Friday.

Wow! It got up to 90 degrees. My kind of February. Now if only my bike wasn’t still in the shop. Actually at 8:30 tonight, it’s still 79. I was sitting out on my porch just a few minutes ago watching the crescent moon, flat on its back, drop out of sight behind my neighbor’s house. Venus was cozy and close. I had my astronomical binoculars clamped to my Bogan tripod. And try as I might, I wasn’t able to discern that Venus is, itself, in a crescent phase. I wanted to take a photo, so I tried holding my iPhone’s tiny camera lens up to the binoculars. No go. I went in and found my cheap and trusty Nikon Coolpix. This was working better. But not great. I tried attaching the little digital camera to another tripod so I could get a more stable image. I don’t think this would have worked, but I never got a chance to find out, as both heavenly objects eased out of sight. I always feel self-conscious standing in front of my house at night with a pair of absurdly large binoculars. When the moon was gone, I made quick work breaking down the equipment … least someone suspect I was waiting around for a full moon to rise in their second floor bedroom.

The crescent moon, magnified, was totally badass. This blurry and grainy photo doesn’t even give a taste of the crenelated curvature along that line of the Earth’s shadow hitting the uneven cratered surface, not to mention the deep mauve of all that shadowy lunar landscape which was being lit, not by the sun, but by the reflected Earthlight.

I wish I were away from the city and all this light pollution so I could try and find Comet Lulin.

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This afternoon I was sitting at my desk writing. I was listening to my favorite Elliott Sharp album. One of the projects he did with his Orchestra Carbon. The album is titled “Abstract Expressionism: 1990-1999.” Sharp is not so well known because his prolific output is spread in so many genres. Rock and roll, free jazz, post modern “classical,” and the uncategorizable stuff that gets tossed into the music bins labeled “experimental” or “avant-garde.”

Here’s a link to a YouTube video of Elliott Sharp playing with one of his many collaborative groups, the Bootstrappers. It’s a good starting point. If you don’t care for this, it’s unlikely you’ll like anything else he does.

I found this clip because, well, I do tend to procrastinate. And as I was playing around YouTube, seeing what might be available from Elliott Sharp, I came upon a trailer for a documentary titled “Elliott Sharp: Doing the Don’t.” It came out in 2008. I tried NetFlix, but nothing. I clicked over to the filmmaker’s website, and discovered that the documentary was available for sale. Recalling that I had some funds in my PayPal account, I placed an order. It looks pretty good.

http://www.pheasantseye.com/

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I was listening to a Skepticality podcast today from their archives. A couple months back. The guest was Dr. Pamela Gay, the astrophysicist who, along with science journalist Fraser Cain, produces the excellent Astronomy Cast (which, as the name indicates, is an astronomy podcast). She mentioned a project which she’s involved with to help spread the news that 2009 is the International Year of Astronomy. A telescope kit would soon be available. The Galileoscope. A ten dollar telescope kit, she said, which would allow people to easily put together a telescope similar in power to what Galileo had used, allowing the observer to see the craters and mountains of the moon, the phases of Venus, the rings of Saturn, and moons of Jupiter. I was intrigued. I love my astronomical binoculars, but I can’t see the moons of Jupiter with them. Yet I was skeptical. Ten bucks? I, of course, turned to Google. The first thing I found was a video someone had shot with a camcorder attached to the Galileoscope. The moon, which was slowly moving through the field of vision, almost filled up the frame. Next, I visited the Galileoscope website. It seems that Pamela had it wrong. It’s a 15 dollar telescope. Add to that a rather steep nine buck shipping charge and, well, it’s still cheap. I placed my order. However, they won’t start shipping until April. They also allow you to donate a telescope. Perhaps you already have a telescope, but you want to help out a student. Or, buy one for yourself and, at a discounted price, donate one. Kind of like the One Laptop Per Child program.

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Saturday.

A cold front moved in last night. High winds with frigid air, and, as I was sleeping beside an open window, I woke with something of a shock. Some manuscript pages from a dreadful short story were raining all over me. I shut the window and retrieved a quilt I had stowed away.

There were stories from local news people about wind damage throughout the day. So, with the chilly freakish wind (March making an early appearance, I suppose), I decided not to go for a bike ride, even though I got it back out of the shop.

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I decided to sign up for the March meeting of the Social Media Breakfast San Antonio.

http://socialmediabreakfastsa.eventbrite.com/

Wednesday, March 18th 7:30 – 9 a.m. at Madhatters.

The featured topic of discussion is “Social Media and the San Antonio Mayoral Race.” One of the guest speakers is Patricio G. Espinoza. He’s a very nice guy who I’ve met two or three times around town. He has a professional journalism background, but he’s become increasingly interested in new media and social networking. On the SMBSA website, Patricio is connected with the website www.sa4mayor.com. I found video clips of four of the people who’ve so far thrown their hats into the ring.

Julian Castro I remembered from last mayoral race. He seemed a but too much the fiscal conservative and pro-businessman for my taste. (However, Julian is truly the prettiest one of all.) Diane Cibrian — well, I’ve already made an unfavorable snap judgment based on a video clip I’ve linked to in my previous blog. (Possible closet harridan.) And then there’s Trish DeBerry-Mejia, a local TV anchor and partner in a public relations firm — yikes, if stereo-types can be trusted, that’s a double-dose of phony! I have, of course, saved the best for last. A certifiable unicorn chaser with the fabulous name of Napoleon Madrid. His website is a gift that giveth and giveth.

http://napoleonmadrid.com/

I sent an email to a fellow filmmaker last night alerting her to an old press release I found for a project created by one of our colleagues, I snidely made my assessment. And here, I quote from my own email: “This may well be the worst piece of writing I have ever seen. And, dammit, I’ve taught adult education screenwriting classes.” This was before I traipsed over to Mr. Madrid’s website.

First off, we learn that “he is a self-educated man with the IQ of 180.” Wow. That’s something. “Napoleon looks outside the box for radical ideas and cures. He has found new medical innovations by extracting, altering, isolating, or limiting the number damaged cells, and combining with new medical methods.” Oh my god! That’s amazing … but, wait, why is there nothing else about his work on medical inventions? We just gloss over that and jump to other genius talking points. Here’s a nice passage I’ve copied directly from the website: “Napoleon is designing new satellites that will handle over 10 Billion customers at one time, which will relate to other land bases built all over the world. He will create the next step will beyond digital. One source will handle all media.” We’re never really sure what Napoleon does for a living. He mentions something about being a minister. But he also keeps harping on his brilliance with science. “Napoleon also excels in Science, and has become the inventor of new technologies from linear, static, solar, winder, steam, water, magnetic, fuel cells & perpetual Energies ….” Ah, it’s come to this, has it?

I would dearly love to cast my vote for the craziest man in the room who postulates a loop hole to the law of the conservation of energy. And, really, if one of the other three doesn’t stand up and start talking a progressive agenda, I’ll have no other choice but to vote for the self-proclaimed genius, “renaissance man,” and inventor of “perpetual Energies.”

Check out the video clip where Napoleon files his candidacy for mayor at the San Antonio City Hall:

http://www.viddler.com/explore/sa4mayor/videos/17/

Someone needs to be following this chap around with a video camera. I want to see a documentary on Napoleon Madrid, genius, inventor, and Mayoral aspirant.

Indeed, we live in extraordinary times!

Here’s the reality show I’ll be pitching in LA in April: “We’ve put four very different people into a two-bedroom apartment at the Alpha Hotel in downtown San Antonio. A cloths hanger, a termagant, a media whore, and a delusional middle-aged child prodigy. But here’s the catch … only one can become mayor of a major American city!”

Can’t we give that old crusty white guy another term?

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Tonight I headed over to the East-Side to catch a performance of the Ballet Conservatory of South Texas at the Carver. I’m a bit embarrassed that I’ve live in this city for six years or more and I have never attended a performance at the Carver. It’s truly a wonderful performance space. A large stage, comfortable seats, and warm, solid acoustics.

There was a wide range of short dance pieces performed. Not all would be considered ballet. One of the highlights was a solo piece choreographed and performed by Catherine Batcheller, the new artistic director of the BCSTX.

The evening closed out with a tight performance of the second (and final) act of Adolphe Adam’s ballet of the 1840s. Giselle. High romanticism, don’t you know. Shitloads of wood nymphs prancing on tippy toes, One of the standout performers (and I never got a program) was a young woman who danced the part of Myrtha, the queen of these woodland spirits.

It was a beautiful evening.

Monday

The Texas Quarterly did this impressive two volume special issue back in 1969. Images of Mexico: the General Motors of Mexico Collection of Mexican Graphic Art. About 400 black and white images, each from a different Mexican artist (or artist who had become inextricably associated with Mexico). The collection spans 1900 to the 1960s. What is just as fascinating as the art are the black and white photographs of each artist. Some really wonderful images. Most of the people I’ve never heard of before. The art is, of course, amazing. Mexican art of the 20th century is so much more vibrant, alive, and, well, just better than that which we produced in this country.

In one of the preliminary essays, the unfortunately named Toby Joysmith sums up my personal stance on the subject: “A movement like New York Pop, which can make a cult out of a Coke bottle, deliberately limits itself to the banal and to the most stultifying material aspects it can find. […] Mexican art through its ability to pass through time and coexist in past and present, has, so far, avoided the worst pitfalls of the United States art market, which is geared almost entirely to art as a ‘commerce and an industry.'”

I was sprawled out on the sofa flipping through these prints, drawings, aquatints, collages, and so on, while listening Anthony Braxton with headphones. In the middle of jaunty off-kilter contrabass clarinet solo, I found myself really digging this intrusive percussion, BLAM BLAM-BLAM, so wildly off the beat. Man, I thought, these cats are way out.

It was, of course, someone pounding on my door.

I opened up to one of my landlady’s other tenants who lives over on the west-side (she has property all over the place). This guy does yard work for decreased rent. He explained that his leaf blower was electric, and could I snake an extension cord out my window so he could get to work? Sure, I said. I dropped a line out my kitchen window. And no sooner than I was back into the world of Covarrubias and Siqueiros, with the soundtrack of mid-seventies free jazz, I heard that crazy drum line again.

So, back off the couch. But it wasn’t the lawn guy.

“Alberto Martinez?” the young guy in the coveralls asked. He was holding a clipboard. The name tag stitched over his heart was accompanied by the logo of a local and infamous towing company. Over his shoulder I could see his ominous black tow truck.

“Excuse me?”

He looked up from his clipboard.

“Are you Alberto Martinez?” he repeated.

“Do I look like a Alberto Martinez?”

“Sir?” He looked back down at his clipboard. “Is this not seven one six east–”

“There are three apartments in this house,” I explained as succinctly as possible. I could recognize a former military man. No point trying to play with him. Although baiting a repo man had a certain appeal, this one was just too tightly wrapped to poke at. “The guy you want used to live in apartment B, on the south side of the building.” For further clarification, I pointed. “He moved out several days back. You know, in the dead of night.”

The idiom was lost on him. He tucked his clipboard under his arm, nodded perfunctorily to me, and walked to his truck. I watch out my kitchen window. He pulled the tow truck so it blocked the driveway to the empty apartment and he went up to the front door and knocked. After a few minutes, he returned to his truck and sat there. It looked like he was catching up on some paperwork. After about twenty minutes, I heard him drive off. Throughout the day, I would see that black tow truck skulking about in this neighborhood, waiting to pounce into prime repo action.

I’m tempted to stick a note to the door of apartment B. “Bertie, they’re on to you, man! It’s not safe. Lay low at your mom’s place in Poteet until this blows over. A friend.”

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Wednesday

I was out enjoying the warm weather with a bike ride down to the missions. A couple of things have been pestering me with the bike. I think a spoke is loose. The rear wheel isn’t deformed in the manner of a broken spoke (besides, that’s easy to check), but there’s, like, this little bulge to a very short arc of the wheel. It causes a slight bump at each revolution of the wheel. And if that wasn’t enough to slowly drive me nuts, my right crank arm is getting looser and slipping, causing a jitter every revolution of the pedal. And I think the left crank arm is going as well.

That’s it. I’m taking it in tomorrow.

When I was done with my ride, I noticed I had a text message from Konise on my phone. (Konise runs the cinema program at NESA — a magnet high school program at the North East School of the Arts.) People, please. No text messages. I’m not certain, but I think I get charged every time I receive one. And, really, like this iPhone isn’t costing enough as it is????

The message was asking if I would be attending a screening. Wait, allow me to quote: “Hey erik, r u comin the screening 2nite?” Even a texting Luddite such as myself could decipher the “words” — I just didn’t know what they meant. Was there a screening I was supposed to know about?

After a little snooping around, I learned that a low budget feature film from some young folks from Philadelphia would be screening in NESA’s high school gymnasium. Eight bucks seemed fairly steep (though only four for students), but I assumed it was for a good cause. Sure, count me in.

There’s a wonderful community spirit in watching a movie in a high school gymnasium while perched on wooden risers. They had a large rear-projection screen on the floor, with a PA system.

The film is titled “Happy Birthday Harris Malden.” There’s a core group of five filmmakers who take collective credit under the rather unfortunate moniker of “Sweaty Robot.” They’re all from Philadelphia, where the film was shot on location. Budgeted at about 50 thousand, and shot on HD. It’s beautifully shot in a vérité style. Lit impeccably. And just amazingly edited.

Two of the Sweaty Robots were in attendance. One of them was the DP and editor. The other played one of the lead characters (among other roles on the production side).

It’s a sweet, kooky, personal little film. Something of a cross between Wes Anderson and Michael Leigh. I won’t bother trying to give some sort of review. To the best of my knowledge, it’s not currently under distribution — still running the festival circuit. In fact, I believe Konise and her NESA students hooked up with the filmmakers during a screening at either Sundance or the Austin Film Festival. But, if you’re willing to shell out ten bucks, I’m pretty sure the Sweaty Robots will sell you a DVD.

http://www.sweatyrobot.com/

Also, I bought a copy. You can borrow it, but keep it on the QT, ’cause, really, they deserve the money. And, in all candor, I think they need it.

It’s a wonderful piece of work. Sweet, engaging. Loads of heart-felt performances. Oh, and the animated opening title sequence is just fucking amazing.

In a recent post I muttered something about how rarely I seem to see major Hollywood movies at the multiplexes these days. But why go see something like Benjamin Buttons, which I know I’ll hate, when I can go to the Robert E. Lee High School gymnasium and see the NESA Cinema Club’s San Antonio premiere of something as polished and smart as “Happy Birthday Harris Malden”?

There were about 65 people — mainly students — and the photo below of two Sweaty Robots fails to indicate the true size of the audience.

(Oh, mercy me, what a sad photo. iPhone camera, you’re killiing me.)

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There has been a recent mini-scandal concerning Mary Alice Cisneros. She’s city councilwoman for District One. That’s my district. (However, I voted for Kat Swift, the Green Party candidate.) It seems she wants to honor one of the most famous residents of her district, Sandra Cisneros (no relation). Now, I’m all over that. I’ve been a huge fan of Sandra Cisneros since I first read House on Mango Street almost 20 years ago when I got my hands on the galley proof of the Vintage Contemporaries edition. Sandra’s also my neighbor — we live on the same block. The article I read made it seem like Mary Alice was working to change the name of our street from E. Guenther to Mango Street. Having read the article, it was clear to me that this was one of several possibilities that Mary Alice was tossing out in a brainstorming fashion. But the fact that it looked to some like Mary Alice Cisneros was trying to fuck around with the deep history of the historical King William neighborhood meant that the city came unglued. The comments section on the on-line version of the article are filled with wonderful over-reactions, some by people I know. Check it out.

(As I look now, I see 123 comments.)

As for this Mango flap, hell, I’m all for it. When I give my address to people I have to make sure they get this freaky German spelling correct. Mango, that’s a breeze. Oh, well, the press never called me up. For some reason they got hold of Phil, the British gent two doors down. He actually gave a solid quote:

“It’s a historical street,” said Philip Brace, who’s lived on Guenther Street for 14 years. “As much as I love Sandra, and she’s a friend of mine, why should I change my address?”

I wonder what I would have said? Probably some blather about how I love, and I mean absolutely love mangos, the best fucking fruit ever! And let me tell you, Sandra Cisneros can write circles around us all! Best thing ever and I mean ever out of Chicago — fuck Mike Douglas and Joan Cusack. And best émigré to San Antonio, hands down (keep in mind that I, myself, fit in this list).

Speaking of city councilwomen in the limelight, I assume that everyone in San Antonio has been following Diane Cibrian now that she’s stepped up as a Mayoral candidate. She’s city councilwoman up in District 8 — you’ll recall, what I refer to as the outer cracker belt, that region where a goodly chunk of monied and paranoid anglos reside in their gated communities. True, I know very little about the woman, but it does look like she’s already about to implode. If you haven’t seen it yet, check out this wonderful video.

Wow. I only wish she were acting, because this level of nuanced histrionics delivered by a local actress would generate high accolades from, well, Fox 29 News.

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I’ve had some issues with my iPhone since I’ve owed it. The biggest problem is that it seems never to have been programed to connect to a WiFi signal. Cell phone and 3G network, fine. But no WiFi. I’ve been putting off addressing this. I assume I will have to go and make an appoint with a Mac “genius.” Here’s the deal. I know about six folks who have worked this gig before. Most have trouble chewing gum and walking on their hind legs at the same time. But Google hasn’t given me a clue to fix this problem. Fuck, It’s into the hell-mouth of the Mac Genius for me.

I will say that another iPhone problem was solved via Google. I’ve never been able to load video onto my iPhone. And music I have only been able to upload by placing the songs in a iTunes playlist folder and tell iTunes to sync this file with my iPhone.

Here’s the fix. On the iPhone summery tab in iTunes there is a check box. “Manually manage music and videos.” Make sure this box is checked. Now, feel free to lose yourself in a drag and drop orgy.

Saturday Night.

George and Catherine invited me to the annual Martian Mardi Gras party at URBAN-15. This is when they get together with the members of the drum and dance ensembles and friends and family and watch the big Carnival parades in Sao Paulo. I assume “Martian” is because the television signal is delivered by satellite. Catherine’s shorthand for anything from space is that it’s Martian.

Last year was the first time I’d seen the parades from Brazil. They’re massively elaborate competitions. Sadly, it’s a far cry from Black Orpheus. Although I do hope that that sort of decadent and orgiastic fandango is spilling out into the streets of humble neighborhoods as I write this.

Before watching the parades from Brazil, George put in a DVD of the presidential inauguration parade. Someone had packaged the footage of the parade passing in front of the Obamas into a highlights reel. Maybe three minutes of each act. We watched about half an hour, but once the basement space had begun to fill up and once sufficient pizza, sangria, and assorted b.y.o.booze had loosened up the crowd, they began shouting to fast forward to the section where URBAN-15 dances and drums for the president. I think we watched it about three times. Much colorful commentary. About sixty people were lounging in adirondack chairs watching the action on a large rear projection screen.

After an hour of watching one of the lavish Brazilian samba competitions (or whatever it was I was watching — Brazilians are fucking nuts in their breathless rush to be more over-the-top than one would think humanly possible), I quietly slipped out the door and drove home. A little of that sort of thing goes a long way. Well, for me.

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I’m sitting here uninspired. It’s one a.m. and I could just go to bed but I’m simply not feeling the calling.

I pulled some recent iPhone photos onto my computer. Phone as a camera. It’s an incredibly convenient idea. But the iPhone camera sucks. My cheapy Nikon digital is miles ahead of the iPhone. But I don’t carry it around as much as I used to. I mean, when I post on Twitter, it’s seamless using the camera on my phone and the Twitter app on my phone.

Anyway, as I was grumbling about the shortcomings of what’s become my current default camera, I noticed a couple of shit shots I apparently never got around to deleting off my phone. Some of these mistakes (or failed experiments) have a nice abstract expressionistic feel to them.

Below are three. I’ve done little more to tart them up more than amp them up in iPhoto with it’s very limited parameters.

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While I’m posting images, here’s an old house on the HemisFair Park grounds which will be used as a surface to project the work of one of the video artists. We’ll be using another side, which is more uniform.

We’ll have two video installations which will be visible in HemisFair from S. Alamo Street. And once you walk in a bit, you’ll be able to see a screen hanging from the side of the Instituto Cultural de Mexico. And as you walk deeper into HemisFair toward the Instituto, you soon find that another outdoor screen is hanging off the wall of the convention center in the Plaza de Mexico. A thirty foot wide screen. It’ll be very impressive. And if you turn around and walk into the back door of the Instituto, and head to the Frida Kahlo gallery, you’ll be able to watch even more films, in our indoor setting. The auditorium of the Instituto with be showcasing music and dance events. I know that SOLI (San Antonio’s answer to the Kronos Quartet) will be doing a set. Hell yeah I’ll be stepping over for that.

The countdown is upon us. 21 days.

It’s a hell of a thing. A massive one day event which will shut down much of downtown. More than 1,100 artists will be represented. Half a dozen stages scattered along Alamo Street. Lighting schemes. Fireworks. Allocated parking lots. Shuttle buses. Food and drink vendors. Stage managers. Lighting grids. Generator trucks. Marketing. Branding. T-shirt sales. It goes on and on and on.

The humbling realization is when someone like, say, Malena Gonzalez-Cid brings us all back down to earth. “It’s just a one-day arts event,” she’ll say in her playful dismissive way, because, you know, she’s done events like this before. But it’s more than that. Luminaria is one of at least a dozen of similar events in San Antonio that happen each year … hell, even several times a year. In the King William neighborhood, First Friday has become a massive event, and it happens 12 times a year. Fiesta is our yearly city-wide week-long booze-up with several parades, festivals, and massive parties. We have the nation’s largest MLK Day march. A major César Chávez march. About ten significant annual film festivals. A big-ass annual jazz event at Travis Park. We have some sort of rodeo bullshit happening right now. Yeah, it’s a big deal. We also have parades on boats and barges on the San Antonio river. And we have shitloads of music and sports events. Event planning is something imprinted into each and every San Antonian. If you’re not born with this skill, it quickly gets under your skin once you move here. Even I, a small fish in this city, have found myself in the event promotional realm on about ten occasions.

Luminaria might be smaller fish than some sports play-offs, but it’s still a big deal.

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Sunday night.

I keep forgetting tonight’s the Academy Awards. Maybe that’s why it was a ghost town at the supermarket earlier.

I don’t believe I’ve seen the Oscars in ten years. And, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever willingly watched the televised ceremony. Awards shows are inherently vapid exercises of self-congratulation elevated into a ghastly carnival of bad taste and high irrelevancy. An aesthetic eyesore. I cannot fathom how anyone can sit through such excessive mutual wankery without needing a shower by the time the credits are rolling.

It’s feasible that if I had seen more than two films nominated (a documentary, and a short film), I might feel more interested in the outcome. But I haven’t. And I don’t. However, there have been years where I’ve seen every film up for the major awards.

Strange. There are some years when I’m always heading out to take in this or that weekday matinee (the best way to watch a movie on a big screen). But while living here in San Antonio, I just don’t see many major Hollywood offerings. I blame the local cinemas. They’re horrible. The Alamo Draft House and the Bijou both bring in some interesting movies, but I don’t care for these pub movie houses that serve buffalo wings and shrimp quesadillas. All I want is a gigantic screen, a comfortable seat, and to be left the hell alone so I can become swallowed up by the movie experience. Also, I’d like a theater that’s nearby.

Probably the best multiplex showing art-house films is up at I-10 and Huebner. Well, if I balk at dragging my carcass up to the Bijou or the multiplex at the Quarry, I’m not likely to motor all the way north to Huebner.

If only the multiplex at downtown’s River Center Mall showed anything more cerebral than the usual fare of fratboy comedies and bad Hollywood remakes and bad Japanese and Korean horror films, I might be there all the time. It’s just a twenty minute walk. Or, better. If we could return our great surviving downtown palace theaters into the incredible cinemas they once were. Once the renovation of the Alameda is completed, we will have four classic downtown movie houses (the Alameda, the Majestic, the Empire, and the Aztec), and not a one of them (that I know of) has a 35mm projector on premise. The Aztec sold their screen and projector last year. That was sad. How many cities in this country can claim to have renovated so many grand movies palaces? And we can’t even have one repurposed for film screening? I should point out that the Guadalupe Theater still has a 35mm projector. But the seating sucks. Movable chairs. And with the low-slung screen, the head of the person in front of you obscures the lower third of the picture.

Let’s try and get one movie house downtown with great picture, sound, seating … and stellar programing. How can this happen? Drew? Janet? Phil? Mary Alice? How hard can it be. (I’m thinking it’s pretty hard.)

I probably made one or two visits to a first-run movie theater to see a film in the last year, but damned if I can recall what I might have seen.

That’s not to say I’m not out watching movies. In the last year I’ve been to several local film festivals which show non-local feature films. The European Film Festival, the San Antonio Film Festival, Cine Festival, and Cine Mujer. I probably watched an average of five feature films at each event. Add to that about five local produced feature films at special screenings, and I’d have to say that in the last year I saw about 25 feature films on the big screen. Add to that the half dozen other local festivals I attended which screen short pieces, local work, and the work of young filmmakers.

So don’t get up in my business all high and mighty, you hear? You know, about how I’ve not seen Benjamin Buttons, that comic book film, Robert Downey, Jr. in blackface, and Sean Penn in gayface.

Whoops. I have seen Tropic Thunder. On DVD. Also, now that I Google the info about nominees, I see that I’ve seen another film with a nomination. From NetFlix. In Bruges. Original screenplay. Ah, but now I’m conflicted. Though I did love In Bruges (killer script), it’s up against Mike Leigh, who I adore. However, I’ve not seen this particular film of his. But wait. I think I made mention of my staunch ambivalence. Whatever. Fuck the Oscars!

Yeah. Fuck ’em.

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The biggest problem I have with the Oscars is that almost everyone who I’m following on Twitter is posting chingos of Oscar comments in real time. A tsunami of chatter from the peanut gallery. And so tomorrow, as I try to catch up, I’ll have to sift through all this crap about what Angelina was wearing. Or that Hugh Jackman was picking his nose when he thought the camera was on Don fucking Rickles. Or, wait wait wait, did Anne Hathaway just put her hand on Olympia Dukakis’ ass?!?! People, I don’t care. Were that hand on my ass, well, then we could talk. But it wasn’t. So let’s not.

Sure, I could just ignore those older postings and plunge ahead. But, dammit, I need to see what’s going on with those folks who I follow on Twitter who are not so caught up in the Oscars. What’s happening with Tim Gerber? Is he still being dragged around by Anne to all the clothing stores in San Antonio with maternity sections — as he posts photos of his wife (one of the best actresses in town), who looks like she’s ready to pop? And then there’s Sam Lerma, and his current vacation down to his hometown in the Rio Grande Valley (which I had never before heard referred to as “RGV”), where he’s sharing with the world his squirmy culture shock trying to maintain a smile in this simple world, this small hometown from which he escaped. Sam, you never escape from la familia and their stomping grounds. Oh, yeah, there’s also Brit writer and actor Stephen Fry, down on the Baja peninsula kayaking with whales and sampling tequila, and I can’t imagine this combo will end well. And dammit, I want to be there when it doesn’t. If only I could find some sort of Twitter application called an “Oscar Filter.”

Earlier in the week I posted on Twitter that I was sipping my morning coffee, awaiting a phone call from a reporter with the San Antonio Express-News. The phone call never came. And when I posted on Twitter about that, another writer from the same newspaper inquired of me (via Twitter), who it was who stood me up. She offered to intercede. I demurred with some vague comment that I’m sure I’d eventually receive a phone call.

As I’m still waiting, perhaps I should have agreed.

It’s getting rather weird on Twitter, what with all these reporters and news people horning in. When I noticed Sam Lerma and Tim Gerber posting short updates from their KSAT news vans (often with grainy video off their Jailbroken iPhones), I was intrigued. Hell, I was hooked. Was what they were doing even legal? I mean, really, you guys are on company time. But Joe Ruiz, KSAT web editor, gave a presentation to the monthly San Antonio Social Media Breakfast. He cleared a few things up. (I wasn’t able to attend, but thankfully the whole thing was posted as an online video file (and, jeeze, someone needs to get thee to B&H for a tripod with a fluid head asap!)) Ruiz mentioned that KSAT, as a policy, had their news crews out in the field with Jailbroken iPhones, and encouraged them to Twitter and engage in other social media activity. All in the service of flying the KSAT flag.

And, so, after watching four or five members of the local media giving presentations at the Social Media Breakfast, I added them all to my Twitter list.

There’s a weird scene going on in the corporate media with all this. Many of these media Twitterites are just vomiting forth endless streams of blather, trying to drive traffic to the web sites of their newspapers, tv channels, or radio stations where they work.

Greg Harman, who does work for the San Antonio Current, is one of the good guys. Not only does his environmental beat strike close to my heart, but he also inserts his personality. I like that. And I’m furthered enamored in that he posts links to on-line articles that he finds meaningful — articles which more often than not are published by sources he does not work for.

One of the conflict zones in cyberspace which often goes under-reported is happening between professional journalists and the whole pile of bloggers, hobbyists, “citizen journalists,” and all flavors of folks generating, free of charge, their own content.

The downside to all this is that the the paid professionals (or, more to the point, the companies they work for) are in a panic to emulate this immediate and ephemeral reportage.

Oh, great. If quality in journalism wasn’t already in the toilet. Myself, I’m well aware that I’m not running some sort of “blog of record.” I, of course, am talking out my ass most of the time. But do we want paid journalists behaving in this sort of half-assed manner?

I’m curious, is this experimentation with pushing journalists to play around with social media (blogs and Twitter and such) possibly burdening already over-worked professionals with greater stress more deadlines? How many writers in the local papers whose bylines I recognize are truly staff writers, you know, with full benefits? Does such a critter even exist anymore? Is it any wonder that news editors are so willing to a print press release as is … with little more editing than trimming up from the bottom, as space allows? That’s about as cost effective as it gets. Additionally, many journalism students are on a fast track to public relations firms where they can get paid chingos of dosh to write toxic and biased propaganda, which, once emailed to news sources as tidy press releases, often get printed in newspapers virtually unchanged. Only a minute trade off. They’ve sold their souls and don’t even get a byline.

This is a very interesting period for journalism. The committed folks are still in the thick of it. And I don’t think anyone would argue with the fact that some of the greatest journalists who have ever lived are alive and writing right now. The real giants of American literature are currently engaged in nonfiction. But, at the same time, our high-profile media sources (newspapers, magazines, television networks, radio) have never been more irrelevant and conspicuously manipulated so as to pander to the sponsors, the advertisers.

Maybe what we need is to shut down all these money-making media sources, and replace them with citizen journalists. These reporters would be fresh out of journalism school. And they would, as their national service, spend four years or more writing on whatever they wanted to while feeding off the public teat. Sounds a damn sight better than putting a full automatic weapon in the hands of an American teenager and paying him to slaughter a family cowering in the rubble of Fallujah.

But I digress.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah. I’m still waiting by this phone for the Express-News to call me up. Maybe I should just write it up myself, and email it over. If nothing else, I’m pretty sure my name would be spelled right.

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I forget what website or blog I was on. But I found a link to this page.

http://www.aquariumdrunkard.com/2008/12/30/alejandro-escovedo-sex-beat-gun-club-cover/

One of the great albums of my miss-spent youth was Fire of Love by the band The Gun Club. It’s a near-perfect album of post-punk psychobilly. One of the rewarding tracks is “Sex Beat.” Love that reverb. Anyway, the link to the web page above will allow you to play (nay, play and download) mp3 files of The Gun Club’s original version, as well as this crazy slowed down version by the wonderful son of San Antonio, Alejandro Escovedo. The lyrics are, at turns, punk-dumb, and to hear this heart-felt interpretation by Escovedo brought to mind those American Recordings by Johnny Cash where he’s, on occasion, covering songs with lyrics not quite in keeping with his idiom, such as Trent Reznor’s “Hurt.”

Cruise over and give them a spin. Start with The Gun Club. I love both. In fact, I finally tracked down the Escovedo version. And now that it’s on my iPhone, I was listening to it the other night as I walked to the Jump-Start Performance Company to see a play.

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The play was “Fabulation; or, the Re-Education of Undine,” by Lynn Nottage, The Renaissance Guild presented the piece. They’ve been headquartered at Jump-Start for at least four years. The Renaissance Guild is “San Antonio’s Premiere Black Theater Company.” Actually, they’re one of the best companies in town. Expect a real grass roots community theater experience from their shows. Yes, they choose great material. But because they’re open to anyone who wants to work their way up in the company, the individual performances might not always be the most polished. But I’ve never regretted going to one their performances. And they always pull a crowd. The Renaissance Guild has collected a serious following over the years. And deservedly so.

The piece is a picaresque tale of a series of miss-adventures along the lines of Voltaire’s Candide. Here we have, as our protagonist, a high-powered entertainment agent, whose life falls apart. She crawls back to her low-income family living in the projects. Along the way on her descent back to the ghetto, she meets an assortment of colorful characters. Except for the protagonist (play by Jenelva Carter), all the other actors play multiple characters. Even though the production I saw was rather uneven, the totality of the piece amazed me. Each of the nine actors who played multiple charters gave their share of lackluster performances. But, dammit, each actor gave at least one insanely brilliant performance. And some of them, gave two or three high-level performances.

Jenelva Carter, who plays Undine, the lead, has confounded me over the years. She’s very personable. But she seems to play basically just one character: the very interesting and very watchable and very personable Jenelva Carter. There is, in her stage work, a very notable theatrical presentation. But I guess I can’t hold that against her. I mean, this is the stage. Anyway, I was somewhat dubious about her in the role for the first ten minutes or so. But once I picked up on her rhythm of delivery and her take on the character, she was it, she became Undine. Actually, I love it when I fight against an actor’s interpretation of a character (for whatever reason) and eventually become won over. It’s the theater nerd in me. And Jenelva completely won me over early enough in the play so I could enjoy how she decided to play with her character’s reversal of fortune.

But the real reason I was there was because of Angela Bennett. Since her involvement with me and Pete’s shelved digital feature (“Vaya Con Dios, Asshole”), I knew that Angela was a truly gifted performer. Over the years I’ve been lucky enough to see her on the stage several times. It was a sad day for San Antonio theater when she left for Los Angeles. But the clouds have lifted, and Angela is back in town. As beautiful and talented as I remember. In this play she portrays half a dozen characters. She shines as both the grandmother and as the whore. Just those two roles should be video-taped and added to her acting reel. From a tear-jerking moment with a junky grandmother in a wheelchair to a hilarious turn at the stereotype in-your-face trash-talking voluptuous bombshell of a prostitute … well, what can you say? I’ll see Angela in anything. Welcome back Angela. We missed you.

The Renaissance Guild’s production of “Fabulation,” at the Jump-Start Performance space until March 1st, kicks serious ass. Check it out. Worth every penny.

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With two versions of Sex Beat on my iPhone, not to forget the newest freebie collection from the London Apartments (the Windsor, Ontario band — the grooviest sound north of the 36th parallel) I headed out for a bike ride down the mission trail. It was about 70 degrees, but with the heavy wind, it seemed a bit chilly.

As I approached Mission San Juan I noticed some public art on the levee top across the river from me. I know nothing about this project. It’s not a guerilla project. There are three sculptures. And each has a cement foundation and an iron armature. These are large pieces. Cartoonish field workers tending what I’ll assume is an alfalfa field. While I was strolling about these installation, walking my bike and snapping photos with my iPhone, I was happy to see people pulling off the road and coming out to join me to see the cool sculptures up close. This is art I can get behind. If anyone knows who did this, please let me know.

(The last time I saw something like this, Edward Woodward was sacrificed in a pagan ceremony on some spooky Scottish island. Let’s not see a repeat here.)

Maybe it has something to do with the annual Basura Bash, when volunteers descend on the San Antonio River and those creeks which feed it, and do some spring cleaning, pulling out tons of old tires, miscellaneous junk, and assorted crap.

Hmm? I’ll have to investigate. And by that, I mean wait for Greg Harman to bring me the story.

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On my return ride, I stopped to snap a photo of a clear sign of spring. The catclaws along the river were decidedly in bloom. Catclaw (and I assume were I incline Google would give me a proper name) is a woody shrub found in hot and dry climes, usually along stream beds or in arroyos. The name comes from the thorns on the branches which grab on to you like a cat’s claw.

It would seem that they are an early indicator of spring. Not only are the putting forth their little spheroid fluffy flowers, but they’re budding with new leaves. I love catclaw. It’s a scrappy and feisty shrub. I have an early memory of the Big Bend. In a a lonely gas station was a little display of local honey. The sign said: “Mesquite and Catclaw Honey.” So, you see, that catclaw, it’s pulling it’s own weight.

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I’m still nursing a cold. Or, well, that’s my excuse for being such a layabout yesterday. Until the evening the high-point of my day was heading to the drive-through at Eddie’s Taco House for a number three combo lunch special. (They always want me to pay an extra 40 cents to upgrade to the extra large tea. Don’t they understand, I don’t even want the regular sized tea. But, hell, it comes with the lunch special.)

Mostly I lounged on the sofa reading Arthur Machen and some of the essays from Samuel Johnson’s The Rambler,

Around six in the evening I headed over to HemisFair Park to meet up with a few fellow committee members running this up-coming Luminaria Arts Night in San Antonio. We were trying to tie up a couple of loose ends. There were two artists with site specific proposals who had not yet been assigned a location to display their work.

It’s all coming together nicely. These last two artists are both incredibly talented and, thankfully, have no ego or diva issues. I hope everyone who reads this blog can make it out March 14. And make sure to spread the word. It’s free. And if it’s anything like last year, you can expect an incredibly laid-back scene where crowds — but not densely packed crowds — wander a significant chunk of downtown San Antonio, stumbling on all sorts of wonderful experiences. Music, theater, poetry, painting, sculpture, film, dance, fire-eaters, fireworks, and god knows what else. Last year was beautiful, sublime. I’m hoping for an even better Luminaria 2009.

Keep an eye on the website.

http://www.luminariasa.org/

On Jennifer Saylor’s blog, dated Feb. 14, she lists a sample of alternate names for Valentine’s Day. Most are a bit longish to be embraced by Madison Avenue, but I rather like the “Jeez, I’ve Grown Up Since This Day Used to Bother Me So Much Day.” Not only does it not bother me so much anymore, but I generally forget all about it. Were it not for Carlos knocking on my door Saturday night I might have remained oblivious. I was slugging back a jigger of NyQuil whilst listening to the Skepticality podcast (man, they can be smug mofos, but they do have cool guests), when I hear a tentative tapping on the door off my kitchen. There are two doors on my front porch. And I guess Carlos could hear that I was sitting at my desk, at the kitchen door, listening to a podcast on my computer and no doubt muttered back, in a NyQuil fugue state, “you smug, self-righteous mofos!” All he wanted to do was explain that he was leaving his Camaro parked in front of my house while he went out and painted the town a decided Valentine’s Day red with the wife. “Oh, right,” I muttered, standing on my porch in my socks. “Valentine’s Day.” Carlos said something about how he’d tried to wriggle out of it, but I wasn’t buying his machismo front. He likes special nights out on the town as much as the next guy — more, I believe. At that moment Shelly pulled up in their second car. She’d just gotten off work. I bid them a pleasant night out, and played out the podcast before calling it a night.

That I’ve spent many more Valentine’s Days alone than with this or that girlfriend in my adult years doesn’t hit me so hard as it might … were Valentine’s Day not five days after my birthday. See, by February 14th I’m still reeling from the ghastly realization that I’ve squandered another year of this short and unspecified time I have on this planet, and continue to come up short, having done little of which I can be proud. A romantic I may be (and a failed one at that), but for me the sting of mortality trumps the sting of the love-lorn. And, well hell, they’re both kind of wrapped up together at times.

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Because I never use my TV to watch television (and with this impeding digital transition, I soon won’t be able to even if I want), I fulfill most of my TV diet via Hulu.com. I might have to wait a day or a week after other people see these shows, but I’m in no hurry. Thus I keep up with the Daily Show, the Colbert Report, 30 Rock, The Office, House, Fringe, and Bones; I also could do the same with Heroes and Battlestar Galactica, but because they don’t archive these shows, I’m completely lost in the bloated soap opera plots. Hulu also has quite a few free feature films. Hulu is “free” in so far as you have to watch the occasional short commercial.

There’s is one documentary on Hulu which played at the Cine Festival. It’s called Crawford. The filmmakers made periodic visits to the town of Crawford, Texas over the course of about five years to talk to the residents about their most famous neighbor. Head over to Hulu and check it out. It’s filled with quite a few interesting local characters with a wide range of opinions. And some of these opinions change, as they watch their town turn into a media circus.

Another documentary I recently watched on Hulu is titled Abel Raises Cain. It about Alan Abel, the great media hoaxer. I’d explain some of his great gags played on the media, but why bother. His daughter’s excellent documentary does it all. Alan, and his wife Jeanne, had a background in entertainment and comedy writing, but it’s the world of hoaxing in which they excelled. Because they were trying to promulgate a message (even if that message was only for people to be more aware) they would clearly be called culture jammers were they of a more modern generation. However, this documentary, released in 2005, makes it clear that Alan and Jeanne Abel continue to be trouble-makers, even as impoverished septuagenarians. As I was watching the documentary, mention was made several times of a mockumentary directed and written by Alan and Jeanne Abel. Is There Sex After Death? It came out in 1971. I was intrigued. And when I check IMDB and saw that the film included cameos by, not just the Abels, but Buck Henry, Robert Downey, Sr., Holly Woodlawn, Mink Stole, and James Randi (as a seance medium, no less), I knew I had to track this down.

It arrived from NetFlix Saturday. It’s well worth watching. Playful, funny, rude, quaintly racy, and filled with priceless cameos of the cream of this country’s swinging ’60s odd balls. I swear, I was hitting the pause button all the time and toggling over to Google trying to figure out just who was this or that weird performer.

This film needs to be seen by more people. It’s true art wrapped in kooky comedy and vague prurience. Alan Abel gives the perfect deadpan delivery as our narrator and chief interviewer. And Buck Henry gives the performance of his life. And, man oh man, Holly Woodlawn is a scream, especially in the interview where she switching back and forth between a joint and a cigarette — she’s brilliant, insane, and totally adorable. So, take a walk on the wild side. Get ahold of Is There Sex After Death? Alan Abel will become your newest hero.

I felt this cold coming on Thursday morning. By the evening it was sliding into the background. I thought I’d trounced the little microscopic bastards. But by Friday morning, I knew they’d got the upper hand, or, should I say flagella, crystallized protein shell, or … well, whatever? I must admit I surprised myself that morning by hopping on the bike and riding to the convenience store for milk for my coffee. The sore throat and generally seedy feeling was mitigated by it being a truly beautiful morning. And I was not in the mood for coffee without milk

I leaned my bike against the plate glass window of the little shop and gas station. As I entered, I held the door open for a delivery man bringing in several bins of chips and such. It only took me a few seconds to snag a pint of milk from one of the coolers. And it only took a few seconds for the severe middle-aged German woman who works there to begin laying into the smilingly placid delivery man.

“This isn’t the full order,” the woman grumbled, as she adjusted her glasses to better read the invoice. “I need forty Grab Bags of Sun Chips. I don’t see them?”

“¡Mira, mira! ¿No es suficientemente?” he asked, moving his arm over the bounty of chips. “Every chip of the rainbow. ¿Pues aquí … todo — Funyuns y Cheetos, sí?”

“No fucking Sun Chips?”

“¡Mira, mira! Chicharrónes. Muy sabroso. These taste like shrimp. ¡Pinche camarónes! Pig skins that taste of sea food! ¡Qué cosa!”

“Lichten mein asch!” she hissed, moving in on him. He did not break eye contact, nor did his playful smile waver. “I want those Sun Chips.”

“Mira, mira! Chingas of jerky! Spiced meat sticks … spiced meat sticks con queso. Mira, look at it!” The delivery man paused to take in his breath in mid rhapsody. “They inject the cheese, from the tips down to los culeros.”

But she wasn’t listening. She pulled away and walked around the counter.

“By closing time, arschgesicht,” she said over her shoulder. “I want those Sun Chips!”

“Just this,” I muttered, putting down my milk.

“So nice to see you,” she said, suddenly changing gears, flashing me a flirty and slightly predatory smile. “You don’t come here so often anymore.”

I muttered something about a busy schedule and walked out. As I left, I again held the door open for the chip man. He smiled and nodded — one of those shared “mercy, what a guy has to do” moments.

I rode home and had a couple cups of coffee and ate some banana oat cakes while watching a NetFlix DVD which had been languishing on my desk for weeks. Ken Loach’s Bread and Roses. Classic Loach. I love his big old socialistic heart. He makes these films that feel so raw and naturalistic. Seemingly more reportage and documentarian than controlled narratives. But there were times when I had to hit pause and inch back frame by frame to see what he was doing. His films are actually tightly structured. He works with brilliant cinematographers with incredible eyes. What seems like a throw-away shot is actually masterfully composed. For people interested in his work, this is a great start. Very nice pace. Accessible. And it co-stars Adrien Brody. It’s about a group of LA janitors trying to form a union. ¡Si se puede!

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George Cisneros called me up Thursday afternoon. One of his early and important drum teachers was in town for a music and education conference. George was setting up a little gathering at URBAN-15 to honor his old mentor. Would I like to come? Sounded good.

And so, after a short bike ride down to some of the missions, I headed over to the courtyard at URBAN-15 for an evening of tacos and sangria.

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Lisa McWilliams is one of the lead folks running the Mobile Film School. This is an Austin-based youth educational non-profit. I believe that this is their third year. They offer their services to high schools that don’t have film or video programs. They are able to travel anywhere and teach a group of kids how to make a film. By the end of the program there is a complete work.

Their first project, a short documentary, was extraordinary. It won first prize at the Josiah Youth Media Festival. It’s also done well at other festivals and screenings.

Check out their website:

http://www.mobilefilmschool.org/

They’ve got a cute donation campaign for an up-coming project. Donate one dollar to pay for one second of a completed short. Help out a little, or help out a lot. I couldn’t help myself. I had to make a donation. However, I couldn’t figure out the Google Checkout system they were using as the main payment option. And, dammit, for some reason, the MFS website blocked me as spam when I tried to email. So I just phoned up and gave Lisa my credit card info. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking — she’s probably in Aruba by now sipping a fruity rum drink and winking at the front man of a rumba band. But you gotta have faith, man. It’s what got me where I am today.

The Mobile Film School does wonderful work. Give them money. A little or a lot. It’s a good cause. They do outstanding work.

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I’m thinking of dumping MySpace. No one seems to be creating any content. It’s dead. No new blogs from the folks I subscribe to (well, there are maybe three still posting regularly). Has everyone moved to Facebook? Facebook has a piss poor interface. Not that MySpace is much better. But Facebook’s interface is thin, anemic, and goddamn counterintuitive. Besides, it’s not set up for people who want to blog, post video, or basically create substantial content. Facebook is for the dilettante with ephemeral content. MySpace is more geared towards the windbag.

I’ve noticed that I’m still getting loads of hits on MySpace. More than ever before. It used to be that each new blog would be read by about 100 to 150 people. Now I find myself looking at the hits for a new blog, and it’s in the 200 to 300 range. I can prove nothing, but I think MySpace is feeding me bogus information. Who are these people? I don’t have new subscribers to my blog. And MySpace isn’t really Google-searchable. And most telling, those people who blogs I subscribed to are not writing new blogs. It’s almost completely dead. It seems that everyone is moving away. Could it be that MySpace, in a panic mode, it cheating — letting people think that their page is becoming more and more popular so they won’t notice that MySpace has been taking on water for some time and jump ship for good?

But because Facebook’s bullshit platform and environment (seemingly created by and for ADHD meth-heads), I’ve found myself sliding towards the darkest of the dark side when it comes to ephemeral social media — I’m talking of the mico-blogging world of Twitter.

True, I think a good blog entry should clock in at around 25,000 words, you know, a good solid novella; but, dammit, if we are running scared from sweet fat content, let’s just go wild and cook it down to the essentials. Convey your idea in 140 characters.

Sure, there are those who see this sort of nonsense as fundamentally narcissistic. More so than blogging. It’s a constant feed of people’s truncated yammerings. So, yeah, absolutely narcissistic. But, in all condor, there are indeed some narcissists who I want to know all about. For instance, Stephen Fry Twitters. Don’t you want to take a peek into Stephen Fry’s world? This last week he’s been in Hollywood on set for an up-coming episode of the TV drama Bones (one of my guilty pleasures). He’s funny, erudite, and rude. In 140 characters. Just what we all want from the brilliant Stephen Fry … while we’re standing on an elevator trying to ignore people standing close and invading our space. Speaking of space, I also follow Phil Plait, astronomy author and blogger extraordinaire. And then there’s all the clever insights and puerile bullshit from friends and colleagues and those people who barely know me, which comes straight to me — people like Sam Lerma, Annele Spector, Sam Bayless, Michael Verdi, Evie Barnes, Mary Robinson, Bryan Ramirez, Ben Judson, and Jennifer Saylor. There are also theater companies, coffee shops, film festivals, and other organizations and institutions which can keep one updated about events. Although it’s this marketing aspect which I find at times rather intrusive. And there are folks, like Phil Plait, who make significant ad revenue off their blogs, and Twitter is as much a tool for them to send traffic to their blogs as well as giving them an opportunity to crack wise to the wold at large, in an ad lib and off the cuff manner. Of course, if you get sick of someone I suppose you just cut them loose. Haven’t tried that. Would that be rude?

Hm, I wonder what the fuck Letitia Baldrige would say on that matter?

My current blogging apathy has reached an all-time low. The last entry had loads of typos. This isn’t too unusual for me. But in the past I make it a point to reread my posting the following morning. That’s when I shamefacedly move quickly to fix the dumb little errors (and those greater and more embarrassing mega errors). But lately, on these rare occasions when I even bother to post something, I just hit the “publish” button and walk away from it.

Sorry. That last one was a horror.

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It was a good day Friday. I’m happy that the weather is warming. It looks like we’ve got a few days of warm afternoons and mild nights coming this way.

The second annual Luminaria Arts Night in San Antonio is coming up fast. And me and Veronica Hernandez, as co-chairs of the film committee, are trying to firm up the venues for film screenings. The current idea is for all the films (except for several site-specific installations) to be screened at the Instituto Cultural de Mexico at Hemisfair Park. Thursday we met with the directors of both the Instituto as well as the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs. Also in attendance was a high honcha from the CE Group, the marketing firm who are, once again, wrangling the infrastructure needs as well as providing the advertising campaign.

And again, at nine Friday morning, we had another meeting with the addition of representatives of the Slab Cinema and the Luminaria Logistical committee. We’re locked with all the needs for the indoor screenings. And now we’re working the kinks out of the outdoor screenings. There are a few wrinkles, but everyone involved so far has been enthusiastic and very accommodating.

We have a location in the Plaza de Mexico, behind the Instituto, where we want to hang a huge screen. But there is a second wall I want to hang another screen for works not needing a sound system. Ms Franco-Palafox, the director of the Instituto, told me that they had a screen in storage. If I wanted to come back at three in the afternoon they’d let me have a look at it.

This gave me time to pick up sweet potato empanadas and marranitos (Mexican pig-shaped gingerbread cakes) and have a late breakfast with some coffee before taking in a bike ride down to Mission Espada. Windy as hell — a bitch on the ride out, but a pure joy on the return leg.

When I returned to the Instituto, we took the screen out to the plaza and unrolled it. It’s a bit wrinkled and has some minor staining. They can fix it. The screen is 22 by 11 feet. (Later in the day while watching a film at the Guadalupe for Cine Festival, I realized that their screen is about the same dimensions.) It will accommodate the most extreme of Hollywood aspect ratio. More radical than 16:9 (what we pretty much get with HD TV), I assume it will handle Cinemascope. And now I’m thinking if we can find two projectors, we can give an artist (or more) a chance to present a two channel presentation — essentially a diptych.

We’re still working all this out. But it’s great fun to find unexpected resources.

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An empanada and a marranito proved insufficient. What I really wanted were enchiladas at Titos. I’d forgotten its was First Friday, and food and craft vendors were already setting up on Alamo Street in the King William neighborhood for the crowds later that night.

I walked by a young couple setting up their hot dog cart. A gaunt middle aged man on a bicycle was talking with them. “Yeah,” bike guy said. “I run my own stand near Travis Park.” The young guy wanted to know what was selling best downtown. “I do all beef dogs,” bike guy replied. The young man nodded. “We sell Nathan’s here.” The bike guy stroked his beard. “Nathan makes a good dog,” he finally said with a certain sense of gravity. “A good dog.”

Hot dogs were the last thing in my mind. I sidestepped the frankfurter conversation and hurried across the street to Titos. When I took a seat in an empty booth I placed my order without even checking the menu.

When my food arrived, I snapped a picture with my iPhone and posted the image to a Twitter update, informing those who cared (and many who surely did not) that I was about to tuck into Tex-Mex heaven.

And here we have one of those wonderful San Antonio moments. You know, when you realize that the seventh largest city in the United States is really a small town.

Midway through my meal Russ returned a call I made earlier. I asked if he intended to make any of the screenings of Cine Festival. He said that he was given a free pass, but he would be out of town for the weekend. However, he’d given his pass to one of his animation students who had a piece screening at Cine Festival in a group block of student work. And speaking of student filmmakers, who should walk in the door of Titos but the accomplished teenage filmmaker Sterling Abrigo with a friend in tow. Sterling has made films with at least three student filmmaking groups. We had a short chat about his recent projects. And on my walk home, I checked my Twitter account via my iPhone. Fellow Twitterer Sam Lerma (a former resident of my neighborhood as well as one of the best local filmmakers) had responded to my Twitter photo post by correctly identifying my lunch as Titos Enchiladas Tejanas.

That’s my Friday San Antonio Film Community Special Moment. The only thing missing was Ray Santisteban, San Antonio filmmaker extraordinaire, who can often be found chowing down at Titos.

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Thursday the Cine Festival kicked off. Four days of great films. One of the films I’ve previewed as a judge that impressed me was the feature documentary released in 2008 titled “The Garden.” It’s by Scott Hamilton Kennedy and concerns a 14-acre community garden in the heart of inner city Los Angeles, where the mostly poor Latino neighborhood has to fight developers who want to bulldoze their patchwork of allotments. You already know they’re doomed because the filmmaker says it up front. Some of the most impressive shots are in the beginning with the helicopter footage of flying over these two square blocks that look like some of the more fertile back country of interior Mexico which has been tilled and cared for by generations of campesinos. Then we pull back and see the hideous sprawl of industrial warehouses and scrap yards. And in the smog-chocked distance, we see the high-rise buildings of downtown LA, with the mountains beyond. Next we cut to a quick tour of the plots, worked by over three hundred families. We see patches of squash, lettuce, and beans. There are fruit-bearing banana and papaya trees. Corn fields. Little plots with herbs, culinary and medicinal. As they continue their struggle, winning battle after legal battle, you begin to wonder how the families working this community garden will eventually lose. And towards the end, when the support grows national, what with Dennis Kucinich and Maxine Waters making obligatory press stops at the beleaguered community farm; and then we have the Hollywood contingent of Martin Sheen, Daryl Hannah, Danny Glover, Joan Baez, and Willie Nelson; we have to begin to wonder how could they fail with all this powerful support? It’s a beautiful documentary. Heart-wrenching, yet ultimately empowering. Smart and cleverly edited. It’s screening this Sunday afternoon at 1:00. If you can’t make it, make sure to place it in your NetFlix queue.

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Lately I’ve been lucky to work a temp gig out of town at an auction house where I can take advantage of my decades of expertise in the world of collectable books. I’m paid well to write copy describing rare first editions and such.

Because of the plummeting economy, I’m a bit troubled if this job will continue. I do hope so.

But it’s not just books. Another department on the same floor is the entertainment division. One of the more striking items I’ve seen over on their side of the building is a prop for the movie 300. It’s a foam and latex dummy who is clearly dead. The poor bastard has an iron-age style spear sticking out of his mouth. Not stuck in his mouth. Out. Through some implausible series of misadventures this fellow has been stabbed somewhere on his back or, um, backside, and the spear has made its way out of his mouth either by happenstance or by design.

It’s incredibly cool. Whoever made this prop put hours into the design. It’s uncannily realistic. I took several photos with my phone. And later in the night, while pondering one of my pictures, my sister stumbled on a photograph on the internet of Frank Miller (who created the graphic novel from which the movie was adapted). There can be no doubt. This dead man prop IS Miller. A cameo, of sorts.

Maybe I need to actually watch this film. I assume that it is a tedious journey into over-produced CG-driven bullshit. But, you know, I’m kind of curious now. Is this life-like dummy based on a real-life character? Does Miller actually act in the film?

On a related note, several days ago my friend, filmmaker Carlos Pina, was hanging out at my place. I explained the 300 dummy. And when I showed him the photo he had to agree with my sister. It was Frank Miller. Carlos’ little girl, Rockie, was looking over my shoulder when I showed Carlos the grizzly photo. She thought it pretty cool. And while Carlos was using my computer to send a couple of important emails, Rockie had me take a picture of her as if a big iron-age spear was sticking out of her throat.

That girl cracks me up.

A new album by the Windsor-based band London Apartments has recently been released. And it’s available as a free downloadable zip file of mp3s and even the cover art. Double click to unzip, and then just toss all the files into the ol’ iTunes, and you’re set. I’m listening right now. Soothing, even when scratchy and atonal layers float through. I dig it.

http://thelondonapartments.com/

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Monday I thought I’d get some important things done. Mondays are good for paying bills and going to the bank and all those sorts of things I tend to procrastinate from doing the previous week.

But after pissing away the morning drinking a pot of coffee and staring at the walls, I received a phone call reminding me about the Luminaria steering committee meeting. What? In an hour? Shit. Put a spanner in my plans. But on a plus side, the meeting offered some sweet drama. Some mild shouting, probably a couple of tears, and and all followed, of course, by the tedious making up … all that “let’s never fight again.” If they’re not going to pay me anything, at least let there be entertainment. Finally, some action. And even though everyone made nice by the end, I suspect that I now know of a few buttons I can press (sota voce, of course) if things start getting dull in the future.

Also, there was a great gallery opening at Centro Cultural Aztlan. Monday might seem an odd choice for a show to open, but this is an annual thing, always set on February the second, to commemorate the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. The theme was Soy Illegal, No Criminal. It was a group show, wonderfully curated by Deborah Keller-Rihn. The usual cool art on the walls, of course, by some of the best established and emerging Chicano artists in the area. But clearly the most striking piece was a chain link fence topped with razor wire which ran through the middle of the space. There was a cut in the links where you could squeeze through to look at the work on the other side.

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Today I felt a need to catch up on some important errands. So, I dragged myself out of bed. Lugged a basket of laundry around to the washing machine on the back porch. And I started up the coffee pot while perched on the edge of my sink directly in front of my open stove. Trying. To warm. The fuck. Up.

Halfway through my first cup of coffee I saw, from the corner of my eye, a blue car moving down my street. It was Catherine on her way to work. I don’t always see her driving by, but most mornings I’ll hear her tap the horn in polite greeting as she motors past. But this time I saw her and waved. She must have seen me in the window, because couple of minutes later, she phoned me up. We chatted a bit as she finished the final mile or two drive to work. We talked about some of the personality clashes involved in the making of the second annual Luminaria festival. I suspect the San Antonio art community behaves much as they do in other cities — as a somewhat dysfunctional family. And as we all commiserate with one another, one on one or in small groups, colorful stories and untoward behavior gets around surely as fast as do those stories of who got this grant or who received that award. I try and explain to people that San Antonio is a small town at heart. And especially if you make waves in the tiny arts community, your actions will be known. As my father once said of his world, the antiquarian book-selling community: “Not a sparrow falls in bookdom that isn’t heard.”

After I moved my clothes from washer to dryer (I usually hang them on the line to dry, but I was behind schedule and, dammit, I was out of clean socks), I returned to my perch on the sink and began my second cup of coffee. That’s when I got a call from Pocha. Her and hubby Payan are running Cine Festival again this year. Pocha wanted to know if I could pick up some DVD screeners from the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center this afternoon. I’m one of the judges. I let her know It’d be no problem.

Cine Festival is the oldest Chicano film festival in America. This will be its 31st year. Sandra Pena Sarmiento and her husband Victor Payan (AKA Pocha Pena y Payan) did a kick-ass job running the festival last year. It’s my favorite local film festival. Ooops. I don’t want to offend my good friend Dar, whose SAL (San Antonio Local) Film Festival is also my favorite local film festival. Let me put it thusly: Cine Festival is my favorite San Antonio international film festival. (SAL is my favorite festival for San Antonio filmmakers.)

My advice: spend the paltry 30 bucks, or whatever, and get a full pass. There will be chingos of movies playing at two different venues at the historical theater near downtown. The Guadalupe is great because there’s lots of free parking. Great cheap Mexican restaurants within walking distance. The best pizza in town — Giovanni’s — is a block away. And two coffee shops across the street from the Guadalupe theater. There’s always something to do when you want to take a breather from all the films.

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After picking up the DVDs, I headed over to the Radius Center to meet with Veronica Hernandez, the prez of our San Antonio chapter of NALIP (National Association of Independent Latino Producers). She’s wrangled NALIP-SA to share an office at Radius with a couple of other non-profits. We can now have office hours, a mailing address, a meeting space, and a swanky conference room that members can use if they need to pitch their project to investors, et al.

Nice space. René Guerrero has opened a second location of his iconic Madhatters Tea House and Cafe in the front part of Radius. There is free WiFi. And it seems like a nice fit. The San Antonio chapter of NALIP has been floating around without a secure home for too many years.

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And it looks like, after working a couple of weeks on a lucrative freelance writing gig in Dallas, I’m back to my pro bono grind of volunteerism and committee work.

There’s a wonderful video clip from The Onion about the launch of the revolutionary MacBook Wheel, a keyboard-less laptop with a “sleek, touch-sensitive click wheel.” The deadpan demonstration is spot-on. “Everything is just a few hundred clicks away.”

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/apple_introduces_revolutionary

The faux news anchor signs off with this gem: “It remains to be seen if the Wheel will catch on in the business world, where people use computers for actual work, and not just dicking around.”

This, sadly, sums up a recent trend in my life, threatening to follow me deeper into 2009. You know, just dicking around.

What could be a better example than me setting up a Twitter account. I’ve not reached the point of one the folks I “follow” who churns out dozens of these ephemeral announcements per sitting. I’ll not name names, but, mercy, after the kids have been sent off to school and once that second (or is it the fifteenth?) cup of coffee kicks in, look out!

I first became intrigued with Twitter when Jennifer Saylor, an Asheville blogger I always read, mentioned she’d begun to use Twitter. I’d read her “tweets” (as they’re called), and understood the appeal. With a tiny window of 140 characters people post little snippets of whatever. A movie you just got out of and hated. You want to tell the world that you’ve just hit upon a way to prove the The Riemann Hypothesis. Or maybe you just want to let people know you’re watching the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen. With my iPhone I’ve learned to send web links, map locations, and photos. If this sounds like an enormous waste of time (yep), and way too warm and fuzzy (lord-o-mercy, it can be), let me remind you that people like Sam Lerma Twitter. He’s a news shooter (video), and I get these great postings to my iPhone about police stand-offs, SWAT teams lobbying gas grenades, and all that manner of human drama — sometimes with a photo (from his iPhone) or a GPS-generated link via Google maps to the site of the excitement. Local journalist and activist Greg Harman sends out links to his most recently published stories. Also, Michael Verdi used his Twitter feed to update what was happening on his 24 Artists in 24 Hours live video podcast he was running in conjunction with the Jump-Start Performance Company’s annual Performance Party.

Speaking of which, congratulations, Michael. I was tuning in off and on during the day. I mean it was unseasonably warm Saturday, and really I had to dust off my bike and hit the Mission Trail for a couple of hours. But I was glad I got to see work by Wreck & Salvage, Michelle Ellsworth, Ryanne Hodson & Jay Dedman, Luis Carlos Barragán Castro, and so many others. I only wish more people in the San Antonio art world as well as the film community were tuned into the live feed.

Actually, I believe Verdi is working on uploading the archived video material to the site.

http://www.24hours24artists.com/

For those who couldn’t be bothered to join me, you missed a great show. Well, half great, and half kind of lame. But it’s a variety show. 24 performances. Not all are going to grab you. But where else can you go in San Antonio where, for a suggested 5 dollar donation, you can see over four hours of some of the best theater, music, dance, and performance art this city has to offer?

What you missed?

Local boy made good, Jesse Borrego. You’ve seen him in ER, 24, Con Air, Blood in Blood Out, and Dexter. I don’t believe I’ve seen him dance since I was a kid watching the TV show Fame. But he came out and got back in touch with his dance roots and gave us a fluid run of stylized tai chi movements while a Gil Scott-Heron (“the first thing I want to say is, mandate, my ass!”) song played.

Later in the evening, Dos Generaciones hit the stage. They are associated with the Conjunto Heritage Taller, a nonprofit organization committed to roots conjunto music. Rudy Lopez, the older gent, played guitar. And Robert Casillas, who’s finally getting too old to be called a child prodigy, accompanied on accordion. As Robert was wrestling with an uncooperative microphone, Jesse Borrego leaped out from the wings and did some fast roadie work adjusting the microphone. San Antonians know that the whole Borrego clan are no strangers to performing music on stage — Conjunto Borrego is dad, Jesse, brother James, and sister Gloria.

And, of course, there were the URBAN-15 dance and drum ensemble. They closed down the second act. One of the three pieces from Saturday night they’ll be performing in Washington DC for the Obama Inauguration (more on that later).

There was also a work in progress by the brilliant writer / performance artist Doyle Avant. Aerial dance by Shimi. Annele and Monessa reprising the Methane Sisters. Joel Settles giving us a performance of a meth-head who had just wandered in from a long walk up from Las Palmas mall on the west-side. The fabulous Jade Esteban Estrada hit the boards in heavy adrenaline in an all white Nancy Sinatra drag ensemble (white, from wig down to go-go boots). Marisela Barrera and Anna de Luna, brilliant as always, delved into a skit where a vato lothario is romancing the current Miss Southtown (a drag queen beauty contest). What could be sweeter than watching the climax — the perplexing ambiguity of simulated sex between a woman playing a man and a woman playing a man dressed as a woman!

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URBAN-15.

George and Catherine Cisneros are two of my favorite people. They create art (photography, prints, video, dance, music, sculpture, multi-media, and on and on), both as individuals and as a collaborative couple. But they also run one of the more interesting and innovative non-profit arts and cultural centers around. URBAN-15 is best known for their Brazilian Carnival-styled celebratory dance and drum ensembles. They rock — even in sequins and whilst carrying plastic pink flamingos. And they have been selected by the in-coming Obama administration to perform at the inauguration. George and Catherine and their drummers and dancers are no strangers to performing for US presidential inaugurations. But what make this year different is that because, during the campaign, Obama refused corporate sponsorships, the funding is tight for inaugural entertainment. In short, Urban-15 needs to pay their way.

(Click for larger image.)

They are going. That’s a given. The bus has been chartered, rooms booked. But because the San Antonio city coffers are apparently also depleted, they are asking for direct funding. I’m a huge fan of URBAN-15, but my poverty keeps me from donating more than the paltry minimum 25 bucks via their web site.

Help, if you can.

http://www.urban15.org/

I only wish there was room on the bus for me. Oh, well. They will be performing a dance which Catherine describes as a blessing, a hybrid of ancient non-denominational gestures. Fairly secular, as blessings go, but most important, it ain’t Rick Warren.

Give money to URBAN-15. They kick ass. They promote artistic, ethnic, gender, and cultural diversity. And, again, they are not Rick Warren.

Donate now, it’s tax deducible.

I’m sure before the end of this paragraph I’ll come up with a local male video artist of importance. But the ones who seem to get most of the attention are women. In fact, a show opened Thursday night at the UTSA Satellite Gallery over at the Blue Star Art Complex. All Ladies Video Review. It’s a group show featuring works by Guillermina “Gisha” Zabala, Anne Wallace, Julia Barbosa Landois, Michele Monseau, and Joey Fauerso — curated by Leslie Raymond and Cornelia White Swann. It continues until Jan. 25th.

Oh, of course, George Cisneros. And Luis Valderas seems well on his way to expanding out into the realm of video art. The y chromosomes seem sadly under represented locally in this field.

Check it out. It’s a good show. Gisha has an older piece — a three channel installation — and I had only seen a third of it before. I was glad to see the whole piece. Julia continues to work with Catholic themes seen through a feminist’s eyes with a close up study of her own feet with just a hint of the stigmata, or are they symmetrically occurring mosquito bites? A hand enters the frame to dab at them with a cotton ball, perhaps soaked with Phisohex. Michele’s piece, a large diptych, resembles another piece of hers I’d seen before. The camera pans up a building and then back down. At the sidewalk level is a person laying on the ground. The two projectors are rotated into portrait layout and the pans are out of sync. What I liked best was when one channel (projector) pans up, while the other pans down. Creates a nice sense of vertigo. Anne has two pieces. One plays on a small flat screen on the wall with headphones to use. It’s a piece she did while in residence at ArtsPace. She mentioned it to me before, but I’d never seen it. There was another work from Anne, in a room off the main gallery. The video was projected on the wall. Footage of domestic locations superimposed with underwater footage. We occasionally saw a scuba diver swimming about. But the audio of mechanical assisted breathing wasn’t air passing through the mouthpiece of diving tanks as I first thought. Rather it was the clinically cold cycling compressor of a hospital (or, more likely, hospice) breathing device. A sad intersection of nostalgia and the managed care of a terminal patient.

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I’m not a fan of the News Year’s Resolution. I’ve savaged so many in past years, five to six weeks out of the gate. Actually, the one thing I most need to do in 2009 is to develop a plan and stick with it. I have a horrible habit of following the path of least resistance, never saying no to other people, and generally drifting about wherever the wind might blow.

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I thought I might toss a couple of my videos onto my iPhone. It’s letting me down. I look a QuickTime file and squeezed it through iMovie, compressing it as the iPod setting. I stuck the new file into my iTunes, and was able to watch the movie through its player. But damned if I can figure out how to drop the file into a folder which my iPhone will upload. So much of the information on the internet concerns accessing TV shows onto the iPhone through iTunes. I’m not trying to put seasons one through whatever of Lost on my phone. I want to stick on it a file of content I created. If anyone has any tips, drop me a line.

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Tonight is the 24th annual anniversary performance party of the Jump-Start Performance Company. Jump-Start is by far the most vital and innovative theater company in San Antonio. Come out and show your support. This will be, I believe, the fourth year in a row I’ll have attended. It’s a blast, shockingly affordable, but come early to be sure to get a seat. Check out the website to see when the box-office opens.

http://jump-start.org/

These yearly events are variety shows which give a quick insight into the incredible talent among San Antonio’s performance community. You’ll be sure to see vignettes of current and upcoming shows of local theater, dance (traditional and modern), performance art, experimental sketch comedy, all manner of music, and, the perplexingly uncategorizable.

Michael Verdi is doing a 24 hour video podcast in conjunction with Jump-Start. He’s curated live video feeds with 24 artists from all over.

http://www.24hours24artists.com/