two places, one near San Marcos, the other, in Lulling.

“Alright,” Carlos suddenly said, clapping his hands together. “Let's shave this bastard's head.”

I went inside and opened up the case that holds my clippers.

“He lose some grudge match?” I asked.

“What? No. Didn't I tell you?” Carlos dragged an extension cord out to the porch. I followed. “I'm doing a mockumentary of Adrian. Something to submit to the San Antonio Underground Film Festival. I'm just going to follow him around, taping him. It's pure exploitation. Isn't that right, Adrian?”

Adrian held up his hand. He was talking on a cell phone. Carlos dragged one of my chairs out on to the porch. Adrian handed the phone to Carlos, who put it in his pocket.

“Who were you talking to? On my phone?”

“Hog Wild,” Adrian said. Hog Wild Records is a local indie music store. “My special order came in.”

“What?” asked Carlos, taken aback.

“The other day, remember? I wanted something they didn't have. They said they'd get it in for me.”

Carlos shook his head and looked up at me.

“What am I supposed to do? The guy just got out of the Dallas County jail last week. I'm helping him out, but….” He wheeled on Adrian. “How are you paying for that?”

“They said it'd be about two weeks. How was I supposed to think they'd be so efficient? I don't have to get it today. Besides, I can wash your van. It's looking like it needs it.”

“Just take off your shirt,” said Carlos. He handed me the camera. I handed him a plastic smock that I never use that came with my clippers.

Carlos fastened the smock around Adrian, and turned on the clippers. I started the camera and moved around, recording the whole thing. I'm not sure what the whole thing represented. Adrian wanted a haircut. He's currently in the skinhead phase of his life. So I'm curious who's exploiting whom. From my vantage point, Adrian was coming out ahead.

Actually, Adrian is an interesting character. And Carlos has a good idea. I think he needs to see American King, a video blog series by Chris Weagel (of Human Dog fame), where he follows around a hard drinking, free-spirited, misbehaving friend of his.

Adrian put his shirt back on. And that's when it occurred to me that we should have dragged my medical examining table out onto the porch, and shaved Adrian while he sat there. I think I still have a paper gown. My neighbors would have been cool with that. And, fuck, I'm thinking about moving away from a street where two valley vatos could shave each others heads on my front porch wearing nothing but white paper tie-from-behind gowns while I film them and shout, encouragingly, “Boys, you are magnificent!”???? I need to rethink my plans … right?

Carlos and Adrian headed off to pick up Shelly. I returned to moving books.

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Jennifer, in her blog the other day, explained that tonight's full lunar eclipse would not be visible to us here in Texas. Ah, I was so looking forward to it. But I hope the clouds opened for you Jennifer — and I hope you found a good point of vantage!

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Alston had some of her paintings up for First Friday at Venus' studio at the Blue Star Art Complex.

I walked over there sevenish. Venus wasn't in attendance. She's moving tonight. From New Braunfels to Alamo Heights (which is a neighborhood in San Antonio where the sophisticated mofos live, right Nikki?).

Alston had five or six canvases on display. She was slouched comfortably in one of her folding camp chairs. I cautiously perched my bulk on one of Venus' spindly folding chairs. As me and Alston chatted, the crowds wandered in and out. Most were drawn to the two paintings just to the left when they entered. Actually all the paintings were different studies of the same building. Some detailed, some wide in scope. I started off kidding Alston that her email and MySpace bulletin weren't pulling in her people. But then it began to happen. Family, friends, Landmark associates, and MySpace fans. She even sold a canvas. My favorite. In fact, it was most everyone's favorite. The guy who bought it, Daniel, got a great deal and a great piece of art.

When she decided to call it a night, I walked with Alston down the hallway to Deborah's space. I couldn't believe that Alston didn't know Deborah. I knew for a fact that they had met, at least once before. And Deborah is an important local photographer, digital artist, curator, art event organizer, and all around terrific person. “Besides,” I told Alston, “in her studio she has a portrait she made of Ana.”

“Ana?”

“Yeah. Your friend. What is it, um, Ana de Portela.”

It's strange, bringing ones friends together — especially two people who should have known one another for a long time, at least as long as you've known them both.

So, congratulations Alston, for selling a painting. And congratulations, Debby, for reclaiming your studio for Women's History Month (your finished Taras, now hand-painted, are awesome).

I've decided to make the move from my cozy (yet pricey) home in the swanky King William neighborhood, to the squalor of a cold water walk-up flat on the West Side. And may God have mercy on my soul.

But before I drove over to speak with my landlady, I stopped off at Urban-15. George had wanted my help coordinating their up-coming Josiah Youth Media Festival. Actually, I was hoping that when I mentioned my financial straits, he'd realize the huge amount of unused space in their building, and suggest that …. We'll, it didn't happen. But it was good I had stopped by. He said he'd left a message on my phone Sunday. I never got it. The message he wanted to convey is that they had the funding to hire me on a part-time temporary basis to help run this festival.

We went down to the basement to talk. There was a young man sitting at a desk editing video. He turned and stood.

“Erik,” George said, “this is–”

“Oh, I know Herman.” Me and Herman shook. Herman Lira was one of the floating crew members on Garrison. Working sound, camera, lighting, whatever he was needed to do. I'm glad to see him working with George and Catherine. Herman is doing animation work for George's video art installation which he's been commissioned to do for the Smithsonian Museum branch here in San Antonio. Ray Santisteban (my neighbor who I've hardly ever met), is providing the video content to the motion collage. George is currently working his way through certain technical challenges involving three video projectors suspended from the ceiling, compounded by the needed specifications of projector lens, video cables least-likely to degrade their signal over a given distance, cost concerns of the various options, and a whole raft of stuff conveyed to me in a dense technicalese way over my head.

George printed me up the current draft of the Josiah Festival press release, and mentioned that we should meet Monday.

I drove to the Monte Vista neighborhood to tell my landlady I was moving out at the end of March. I rang the buzzer. I knocked on the door. I knocked louder. I looked down the drive and saw her Caddy in the garage. I walked across the front patio to look down the drive of the house next door, where her son lives.

“Erik,” I heard her shout, in her thick Irish accent straight out of central casting. I hadn't seen her in about five months. And with all her health problems, I had begun to suspect the worse. But she was moving around pretty well. She hugged me and we sat on the low wall of her patio.

“You're looking well,” I said.

She quickly set me straight with a litany of recent hospital and emergency room visits. Tales of blood clots, nerve damage, and some operation done on her toe to which she drew my attention by wiggling the foot in question barely concealed by a flip-flop sandal.

After she caught her breath, she asked how I was doing. Before I could answer, she clutched her chest.

“You're moving out,” she said. A statement, not a question.

The fact is, you can't hide anything from your barber or your landlady.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can't make ends meet. I love the place, but I'm constantly chasing money. I found a place where I'll be paying half what I'm paying now.”

I did not tell her I intended subleasing from a particular former tenant of hers whom she had threatened legal actions (because of a series of events — only some of which were misunderstandings).

She mentioned how she'd work with me. Even bringing the rent down. I believed her. But after I let her know that I needed a BIG decrease, she shrugged and said she'd be sorry to see me go.

Back home I met Dar for our weekly Thursday hike. We took the stretch of the Mission Trail between Mission Concepción and Mission San José. I made sure to slather on the sun block. I can still smell it on my arms. Very refreshing. The smell of summer. And it's about time.

Wednesday I met up with my friend Alston at the downtown campus of UTSA for a free screening of a PBS series on environmentally friendly architecture. We'd been the previous Wednesday for the first three episodes, and we were back for the rest.

As we walked into the architecture building, she shot me a glance. “Dude, you were way too nice in your blog about how really ugly this building is.”

I looked around. “Yeah, you're right.”

It's fucked up. Beyond ironic. Imagine attending Le Cordon Bleu cooking institute, only to discover that the school's cafeteria is catered by the Ralston Purina Company.

But don't let that dissuade you from their fine film program. I'm not sure how many more of these screenings they are having. It's part of the College of Architecture's spring semester focus on the subject of sustainable architecture.

Before the screening started, a middle aged man, looking very professorial, introduced himself to me and Alston. It seemed we were the only non-students in attendance.

“I remember the two of you from last week,” he said, impressed with our intrepidness.

He gave his name, but sometimes I'm very bad with names. I poked around on Google, and I think he's associate professor Marc Giaccardo.

At the end, Professor Giaccardo stood at the front of the room. He looked around at the crowd of maybe twenty people.

“Next week we're having Blue Vinyl. A very funny documentary about a woman's dilemma when she discovers how toxic vinyl siding truly is. Oh, and I'd like to introduce two guests.” I started to laugh. Me and Alston were already standing, ready to leave. “Austin, was it…?” “Alston,” she corrected. “Ah, then,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Alston and Erik.”

What do you know? We were famous. We received no applause; however, as attention, in a vague way, had been directed toward us, I turned to the students and said: “Definitely come to see Blue Vinyl. I saw it three or fours years ago at the Dallas Video Festival. It's very smart, and very funny.”

Our new professor friend walked us out and we chatted. A very warm, pleasant man. I decided not to query him as to why his department was edificed in such an aesthetic abortion.

Outside, I mentioned that the building I thought I might be moving into was only an eighth of a mile away. Alston was curious to see it. We got in my truck and I found myself getting turned around a couple of times. I hadn't been to the place before at night. In fact, I'd only ever visited there twice.

We came up on it from an unexpected direction. “Oh, there it is.”

“We going in?” she asked.

“I don't want Alex getting his hopes up. I'm still not sure if this is a good idea. Besides, there's no lights on. I don't think he's home.”

Alston seemed impressed. True, the building, as a whole, looks cool. It's boxy. Two stories. Probably built around 1900. A wide railed balcony. The ground floor still bears a faded sign for the Monterey Bar, although by the layer of dust on the fixtures inside, the place has been out of business for over a decade. The apartment in question is upstairs. I drove around the block so Alston could get an idea of the neighborhood. It's pretty down-at-the-heel, and possesses a level of desperation somewhere between plasma bank and crack house.

I'd gone by there just the previous morning with Alex. He'd hammered on my door about 8:45, waking me up. He brought me breakfast at Casa Chiapas, and then we headed over. The place looked a whole lot worse than I remembered when I looked at it a year and a half ago — back when Alex was planning to move in. A lot of it had to do with all his clutter. True, it'll save me scads of money, but I haltingly told him I'd let him know in a day or two. I wonder if I'll be able to talk myself out of it?

Yesterday was the Oscars.  I had zero interest in watching that long, bilious panegyric to Hollywood's mutual wankery.  Self-congratulation at it's most venal.  I didn't even check to see if it was being broadcasted on one of the four channels that my TV can adequately receive.

I go through cycles of movie watching.  There have been years when I see well over a hundred mainstream movies — and I'm talking new releases at the theaters.  And then there are years like 2006.  I just now glanced at all the titles of films nominated for the Academy Awards in all categories.  I managed to see five of them.  And two, I was able to see over the internet.  But as I attended about seven film festivals, and got out to quite a few other types on non-traditional screenings, I did indeed see quite a few new films in 2006.  But, apparently, not of Oscar-quality.

Tonight was the monthly free writers workshop put on by Gemini Ink.  I took one of the older pieces from my Fictional Bog site.  I felt kind of lame, not having brought something newer.  But there is one stipulation to those who show up.  You are limited to 4 pages, double-spaced.  And some of my recent work on the above-mentioned site is becoming longer than the first few, which were almost short enough to fall into that semi-genera of “flash fiction.”

I showed up with a 760 word piece, and really didn't get much in the way of constructive criticism.  The one thing that people mention about my fiction is that it has a strong voice.  Yeah.  That's the one thing I do well.  But occasionally, I'll get some helpful feedback.  I like to hear when people honestly tell that a particular passage confuses them.  A lack of clarity in fiction can get readers to turn away almost as quickly as flat dialog or an excess of cliche.

The group changes from month to month.  This time we had eight people reading.  I had seen four of them before.  Tonight, we had a new-comer who came across insightful and somewhat patronizing when commenting on the work of others, but when it came time for her to read, I found myself cringing.  Her anemic writing style was clearly “nourished” by a steady diet of bestseller hack work.

I think the reason I continue to show up is that one of the regulars, a guy in his late sixties, has clearly read a ton of brilliant literature and he has clearly been influenced by it all.  Trying to pin down his work is difficult.  It's dense, languid writing, with serpentine sentences that slither along for miles. There's a brittle wryness that makes me think of Cormac McCarthy, especially back when he was still a southern writer.  I see Faulkner all over the place.  And Thomas Wolfe.  John Fante.  Malcolm Lowry.  And enough of a whiff of of beats to make me think, for some reason, of Richard Farina.  He's either a genius, or a pretentious dilettante.  I need to sit down and read about a hundred pages of his stuff before I can figure it out.  The guy comes in with passages from at least two novels he's in the middle of.  They are both currently in the 300 to 400 page length.

After I told him, last month, that I was working on a novella that I wanted to then adapt to a screenplay, he wanted to know why I didn't just write a screenplay.  I tried to explain why I thought that the screenplay format was the express train to doggerel.  “It'll suck the poetry from your writing faster than huffing nail polish remover.”  He didn't understand me.  So when he asked if I planned to try and get the novella published as well as the screenplay produced, I said yes.  That seemed to make sense to him.  Tonight, he mentioned that since talking with me last month he had written a screenplay that would be perfect for Sally Fields.  “I saw her in a TV commercial,” he said.  “She's promoting some osteoporosis drug.”  “The kiss of death for an actor,” I replied, shaking my head.  “Pimping for the pharmaceutical companies is what an actor does when he or she is no longer fetching enough to turn to porno.”  “Oh, I think she's still got the fans.  And because, she's always complaining that there are no good roles for older women, I thought I'd write something just for her.”  Before he could go any further, the guy who runs the group called the name of the first reader.  So, I'll have to ask this guy, when I next see him, if he's serious.  Did he really hammer out a screenplay in a month?  I'm rather curious how prolific he might be.

Prolific?  Damn, I need to write more.  (Just not screenplays for washed up actresses.)  

After maybe three and a half hours of sleep, I found myself rolling into the Seguin city limits.  I thought I'd call Russ and tell him I was only a couple minutes out from the neighborhood recreation area the crew had been shuttling back and forth from, so that our cars won't clog the driveway of our location house.  Over the phone he sounded a bit groggy.  And when he hit me with the prefaced salvo of: “oh, I guess we forgot to call you,” I was pretty sure he wasn't joking.  It seems the call time had been pushed back to 7am.  Only no one had thought to call me.

Note to Ford Motors, Pickup Truck division: “Dear sirs and madams, your clever ergonomic design has resulted in a truck seat so firm and exquisitely molded to my posterior and lower back, that I can drive, without the slightest fatigue, for over ten hours with respite only for refueling (body and vehicle); however, I feel I should draw your attention to the most egregious design flaw, resultant in a seat so ill-fitted for napping, that a mere ten minutes in a recumbent posturer leaves one feeling not so much refreshed, but as though half a hundred morbidly obese tabby cats have scampered all over ones body.”

As I waited for dawn to break over my parking-lot in Seguin, Texas, I thought back to my 1969 Couple de Ville, a car in which I often napped, front seat and rear seat.  Oh, for a return to the era where cars were designed for comfort not safety.  Don't worry, Detroit, I'll have plenty of time to be safe when I'm dead.  Just give me a broad spring bench-seat I can curl up on.

Day 4 on the set of Leftovers was a simple affair.  We were working with only three actors.  One room.  And almost all the action took place while the actors were seated.  We shot over ten pages in under eight hours.  And we wrapped and packed and were on the road by six this afternoon.

Me and Russ lit the room dim and warm.  The scene called for a therapist's consulting room which she maintains in her home.  Erin dressed the set with loads of photographs of the protagonist's family.  We had two overly-stuffed armchairs which the therapist and her clients sit.  One of the clients is played by Tracie Hunter, who was in Water's Edge.  Tracie is graduating from high-school this year.  She's a beautiful young woman, and quite a strong actor.  She's always on script, gives wonderful facial reactions, and conveys a graceful combination of confidence and vulnerability.  And the other client is the costar, played by Anne Gerber.  I'm sure I'll later devote more space to Anne.  But she has quickly become the most sought-after young leading women in San Antonio films, theater, and musical theater.  I can't think of anyone more deserving of such attention.  But as a musical theater bigot, I just wish Anne would do more challenging roles on stage — performances I'm be more likely to see.

And of course, we have the star of Leftovers.  The woman sitting in the therapist's chair.  Sherri Small Truitt.  When I'm functioning on more than three hours of sleep, I'll give my impressions on Sherri — her depth of performance, and her playful nature which makes the long hours of shooting quite enjoyable.

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There was a moment when our director, Robin, decided to switch around the camera positions to better display certain elements of the set dressing — mostly, so that the audience could see the photos of the characters on some bookshelves in the background.  Russ was grumbling about this last minute change.  I shared Russ sentiments, but, still, I understood WHY Robin wanted this camera set-ups.  Most everyone was taking a lunch break.  So I moved in some lights and offered a quick and dirty, and possibly workable solution.  As I'm aiming a Lowell Pro-Light through this two-sided glass enclosed fireplace, so that the light will wash across Sherri's face, Russ comes back in and says that we're going back to the original plan.

Now I'm getting pissed.  Actually, I'm okay with last minute changes.  I like a challenge.  You work through to a solution, and make it happen.  But my solution wasn't going to be given a chnace.  I tried to fight for the changes, but Russ wouldn't have it.  He was trying to keep us on a sane schedule.

“But we can do it.  We've set the lights.  And it won't take that much more time–”

“Don't get your panties in a wad,” Russ said good-naturedly.

And as I'm breaking down the lights I had set up, I fire back in pretend petulance:  “Don't be so presumptuous.  You're not the boss of my panties.”

And at that moment cast and crew enter, refreshed from lunch, curious about all this panty stuff.

The theme was pulled in later when I'm sitting on the floor and watching the  field monitor.  The camera aims at Tracie seated across from Sherri.  Half of the back of Sherri's head is in the extreme foreground — a sort of over-the-shoulder shot.  There's a moment when Sherri stands and crosses the room.  And I think I see … something ….  I'm almost but not certain I see some underwear peeking between her white skirt and white jacket.

After she runs through the scene and returns to her seat, Robin gets poised for a second take.  I clear my throat and ask if Sherri can stand up so I can check to see if she's showing, um, something she isn't supposed to be showing.

“What do you mean?” Sherri asks.

“Well it happened so fast.  I have this fleeting image of a … thong?”

She stands, but I don't see anything this time.

“I'm sorry, guys.  I must have been mistaken,” I say, feeling a bit embarrassed.  Some of the crew joke about me placing so much attention upon Sherri's rear end.  But Sherri looks down over her shoulder to check herself out, and then she glances over that same shoulder at me.

“What color?  I mean, was it–”

“I saw a flash of pink.”

Sherri laughs and becomes a bit self-conscious.  She wiggles her hips and tugs some at her skirt.  We're all pretty goofy from a lack of sleep.  But Robin pushes us to do another take.  Move along, folks.  Nothing to see here.

I got up Saturday morning at 4:45.  And even that early, I didn't have enough time to fire up the espresso machine.  And, still, I didn't make it to the shoot in Seguin until 6:15, a quarter hour after my call time.  But I wasn't too distressed.  I arrived just in time to follow the first three cars as they turned into the swanky house on the banks of the Guadalupe that is our principle location.

We were looking at an ambitious weekend with an expectation of 23 pages.  That's more — much more — than I care to schedule.  But it wasn't my call.

The call sheet for Saturday had the crew slated for 6am until 6pm.  A page an hour.  This is possible if you're running two cameras, or if the camera set-ups are simple, or if you don't care if the footage sucks.  We only had the one camera.  The set-ups were somewhat involved.  And we certainly didn't want to do sub-par work.  The answer was, shoot for an additional five hours.  (Fortunately, I slithered out around 8:30 in the evening.)

It was a day of working with children.  Nikki from PrimaDonna Productions was on set to coach the kids.  She, as always, did an incredible job.

Ayla did great work, but I knew she would.  She was running a couple of scenes with Dallin, a young actor from Austin.  He's, I guess, about 11 or 12.  A very seasoned and natural performer.  Neither he nor Ayla flubbed a single line.

Cameron, an actor from Houston, a bit younger than Dallin, didn't have an opportunity to deliver too many lines.  But he did some fine work screaming and fighting as mom (played by Anne Gerber) dragged him out of the house.  He argued.  He screamed.  He went limp.  And as Anne tucked him under her arm and lugged him out the door, the kid fought like a champ.

And then there was Atticus (Robin and Kevin's son).  He's not a trained actor.  And he's really too young to deliver a long sequence of dialogue.  But he actually had a somewhat lengthy scene where he's telling this rambling and barely intelligible story kids so often feel a need to convey.  He actually had the story in his head, but he kept trying to impress all of us cast and crew with digressions and augmentations of his tale of Power Rangers and people sprouting wings, motorcycles, and, of course, explosions.  I think after several takes, we got the gist.  But I was impressed that Atticus did such a good job delivering his part of the dialogue that followed the free-wheeling story he told.  He's also incredibly cute.

At about 8 in the evening, Robin took a vote (I tried to explain to her the following day that a movie production is not a democracy).  Actually, it was like the old story (most likely apocryphal) where Travis drew this sword through the dirt on the plaza of the Alamo.  I declined to remain through to midnight.  Usually, I pride myself of being first on set, and last to leave.  But I had promised Carlos I would burn him a DVD of the rough edit I did for our music video, and get it to the wrap party by ten that night.

The party was at Brenda's house.  I showed up with three copies of the DVD, in case some refused to play.  Actually, none worked on my DVD player, but they all played on my computer.  I hoped for the best, and drove over.

We didn't get around to watching the video until just after midnight.  That was when it officially became Carlos' birthday.  His wife Shelly turned a video camera on Carlos.  He was a bit tipsy, and he launched into a birthday speech.  Afterwards, he toasted us from the silver flask he had received as a gift.  It's a mini-style hip-flask that snaps into a belt-buckle.  Very suave.  Very El Picante.

The DVD seized up for a fraction of a second about five times, making me wince and cringe.  I hate home-burned DVDs.  But the crowd was positive, upbeat, and best of all, pretty drunk.  Cheers all around.

I headed out by 12:30.  I had to get up, again, at 4:45 to make a 6am call time in Seguin for Day 4 of Leftovers.