Sunday was the casting sessions for Short Ends.  Annette had helped Matthew arrange us to hold the event at a bar called the Revolution Room.  It's in the stretch of Yuppie wasteland on outer Broadway just before you get to Loop 410 where inane clubs such as The Rebar can be found.  I can only assume that the Revolution Room, during hours of operation, cater to that crowd of men in leather trousers and pinky rings cruising for women with tall teased hair and Gucci Lolita bags all to the back beat of hackneyed pub rock with just enough blues added to have the denizens of cemeteries throughout the Mississippi delta spinning in perpetuity.

That's just my guess.  However, on a Sunday afternoon, with us having the place to ourselves, the Revolution Room proved to be an incredibly groovy place.  They weren't wasting the heat on us, and I could understand.  So it was a bit chilly.  And, as it was something of a raunchy bar, it took some of us a bit of time to get used to the stale beer smell.  There is a bar in the front bit.  Standard island where drinks are served with tables scattered about.  A small stage to the side with a drum kit set up.  The next room had benches along the walls and two or three pool tables.  Down a short corridor, there is a long room with windows on one side.  The cinder brick walls are painted aluminum.  A bar and tables.  A smaller room off to the side had a bar at the back.  The ceiling had a barrel vault with red lights in brass nautical housings.  Two benches ran the length, one on each side, strewn with pillows.  Maroon brocade shot through with gold thread were hung over the pillowed benches.  Very cool.  If Captain Nemo ran a bordello (and I suspect he did), it would look like this.

Matthew separated the productions (there were six of us) throughout the place, so we could have a modicum of privacy to run our auditions.  I was lucky enough to get Nemo's Pleasure Room.  [I should go and add this to yesterday's posting where I vomited out some impromptu titles — and I really want to see Darren Aronofsky direct Nemo's Pleasure Room.]  I had brought along my video camera, just in case.  I wasn't really planning to audition people.  I just wanted to interview some of the actors who showed up.  But as I noticed that everyone else was breaking out a camera, I did the same.  But I didn't bring a tripod.  Nor did I bring any lights.  This was a problem.  Nemo gave me dim red light.  There was a bit of fluorescent up above the bar area, but no brighter.  I hauled in a floor lamp from another room.

Nikki had been conscripted to help out coordinating the actors.  I'm so glad.  It helped make things go smoothly.  This is the sort of thing Nikki has done so often, she can practically do it with eyes closed.  Or at least she gives us that impression.

The actors who showed up had already seen the list of our (the filmmakers) needs.  Nothing much more than the basic gender and age range — with a few projects needing certain ethnicities.  My casting needs were four men 18 to 22.  The script call for one to be from Mexico, so I was also looking for a young Hispanic male who, hopefully was fluent in Spanish.  I have already cast the lead female.  And I needed someone to play her mom.  So to match her look, I needed a 40 or 50 year old range anglo woman.

It was just me and Chris representing Production Number 4.  (To streamline things, Matthew had assigned each film a number.)  I was hoping to get a variety of young male actors.  We didn't get that many coming into our little room.  I think we might have had more women come in for the mom role.

But all in all we met a good range of talent.  When Carlos gets back into town, we'll look at the video and hash things out.

One of the actors really stood out.  He walked up to me and asked if this is the room for Production Number 4.  At this point I didn't know what number I was.  I couldn't imagine he was for our film, because he seemed to be clearly in his 30s.  Maybe he could play mid-20s ….  I found myself rambling if he knew the title of the film he was auditioning for.  Chris tried helping out, saying ours was the romance film.  But the guy didn't know.  I told him to wait a moment, and I went to get conformation from Matthew or Nikki.

When I returned, confident now that we were number 4, the guy was gone.  Chris didn't know where he'd gone to.  I flagged Nikki down and asked her to find that guy again.  He probably wouldn't fit the part because of his age, but I wanted to give everyone an opportunity.  Besides, I want to see actors, dammit!  And I really wish we could have had an entire day where ALL those actors gave readings on a stage, and all of us production people were in an audience to see who could do what — and the whole thing was video-taped, and available to us all online for reference.  So even if someone wasn't fitting my current needs, they might be perfect down the line.

We got him back in the room.

I sat him down in the light and turned on my camera.  From back in the shadows, Chris asked the guy if he knows his brother.  It turns out that Chris' brother and this guy were best friends some years back.  All I did was have a short conversation with him, but he exuded charisma.  He's Jade Esteban Estrada.  When I mentioned him later to Nikki, her face lit up.  “Isn't Jade great?”  Hell, yeah.  I guess I'm still a new-comer here in San Antonio, but still, I feel I've spread myself thin enough throughout the arts, that I've seen most of the local talent.  I'm constantly reminded that by no means is this the case.

I found myself wondering if the script can be modified so as to bring in Jade?  We'll see what can happen.  I spoke later with Andy.  He told me that Jade auditioned for the film that he and Dago are working on.  Andy had nothing but good things to say about Jade's smart and unexpected interpretation of the character he was reading for.

So, I think the casting session went quite well.  I got to meet some new talented actors.  And I saw the innards of a very cool bar, that could well be available as a location in which to shoot.

Oh, yeah, I finally had the opportunity to have a short conversation with Annette, who up to now is someone I have only nodded to in passing.  A very sweet woman.  And she looks exactly like her headshots — and they all look stunning.

A successful day.  Well done Matthew.

I guess I'm still clawing my way out of a grim holiday depression, and a bleak rainy day isn't helping things.  I was able to make it to Friedrich Park for my rescheduled hike with Dar.  The rains of last night had slacked off noonish.  The skies were leaden, and it looked like more rain at any time.  But it was still warmish.  Almost 70.  I put on a pair of shorts and a hooded sweatshirt and headed out.  My friend Jean called up to chat, so I talked on the drive north on I-10.  It was nice catching up with her, but I kept thinking, shit, as the drizzle built up — it wasn't looking good.  But by the time I rolled into the parking-lot of Freidrich, the drizzle had slacked off; however, the temperature had dropped by 20 degrees, easily.  It was wet AND cold, blah!  But Dar pointed out that families with kids were happily tumbling from their SUVs and tackling the hilly trail.  Okay, okay.  It's hard to whine when you're laughing at yourself.

It was a nice hike.  The rains waited politely until we were back to the parking-lot.  Then the stuff started coming back down, and pretty seriously at that.

Back home, I bundled up on the sofa and began Government, the first novel in B. Traven's Jungle Novels.  These are the six novels dealing with the 1910 Mexican Revolution.  They depart from the rest of Traven's Mexican novels in that there is no gringo protagonist to function as Traven's alter ego.

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My plans for this evening was to attend what I gathered to be a meet-and-greet gathering for a new film production here in San Antonio.  I stumbled on this project Wednesday or Thursday while idly roaming through the “friends lists” of people I know on MySpace — you know, in search of interesting people to poach into my fold.  There was a woman whose picture I kept seeing on the sites of some of my friends in the art world.  I finally clicked on her picture.  On her page was a huge ad for a film in which she would be featured.  It's called the Chosen Fallen, to be directed by Joseph Hladek.

I clicked over to Joseph's MySpace page.  He has four short videos posted.  His work is extraordinary.  (Make sure to check out his video on his personal page titled Anti-Interview — a very fun little piece.)  He has a background in graphic design.  He apparently grew up in San Antonio, but has been working for a design firm on the east coast for the last few years.  The video pieces I saw display a firm understanding of visual story-telling, a knowledge of how to play with tension in a narrative, and a masterful skill of using a video layering program (AfterEffects, I presume).  Go to his site and watch his stuff.  Do it now!

His current project is, I assume, to be a feature.

The ad for Chosen Fallen I stumbled on was actually an invitation for this meet-and-greet.  It was to be at a gallery called the Arbor House.  I Google-mapped it.  It was on the westside, and clearly in a residential neighborhood.  Maybe there was a light industrial region around there I didn't know about.  But when I toggled the Google map into the satellite image setting, it looked like a street of small, simple houses in a humble neighborhood.  What the hell?

The advert explained that 8 – 10 pm would be for drinks and mingling.  And because I was going there alone, I didn't want to attempt mingling with strangers for two hours.  So I headed over at nine-thirty.  When I got to the dead end street, it became clear that it was indeed in someone's house.  There were a couple of families on the block having barbecues (I mean, it was on the westside), but it was quickly apparent which house it was.  There were loads of people clustered out on the front porch, shivering and smoking cigarettes.

I decided I'd feel kinda weird walking into someone's house, having only read about this on MySpace.  I still have decades worth of social phobia stashed in the rear brain — as much as I've over-come these neuroses, they still come out on occasion.  And so, I decided against it.

I hope there might be some other event where I can meet some of the people involved on this project.  Joseph Hladek has something that most local productions lack.  Artistic sensibility.

There are, of course, many film projects in the works at this moment in this city, but the only one that has my full attention is “Chosen Fallen.”  However, I don't care for that title.

I keep asking myself this:  Why can't people open themselves up to decent titles?  I have no problem generating them.  The Cabrito Kid Rides Again, Squaredance Beatnik, Power to the Sock, Fuck Bastrop, Terror Incognito, Howard's Tender Pustule, Texas Chainsaw Institute, and Forklift Fondue.  These I offer up to the world.  Need a title?  Pick one.  (Though I'd rather retain Terror Incognito, as it is the working title of my surreal western I'm constantly NOT working on … for over ten years now.)

That's your title, Mr. Hladek.  Forget Chosen Fallen.  Clever word play, yes, I understand.  It's got the sweet Catholic savor of apparent contradiction.  Like a title of a song from the Swans or Nick Cave.  Take the plunge, man, and call your nascent movie Forklift Fondue.  You have my blessing.  And, damn, I'd love to see a film by that title.

As a teen I rarely watched many of the films targeted to teenaged boys.  I lived about five blocks from the Granada Theater in Dallas, which at the time was a phenomenal repertory cinema.  They showed Fritz Lang, Fassbinder, Kurosawa, and so on.  I was very lucky.  But on occasion I would see something more mainstream.  One of the films that had a strong influence on me was the great coming-of-age movie, Breaking Away.  Dennis Quaid and Daniel Stern went on to many success over the years.  But of the actors portraying the four central characters, I was much more intrigued with the other two.  Dennis Christopher was so watchable, that when he appeared the following year in Fade to Black, I made myself think that that movie was significantly better than it truly was.  Also still clear in my memory was the performance of Jackie Earle Haley, as Moocher.

Haley is most often remembered in either Breaking Away or the Bad News Bears movies as Kelly Leak.  It seems he struck a chord with many people my age and younger for his work in the Bad News Bears.  When I tell people that not only does he live here in San Antonio, but my friend Nikki Young introduced me to him at La Tuna restaurant, they often seem impressed; in fact, more impressed, I'm sure, than were I to say I'd met Dennis Quaid.

For some time Haley has been on the other side of the camera, running his own production company.  But, at least for the moment, he is back as an actor, with roles in two major films in current release.

One of them opened today here in San Antonio.  Little Children.  It's directed by Todd Field who gave us In the Bedroom, a film I really didn't care for.  The script for Little Children was adapted from a novel by Tom Perrotta.  Perrotta gave us the novel Election which was made into the movie of the same name.  Little Children (the movie) lacks the humor of Election (the movie), but deals with similar themes of social and sexual transgressions.

The setting of Little Children is the upper middle class bedroom community of some east coast city.  Boston, or New York.  I can't recall if we were ever given a specific location.  The film gave us that lifeless sub-genera a writing teacher of mine once referred to as suburban gothic.  I hate this sort of crap, mainly because I can't relate to those who live in the suburbs.  I can't generate sympathy for them.  But Little Children goes a bit further than many of these story-lines by giving us some fairly well developed characters.  It joins company with those other smartly written suburban films of late such as Election, American Beauty, and the films of Todd Solondz.

If there is any inherent draw to audiences to see Little Children, it will be because of Kate Winslet (and several nude scenes with her), Jennifer Connelly (no nudity for her, but there is a scene where she is, inexplicably, wearing green leopard print panties — but I guess that's always in her contract), and some pretty boy I'd never seen before named Patrick Wilson (who shows his ass a lot).  But the audiences should be coming to see Haley.  His is the pivotal character, creating the sense of tension and danger.  We see only photos of him for the first 30 minutes or more.  And for most of the second act I kept wondering why his character seemed so flat.  But by the third act, it all makes sense.  There needed to be that slow build to his final, brilliant performance.  He's amazing.

Also, I want to give a plug to one of my favorite actors.  Jane Adams.  She appeared in the thematically similar films Happiness and The Anniversary Party — though most people will know her from Frasier, where she plays Mel, Niles' short-term second wife.  Her screen time in Little Children is maybe five minutes, but the three consecutive scenes with her and Haley are so tight and true, that I wish the rest of the movie could have maintained that level of acting.

Ask and yea shall receive!  All I had to do was moan a spell in yesterdays blog as to why money is not magically finding it's way to my door.  What I blathered about in full facetiousness morphed into the literal earlier this evening.  Cold coin.  The film commissioner swung into my neighborhood to hand off a check (which had gotten lost in a labyrinth of  bureaucracy).  And it was the man himself, not some starry-eyed intern.  (So take that, Nikki — some people still enjoy my company.  Was it something I said?  Did?  Didn't do??  Don't shut me out, babe.)

Perhaps instead of hanging out at the house and wishing money onto my porch, I should be out on the tiles, placing my resume into kind hands.  But, had I been doing that, I wouldn't have enjoyed the half hour or more (trust me, it was more) playing with the Gender Genie.

This is a Java applet that uses a basic set of algorithms to search for the predominance of key words in a sample of text.  You copy and paste 500 words or more from something you (or others) have written, and then you click.  Almost immediately it will make a pronouncement.  The first time I encountered this site, I tried it on a short story of mine.  It came back “male.”  Hell, yeah!  This thing recognizes a hardcore he-man.  It's like the program could peer through my monitor and see the water buffalo head mounted on the wall behind me, just above the bookcase where I keep my complete set of Jim Corbett — and I fancy it could even smell the Old Spice wafting from my chiseled features.

And so today I thought to try a little experiment.  I would copy and paste about 3000 words from a work in progress where the narrator is a woman.  Was I a good enough writer to fool this amazing machine?  ALMOST!  I got a female score of 3463.  A male score of 3610.  Damn, that was close!  Try as I might, I just can't hide my natural maleness.

Then, I started running through my short stories posted on my fiction site.  But, wait!  The results were all over the place.  The program guessed “female” about half the time.  I decided to go back to my female narrator piece and put in the whole thing.  On the previous run, I had stripped out all the dialogue, mainly because I was curious just about the voice of the narrator herself.  This time the results were “female.”  4700 words.  Female score: 5928.  Male score: 5608.

What does this all mean?  I'll tell you what it means: I need to get out of the house more often.

Yeah, and, um, stop listening to all those Ani DiFranco albums.  Go get drunk and, I don't know, smoke a cigar at the dog track?  And leave the god damn crust on my sandwiches!

It's all spinning out of control ….  

It seems some days you never need leave the house.

I'd been contacted from one of Nikki Young's people.  (And yes, Nikki — or should I say PrimaDonna Productions — has people.  Indeed.  Loads of 'em!)  A pleasant intern phoned me to confirm an address to mail me a newspaper article containing a photo of me that Nikki's clipping service (um, her grandmother) had set aside.  For me.  The intern actually drove to my place.  Not only did I get my clipping, but I was able to hand off some DVDs I'd authored for PDP.

The article in questions is from back in late September.  San Antonio Express-News writer Elda Silva had been interviewing Malena, Ramon, and Deborah about the up-coming Dia de Artistas parade / festival on an afternoon I just happened to drop by the Deco Building.  And since I had a part in the event, I spoke some with Ms. Silva.  And then photographer Robert McLeroy showed up.  I wasn't as nimble of foot as I'd thought, and there's a bit of my head in a group shot.  But, they spelled my name right.  On a page deeper in the “S.A. Life” section, there is something of a sidebar mentioning me and the documentary Ramon, Deborah, and I put together.

But the best part, are the notations penciled in the margins by Nikki's grandmother.  The personal touch, you gotta love it!

About an hour later, after I had hung up my laundry, my neighbor Marlyss came by to ask a question about sound effects for an installation she plans in conjunction with a show of her art in a few weeks.  It sounds pretty cool.  I told her I'd give her some samples to work with.  Her family is a part-owner of the La Tuna Grill here in the neighborhood.  I explained I was working on a short film and I needed a location.  A garage, or something similar where a band would practice.  For some reason, this old neighborhood in which I live isn't rife with garages.  She told me she'd ask a friend who has an old warehouse on S. Flores.  Sounds promising.

Now if only cash would come to my door.

I did, however, drag my ass outside … beyond the washing lines.  I headed down the Mission trail for a bike ride.  It was in the mid '60s, but windy as hell.  Fine with me in days, like today, with the wind behind me on the ride back.  The return trip should always be more pleasant.

Afterwards, I hit the Pik-Nik convenience store for an armload of cheap tacos.

As I walked inside, I cringed a bit, because two steps in front of me was this local “character.”  I've already written about him.  A mentally challenged guy who resembles a thirty-year-old Clint Howard.  He can frequently be spotted pan-handling the King William and Lavaca neighborhoods.  I'm pretty sure he lives in the half-way house across the street from Brackenridge High School.  He was looking tan and healthier and ever.  Things were going well for him it seemed.

He stood at the taco counter staring at a spot up on the wall.  I politely stood behind him and gave a cursory nod to the taco woman.  And quite suddenly (as though he were nipped by a flying rainbow lobster only he could see) Clint gave a start.  His eyes fell into focus.

“One bean and cheese taco,” he whispered.

The taco woman's command of English is, effectively, nil.  However, she said, clear enough so I could follow, “Bean and cheese.  One taco?  Two taco?”

I think she wanted clarification because the price break is by pairs of tacos.  A single is, I don't know, like 70 cents.  But for a dollar you get two.  So, I think she heard him, she was just reminding him of the better deal.

Clint was back to watching that little spot high on the wall.  The taco woman repeated herself, holding up one finger, and then two fingers.  Her English (simple, though effective) and her sign language were lost on Clint. He was somewhere else.  I made eye-contact with her and smiled.  She gave just the slightest hint of an eye-roll.  I couldn't hold it in, and laughed aloud.  I was leaning over to nudge Clint, but the lobster nipped anew.  His shoulders straightened, and he said, “One bean and cheese taco.”  The taco woman went to work.

After she's put his order in a bag and handed it off to him, I moved up and asked for, in English, “Four bean and cheese tacos.”  I held up four fingers.  The taco woman did roll her eyes and even forced a smile.

By the time my tacos were ready, Clint was still at the register, trying to mentally focus enough to pay for his taco.  I moved beside him, next in line.  Finally, he just gave up and placed all his coins on the counter.  At this point I assumed he realized that for 30 more cents her could get another taco.  And I was right.

“I'm going back for one more taco,” he said softly, holding aloft a finger.  He nodded decisively, and returned to the grill counter.  I watched the taco woman's lips compress into something that was no smile.

The effete cashier, who wore more jewelry than most men in this neighborhood would wear before nightfall, softly said something to the taco woman so quickly in Spanish that I missed it.  Then, in English, to Clint: “Sir you don't have enough here for two tacos.”

I was hoping things were going to get interesting … and fast.  But, nope.  The cashier rang me up, and Clint walked out with no argument.  He took his taco and left his dimes and pennies on the counter.

I was afraid he'd hit me up for money when I walked outside.  But when I got into my truck, Clint was leaning against the building at the corner where the dumpsters are.  As he ate his taco, I watched him obliviously move closer to a heavily tattooed mexicano talking on the pay-phone.  The guy sneered at Clint, and moved in closer to the security of the abbreviated metal hood surrounding the wall phone.  On top of the phone box, the tattoo guy had placed this adorable Chihuahua puppy, which had gone all chubby, but was still no larger than a blender.  It seemed a precarious place to stick a delicate lapdog, but it was none of my business.  I eased behind the wheel and slammed the door.  It occurred to me that the tattoo guy had come to the pay-phone on his bicycle, which was leaning against the wall beside him.  He didn't have a bag or a backpack — not even a basket on his bike.  He must have been riding around holding the dog.  The tattoo guy clutched tighter on the phone and shook his head.  He fished in his pocket for change.  And then he looked up and stared incredulously at his dog.  Clint, still clutching the wad of foil which had held his taco, was staring again at that little spot.  But this time it was on the roof of the laundromat on the other side of the parking-lot.  The Chihuahua was blissfully licking a bit of bean residue from the corner of Clint's mouth.

I think something little, but something nonetheless, must have died that moment inside the tattoo guy.  He tucked the dog under his arm, held the receiver against his shoulder with his jaw, and began feeding coins in the phone, his back turned resolutely on Clint.  But Clint was a long distance removed from Pik-Nik, the phone booth, and I suspect he was far, far away from those flying rainbow lobsters.

As I cranked the engine, I noticed that hanging from the handlebars of the tattoo guy's bike was one of those illustrated religious air-fresheners that Catholic gift shops sell to hang from the car's back mirror.  It was of Santo Niño de Atocha.  There are those times when a camera would come in so handy.  UFO sightings, and moments like this afternoon.  Those semi-sweet Diane Arbus moments.

This is the best I can manage.   

Through the MySpace bulletin, I read one of those common hoaxes purported to be an actual event.  In this case it involved a woman who almost fell afoul to an abduction in a parking-lot, a Target parking-lot in Wheaton, Illinois, to be specific.  Whenever I see these sorts of viral messages in my email or through the MySpace bulletin, I usually do a simple Google search, and ALWAYS have discovered these stories to be bogus.  In this case all I did was cut and paste “Target” and “Wheaton” into a search engine, and surfed over to a site that explained that no police officials in that particular city had any knowledge of such an event.  I've heard people say that it matters little whether such stories are real or not, because they have some kernel of truth within in them — or at the least, they offer themselves as cautionary tales, to keep us constantly vigilant.

The problem I have, is that we then allow ourselves to be suspicious and paranoid.  Indeed, we let ourselves be terrorized.  Certainly there are murderers and rapists and otherwise bad folk out there, but there always have been and perhaps always will be.  Furthermore, it seems that because of our apparent neurotic desire to be frightened, we (and the media) latch onto the most gristly events (or fictions) that come our way.  There are many splashy headlines of violence in the news on any given day; however, once the reader moves past the first three or four paragraphs, the morbid Hannibal Lecterness dissipate into much more mundane scenarios.  From the “duck and cover” drills of childhood memories of those older than I, to the kids on milk boxes of my childhood, to those equally tenuous, ghostly WMD threats aimed at todays youngsters, it's all empty.

When images on the TV and text warnings on the internet take the place of our experiential and anecdotal evidence of violence, we've lost our cognitive bridge to the real world.

Are we so far away from the day when parents will loose custody of their children because of a charge of abuse when all they do is allow their kids to go outside and play?  Because, you know, there's a pedophile or a cannibal behind every bush.

There are currently 435 individuals caged in the Guantánamo Bay detainment camp.  These men were labeled by the Bush administration as the “worst of the worst” of terrorists.  Hmm?  Yet over 300 have already been released, without any charges or explanations.  Another hundred plus are (supposedly) ready for release.  They served as a public relations buffer, a pathetic canard that helped in the narrative that Iraq was a hotbed of international terrorism.

Whether those involved in this current global black farce are cognizant of the fact from the fiction, the result is the same: a terrible madness has been released on the world.

I've become impatient with those in the media and government who play the role of cheerleaders of doom.

I try to appreciate novelist William T. Vollmann.  But I had to reevaluate him when he published his 2004 7 volume nonfiction treatise of violence, Rising Up and Rising Down: Some Thoughts on Violence, Freedom and Urgent Means.  It's full of his personal experience in impoverished crime-ridden neighborhoods and war-torn countries from his years of travel.  It's a bleak, bitter pill to swallow.  But what do you expect from this mountain of desperation and hopelessness?  Fold it together with 7 volumes of first-person accounts of successful work in the global peace and justice movements, and there would be something resembling the world as it is today.

This is why I shy away from current war films, even if they are expressly created to be anti-war statements.  When you give thought to millions of dollars spent to provide a realistic depiction of combat, clearly the vast numbers of ticket-holders will be giddy with the adrenaline rush of gun play and explosions.  The nuances of contextual ambiguity can't compete with the trill ride.

Yesterday I saw Children of Men.  It's filled with enough full auto ballistics and naturalistic explosions to veer dangerously close to that territory of the unintentional recruitment film, but it has the additional element of being science fiction.  In this case, a futuristic depiction of a bleak world into which we are heading.

This is a potent, gut-wrenching film.  Alfonso Cuarón is one of my favorite young directors.  When my sister forced me to join the modern consumer world by giving me a DVD, Cuarón's Y Tu Mamá También was my first DVD purchase.

Children of Men played in this country at the 11th hour of 2006, making it available for the Academy Awards.  To think of it as anything but the best film of the year, is to have not seen the film.  Don't be put off by the fact that it's adapted from a PD James novel.  Loosely adapted, that's the key.  This is a far fucking cry from those Dalgliesh adaptations of drawing room murders where pinkies are always dangling over the tea trays.

There are many sites on the internet pushing for a grassroots word-of-mouth campaign to get out to the theaters.  Let me, in my tiny way, add to this.  Go see Children of Men!

A new year of Short Ends Project is off and running.  This is bringing the group into it's 4th year. (And I'm entering into my 4th year living in San Antonio — I'm not sure how I feel about that.)  I was not involved with Short Ends since the beginning.  I attended the very second screening.  And by the third round of the first year I began directing and writing.  I have, to date, directed eight shorts for Short Ends; never missing a round until summer of 2006.  I believe I have written two scripts that were directed by others.  I edited two projects by other filmmakers.  I operated camera on four films I didn't direct.  And even “acted” (sort of) in one.  I think I might have more credits in the organization than anyone.  Wait, I take that back.  Because of his prolific writing and acting, Matthew probably gets the number one place.  Pete and Carlos are snapping at our heels.

I had pretty much walked away from Shorts Ends (though I did let them show my Dia de los Locos doc at the last screening for filler).  I felt that my work was not improving.  But it seems I have been sucked back in for, at least, one more round.  This time the writers were allowed to choose who would direct their scripts.  Carlos decided on me.  Matthew (who is producing this round (year?) of Short Ends) seconded Carlos, and, unbeknownst to me, I was conscripted.  As is often the case in my life, I followed the path of least resistance, and acquiesced.

Through the luck of the draw, Carlos found himself saddled with writing a romance.  For the fans and foes of Carlos' films, this is actually quite funny.  In his dark world of Mafia del Monte, filled with small time coke dealers, shadowy demonic beings, doomed hitchhikers, punk rock anti-heros, and heads stuffed in gym-bags, there seems little room for the stuff of Andy Hardy winking at Judy Garland or Nora Ephron's insipid banter.  Well, dammit!, we'll pull warm and fuzzy from a sullen rock & roll chick, just you wait and see.

The directors meeting yesterday at Ruta Maya was productive … for me.  I met a couple of new guys to work with.  But I wonder how useful the meeting was as a whole.  Matthew seemed positive.  But, here's what bugged me.  There are six projects.  And there should have been at least 12 people in attendance.  Six writers, with six directors.  I counted one director (me), and three writers.  Four out of twelve. Hmmm?  Me and Carlos were the only complete team.  Sure, everyone has excuses, but, shit!  There were several people who showed up hoping to get on these projects as crew.  Half of the projects didn't have anyone there representing them.  Those wanna-be crew folks were screwed.

Roland showed up.  He's been in a production class I team-taught with Pete.  I also expect he had been in one or more of Pete's screenwriting classes.  He's on-board as crew for me.  He mentioned something about having quit his job to follow the Robert Rodriguez path of signing up with both of the two major medical testing laboratories in this town to finance his own projects.  (I blogged some time back about my bleak mortification of being turned down by one of them — the abyss of rejection: I can't even get paid to have Sterno injected into my ass, or have a baboon gallbladder grafted to my descending duodenum (to, um, test anti-rejection drugs, the attending nurse would have explained unconvincingly.) )  Roland said, brightly, that the two week inpatient session would give him plenty of time to work on his screenplay.  Best of luck, Roland!  Let's just finish this film first.

A guy new to Short Ends found himself seated at my table.  Chris seemed torn between working as crew, or coming back next week for the acting meeting to see if he can get casted.  I hope he comes on board as crew.  He's not afraid to say what's on his mind — and he has good ideas.  I mean, man, save me from “yes men,” or those people who smilingly go with the flow and then fall anonymously back into the shadows.

Matthew brought Daniel over to our table.  He's worked with Pablo Veliz on Clemente.  But more important, he was working with Brian Gonzalez, Pablo's DP.  I have enormous respect for Brian.  I don't know what experience Daniel has, but he can hold his own talking about films and film aesthetics.  More than I can say about the general membership of Short Ends.

This should be fun.

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Tonight I Googled myself, as is my wont (and, again, people, why aren't you writing about me?).  I discovered that my name is on the 48 Hour Film Project site (that's 48HFP, not to be confused with Drew's SA48HR Film Experience).

I guess if it's accessible by Google, it's official.  They just need to post a photo of me.  I'll probably find one that Emily took that doesn't make me look too old, too fat, or too bald.  (Hmm, there's a few she took of my hands riffling pages of a book ….)  Or I could send that photo of me and my sister as toddlers at Turtle Creek [you know the one Paula — I poached a copy off your blog, but could you send me a larger file version?].

When I first looked into this 48 Hour film thing, it looked like a pretty sweet deal.  But for the whole thing to be done the way it should be, it's an enormous amount of work for only a medium amount of pay.  However, this will be a damn cool event, a sweet happening — hmm, I wonder if I can get Babycakes to do something … unusual?

Keep watching this space for 48HFP info.  I'm slated to confab with the HQ this week on some sort of conference call.  Time to recharge that cell phone. 

Hey, I seem to recall mentioning something in Friday's blog about last night's super cheap 22nd anniversary “performance party” at Jump-Start.  The place was packed, and with the exception of performers I knew (or knew of), I didn't see any familiar faces in the audience.

It was pretty impressive.  Over 25 performances of music, comedy, theater, dance, film, and the uncategorizable.  It must have gone on for about 4 hours.  And there was a free buffet.

I attended with my friend Alston.  She had told my to keep her informed if I were going to any plays.  Well, tonight didn't exactly fit the bill.  But she was one of the first to run on stage when Urban-15, for their last number, began pulling audience members on stage to dance with them.  I don't normally succumb to these sorts of frivolities, but when Catherine Cisneros (the co-founder (along with her husband George) of this dance and drum troupe) made her way into the audience and took my hand, how could I argue.  Catherine and George are two of my favorite people.  Soon, it was over half the audience on stage in a dense dance party.  Take in to account that Jump-Start, a smallish black box space, holds maybe 175 to 200 people, and thats a whole lotta stompin goin on.  If you haven't seen Urban 15 really get down — and I mean in a closed space, and not all those parades they perform in — you're really missing out: imagine Test Department (before they got all techno) hammering an industrial percussive pulse while women in flowery dresses dance like some Busby Berkeley number of idealized Polynesian women working themselves up into choreographed abandon … and you're thinking that before the night's over some girl's going to get tossed into a volcano.  Yeah, I guess it's something like that.

Comedia A Go-Go did a wonderfully surreal piece that ended with two members of the comedy troupe shot dead.  Afterwards I asked Alston if she realized that in the tumult, a guitar got crushed.  “The neck was snapped.  That's why JoEl was apologizing.”  “Was he the guy with the camel-toe?” she asked.  Indeed.  He was the guy with a pair of tight short pants pulled so high, so snug to his crouch, that the cuffs of his tartan boxers were peeking out at mid-thigh.

I don't know who or what Babycakes is, but their performance was sublime.  When the lights came up, head honcho Daniel Jackson was standing on a couple of barstools, but the stools were hidden under a huge sequined dress he had on, making him into a gigantic glam queen.  His left arm cradled a long bouquet of flowers.  And with his right hand, he was flashing around one of those ribbons on a stick like gymnastic dancers use.  I don't even know what music was playing over the sound system.  I was simply mesmerized by the three “dancers:” two women and a man moving around haltingly like kindergartners who have gotten into mom's mescaline stash, their perplexed grins added to this effect.  But why did they have their mid-sections stuffed with padding like oompa loompas?  When this low-key insanity was about to collapse into the bathos of its own weird sluggishness, the music pumped up, and the tubby dancers began clawing at the enormous glam queen, causing “her” to obligingly remove fistfuls of candies from an over-stuffed bra.  Soon candy was flying all over the place.  It was very nearly brilliant.  I know I was laughing until it hurt.

We got a sample of the Church Theater's upcoming production of the Vagina Monologues.  Dos Generaciones gave us two or three pristine conjunto numbers.  The East Side Boys & Girls Club treated us to an historical account of the Brazilian martial arts, Capoeira.  There was fire eating, belly dancing, and S. T. Shimi did an arial dance piece where she climbed up, wrapped herself around, and rolled back down two hanging pieces of drapery — beautiful.

And, of course, the Methane Sisters.  Until tonight, I knew them only through Sam Lerma's incredible music video.  He was supposed to make a piece for the stage show Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector have been working on, to show the Methane Sisters at the height of their fame in the '80s.  This allowed Sam to use all the cheesy video transitions that he'd never use otherwise.  But after seeing Monessa and Annele tonight (they MC'ed the third act), I'm a convert.  Monessa was slugging back a nearly empty bottle of Jose Cuervo and Annele was more sedate (back from rehab, it seemed), but they were in character of washed up pop stars of that past where the sun shone brightest on brittle Euro-disco and designer drugs.  Monessa, searching the audience from behind her sunglasses: “This is the worst fucking awards show I've ever hosted.”  Annele: “The gift bags they're offering just suck.”  Monessa: “Back stage they have these little Prada bags with puppies and shit in them.”  Annele: “Prada and puppies, that's so so last year.”

I'll be there for the Methane Sisters in As Filthy As It Gets, Jump-Start Performance Space, January 19th to 28th.  I'm anticipating something along the lines of Hedwig.  We'll see.

I don't give Jump-Start enough credit, really.  It's occurred to me recently how much talent there is in this town, but how little good theater there is.  Jump-Start is the only serious performance space left.  Until the Guadalupe regains its footing (if it ever does), this city must deal with the occasional flashes of innovation in a sea of vomitous musicals and proven money-makers like that Nunsense franchise.  Theater is exciting, vibrant, and alive.  Even when I sit through Larry Shue's The Foreigner for the umpteenth time, I can enjoy actors' performances — especially if they are people I know and have worked with before.  Don't get me wrong, I love farce.  But I want variety.  I want to be challenged, fucked with.  Christ, Beckett would play in San Antonio as avant grade, and the poor bastard's been dead since 1989.  I remember when Samuel Beckett died.  I was living in a 6,000 square foot loft in the Deep Ellum area of Dallas.  At the time theater was exciting in Dallas.  Even the boring theater companies would take chances once or twice a year.  But luckily I was within walking distance of the two most exciting theaters in Dallas.  The Undermain Theatre and the Deep Ellum Theatre Garage.  You never knew what was going to happen.  That was back when the most watchable local actor was Matthew Posey, and the greatest local playwright was Octavio Solis, and Raphael Perry was making waves as actor, director, and impresario.  San Antonio?  We are currently at a cultural nadir.  We just ride it through.  But when the artistic winds really begin to pick up, they well come from Jump-Start, seemingly the only place where performance as art dwells in this city.

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My sister is the only person I can trust to buy me a book or a CD.  She's said that I'm the easiest person to shop for, because I have so many interests.  I'd go a bit further.  I have some many interests that she understands well enough to make a judgment call.

One of the things I received from her for Christmas is a trade paperback (hey, Paula, did this ever come out in hardback?) from Texas A & M University Press.  It's by Rob Johnson, entitled: The Lost Years of William S. Burroughs, Beats in South Texas.

No surprise she'd get me this.  Burroughs is on of my favorite writers.  Anyway, it's a recent book, so
she can be pretty sure my poverty has kept me from buying it.  But, hell, I didn't even know it existed.

Sure, I knew Burroughs spent time in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas.  He was, in a very half-assed manner, trying to be a gentleman farmer.  This was in 1949, before he'd become a writer.  He was a 35 year old drugged-out trust-fund baby trying to find his way in the world.  What makes this book work is two things.  First, Johnson lives in the valley, so he has the resources to try and track down primary sources who remember Willy El Puto of Pharr, Texas.  Also, this is the life of Bill Burroughs before he became an icon.  He was just this asshole that drank too much, got stoned, and tried to pick up cab drivers in Reynosa.  (“So, why aren't there any boys in Boys Town?”)  Honesty, free of glamour.

But beyond its humanizing of Burroughs, this is also a great book to open up the history of the Rio Grande Valley.

Check it out.  It's in paperback.  And if that's still too pricey (and I hear you), try the library.  If they don't have it, raise hell.  Willy El Puto would have.

Click here to catch my current video blog, the first of 2007.  Warning!  Not for the squeamish — it involves me eating some uninviting exotic junk food gifted by my sister (who wisely choses to live vicariously through me when such questionable and onerous snacks are concerned).  Bon appetit!

My aunt took pity on me, and as a Christmas present deposited enough money in my account so I could get my car legal again.  It's really quite amazing that I haven't gotten busted yet.  My inspection sticker expired July of 2006.  My registration has been inactive since January of 2006.  And I never got around to, um, updating my car insurance payment back in August.  My landlady and the electric and gas companies come first in my pathetic system of fiscal allocations.

For some reason my insurance company sends me their wallet-sized certificates establishing my policy to be in good standing even before I shoot them off a check.  This of course means nothing if I were to plow into some poor bastard.  But for the moment it should placate a cop.   This bogus scrap of paper also served me quite well today when I put into action part one of my three-pronged plan to become, once again, that upright citizen most people know me to be.  No longer will I assiduously avoid eye-contact with passing peace offers; nor will I have to keep a cautious eye on my rear mirror as I pass a parked cop car, breathing slowly in anticipation of my reaction if the prowl car starts to move — will I choose fight or flight?  (Though I suspect they both would result in a hosing down with some type of delousing compound rich in polychlorinates and raw kerosine.)

I'm still a moving target until all three components are addressed.  But, and hold your applause, I have a shiny new Texas State Inspection sticker, courtesy of a tire place on South Presa — the Se Habla Ingles sign was not entirely accurate, but I have no complaints.  Next week, registration and insurance.  Wow!  Those Hobbits searching for Mordar got nothing on me.  It's a rough and tumble world here on the southside.

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First Friday over at the Blue Star Arts Complex was pretty sedate tonight.  I was surprised.  The weather is warm and clear.  Beautiful.

I made a short promenade.  I caught Venus at her studio just as she was heading out.  She has to get up early tomorrow for a teaching gig.  She left her space with Erik Collins.  I didn't even know they were friends.  Seems they go way back.  Erik seems to be doing great.  He had a couple of digitally manipulated photographs on Venus' studio wall.  He told me he was on IMDB.  I had to look when I got home.  Here's a link.  I really like his photos.

Kick ass, Erik!

I hoped to see Deborah.  I tried to arrange lunch during the holidays, but one of her daughters came into town early, and she got swallowed up by all that family stuff.  I was sad to see she wasn't in her studio.  She's let some friends use it to sell jewelry this month.  I guess I'll have to track her down.

Speaking of the Blue Star Arts Complex, I expect to see everyone tomorrow night at the Jump-Start theater for their 22th anniversary Performance Party.  Five dollar donation.  It's fucking cheaper than a southside inspection sticker (and that's pretty damn cheap), so you got no excuse.

But, if for some reason you can't make it, there's As Filthy As It Gets, featuring the Methane Sisters (Annele Spector and Monessa Esquivel), beginning January 19th.  Those of you lucky enough to have seen Sam Lerma's brilliant Methane Sisters music video will have some idea of what to expect.  I know I'm looking forward to the great, filthy experience (with or without the cucumber-cam).