Well, things are looking up. It looks like Ashley Lindstrom is back writing at the SA Current. Things had gotten pretty grim recently. The only reason I continued to look at our “alternative” paper is because of Greg Harman. I suspect that Ashley’s just picking some work for hire, but I have to admit a weakness for her writing. This isn’t the admission of a guilty pleasure, because I do admire her work. But the thing is, she’s ginning out the chick non-lit with no apologies. Bitching and biting, yeah, this comes out around the edges; yet the words still flow all sparkly and sweet like champagne poured over a strawberry smoothy.

Who else could reference a blow job in a review of the San Antonio Classic Theater’s presentation of Oliver Goldsmith’s “She Stoops to Conquer” and still float off into the pillowy clouds as inoffensive as a commercial for bathroom tissues? Well, I suspect I could, but, naw, it’d come out downright creepy. My challenge to Ms. Lindstrom is for her to find a way to slip the term “rim job” into a review of the up-coming production by the Magik Children’s Theatre of “If Your Give a Moose a Muffin.”

Let’s look at Ashley’s review of Mary Harder’s transvestite vampire film, “Donato, King of the Vampire Drags.” The title of the review? “There Won’t Be Blood.” Check it out:

http://www.sacurrent.com/film/review.asp?rid=13997

It’s a nice piece of writing. And contrary to one’s first impression, this is not a bad review. Well, not completely. I hazard that Mary can find some pull-quotes from the piece. Ashley remains buoyant and playful throughout this piece. I can only hope that someone like Ashley is around when my underground feature film, “The Halitosis Chauffeur’s Impacted Molar Is Removed,” gets a broader release.

Welcome back, Ashley! You’ve been missed.

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Friday night I headed over to the Radius Center for an inaugural mixer of a new San Antonio group, SAFAM (which stands for, I believe, the San Antonio Film and Arts Movement).

The folks running this are great. They are young and ingenuous idealists. As a local filmmaker in his forties said, “Oh, they’re so cute.”

The turnout was impressive. This may have had more to do with Veronica Hernandez, president of the local chapter of NALIP (SAFAM and NALIP both share offices at the Radius Center). That and the promise of free beer. When I first heard of SAFAM (via video clips on Facebook), I was dismissive. They placed Film in their name, but none of the members were known to me or any of the people in the local industry I’ve spoken with. But by the time their first event happened, they were surrounded with film folk. I suspect Veronica pushed this upon them. These wide-eyed youngsters who seem to have more of a business and music industry background, suddenly found themselves cheek to jowl with other local film organizations (who are actually doing what SAFAM claims they want to do): NALIP, TXMPA, CineVeliz, and San Antonio Filmworks Institute.

It looks like all sorts of shit’s going on in this city as far as film and video is concerned. And now we have another organization. But they, SAFAM, claim they are going to raise us all out of the muck. Who knows, maybe they will.

After the initial meet-and-great and networking period, we were all requested to move to the larger space to hear the SAFAM folks pitch their dream.

One of my favorite lines went something like this: “Most of you don’t know who we are. But that’s because we’re only 63 days old [or whatever length of time their organization has been around].”

“What the fuck,” I muttered sotto voce to a fellow filmmaker standing beside me who I’ve known for over five years. “We don’t know you guys because we have never fucking seen you before.” I mean this literally. The images of your faces have never passed through the lenses of our eyeballs and registered in our brains. The filmmakers and the artists in this city have no idea who you guys are. No fucking clue.

Later, as the SAFAM crowd suggested that everyone interested in buying a two dollar red rubber wristband should do so (so that we will be able to recognize one another if we cross paths in, say, Wal-Mart)–and hurry up, because all people with red SAFAM wristbands should stand under their SAFAM banner and point up with whichever arm sported the band. This was a clever marketing photo op. But all I could do was lean over to Joel Settles or was it Victor Payan, and ponder if “this is the way the Brownshirts started out?”

Keep an eye out for future SAFAM event. I suspect they will continue with the free beer motif (the sure-fire way to generate attendance in San Antonio). Also, if future SAFAM events attract the same caliber of cool people as last weekend, you can be sure to engage in interesting and productive conversations.

I know of several projects which were launched Saturday night, if for no other reason than it was a neutral context where film people could congregate and remind themselves that, “hey, I like a lot of these people, and I want to work with some of them.” Personally, I pulled a couple of people into a project I want to shoot in early November. So, thank you SAFAM. And who nows, I may well become a staunch supporter in the near future. But that bracelet idea, it’s creepy as fuck.

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Saturday night was the second and final night of the Renaissance Guild’s ActOne Series. This is their Vol. XIV of this program where original one act scripts are submitted from all over the world. Those which are selected are directed and acted by local talent, primarily those with a history of working with the Renaissance Guild, “San Antonio’s Premiere Black Theatre Company,” one of my favorite community groups. The ActOne Series happens two times a year, so I guess this means they’ve been doing this for seven years. The company itself is moving into its tenth year. I happened to find a seat next to Lee Hurtado and Nikki Young. Nikki’s been involved with the Renaissance Guild since the very early days, and she told me that the very first ActOne performance was staged at the Continental Cafe, and not at its current location, but across the street. The Renaissance Guild’s founders, Latrelle Bright, Danielle King and Paul Riddle, Jr., should be proud to have created such a strong and long-lived company and community. The audiences just seem to keep growing.

For maybe three or four years the RG made their home at Jump-Start Performance Company. This was certainly convenient to me, as it’s within walking distance. But their new home, at the Little Carver Civic Center (just behind the “big” Carver) is a very nice space. And I certainly can’t complain because it’s just a few minutes away by car.

There were eight plays. I knew four of the directors. They were all actors I had either worked with or whose performances I had enjoyed on many occasions.

My two favorite pieces were in the second half. “Finger Food” closed the night. It was a playful farce of a fork and a spoon forlornly waiting at a buffet restaurant, hoping to be chosen, yet seemingly antiquated in a world of finger foods.

The other standout piece was “Stuffed,” directed by Hector Machado. Hector’s a very talented actor, and I’ve had the great privilege of sharing a set with him. He’s also moved into writing and directing. He helped guide his two powerful actors to deliver some wonderful work in “Stuffed.” Charles Riley is amazing. Krystal as the spunky, bratty bitch of a child is a joy to watch. You don’t even mind when it becomes clear that she is doomed. I mean, really, you don’t take your mama’s beloved cat who you inadvertently killed to neighborhood taxidermist (a paroled psycho killer living in his mother’s garage) because “it’d be better to giver her a stuffed cat than no cat at all,” and not expect some black comedic karmic slap-down. Hector did a smart job giving this piece some heavy emotional weight.

The rest of the pieces ranged from good to dreadful (well, I think there were only two which were truly godawful).

I think what bothered me the most was that some of the pieces were just simply poorly written. I don’t know the size of the original pool of submitted work, but I’ll give the RG the benefit of the doubt and assume that what we saw was indeed the best of the submission pile. I hope they get better submitted work in the years to come.

However, each play had at least one or two strong elements, be it script, director, or acting. And we, the audience, are constantly reminded that many of these actors have never been on stage before. Some of the directors and writers are first-timers. Don’t forget that this is community theater. And maybe I’ll stop carping and bitching and go ahead and submit a one-act play to the next series.

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My little success Monday was to get my grant proposal into the Artist Foundation of San Antonio. Hey, look at me, I got it in nine and a half hours before the online deadline! So I treated myself to a late lunch at Tito’s with some cheese enchiladas. (Man, their prices keep going up and up–it might be time to walk away, even though the food’s so tasty….)

I’m confidant that my proposal is pretty strong. But all I need is someone like, I dunno, Mark Wally and Angela Guerra (AKA the Prime Eights) submitting a proposal and beating me…because, well, you know, they’re better filmmakers.

Whatever. It’s all out on the wind. Time to turn my attention elsewhere.

Last Saturday was a great day for art in San Antonio. There were two events in my part of town that caught me unawares. The first was the King William Garage Sale. (True, of little art-importance.) This is a neighborhood-wide opportunity for folks around here to tote their crap out onto the lawns and porches and flog it to the masses. I was wondering what all the racket was that woke me up at the ungodly hour of nine am. I peeked out the window and saw a yard sale across the street at Chip and Becky’s place. But it wasn’t until I was checking up on my Twitter feeds that I saw that Todd O’Neil was busy over at C4, opened for a half day to get some soundproofing done and also to provide something of an open house for the swarms of bargain-hunting pedestrians out for the King William garage sale. I guess I should read those neighborhood newsletters instead of just using them to wrap my coffee grounds.

Another event was Chalk It Up, an annual art show put on by ArtPace where artists create work on downtown sidewalks in chalk. I always miss this. I suppose I could have headed out when I learned about it, but I didn’t have it in me. How did I learn about it? Twitter. So all you Twitter haters, my recommendation is to choose who you follow. Sam Lerma clued me in about Chalk It Up whilst he was out shooting video for whatever TV station he works for. (Does anyone even own a TV anymore?) In another plug for Social Media, I was able to see a few images from Chalk It Up via the Facebook page of my neighbor, Marlys Dietrick. She’s a kick-ass artist who took part for the first time this year in Chalk It Up. Cool stuff.

My initial goal for the day was to head out to the Alamo Drafthouse for the matinee screenings of the SAL Film Festival. After pausing in the drive-through at Eddie’s Taco House, I drove out to the Alamo Drafthouse. I’m glad to see that Liz Burt is still managing the place. Every event I’ve been to while she’s headed the place has run smoothly and all the employees seem enthusiastic to be working there. Liz greeted me and mentioned that she hadn’t seen me in quite a while. She’s right. They need to move that theater closer to downtown, closer to the pulse of San Antonio art and culture. And am I crazy in thinking that those “W” logos all over the place are new. Yes, I know the theater is in the Westlake Shopping Center. But those capital dubyas are clearly the George W. Bush font. This, of course, reinforces my paranoid suspicion that the sweet juicy pulp of urban San Antonio is surrounded by a desiccated rind populated by soulless reactionaries, who may well be shape-shifting reptiles from Epsilon Eridani IV here to harvest our pancreatic hormones … but, again, that’s just speculation.

My favorite piece from SAL was “Journey of the Opportunist” by Angela Guerra and Mark Walley (AKA, the Prime Eights). It’s a beautiful and moving work of art. It has retro sensibilities right out of the early seventies, yet the work is still fresh and contemporary. It’s a wonderful achievement.

Other stand-outs were, of course, Sam Lerma’s perfect “Trash Day,” and AJ Garces’ lush “Death Rattle.” My only complaint with “Death Rattle” is that the script needed to have been seriously work-shopped. There are a couple of lines from the young protagonist that ring false. Those I suppose I could have lived with, but it’s the voice-over narration which is most problematic. And if AJ wants to put some more work into the piece, I’d suggest he get an older actor to provide this important information. This device worked wonderfully in the film adaption of Jean Shepherd’s “A Christmas Story,” where the author, himself, narrates the point of view of little Ralphie Parker from years in the future. All that aside, AJ has created, with “Death Rattle,” the strongest work to have come out of San Antonio from a filmmaker who makes this city his home. Well, in my opinion. But it’s the one that really counts, right?

Here’s a picture of filmamker AJ Garces (top prize winner of SAL) with Dar and Andy Miller, of the SAL Film Festival.

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Hey, speaking of local film-making, I just found this ad on Craig’s List under the San Antonio tv/video/radio jobs section:

“I need a producer for a documentary that was shot 12 years ago. I basically followed two homeless vets around Austin for a year while in film school there. Here are the requirements—-I need a REAL producer…that means you have the $$$ to have the post-production done (with the music of my choice) and the distribution. This is a rewarding opportunity I guarantee you. If anything comes out of this…I promise you will reap the benefits. San Antonio Hacks, rich kids whose mommy and daddy bought them video equipment, and 21 year olds who think they know it all because they’ve seen Pulp Fiction 100 times need NOT apply. This is a serious project about a serious subject matter. Also….it would help if you are politically conservative because I usually don’t get along with lefties. If interested…let me know.”

I’d planned on writing something snide and snarky about Alfonso Emiliano and his recent histrionics, but the above is much sweeter clover for me to roll around in.

I do believe I know this gent above who is seeking a producer. His name is James, as I recall. Nice enough fellow, for a rightie. Some years back he spoke to me about this project. Seems he made a huge mistake. He cut his short documentary to the music of a Merle Haggard song, and those bastards at the record company wanted thousands, maybe tens of thousands of dollars to give him rights. All I can say is, dude, 12 years later and you can’t cut your original footage to different music? Wow! Here’s my recommendation, in three words: Create New Work!

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After SAL I drove home and caught up on some work. As 6pm approached, I headed to the west-side, to the Guadalupe Avenida. La Gloria had finally arrived.

El Noche de la Gloria, the brain child of CALO (headed by Gabriel Velasquez) was created to be something of the west-side’s answer to Luminaria.

La Gloria, year one, kicked ass! I dearly hope this becomes an established annual event.

It was a west-side arts block party, and the most fun I’ve had in months!

It was quite an event.

Drumming and dancing by URBAN-15.

There was the Pop Yo Trunk area where artists could display and sell their stuff out of the backs of lowriders, SUVs, and even a couple of ice cream trucks.

Pop Yo Trunk, that’s where you could hang out with Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector. They were handing out postcards for an upcoming Methane Sisters show, June 2010. I’m marking my calendar. (I like Monessa’s PoP Yo Trunk shirt–the cutest grease monkey on Guadalupe Street.)

There was an insanly popular fashion show.

Celebrities of tomorrow.

Celebrity vinyl venders

Performance art.

Music, poetry, and on and on.

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Tuesday night I walked over to the Blue Star Contemporary Arts Center to attend The Colloquium. This was the third iteration of the artist forum presented by Leslie Raymond and Jason Stevens (the couple who are also known as Potter-Belmar Labs). The idea is to invite a brace of artists–each speaks (with visual presentation) for 13 minutes. At the end, there is a seven minute session for audience Q&A. It struck me as similar to the TED Talks.

For this, Colloquium III, we had Marilyn Lanfear, Rex Hausmann, Stuart Allen, Franklin Bryson Brooks & Sarah Jones, and Beto Gonzalez. It was a wonderful series of presentations. I only knew two of the presenting artists (Marilyn and Rex), but the entirety of the work was so diverse and the artists all so genuine and articulate that I was happy to have the opportunity to learn about new artist whose works I will gladly follow.

I hope Leslie and Jason keep this program going. It’s a wonderful environment to get to know local artists.

Hell, it made me aware of Stuart Allen. He’s way cool. And if you love or hate or are indifferent to internet porn, then each and every one of you need to be check out: http://pixlporn.com/index.html

And for those who roll their eyes at work so conceptually fomented (meaning pixlporn), check out the quasi folk art of Marilyn Lanfear. I think she’s a fucking genius. http://marilynlanfear.com/

Back in 1984 and 1985 I was hanging out in San Francisco, sharing the second floor of an old house on Fillmore, three blocks uphill from Haight Street. I had a warehouse job for awhile at Rough Trade Records. I distinctly recall hearing, over some college radio station, the song “Out For a Walk” off of the Flaming Lip’s eponymously titled first album. Well, it was actually a five track EP. With the faux Sergeant Pepper beginning and the wobbly flangy guitars it was all post-punk filthy psychedelic revivalism. The song seemed to fit perfectly as a soundtrack to my long aimless treks through the city at night. And, so, I’ve been buying their work over the years. I’d known that filmmaker Bradley Beesley had been working on a documentary of the band forever. I finally got around to watching it. If you have Netflix view on demand, you can cruise over right now. “Fearless Freaks.” Well worth it. Much more personal than the standard rock and roll documentary. I just wish more time had been spent with brilliant producer Dave Friedman as well as Bradley Beesley himself. I can’t think of any other artists who I’ve followed so closely for 25 years–especially artists who create work I consistently find rewarding, moving, and constantly evolving.

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The lenses for my new glasses finally came in. It took a week … jeeze! I’d heard mixed opinions about these progressive bifocals (trifocals?). But when I slipped them on, I was hard-pressed to discern where the different focal zones were on my glasses. Everything seemed fine. It might be because I had my other glasses for maybe as long as a decade, and over the years they have become somewhat scuffed. I suspect that I have become used to moving my head aroud a bit this way, a bit that, to compensate for the scratched portions. But now, what a difference! When I want to, say, update my postings on Facebook while driving, I no longer need to raise my glasses up to the top of my head. That just seemed dangerous to me.

Actually, I almost rear-ended a couple of cars on the drive home. I mean, damn, I can finally SEE. I’d forgotten how many distracting things there are in the big city. Girls to ogle, signs to read, freaky shapes in the clouds to interrupt … wow!

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For the last year I’ve been lucky enough to get some well-paying work at a Dallas auction house. It’s sporadic work, and it’s not guaranteed to last. But, because I have a deep-seated inability to plan for the future, I’ve used each gig to procure another piece of video equipment. My newest toy is the Panasonic GH1. This is one of the new breed of DSLRs which shoot HD video in addition to still photos. (Actually, it’s not a true DSLR, but let’s not split hairs.)

It seems that most people in the local production world to whom I mention this camera, well, they just shrug, dismissively, and change the subject. They don’t seem to understand that for under two grand you can shoot 1080 high definition video at 24p with fully manual settings while utilizing SLR lenses to provide that filmic look of a shallow depth of field. Sure, I’d love a Panasonic HVX-200 with a 35mm mini adapter. But that’d spec out at over seven thousand. No doubt there are many people I know (a few who I may even respect) who would sneer at the AVCHD compression codec, but I’ve been working with some of these files and have been very pleased with the picture quality.

Also, I finally have a real camera for taking stills. I was out the other night taking long exposure photos in my neighborhood. I love the freaky false colors that come out. My neighbor’s black metal fence came out looking like polished brass under the sodium vapor street lamp.

Late Wednesday afternoon I tossed my new camera into a shoulder bag and biked down the Mission Trail. I made several stops, shooting only in the highest resolution AVCHD. When I got back home I captured it all to my computer with a USB card reader (the GH1 records media to an SD card). I bought two 8 gig cards. With my laptop, the file transfer speed comes to about one minute to aquire one minute of the HD video. An 8 gig card can handle just over an hour of AVCHD video. A bit of a pain for documentary work, I suppose. However larger cards are available, or you can carry around multiple cards.

Here I am (self-shot) with my new specs.

And here are some miscellaneous photos I’ve shot with the camera. Video to come later.

(Fuck! I just spelled miscellaneous correctly! Those who know what a notoriously bad speller I am will understand my little thrill at this accomplishment.)

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The Third Annual SAL Film Fest happens tomorrow. SAL is one of the great San Antonio success stories. No slow build-up for SAL. It started strong with year one, and just keeps growing in scope and amount of prize monies. Now if I can just shake this bleak funk I’m in and haul my posterior to the Alamo Drafthouse for the 1pm start time, I will be able to see the current crop of San Antonio’s best short narrative films. Thank you, Dar Miller, for the only true San Antonio film festival.

Later in the day is Un Noche de La Gloria. This is the first year of what I hope will become an annual tradition. It’s a night of art and performances in and around the Avenida Plaza Guadalupe. 6pm until midnight. Gabriel Velasquez is the driving force behind the sponsoring agency, CALO (Contemporary Art and Literature Organization). Gabe has wrangled an incredible line-up of artists. Be there or be square.

I really encourage the local film fans to hit SAL for the earlier matinee screenings at 1pm so they can make it to La Gloria (my understanding is that SAL has a second session which begins at 7 in the evening, where all the films will be screened again). And, really, everyone needs to go to SAL to see AJ Garces’ incredible “Death Rattle.” I was pretty much a pest earlier in the year, pushing AJ to screen an early edit at Luminaria. I suspect this version will be more polished, also the screening facility will be somewhat more conducive to appreciate the beautiful photography (not to disparage Rick and Angela of Slab Cinema, who certainly kicked ass running tech during Luminaria). You’ll also get great work by Sam Lerma, Ya’Ke Smith, and the Prime Eights. Toss in a feature film by Pablo Veliz and some student work from HA! (AKA Harlandale Animation … I believe the exclamation point is mandatory), and you’re getting a spectacular show for a paltry 10 clams.

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Did I hear right? Obama won the Nobel Prize? For PEACE??? What the fuck are those Norwegians thinking?

Don’t get me wrong. I happily voted for Obama. And he seems like a very nice human being. But I was somewhat squeamish that during his campaign he never said anything to indicate him to be a progressive, or even a liberal…and, sadly, he’s lived up to his moderate, centralist persona. Yes, he appears less hawkish than Bush — at least when you take into account his rhetoric. But, a man of peace? With his stance on Afghanistan? Hardly.

I understand that when the Nobel Committee gave an award to Jimmy Carter some years back it was a political slam against the brutal rapaciousness of Bush and his administration; however, Jimmy Carter, once having left office, threw himself into humanitarian causes. I give Carter’s award two thumbs up.

Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Could it be that the Nobel Committee has thrown down the gauntlet? “Here you go, Mr. President. The Nobel Peace Prize. Think you can live up to it?”

This is beginning to sound like a reality TV show: The Nobel Peace Prize Challenge.

Here’s my advice to making it to the second round, Mr. Prez. Stop killing people.

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The other big item in the news today was NASA’s bombing of the moon. For those who have been living in denial about the militarization of NASA, here’s proof to the contrary. We just bombed the mother fucking moon! When the Moonlings retaliate by vaporizing Houston and Cape Canaveral, don’t be so surprised.

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Clearly I’ve had my head firmly planted far up my ass for way too long. It seems that Sweet Honey in the Rock is playing tonight in San Antonio over at the Carver Center, and I didn’t even know they were coming to town. Oh, well. I’m not sure I could have afforded the ticket.

http://blip.fm/~elra2

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Speaking of my poverty, I was expecting to be able to skate through to 2010 even after buying a new camera. The unpredictability of the auction house bite me on the ass. I anticipated another stint which would let me float for a month or more. Also, I was expecting a cash influx from the 2009 Fort Worth Book Show. But the auction gig evaporated. And the book show tanked. I really can’t expect much sympathy. If I really make a big deal about whining, the obvious response would be: “Shut up and get a job, you miserable slacker!” Fair enough. But I really don’t know how to go about getting a job. Gigs, part-time work, or temp positions, well, that’s how I’ve been getting by for the last decade or two. I have to admit that I don’t really know what a career is. I am totally incapable of looking after myself. Shit, how did I get this old and not develop clue number one about how to be an adult? I have zero savings. Hell, I have significant debt. Zip in the way of insurance. Nothing for the most part paid into Social Security. I have no real bankable skills. The most rudimentary education (a liberal arts baccalaureate). Add on clinical depression and a propensity to substance abuse, and, my goodness, I should at least pound myself on the back for making it this far into the 21st Century.

Ah, fuck me Aunt Fritzi! Winter’s coming, the Moonlings are pissed, and Dan Brown dominates the New York Times best seller list! Wasn’t it S. J. Perelman who said: “…is it any wonder Modigliani died at 35?”

This is my second favorite Perleman quote. The first being his idea for a title of a Broadway musical: “You Call These Crab Cakes?”

But I digress.

Um, where was I?

Ah, the Moonlings. Yep. They will rain wrath and indignation down on us like it were a repeat of the shit that went down during the Permian-Triassic event of August 23rd, 249,167, 846 BC. That was the sad, black day the Moonlings stuck it to the Trilobite. So, if it’s not already too late, let’s not have a repeat of that dreadful P-T extinction.

Please, let’s all pretend that the moon-bombing was just an accident.

“Bomb the moon? Perish the notion! We’d never purposely rain death on others…don’t be silly. This is simply a misunderstanding. We’re a peace-loving nation. Yep. What the Norwegians are all nattering about. Pure peace, man. Pure peace.”

Last week I took in a press preview of the Manhattan Short Film Festival. It’s screening again in San Antonio at the URBAN-15 Studio. This will be the fourth or fifth year I’ve gone. There will be 10 short films from nine countries. All films will screen twice. So head over to URBAN-15 this Friday or Saturday at 7pm. Each person gets to vote for his or her favorite film. And then theaters from 173 cities (here and abroad) will email in their votes and the winner will be announced the following Tuesday.

The four films I previewed were all wonderful. “The Boundary” (from the USA) is a gut-wrenching exposition of American xenophobia. “Love Child” (from Sweden) is a hilarious and wonderfully weird story about a sort of inter-species sibling rivalry. “Mozambique” (from Mozambique) is a very moving documentary made by an orphaned boy in search of his family. “Skhizein” (from France), which appears to be the only animation this year, is a beautiful and offbeat story of a man who, after an encounter with a meteorite, struggles to make it through his daily routines while living ninety-one centimeters from his actual, physical location.

http://www.msfilmfest.com/

Hope to see you there.

http://www.urban15.org/

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Speaking of film-related events, tomorrow (Tuesday) is the September San Antonio Film Forum, the free monthly shindig put on by the San Antonio Film Commission. The subject this month is all about Locations. The program begins at 7pm, but people will be mingling as early as 6:30. The downtown public library, first floor meeting room. The first hour of parking is free (make sure to get your parking ticket validated), but after that, it’ll cost you.

Oh, yeah. According to Drew’s Facebook, the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Experience will be happening again this year! This is our own, homegrown film race, put on by Drew Mayer-Oakes and the San Antonio Film Commission. I expect it’ll be happening sometime in November. But if you’re interested, you might want to show up at Tuesday’s forum–I’d not be surprised to hear an official announcement then.

I’m lucky I can bankroll my rudderless lifestyle by traveling north for punctuated gigs at the rare books department of a Dallas auction house as a “guest cataloger.” Unfortunately there is little in the way of job security. True, I know someone on the inside (my sister); but the fact is companies all over are eyeing ways to whittle away their over-head. Also, I need to be on call. When I’m not needed, there’s no work. And when I am needed, I’d better be able to jump. The pay’s just too damn good. And even though the work is basically data-entry, it’s fun, and it involves a particular expertise not everyone can claim to possess.

Here are some of the more visually interesting books that crossed my desk during the previous few weeks.

A groovy Ethiopian manuscript.

A nice leather inlaid cover to a copy of Baron Munchausen.

A particularly winsome etching of Ophelia from an extra-illustrated edition of Shakespeare.

A cool illustration in that same copy of Munchausen. It’s a bridge between Africa and Great Britain.

An artist’s portfolio in lithographs of his calligraphy work. This series is especially devilish.

There are items in some of the other departments I’m aware of. I’d love to post some images and write about two them, but I don’t have permission. All I’ll say is that one involves an x-ray, the back-story of which should guarantee you being pushed to the front of the call-in queue on “Coast to Coast.” And the other involves some incredibly rare movie memorabilia. Actually, if I wasn’t so feckless, I’d try and get in there with my video camera and make a little documentary. But the last thing I want to do is become involved with the legal department of an auction house. It must be as labyrinthine as their bookkeeping department. Oh, well. What a missed opportunity. I mean, one of the movie experts involved is impassioned, articulate, and had a pivotal role in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

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Last week when I trotted up the steps to my front porch upon returning to San Antonio, I noticed the unmistakable pink pasteboard termination notice from CPS (City Public Services–they hook us up with electricity and gas). But not to worry. It’s for apartment B, on the south side of the my house. Should I feel bad about not taking it to my neighbor? I mean, shit, he’ll find out soon enough. Besides, if I leave it where it is, it might work like a CPS scarecrow, keeping my own termination notice at bay.

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What’s up with doctors and their desire to rub the ugliness of mortality in our faces? Even eye doctors. I finally went in for an eye exam. I’ve fairly drastic myopia. It’d be criminal to put me in a car without my glasses and force me to drive across town. I’ve worn glasses since the first or second grade. But I’ve never needed any help reading or seeing up close. Up until about nine months back I’ve been able to read with or without my glasses. No more. I have to remove my glasses to read, dial a phone, sign a check, operate a camera, etc. As the doctor glanced at my info on the clipboard I explained my predicament, to which he replied: “Ah, well, considering your age, I’d say you’re right on schedule.” Sure, I’m not expecting an outright lie, but how hard would it have been to placate me with “oh, you poor thing,” or, maybe, “well, we’ll fix you right up”? And then that son of a bitch added, “it’s just going to get worse over the years–a lot worse.”

Well, fuck you!

So, it looks like I’ll soon be sporting some sort of bifocal. I’ve heard mixed opinions about the old-style bifocal versus the graduated, progressive version. I still haven’t decided. After the exam, I stepped into the adjacent eyeglass shop. A thousand styles or more … which all looked the same. It’s like contemporary cars. A thousand styles of crap. Does no one teach design anymore? I went home and ordered a pair of frames off eyeglassboy.com. They didn’t have my first three choices large enough to accommodate my massive cranium, but I ordered a pair I can live with. Once they arrive I guess I’ll find some place to put lenses in them.

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I watched a couple of time travel movies on Netflix online over the weekend. “Primer” didn’t live up to the hype. I loved the naturalistic dialogue. Loads of cross talk and incomplete sentences. The camera work was quite nice for a micro budget on Super 16. They claimed to have made it with a budget of seven thousand, and a tight shooting ratio of 2:1. The Wiki page, clearly written by a gushing fanboy, quotes a reviewer who opined that anyone who claims to understand the plot after just one viewing is “either a savant or a liar.” I hate that sort of nonsense. It’s a weak script, pure and simple. To try and bolster the rickety plot by suggesting that the audience are simpletons is, at best, a disingenuous smokescreen for half-assery. Still, I quite enjoyed it. My favorite scenes were early on before the characters began the actual time-traveling. The other film was “Los Cronocrimenes” (Timecimes). Like “Primer” it was a small, low budget indie film. Three locations. Four actors. They did quite a bit with very little resources. Light entertainment. Much better was a documentary on Haskell Wexler by his son, “Tell Them Who You Are.” Well worth watching.

I have no projects lined up for the foreseeable future. True, my money’s running thin, and I really should be concerned. But, dammit, I’m going to enjoy a week or three of sweet slack, relativity free of obligations.

My two big projects Friday was to return a library book and get a part for my bike. Actually, it was something of a bicycle-intensive day. Just look at this picture of some poor wretch’s bike in the parking garage of the downtown public library.

He thought he’d be safe locking it up. But someone stole his fucking inner tube. That’s low, really low.

After the library I tried my local bike shop to see if they had a disc brake rotor. The bike dude took in his breath like I’d asked him if he had any of Lance Armstrong’s old athletic cups. “Oh, we don’t have anything like that,” he croaked, backing away to help a tattooed girl looking for some handlebar streamers.

Okay. Here’s the skinny. A brake rotor is just a round piece of metal. It looks like this.

In a civilized country I’d just pop down to the local machine shop and have one cut and ground down. While I waited.

The next place I thought I’d try was Bike Village way up on West Avenue. A bit of a drive, but the place seemed al full of useful stuff. I walked up to the guy at the counter. “You have a rotor for a disc brake?”

He stopped texting and looked up at me. He squirmed like a stoolie in a cop show. “Don’t think we have anything like that. Um, let me call our other store.” As he dialed, I saw two rotors. On the wall. Just behind him.

He hung up. “They don’t have any. Um, we could order some for you.” I looked over his shoulder. The rotors looked just the right size. They weren’t in a package. No price. Were they some sort of decorations? Left over Christmas wreathes? “That what you wanna do?” he asked, riffing the index of a parts catalogue. “Order them … um, and what was that you called it? A radiator?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, and headed out.

Eventually all roads lead to Bike World. They’ve got everything. A bit superior, and a bit pricey. But they know their shit and are always well-stocked. The problem is, Bike World is in the nexus of affluent evil — Alamo Heights, Olmos Park, and Terrell Hills; three sleepy and snooty hamlets surrounded by the proper grit of San Antonio. This is where the under-worked cops keep an eye out for scofflaws such as myself, you know, motoring around with expired inspection and registration. I used the GPS on my iPhone to select the most low-profile and circuitous route through the wilds of Olmos Basin Park.

What an ordeal. But, sure enough, they had that little thin circle of metal. Forty fucking bucks! I should have scavenged one off that bike at the library.

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I’ve been plodding my way through a tight and stultifying tunnel — seemingly endless — for several months. It seems that everything I set off to do fizzles, mostly through my own fecklessness and internal torpor. It’s been at least three months since my water heater crapped out on me, and I’m still having to boil water to do the dishes. And the frame of my futon broke some months earlier and I’m still sleeping on my little sectional sofa. But, still, I do my best to keep in motion until it passes. Soon, I hope.

A perfect example was the SAL (San Antonio Local Film Festival) summer event — the Summer Remake Challenge. I had planned to participate, but I stalled out. However, I dragged myself out to Friday night’s screening at the Radius Center. There were six pieces in total.

Huge turnout. Maybe a hundred and fifty people.

Our MC was Ann Gerber. She’s been out of the local acting scene for so long that I suspect her mother no longer reads my blog in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ann’s acting work. I guess that’s what motherhood will do to one. Ann instructed the audience to vote on our two favorite films.

My choices were Pete’s version of Psycho were it a Clint Ruin music video (Carlos Pina’s collaboration kept things authentically dark, though I assume Pete was responsible for the pornier elements); and also, Andy Miller’s Cliffs Notes version of Blade Runner — that’s right, the entire damn story arc in only ten minutes (a great performance by Brant Bumpers and some damn fine shooting by Travis Thomsen).

The winner was Erick Cantu and Co.’s version of Dirty Dancing … with men in dresses and wigs. When I was helping Veronica count up the scores (well, she did most of the work), all she could say was “audiences love camp.”

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Saturday night was the premiere of Dora Pena’s first feature film Dream Healing. It was at the Palladium, a swanky multiplex on the ghastly far north edge of Bexar County where the Republicans hide behind their gate codes and guardhouses.

It was a huge theater. Maybe 600 seats. And Dora’s Blue-Ray disc looked great on their digital projector. It was a sold-out crowd. (Here we see Nikki and Chadd of PrimaDonna Productions alongside the red carpet.)

Below is a photo I took with my phone of two of my favorite actors. Louisette Zurita and Gabi Walker. They were great in the film.

Dream Healing looks slick. Congrats Dora! The acting is all impressive. Jesse Borrego does a great job. But I think the real standout is Evie Armstrong as the evil aunt. I wonder if Russ still wants to make that dominatrix movie? Cruel should always be as sexy as Evie.

I’ve been in a strange torpor for a couple of months — even more notable than my usual inertia. I woke up around nine this morning and decided to roll back over. Around eleven-thirty my neighbor called to ask if I would look after his dog for a couple of days. I’m always a bit put off by his fortnightly requests. But today I was mostly taken aback by the fact that I’d slept almost until noon. I put on a pot of coffee straightaway with the best of intentions, you know, productivity-wise.

I managed to talk myself out of a bike ride. My rationale was that my front disk brake has a bent rotor — this makes the rotor rub against the pad making an irritating squeaking noise, and I guess it also slows me down a bit. The bike still works, so it’s a lame excuse. I thought, instead, I’d clean up one room of my house. After scanning the mess, I groaned and turned on my laptop instead. After a couple hours catching up on the blogs and such I subscribe to, I realized the general mess had not resolved itself. Of course I had to finish “Light” by M. John Harrison as I had noticed an email alert from the library that it is due back tomorrow (oh, by the way, I didn’t care for it — if this is the height of “new weird,” I’m not impressed). And then, you see, I had to update the appearance of my blog … and while I’m at it my website (though god forbid I generate new content). Eventually I ran out of diversions. I finally managed to tidy up a good deal in the living room. I’ve returned these two bookshelves placed back to back as a stand-up desk. This old Gateway monitor is coupled to my laptop to extend my virtual desktop. And I’ve loaded my five disk CD player with Farflung, DJ Spooky, Godspeed You Black Emperor, Legendary Pink Dots, and Pierre Henry. Maybe I can get some writing done.

But first, let me pull from scraps of aborted blogs:

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On the night of July 4th I had thought I’d go to the office, get some writing done, and then ride my bike the few blocks to watch fireworks downtown. But after looking at some of the local news sites, it seemed that the fireworks displays were over on the west side at Woodlawn Lake. Too bad. I rode around some anyway, hoping to catch some kids shooting off bottle rockets, but no luck.

The Fourth of July is far from my favorite holiday. True, it’s during the high heat of summer-time. I can get behind that. And who doesn’t like multi-colored starbursts in the nighttime sky? But I have to say that blind nationalism is surely the most unsavory dish one can bring to a family picnic, pushing even Jello salad to a distant second.

Earlier in the afternoon I braved the 104 degree weather. I decided to take a somewhat shorter version of my Mission Trail bike ride. I parked over near Rancho Charro in a park refreshingly devoid of people. I was pulling my bike from the bed of my truck and about to switch on my iPod, when a huge red pickup rolled to a stop, effectively blocking me in. It was a new gleaming four-door extended cab Ford F-250 with tinted windows and what looked like a CB antenna. The front passenger darkened window rolled down with a soft and efficient hum.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” a voice called out.

I peered into the cab, trying to make out the figure in the driver’s seat.

“Remember me?” the voice asked.

I walked up closer.

“Yeah,” I said. “The name’s Anthony, right?”

He nodded.

I used to see Anthony on the bike trail with some frequency. He had a rusty beater touring bike with an old Realistic transistor radio wired to the handlebars and a handmade contraption welded to the frame which always held a 16 ounce beer.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I said, peeking into his truck. It was loaded and seemingly fresh off the assembly line. He had a Johnny Cash compilation CD on the passenger seat, and, between his legs, a Bud Lite tallboy in a little paper bag.

“I was hit by a car,” he said, and I knew he meant while he was riding his bike. “How I got this truck,” he added, referring to what I assumed to be an insurance settlement. “I was over on Zarzamora, near that Sonic, you know, by the railroad tracks.”

“Wow! So, how are you doing?”

“Broke three ribs,” he said, tenderly lifting his hand to touch his left side. “But I’m on the mend.”

He said he’d be back to riding soon, and would keep an eye open for me.

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Back on Friday [July 17] NALIP sponsored a screening at the Radius Center for San Antonio’s Contemporary Arts Month. (This is the last year CAM will be in July. Next year it’s moving to March. What’s up with that?) The Radius has this old empty billboard on their roof. Manuel set up a projector, and we screened four short pieces up there. “Recollection,” by Gisha Zabala; “Luminaria del Rio,” by Barbara Jackson; “Asylum,” by Rebecca Dietz; and my piece from this year’s Luminaria, “Awaiting the Equinox.”

Here’s a nice photo by Barbara Jackson:

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My Galileoscope finally arrived the other week … on a cloudy day with a cloudy night. I’d been waiting on that damn thing for months like when I was a kid checking the mailbox every day for those Sea Monkeys. But this time around, whenever I’d hear the rumble of a truck slowing in front of my house I’d rush to the window, asking myself, “is it my 15 dollar telescope?” Fucking finally!

You do have to assemble it. I already knew this. Keeps the cost down, don’t you know. I mean, it’s only 15 bucks! The website explains that the assembly part is to make it an even better educational tool. Makes you feel just like Galileo … who has to make sense of putting together an IKEA armoire. Thankfully there are quite a few internet resources, including instruction videos on YouTube.

The box has images of what you can expect from the device. A clear view of the moon. Saturn’s rings visible. And Jupiter and its moons.

I’ve looked at the moon through it on a few nights. Beautiful. Tonight it’s almost full, so I mounted my 15 dollar telescope on a 350 dollar tripod and stepped outside. I took some pretty clear pictures through the telescope with my little trusty CoolPix camera. And then I turned the telescope to the only bright star in the sky (damn that light pollution), and what do you know? Jupiter. I was only able to see four moons (the four Galilean moons Galileo first saw in 1610). Very cool.

Here’s our moon through the Galileoscope.

Sometimes I have to look back at my blog and see what I have actually posted. Often I begin a blog entry, and before I can get around to editing it, it’s become too stale to post. And, with a bit of truncated recap, I move ahead.

For the last two weeks or so I’m been officing at the C4 Workspace on King William. The idea is that if left to my own devices at home, I’d just fritter away my time with inane distractions. Having an environment where I go to work is starting to pay off a bit. I have done a lot more work than I’d have done were I cooped up at home. However, I should point out that I’m writing a blog entry while at “work.” Oh, well. This is still a form of productivity. I’ll call it an extended coffee break. And why not? I’ve just brewed up an ultra strong pot of Cafe Bustelo. Toss in some honey and Mexican chocolate, and it’s a meal to itself.

Check out the C4 website and learn a bit about coworking. And if you would like to try it out, I have several day passes (a perk of membership) I’d be happy to make available. You get access to wi-fi, electricity, a desk to use, a color copier, coffee, refrigerator privileges (there’s usually a variety of sandwich fixins to chose from), and people of various backgrounds working around you to bounce ideas off and network with. Also, it’s located in the beautiful King William neighborhood.

Come by and check it out.

http://www.c4workspace.com/

And a short Wikipedia article on coworking:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coworking

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Tonight we begin judging for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. We hope we can get it all done in two nights. There’s a mountain of strong entries this year, so it might mean a couple of late nights work.

Unfortunately this means I’ll miss tonight’s screenings at the San Antonio Film Festival. Once again forces beyond my control will have kept me from seeing Sam Lerma’s Trash Day.

I’m afraid I’ll also be unable to attend the afternoon screenings of the SAFF tomorrow. I have to pitch my OCA project proposal to the CAB (Cultural Arts Board). I’m hoping they’ll fund my short film, A River Quartet. Afterwards (if I’m not too dejected) I’ll head over to the Instituto de Mexico in HemisFair Park to check out the Saturday evening screenings at SAFF.

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Over the weekend I attended the final performance of The Case of the Neon Twins, a multimedia futuristic noir play staged at the Jump-Start Theater. Billy Muñoz and Daniel Jackson produced the piece. It starred Joel Settles, S. T. Shimi, and Monessa Esquivel. There were also about five other actors whose performances were previously video-taped. In some instances the three principle actors were interacting with the video performances. And this is where the piece lost me. It’s hard to act against a prerecorded performance and make it seem natural. And to give Joel credit, he did a pretty damn good job. But a half-second delay very effectively pulls you out of the moment. The other technical problem was the audio in the prerecorded pieces. I’ve made a hash out of enough bad audio myself that I can recognize an unsuccessful attempt to strip out unwanted background — usually the compressor on a refrigerator or the drone of an HVAC unit. The audio was so flat and compressed that I had a hard time hearing all the dialogue in the video pieces.

Tech problems aside, the concepts were great. Given more resources the piece would have been impressive. When the interplay between real and virtual performer worked, it was very effective. I hope both Billy and Daniel continue to polish this multimedia technique. I love this sort of stuff.

And bravo to all the actors! I already know to expect solid work from Joel, Monessa, and Shimi. But it was also a treat to see Kim Corbin and Sandy Dunn doing some wonderfully weird performances as the “Ladies in the Sky” (two women in some sort of secret government spy blimp hovering over San Antonio in the year 2068).

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Wednesday was the final W-I-P (Works In Progress) for this season at Jump-Start. I think they’ll start back up in September.

This was the site-specific night. Well, I say night, but 7pm in June it’s still pretty bright.

We started off with Marquez Rhyne. He gave use a performance piece incorporating song, dance, and spoken word. It was a poignant meditation on the loss of a brother from whom he’d been estranged. I’m not sure if he plans on expanding the piece or not. I hope so. The performance was staged on the raised platform in front of Jump-Start.

Next, we headed over to the new high-rise in the Blue Star complex where the Lazarus coffee shop used to be. S. T. Shimi performed a dance piece with a hula-hoop down in sort of a pit, with we the audience looking down. I don’t know what I liked more, the dance, or the location.

Finally, the Robin Getter School of Rhythms & Dance did a west African dance piece accompanied by drummers. Their location was near the parking-lot overlooking the river. Very energetic and colorful.

Every few months my landlady sends her handyman over to my place to attack the grounds with a lawn mower, weed whacker, and leaf blower (the second most useless contraption ever invented). I easily become accustomed to the dandelions nosing up to peek at me through my kitchen window and the chiggers growing fat from the blood of those squirrels foolish enough to come down from the trees. And just as this domestic jungle has become another backdrop to my daily grind, I’ll wake up at the ungodly hour of eleven to the sound of a gas powered lawn mower. Two hours later, this frantic assault will have ended. As the dust settles, I will inevitably look out on one of the worst jobs of lawn mowing I have ever seen. It resembles my head, when I cut my own hair — just on a larger scale.

I do my best to avoid the handyman, but this time around, he knocked at my door. He had finished mowing, whacking, and blowing. And, yes, as I opened the door, it looked like a battlefield out there. “Bosse,” he said, in his irritating deferential manner, as if he were shortening the proper form of address, you know, Lord Bosse, the stern but fair master up at the manor house. “Yeah, what’s up?” “Landlady said that Debbie in the other apartment thinks something died up in the attic. What do you think? Says she smells it.” I told him I wasn’t smelling anything rotting. He nodded and then said he’d go up into the attic through the hatchway on the back porch and plug up any animal holes he saw. I wished him the best of luck. I would have gone back to bed, but, hell I was already up. I went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

About 15 minutes later, as I was pouring out my first coffee of the morning, I heard the guy stomping around up there. And then I heard a series of strange sounds. It was as if he was tossing a metal chain, and letting it fall to the attic floor. This happened several times, and then it stopped. I supposed the guy was just dicking around, and I thought no more about it.

That is until I came home later that afternoon. The whole place reeked of moth balls. I finally realized what had happened. The handyman was up there earlier flinging mothballs all over the attic. This is supposed to keep animals away. Hell, it’d keep me away. I hate the smell of minty camphor. And after several days, the smell hasn’t begun to diminish.

I’m tempted to call up my landlady. “Oh, hello Trudy. I didn’t think I’d get your answering machine. Well, I hope you’re doing well. I’m just calling to let you know that because your handyman has seeded the attic with some horrible-smelling toxic substance — I’m thinking mothballs — I’ve tossed a dead possum up there (don’t worry, I found the poor beast flattened at the intersection of S. Alamo and Probandt). The carrion has finally become ripe enough that now I can barely smell the mothballs. So, don’t fret. All’s well. Cheers!”

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I was over at C4 late this afternoon putting in a couple of hours working on a video editing job which has become more involved than it should. Around seven I decided to take a break. I set the alarm, locked the door, and walked down to Tito’s for a leisurely dinner. When I got back to the space, I made sure to pull out my little slip of paper on which I had written the security code. It’s just several numbers, but me and numbers just don’t get along. Hell, I’m not sure if my zip code is 78210 or 78201. And even though I’ve had this same cell phone number for over five years, I have to fish out a business card when someone asks. That, or cruise over to my website. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and faced the security panel. I held up my note and keyed in the numbers. Good. And I was just about to turn away when the alarm went off. Frantically I keyed in the numbers again and again and again. I took a deep breath. Looked at the note as calmly as possible. Then I realized I had been transposing the two final digits over and over and over. I did it right this time. Sweet silence fell down. Damn, that alarm was loud.

I decided I was done for the night. If the cops were to come storming in, I’d rather be long gone. Too many news stories out there with taser-happy cops with frisky trigger fingers.

I think I’ll keep my JVC video monitor at C4. And I need a USB hub. A second pair of cupped headphones. And I really need to buy either an Apple keyboard, or one of those FCP keyboards. Some of the important Final Cut Pro short cuts don’t work on this tiny laptop keyboard. Oh, and a nice goose-neck desk lamp.

Also, I need to make friends with the alarm system. If only security codes could be a series of words. Spumoni – migraine – tungsten – fungible – cuticle? Yeah, I’ll remember that. You can keep your 9 – 7 – 2 – 8 – 3. Numbers? They’ll be the death of me.

“Erik?” asks the voice in my cell phone “Yeah, who’s this?” “Look, dammit, we don’t have the time for introductions, and you don’t have the security clearance to know my name!” “Hello? What?” “Okay, Erik, there should be a timer sitting on top of the bomb.” “It’s counting down, man. It’s at 57 seconds!” “It’s simple. Take a deep breath. You see that numeric keyboard beside the timer?” “I do.” “Great! All you need to do is punch in five numbers, in proper sequence. We have the code, so it’s going to be smooth as spreading peanut butter in July. Just type in 9 – 6 – 3 – 1 – 2. That’s it. Got it?” “Yes. Here we go: 9 – 6 – 3 – 2 – 1–” “NO! Asshole! 1 – 2! 1 – 2!” But it is, of course, too late. Scorched earth from Poteet to Bastrop.

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Speaking of my estranged relations with numbers, I finally processed all the incoming DVD submissions for Josiah today. We don’t have 88 submissions, as I’d claimed (allowing for a press release bragging “almost 90 submissions”). We actually have 92 submissions (allowing for a new press release bragging “over 90 submissions!”).

This will be a year of three nights of some very strong, polished, and groovy and funky short films.

Please mark your calendars. July 9, 10, 11. Each night we’ll have different films. Come one night, two, or three. Come join us for two reasons. Let the young local filmmakers know you support them — there will be dozens in attendance each night. Also, there is some top-notch work that will entertain and inspire you. I’ve only seen a smattering of the submissions (I’ll view them all over the next few days), but I can already tell that this will be out best year yet. That’s saying a lot. Our first and second years had some fine work. We also have so much animation this year. Come and be amazed.

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Tuesday night was the inaugural mixer for the 2009 San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project. This is it’s third year in San Antonio. And this is the first year that Michael Druck is running the local component of this incredible international event. I was thrilled to learn that Druck was taking over the reins. He knows everyone in town. And, better yet, he’s loved by all of us. He’s a master of promotion and bringing people together. So, I was not surprised to see the huge crowd of local filmmakers, actors, and curious wannabes converging on the Olmos Perk coffee shop last night.

I’d love to run a team of my own, but I believe I’ll be out of town on the weekend in question. But I’m giving it some thought. Hell, I might even drive in from an out of town gig to throw myself into a frantic weekend. Now that I’m writing this, it doesn’t seem so impossible. So, Druck, don’t write me off the possible list yet!

I’m anticipating the best year yet for the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project. Druck will get people in a froth. So, and I’ve a bit of experience in this line of work, you might want to head over to the website and sign up your team ASAP.

http://www.48hourfilm.com/sanantonio/

Maybe I’ll just sign up and then figure out how to finesse my August schedule. Because, you know, I don’t want to wait a few weeks and then find that it’s all booked up.