I invite my blog readers to cruise over to my fiction site where I've placed a new short story.

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2008/02/11/its-different-in-first-class/

It's entitled: It's Different In First Class. The story is about Burbank Airport, adventurous gastronomy, and the noble trilobite.

As there are no scary zombies nor any nudity and only a modicum of blasphemy, it's perfect as a bedtime story for those of you with youngsters.

I mean, really, you have no excuse not to give it a read. It's only 2034 words. That's, like, nothing. That's like a Denny's menu or an instruction manual for an IKEA foot stool. Just loads more fun to read. I'm serious. Imagine the thrill you felt the first time you encountered a Denny's menu and you realized you could have a pork chop — a motherfucking pork chop — for breakfast!!!! Now increase that rapture ten-fold. There you have it.

It's Different In First Class.

Keep the nitroglycerin tablets and the dramamine within reach.

Yeah, check it out.

You'll be glad you did.

Yesterday Dar took me out for a birthday lunch.  It's an endearing custom of hers — she bequeaths birthday lunches upon her friends.  She'd also invited three other friends of mine (well, that I know of), but because it was a Thursday afternoon, no one else could make it.  The two of use met at Cascabel on S. St. Marys in my neighborhood.  It's interior Mexican cuisine.  I had the enmoladas.  They're basically enchiladas with mole sauce.  It's a more literal nomenclature.  En-chil-ada, is a corn tortillas dipped “en” CHILe sauce … and then usually rolled around some filling.  With enmoladas, the CHILe has been replaced by the MOLe sauce.  Also, they serve their nopalitos (diced prickly pear cactus pads) cooked, but cold, like a salad. Also, if you go to Cascabel Mexican Patio, don't overlook the coffee — ask for their cafe de olla.

Dar had to get back to work, but because I'm a gentleman a leisure (or, one might say, unemployed) I was able to saunter over to the downtown library where representatives from Humanities Texas (formerly Texas Council on the Humanities) were giving a free two-hour grant writing seminar.

I entered the auditorium and took a seat.  They had rows of tables set up with packets of literature set out.  It was quite a turn-out.  I saw Kellen from Bihl Haus Arts.  Marisela Barrera from La Colectiva.  Pete was there.  Also Lee.  The guy from Ruta Maya coffee shop whose name alludes me.  Pedro with the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center.  And I even saw Lisa McWilliams from the Mobile Film School — I guess she'd come down from Austin.  And just before the seminar begun, a voice behind me asked if “any one is sitting here, young man?”  It was Catherine Cisneros from Urban-15.  She took a seat beside me.  Great.  Someone to exchange sarcastic notes if the afternoon took a pompous nose-dive.

But it was very informative and enlightening.  There were not only heavy-hitters from the offices of Humanities Texas, but also a central figure down from Washington from the National Institute of the Humanities.  We also had the head of the Texas Commission on the Arts.  They all seemed thoughtful and approachable.  Well, as much as you can expect from a bunch of middle-aged white guys.  They all might want to think of placing into key positions women and those not melanin-deficient.

Before the program began I had the opportunity to speak for a few minutes with Eric Lupfer, Director of Grants & Education with Humanities Texas.  He asked me what I did and who I was with.  I jumped right in and explained that I had submitted a grant to his offices two years ago.  I didn't get it — and I let him know it was no hard feelings, feller.  But I did remembered his name from some emails.  He asked me the name of the project.  I replied that it was a documentary called “Dia de Los Locos,” and how it was about a cultural and religious parade down in San Miguel de Allende.  Eric looked up thoughtfully.  And then he looked down with a smile.  “It was with Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez and Deborah Keller-Rihn, right?”

Maybe the guy has a photographic memory, but at that moment he slipped into hero status for me.

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I went home, and because I had received a phone call way back on Monday night from Christina from the 48 Hour Film Project, I knew I had to return the call.  The problem was — did I really want to do it again?  I still don't know the answer.  So putting aside the “want” element, I called her up and said I'd do it again.  So, I guess I've committed myself.

And then I headed back downtown to Ruta Maya coffee shop, just two blocks from where I'd been a couple hours earlier at the library.  It was the first Thursday monthly film gathering that AJ Garces has been orchestrating.  The turnout was quite a bit more meager than last month.  However, just as some guy was about to take the stage with the acoustic guitar, Nikki Young leaped up, grabbed the microphone, and began pitching something.  Maybe it was about TXMPA — Texas Motion Picture Alliance — but the acoustics in the place are execrable, so the only thing I understood was when she got around to singing me happy birthday.  That was very sweet of her.  And I had to explain to the well-wishers that my birthday was actually coming up on Saturday, but thank you thank you.  However … now that I reflect on the evening, it has occurred to me that no one offered to buy me one single measly fucking drink.  Friends?!?!  I wonder!

Well, I'll get over it.

The weird thing about last night at Ruta Maya was that there was a small film crew scurrying about.  They had nothing to do with our group.  And I couldn't help but think that the man with the camera resembled Travis Pettty, a fellow student of mine from the film department at UTA — we're talking maybe six years ago.  I didn't want to bother him because he was working.  But eventually he came up to me.  “Erik?”  And, yeah, it was Travis.  He's still working production in the Dallas area, but he was down in San Antonio working on some sort of auction show for TV — cable I believe.  Something about auctioning off dates.  A reality show?  I didn't have enough time with him to figure it out.  It hardly mattered.  Nothing that would interest me.  But I was glad to see Travis who seemed to be working quite comfortably and successfully in the industry where he wants to work.

Nikki mentioned something about calling me up on my birthday proper (Saturday) and singing happy birthday to me a la Marilyn Monroe to JFK.  Me, I think the girl's all talk.  Breathy and sexy to me, on the phone?  She's blushing just reading this.  Or maybe that's me blushing….

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Yesterday it was a birthday lunch.  Today it was a birthday breakfast.  Deborah invited me out.  I suggested Farolitos on South Presa.  The place is just a little unpresumptuous family-run Mexican diner.  But today they had some sort of on-site transmission with a big truck from one of the local Spanish language radio stations.  Thankfully they kept that business outside.

It's always good to see Deborah.  But she was suffering a cold or seasonal allergies.  Poor thing.  But is was a good chance for us to get up to speed on one another's projects.

Apparently our waitress had overheard Deborah making a comment about my birthday, because after we had finished eating, I looked up to see two of the waitresses heading our way with something on a plate with a lit candle sticking out of it.

The plate was placed in front of me.  The two waitresses began singing Happy Birthday.  The other patrons thought what the hell, and they joined in.  After the singing stopped, the dozen or so people in the restaurant applauded.  I blew out my candle.  It was stuck in a short stack of two tiny pancakes with a piping of cake frosting making a spiral.  It was, in a word, adorable.

(Really, this is how it is, living on the southside of San Antonio.  This is the sort of stuff that makes me pause when thoughts of leaving rise up.)

And because it was the perfect day, I took a bike ride down to Mission Espada.  It was at least 83 today, with hardly a cloud in the sky.  A bit of wind from the south.  Down at Espada, the end of the Mission Trail, I set down my bike and sprawled out on the levee slope.  I think I fell asleep for about half an hour there, lounging in the sunshine.  I complain about a lot of things.  And I've already been heard to say that 2008 is a miserable year.  But if I can just look at everything in my life through the lens of my afternoon spent sprawled out on a hill overlooking the San Antonio river, maybe there's hope yet.

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Back home I took a shower and headed over to Urban-15.  I met with George and Catherine and we talked about strategies for this year's Josiah Youth Media Festival.  One of the things I want to do is to get some known movie-makers involved in the judging and/or our day of workshops.  If anyone reading this blog knows how I can contact Bill Wittliff, please let me know.  I rather assume he lives in a world removed from email (and don't snub the Luddites, 'cause come the insurrection, they'll be the ones pulling out hand-presses and trays of type so the samizdat can roll on out).  Anyway, if anyone knows of a Texas film giant (and there are at least a dozen current drawing breath), and if that guy or gal might wanna reach out to the young folk, please let me know.

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A package arrived the other day.  And because I had already received an email from my sister explaining the under no circumstance should I open the package until my birthday, I waited.  And waited.  I told myself that I would open it tonight at midnight.  I weakened and opened it around 10:30.  It was a Celestron SkyMaster 15×70 pair of binoculars.  Clearly my sister had paid attention to my blogs about astronomy and my jonesing over a basic entry-level pair of star-gazing binoculars.

Okay.  So as I'm trying to figure out how to attached the tripod adapter attachment, the phone rings.  I look at the display on my cell phone.  It's my sister.  Busted!  And I almost didn't answer it.  But I can't not.  You know how that is.  When I answer the phone, she wants to know if I'd like to go ahead and open the package early.  I could have lied.  You know, pretend to walk my way through the procedure, pretend to be surprised, blah blah blah.  But, no.  I let her know I'd weakened.

She was okay with it.  She said the present was from her, our mother, and our aunt.  And I had her on the phone for awhile as I took the binoculars and a tripod down to the back of my driveway … so that the neighbors wouldn't see me roaming around with a pair of huge fucking binoculars (cue the sound of half a dozen mini-blinds closing at once).

They do appear to be the perfect entry level star-gazing binoculars, but I need to get this tripod adapter figured out first.

Anyway, it's now officially after midnight.  And I'm even older.  I guess it never ends.  I never expected to see the other side of 40, and yet it keeps dragging along.

I guess I'll go ahead and accept this year forty-fucking-five.

Cheers, y'all.

My property manager of this triplex in which I live is rather nosey. Perhaps it comes with the territory. This quality of hers has very little impact on me, as I mainly interact with my landlady. So feel free to call me neurotic, because yesterday as I walked outside, I saw her car parked in the driveway beside me truck (it's a very wide driveway). I assumed she was waiting on a potential renter to look at one of the apartments. And as she seemed to be in a doze (perhaps sleeping off a hangover), I decided not to rouse her. I turned left and headed two door's down to Phil's house. He was out of town, so I was walking his dog. So, as me and Cutsie were passing in front of my house, it struck me that perhaps the property manager noticed me in her rearview mirror. And if so, she'd probably think that I was harboring an illicit pooch (pets being verboten in my lease agreement). But, what did I care? I had truth on my side. After a short jaunt down to the river and back, I noticed that her car was no longer in my drive. I thought nothing more about it.

Fast-forward to this afternoon. I was heading out for a bike ride and I saw this guy standing in front of my house. He said he was waiting to look at the apartment. We chatted for about fifteen minutes, and then I saw the property manager drive up. She and the potential renter introduced one another. And then I asked her, “How have you been?”

“Busy, busy. Working like a dog.” And then she smiled at me. “Woof woof.”

Well, it doesn't take Father Fucking Brown to read between those lines. Or am I just being paranoid?

Hmm….

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I was at the library the other afternoon browsing through the fiction stacks looking for some inane low-impact reading. Man, I must have been in a bad mood, because it all looked so awful. I thought to find one of Huxley's earlier novels. I remembered Chrome Yellow (his first) to be unpretentious and whimsical. Maybe they'd have Antic Hay or Those Barren Leaves, as I'd never read them before. Nope. There was Point Counter Point. His first serious novel. Not really what I was looking for, but I got it anyway. I also picked up The Paradoxes of Mr. Pond by Chesterton (which might help to excuse my Father Brown reference above) — the appeal was that I'd never heard of this title, and I recall enjoying very much his The Man Was Thursday. And then I ambled over to the science-fiction section. Again, it all looked so awful. I randomly grabbed a Philip K. Dick novel that I'd never heard of before. Eye in the Sky.

That night I flopped down on the sofa and leafed through each and finally decided to start on the Dick book.

I hadn't read him since I was a teen. And soon I realized why I never got deeply into his books — I don't think I've read more than two novels and a handful of short stories. The problem is, he's just not a very good writer. What will keep his books in print for decades to come is the stunning creativity of his work. The ideas are dazzling, but the writing feels very rushed and expository with no character development. And like so many of the novels from the so called golden age of science fiction, the ending is rushed, truncated, and far from satisfying. This is a problem I usually ascribe to novels written to be serialized in pulp magazines. However, I do believe Eye in the Sky was a paperback original. But the man was incredibly prolific and perhaps the only way he could get any payment from Ace Publishing was to hurry the manuscript off in the mail. Make no mistake, there are great ideas in his work. In fact, I'm afraid what will happen to Hollywood (where creativity is as common as Victoria's Secret outlets in the Pennsylvania Dutch country) once they have filmed every novel and short story written by Philip K. Dick. They'll have to start interacting with LIVING creative beings.

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I was pleased to receive an email today that a video job I had sent out had been accepted. The pay isn't much, but it came when I needed it. It's actually a mixed blessing. The assignment was for an online video tutorial service where you can learn anything. “How do I macramé a bustier?” “How do I play electric bass in a speed metal band?” “What is the proper way to eat escargot?” These folks over at the Expert Village website got the answer. The reason I equivocate is because I not only produced a set of video tutorials for a particular subject, but I also functioned as on-camera “talent.” (And no, the videos have nothing to do with the consumption of invertebrates.) You see, I am far from a fan of my own “acting.” I get by (one day at a time) reminding myself that I never have to watch the stuff. To put a positive blush on the assignment, there was no tension between the production side of things (myself) and the talent side (again, myself).

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A couple days back I got an email from my sister. I was instructed that if a certain birthday parcel arrived before my DOB, I was to hold off on opening it until that day. It came earlier this evening. Shit. It's rough going to leave something be. You know. Like a present. I've slipped that package under the medical examining table that dominates the living room. Out of sight, out of mind. We'll see how that works out.

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I know of three large salt cedars scattered around San Antonio. The salt cedar, also known as the tamarisk, is an alien species brought to America in the early 1800s as an ornamental. It has been thriving in the American southwest, most notoriously along the Rio Grand river valley.

I've already written about my friend Enrique's desire fight the bigotry against this universally hated plant.

He has created the Friends of the Salt Cedar Society, but it's a word-of-mouth group only. Not yet official. But make no mistake, I am an early inductee into the FSCS.

Don't try and google the phrase “friends of the salt cedar,” or even, “save the salt cedar.” The general consensus seems to be an almost universal final solution of extermination.

I say, hold back on the herbicide. Take a look at the noble Tamarisk. Here's a particularly tall local specimen — it's in line of sight of Mission San Jose. I'd guess it's about thirty-five feet high. Those black blobs on the grass to the left are medium dogs for scale. (Click on the thumbnail for a larger image.)

Here we see a close image of the foliage, which are sort of feathery needles, somewhere between pine needles and cedar foliage.

So, the next time you hear some goddamn arboreal bigot speak disparagingly of the grand tamarisk, softly query him or her with a “why must you hate … you goddamn arboreal bigot?”

It's all about forging coalitions and building bridges.

I understand there were parties all across this great land of ours yesterday celebrating whichever two teams were battling one another for the Super Bowl prize (which, for all I know, is an enormous gold-plated bowl). I celebrated with way too much coffee and Mike Leigh's Secrets & Lies. I'll take a Mike Leigh movie over sports any day.

However, Saturday night, I attended a party one might consider fairly close to something like a Super Bowl party. I had been invited to Urban-15's Carnival party. George and Catherine aimed their satellite dish towards Brazil, and about 30 to 40 guests lounged in the basement space watching the parade on a big rear-projection screen. Friday and Saturday were the parades from São Paulo; Sunday and Monday, Rio de Janeiro. (I believe that's how it breaks down.) I should point out that one of the remarkable differences between the Super Bowl and Carnival is that Carnival has more nudity, and as such isn't so deadly dull as a bunch of overly-padded wankers chasing a big inflated chicharrón up and down half a hectare of plastic grass.

Urban-15's dance and drum troupe get much of their inspiration from this Brazilian bacchanalia, but I prefer their local variation to the insane opulence of what Carnival (at least the televised parades) has become. Sadly, it ain't Black Orpheus anymore. (And if it still is, in the gritty back alleys of Rio, I might have to head down there next year.)

All in all, it was a very nice time spent with some wonderful people.

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I should be out looking for a job. But instead all I did today was to run a few errands, got caught up on a couple of science audio podcasts, and enjoyed a nice bike ride.

Here's a photo I took noonish.

The river is two blocks from me, and from here I can look across the San Antonio river at this line of silos. They are on the edge of the Blue Star Arts Complex. Artists rent out the silos as studios. I'm quite taken with this view. In the foreground is a line of palm trees, and I often shoot through them to frame the composition. Actually, I'm pretty sure I've posted very similar shots before on this blog. Visually, I find it a compelling “prospect” (a word we rarely use anymore to convey the idea of a scenic view, so at the risk of sounding oh so Hudson Valley School, I've placed it in quotes).

It's barely into February and I'm glimpsing hints of spring. No tress budding yet, but the crickets have started up with their electric drone, and this morning I saw a chaotic nest of field ants swarming and hundreds of them were wearing wings (this is a behavior I've always associated with spring or summer).

I don't doubt that famous groundhog is similarly confused.

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My novel-writing group is meeting again after a holiday hiatus. We've worked out an arrangement with the fine folks at Gemini Ink (San Antonio's premier literary non-profit organization).

Tonight we discussed an excellent short story by Rebecca. (I guess she fell behind a bit on her novel, so she let us read an earlier piece.) Rebecca's from Mexico, and the piece in question was previously published in a magazine from Spain. The version she provided she had recently translated into English. It's a beautiful piece of gritty, urban magical realism. She struggles a bit with the American idiom, but even via a translation-in-progress, it's clear she's a gifted writer.

We also discussed an eighteen page chunk of my current novel-in-progress, The Cucuy Club.

It's odd to hear people make comments on a first-person narrative I've written. The piece is about as autobiographical as one can get and still be called a work of fiction. You know, that Frederick Exley or Janet Frame kind of thing. And so when readers start passing judgment on the narrator, it can start to get under your skin like some sort of accidental group therapy session.

“Oh, is that what you think? Well, fuck you!”

But they were kind.

I need to get out of this funk. I've pretty much been hiding. I believe it was in one of the novels by Camilo José Cela (perhaps it was La Familia de Pascual Duarte) where this great line came from that has for so many years been lodged in my head: “Sometimes the best course of action is to drop out of sight like the dead.”

I have half a dozen projects that I need to get working on, and I mean Right Now! Some of them even pay. But the best I've been able to do these last few days is to hole up and watch movies. It seems this unproductive malaise has been going on for months now.

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The San Antonio Public Library needs to place a large red banner over the main checkout station warning: “If that DVD is even one day late, we will fuck you up.” I mean, what gives? I had three DVDs one day late. I thought, maybe a buck fifty, total. Woman punches some buttons and then demands six bucks. Purely punitive, that's what I say. I could have treated myself to the finest lunch special at Pepe's Cafe, and still had enough for a newspaper or an empanada.

So, I'm off DVDs from the library for awhile. Leastwise until I can get some money coming in to underwrite my carelessness.

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Friday night I got a call from Konise who runs the cinema department over at NESA (North East School of the Arts) — one of the San Antonio arts magnet high schools. Konise wanted to know if would be interested in helping to judge the new batch of kids auditioning for the cinema program. Sure. It was an easy yes. I like Konise. Besides, seeing as I'm entering into year two as project manager for the Josiah Youth Media Festival, it made sense to keep the lines of communications open with the student film programs around town. Also, Konise mentioned that it was a paying gig.

The only potential snag was that it was for the following day. However, that wasn't a problem for me, as my social calendar was only slightly filled for the weekend. It did occur to me that what with Konise's last minute scramble, I probably wasn't choice number one. Ah, well … maybe I was at least choice number two.

Later in the night, I walked down to the Blue Star Arts Complex for First Friday. It was quite nice out — clear sky, cool but not cold — and so I was a bit surprised at the low turnout. A pleasant surprise, I should add. I don't much care for the insane crush of First Friday during the warmer seasons. I stopped by a few spaces and then headed up to Venus' studio She had told me at Pete's show the other week that she would have her studio open. It'd been awhile since I'd seen her open for First Friday, but now that her baby has arrived and, of course, changed her life, she's decided one of the changes will be more time working on the artistic side of her life. We hung out and talked. She'd brought five new pieces — manipulated digital photos of some designs she's painted on sheets of foamcore board. The pieces were framed and up on the walls of her studio — the whole place is painted in a mottled saturated red. They looked great surrounded by red. She'd also made smaller postcard-sized versions of each of the five new pieces, and was offering the copies for sale, three for five dollars. They were flying off her table.

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I was up fairly early Saturday morning. Well, early for me. It helped that I had been to NESA before, so I knew the quick way there.

I pulled up into the parking lot at the same time as Konise. We went to the cafeteria to check in and then we headed to the film class. It was me, Konise, and two other women who work in her department. It turned into a full day of auditions. We met with maybe twenty kids. I don't know how the entire process works. Maybe the kids had already been winnowed through a previous vetting process. Maybe not. I was just this guy hired for the day. But I was impressed with the kids. Most were 8th graders, hoping to get into NESA the next school year. True, most had appalling taste in movies. I can forgive them … I guess, because, well, you know, they're kids. The problems is that many adults are equally clueless. Folks, if someone asks who is your favorite filmmaker, don't answer Steven Spielberg. He has no decreeable style. You have, in essence, just admitted that you like to eat paste — with mayo, on white bread — or that you are giddy from the rumors that Peter Jackson is slated to direct a live action Smurfs movie (you heard it here first!).

I think what most impressed me about the kids was the writing assignment. They were supposed to choose one of three prompts and write a story with the prompt as the opening lies. They had about fifteen minutes. Everyone (except maybe two or three) wrote exceptional story ideas. Their use of descriptive language displayed a facile confidence with playful turns of phrase that I had not expected would run so smoothly from the fingers of middle school kids. What most confounded me was that only half of these talented writers admitted that they often wrote. Many hardly ever wrote or read, that is, outside of school projects.

Maybe what this tells us is that kids are all good writers up to the ages of 12 or 13, and when they enter into high school, that's where their literary talents are squashed. High school english classes have no room for creativity what with all the focus on structure, style books, critical reasoning (whatever the hell that is), and of course preparing the kids for the standardized performance tests. The American educational system is a laughing stock among the rest of the first world. The energy wasted prepping kids for these tests have done more damage than illicit drug use, teen pregnancy, bullying, Pokemon, and fluoridated water.

The video assignment I was supposed to get to FedEx back on Saturday has finally gone out late this afternoon (Monday). What an ordeal. If it's accepted, I will get 200 dollars. But because of all sorts of technological cock-ups (compounded with my own feckless and lazy nature), what should have taken about 15 hours, took a turn into a very long dark tunnel. And it might not even be over. Of the 22 video clips I sent in, I'm afraid five or six were improperly compressed. Because they are meant to be streamed over the internet, it might not be an issue. But until I get that check, it's still hovering over me, ill and uncertain.

I spent several long hours last night reconfiguring video files. I'd sit down at my computer, follow through with a few keystrokes, and then wait while my Mac rearranged countless ones and zeroes into specific configurations. Each session took six to nine minutes. I'd set things in motion and retreat to the sofa and read some more. By three AM I was done … and I had managed to read three short stories from Herman Melville's Piazza Tales, as well as about half of Damon Runyon's In Our Town.

But when I awoke this morning to burn the DVDs to send all the stuff off, I discovered that my mighty Mackintosh's DVD drive (Mr. Jobs would prefer we call them Super-Drives) has begun to fight me.

As much as I might be getting pissy to the point of violence because of my computer's current ills, I should point out that I've had this machine for five years or more and it has given me almost no trouble. It still has all its original teeth, and has no trouble jumping the back fence when it's feeling frisky.

Anyway, I took a deep breath and headed over to Urban-15 to ask George if I could borrow his monster quad Mac G5. He graciously waved me to the basement space where his multimedia editing station was waiting. I hooked up my external drive and proceeded to cruise high-speed through the process of burning four DVDs.

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Today started out cold and wet. I was on dog patrol in the early hours, and as I was walking Cutsie, my grumbles — my sotto voce profanity — concerned not just the failings of technology, but the failings of the weather experts who had promised a sunny day in the low seventies.

I should have just waited — it'd've saved my stomach lining the acid wash of despair. Because by early afternoon, it all cleared up sunny and warm and even the puddles of drizzle seemed to have instantly vanished as though some unseen omnipotent hand had depressed a gigantic chromium lever in that great porcelain room in the heavens.

Over near the AT&T Center (not a place one goes to pay the phone bill, but, as I understand, ground zero of this city's sports industrial complex), one can find the main FedEx station. It's only about ten minutes from my house. The place stays open until 8:30 at night. Early this morning I was afraid I'd have to take advantage of the late hours. But I was able to get the stuff dropped off by 4:30.

This gave me plenty of time to head home and print up multiple copies of a new short story to take with me to the free monthly writers' workshop at Gemini Ink. It's held on the last Monday of every month.

(It's a good time, and there are some damn fine writers reading their stuff. Come on out people. If you've read my stuff — like this — you'll clearly know that amateurs do indeed attend. And did I mention, it's free?)

The piece I read tonight is entitled Lockjaw and Rattlesnakes.

It's over on my fiction site.

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/

Last Thursday I realized that final Monday was coming up. I hammered out this piece that evening. And because I'm the world's worst editor, it's still damn close to it's original raw state. However, tonight, as I was reading the piece aloud I realized, with high embarrassment, I had overlooked a few typos my spell check could not have caught.

Therefore, the version uploaded is cleaner — but no doubt still messy.

And that doesn't even address the question of structure and content. Personally, I'm not too fond of this piece. It's clunky and divisive. The opening coda seems crudely linked with the ending.

The piece originated as a bit longer. But because the free workshop limits the participants to four pages, I went in and ripped out a couple of passages that went nowhere. I think it was wise to strip out that stuff. It ain't going back in. But I think my desire to thematically link the beginning with the ending will necessitate drawing the piece out longer. This probably means adding another 25% of text. The question is, of course, do I care enough about this piece to try and fix it?

I guess it all depends. If only I can rationalize “fixing” this piece as a wise move while procrastinating work that will actually pay me money … well, consider it done!

I've posted a new short story over on my fictional blog site:

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/

The title is Lockjaw and Rattlesnakes. Click on the link to surf over to the permalink.

Or, just copy and paste the following:

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2008/01/29/lockjaw-and-rattlesnakes/

I've been making myself crazy with an old video assignment. I promised the client I'd get the deliverables (what a word!) to FedEx today (Saturday). But I kept finding glitches in the video files. I spent this morning going back in and pulling out one frame here, two frames there, and occasionally patching a bit of b-roll over some particularly egregious bits. This involves rendering and re-rendering the sequences (all 22 of them) and then exporting them as “uncompressed” DV QuickTime files. There was a point in the early afternoon when I did some quick calculations. As one of the stipulations of the assignment was to ship the segments as media files on DVDs, and as this would entail four DVDs, I figured that it takes maybe fifteen minutes on my computer to transfer circa three gigs of information to a DVD, and a further 45 minutes (give or take) to burn the disk … times 4 … and, fuck me Aunt Fritzi, the laws of physics just wouldn't allow me to make it to the lone FedEx in town that is open on Saturday, seeing as it shuts down at 5pm.

So what was a lad to do? It was a lovely day out — the first such in weeks — so I said screw it and treated myself to a bike ride.

I guess I'll get back to work tomorrow. I mean, I can't ship the stuff until Monday, right?

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Last night I went to see the Methane Sisters in “As Filthy as it Gets” with my friend Alston. This is the second year that Annele Spector and Monessa Esquivel have put on this bile-filled punk rock musical that they have written and in which they star … brilliantly, I might add.

I had hoped that their characters of May Joon and Ann July would be involved in different situations, but for the most part the piece was the same as last year. That's not a problem, because I love the show. But I guess I was hoping for more of a continuation in the characters' lives. True, there were some small changes. One being a new Sam Lerma music video of the duo in compromising situations with their studly groupies. There might have been a new song or two (but Alston reminded me that they didn't incorporate the song Annele and Monessa performed for the Jump Start anniversary show earlier in the month: “Oh Your Balls”).

I've said this before, and I'll say it again. Fictional they my be, and with tongues firmly placed in cheeks (if you know what I mean), but dammit they do capture the flailing playful train-wreck of punk in its prime — in short, they play back the best memories of my youth. Ann and May, on vocals, are backed by the skeleton two-piece band of Squidley Royale (Marc Montoya) on drums, and Terrible Paulsy (Paul Mata) on Guitar. “Back on Crack” could have been Bratmobile in their younger years. One of the new songs — and I can't recall the title — was their menstruation song. I don't know who was laughing harder, me or Alston, when May Joon leaned down to shout at Ann July's crotch: “Plug up that hole!” It's definitely one of those you-had-to-be-there moments … but trust me.

One of my favorite titles from a Charles Bukowski book is: “Shakespeare Never Did This.” He was both acknowledging the greatness of the Bard while at the same time distancing himself from the “master” so that each everyman and everywoman would know that this Bukowski chap might be expounding upon topics such as drinkin, smokin, & screwin. And Annele and Monessa, as practitioners of the living theater, are doubling up on old Buk. Because, with the Methane Sisters, you can say with low-brow certainty: “Shakespeare sure as shit never did this.”

Carry on girls! I'm betting on “As Filthy As It Gets, The Movie.”

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Tonight Pete had a one night only one-man-show at the Cadillac Lofts downtown. The postcard invite kept it fairly vague. “Pete Barnstrom, New Work.”

Pete was a 2007 recipient of the Chez Bernard Award from the Lifshutz Foundation, via the Artist Foundation of San Antonio. This event was an opportunity for viewing the work he did under the grant.

The space was maybe 1200 square feet. An alcove had a video piece projected on the rear wall. Two flatscreen monitors displayed related video work on the other two walls. This was a work in keeping with those Sesame Street short segue films (although I'm at a loss to recall that filmmaker's name).

And then there was another piece projected on a hanging translucent screen (allowing for viewing from both sides). This was some distorted cut-up montages of beauty show footage with occasional flashes of the number 72. Lisa told me that it was in reference to the “72 virgins” promised in the afterlife to certain fellows. She explained that the sound track would have explained it, but the incidental chatter of the people in the space effectively drowned out the audio. That's the problem with so many industrial spaces. They look super cool, but cement floors, plaster ceiling, and rows and rows of huge windows makes for an acoustical nightmare.

There was also a reel of Pete's film work playing on a loop catty-corner to the free food and drink station.

And in the corner, where the windowed walls met, was a larger than life voodoo doll in Pete's image. It was hanging over a little bucket of large needles — an interactive work.

Michelle LaHomme was sitting on a window ledge near the effigy. Pete commissioned her to build the doll for him. It came out quite nicely. I talked some with Michelle and Paul Scofield (local actor, writer, and artist) — they're getting married this summer. Congratulations Michelle and Paul!

As for the voodoo doll, I can only assume that it serves as Pete's foil against potential detractors of this, his maiden voyage into the world of art (as opposed to entertainment) — you know: “Didn't care for my stuff, you say? Well, I had a big voodoo doll on site with pins to stick into my eyes and vitals. Wasn't that enough?”

But, Pete, really, you didn't need that self-deprecative device. Everyone seemed to be having a blast. However, whenever one has a chance to throw work Michelle's way, it is always rewarding — she never fails to create something wonderful (who can forget a little someone named Ms. Dee O. Durant?).

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Oh, Christ, I just realized it's only two weeks until my birthday. My plan had been to head off to the Big Bend or maybe central New Mexico so I might toss a bedroll on the floor of the Lincoln National Forest for a few days. But unless my truck magically begins to get a thousand miles per gallon, highway, it ain't gonna happen. Besides, I have to be on hand to walk my neighbor's dog that week because he's off to try and track down his errant daughter (23, going on 13), who was last seen in Tennessee. For all I know, she's living on cat food and crack and incubating baby number three (wow! that came out like a couplet straight from a Methane Sister song — I tell you, that kind of stuff writes itself (Monessa, Annele, if you're reading this, let's do lunch, I think you need a third writer!)).

Finally, sunlight! I was actually hoping that my neighbor Phil would go visit his girlfriend up on the northside for the weekend. That's when I'm saddled with the task of walking his dog. One of the benefits is I get to use his washer / drier. Well, what he doesn't know …. Yeah, my washing machine works fine, but I have no drier. And it's been too cloudy (and beastly cold) to hang laundry on the line. But not today.

I exchanged a few words with my neighbor Michael as I lugged my laundry basket down the side of my house (the washing machine is on the back porch, and a trip down my driveway is the easiest way to get back there). This isn't my new neighbor, Michael. This is Marlys' husband — they live in the house next door. Michael and his teenaged son were in my side yard tearing down and rebuilding their wooden fence. Seems their dogs keep getting out of their yard and terrorizing the mailman. I was a bit taken back that I had missed such neighborhood drama — I mean, it's not like this sort of stuff is happening while I'm at work.

I had a couple cups of coffee as I caught up on a few blogs I subscribe to. Novelist Dennis Cooper is still fighting bronchitis in Paris. He's been posting scanned pages of a lit magazine he edited back in the late '70s and early '80s called “Little Caesar.” Today I was treated to 44 pages of issue 12. The issue was titled “Overlooked and Underrated.” The idea was to have literary luminaries write essays on what authors they thought should be re-examined.

There's a nice piece on Mary Butts, a free-spirit modernist British author who hung out with Djuna Barnes, Jean Cocteau, and Aleister Crowley. The short piece was a memoir by Oswell Blakeston, who also seems to fit into the overlooked and underrated category.

Also, Jonathan Williams added a free-wheeling reading list covering M. P. Shiels, Roland Firbank, Paul Metcalf, et al. Williams created the Jargon Society, one of the great American small literary presses. I discovered Paul Metcalf via the Jargon Society.

This “Little Caesar” also has a one page plug for the author Denton Welch by James Purdy. He suggests that John Kerouac was influenced by Welch. This is something I'd never heard, and I'm not sure if I believe it. I discovered Welch through William Burroughs. He praised Welch's singular voice. The character of Aubrey (a sensitive character who wandered through many of Burroughs' works) is claimed by Burroughs to be based on Denton Welch. And I know that Kerouac was very much interested by the books his friend Burroughs suggested he read, and I don't doubt Kerouac read Welch. But I can find nothing in his work that makes me think Welch influenced his novels.

Welch is a writer difficult to describe. His work isn't self-possessed enough for it be called belles-letters. But, in a sense, it is that art for arts sake. Most of his best known works are very autobiographical. He was a British writer who, at a very young age, was involved in a crippling bicycling accident, and he spent much of his short life bed-ridden. His short-lived literary fame came because of the strong support Edith Sittwell gave his writing. He was a master of describing nuanced elements of objects which most people would over-look, and he would infuse these things with potent emotion.

Anyway, in the “Little Caesar” piece, James Purdy highly praised the first thing he ever read of Welch, a short story titled “When I was Thirteen.” I've never read short stories before by Denton Welch. I immediately did a google search. I assumed the story was in public domain, so I hoped to fine it reprinted on a website.

What I found was this:

http://storiestogo.blogspot.com/

It was a blog some guy had been building (now deserted, it seems) with audio clips of stories read aloud. One of the stories was Denton Welch's “When I was Thirteen.”

And so, I let the piece play though as I made a big pot of lentil stew with plenty of onions, potatoes, calabacita squash, garlic and jalapenos. While chopping veggies I was treated to a very well-read piece. I don't know if the reader was the owner of the website, but he did a great job. And, man, the story was incredible. Probably one of the most beautiful examples of adolescent homoeroticism I've ever encountered (although I won't claim to know that particular genera quite so well as Dennis Cooper, Jonathan Williams, or James Purdy).

Check out this audio clip. And there are other great stories on this Stories To Go Blog. Sample them while enjoying a nice big bowl of stew.

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On my way to the back porch to pull my laundry from the washing machine to the clothes line, I stopped to see how my neighbors were progressing on the fence. I was quite impressed. Those dogs ain't gonna be going nowhere.

After hanging up my laundry, I got a call from Pete. He was at a gallery space downtown preparing it for a one-man show he's got coming up. He wanted to know if I wanted to see the space. I said I'd try and make it over.

I was too damn cold for a bike ride, but the sun was out, and I felt I should do something. So, even before Pete called, I decided to amble down to the riverwalk and stroll downtown and take a few photos, if the view here or there suited me.

There's a full moon out today. Well, damn close to full. This afternoon on the riverwalk I saw it nestled next to the Tower of the Americas — but in this photo I don't know how well it comes out.

And, well, I know he's a shy feller, but this member of the local fauna is far from uncommon around downtown San Antonio, or, well, any downtown in this country. Ah, what an adorable little rat!

And here we have another couple of images snapped from down on the riverwalk.

It was a slow day for tourists downtown — I had the place pretty much to myself. I did encounter two different groups of Australians and three interchangeable retiree couples in warm-up suits and birding glasses.

I'm been in a very unproductive funk for … well, most of January. There's a sort of rank cabin fever vibe hovering over this place. Especially these last few frigid days. True, I roused myself from bed early enough to get the trash hauled to the curb. But after a late breakfast while meandering the internet, I finally had to get out of the house. I decided to head to the downtown library.

I headed up to the fifth floor to grab a few science titles. In the evolution section I saw a couple that looked appealing. “The Monkey's Bridge: Mysteries of Evolution in Central America,” by David Rains Wallace. And “Darwin's Blind Spot: Evolution Beyond Natural Selection,” by Frank Ryan.

The Wallace book might not be too heavy on the science, as the writer appears to mainly be a nature writer with a passion for central America. But, still, the isthmus of the Americas has been at the center of several contentious theories of species migration, particularly megafauna and human beings. From a quick glance at the jacket blurb, it looks like the author isn't so much concerned with big mammals of the Pleistocene, nor the intrepid people of the Paleolithic. Rather it seems to be an analysis on the spread of more mundane flora and fauna along the north-south route during the very beginning of the Pliocene epoch 5 million years ago when North America and South America finally cozied up to one another.

The book by Ryan appears to be an overview of Lynn Margulis' endosymbiotic theory, and the greater concept of symbiosis as an engine driving evolutionary change. But I see no mention of Dr. Margulis in the acknowledgment section nor in the introduction. She does receive a few pages according in the index, but as one of the most important thinkers in the field, I would think she's be all over the place. Well, we'll see.

I also picked up three DVDs.

“A Face in the Crowd.” My sister has spoken favorably about this over-looked classic many times. I have seen maybe half an hour of it on TV some years back, and thought it powerful. But I'll finally get to see the whole thing. Directed by Elia Kazan. Starring Andy Griffith (who was so phenomenal in “No Time For Sergeants”) and Patricia Neal. Script by Budd Schulberg.

“My Dear Tom Mix.” (“Mi Querido Tom Mix.”) This is a Mexican film that came out in 1991. According to the DVD cover, the script was adapted from a short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Someone needs to alert the fine folks at the Internet Movie Database to this. It sounds like a bitter sweet magical realism film about a woman and her imaginary friendship with a Hollywood cowboy actor.

“I Am Cuba.” This is a film I only know for it's famous long opening tracking shot, a single take that is beyond breath-taking. I'm hoping the rest of the film is even close to the visual over-load of the beginning.

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There's a nice little nostalgia site, PLC Link Dump. They had an embedded YouTube video. It was a music video from the band Critters Buggin. For anyone who was around Dallas in the 80s you'll no doubt have memories of Edie Brickell and New Bohemians (found memories, I don't doubt, as they made very pretty, inoffensive music). I have no idea what Edie (AKA, Mrs. Paul Simon) is up to these days, and nor do I care. However, I've, for some years, been a big fan of Critters Buggin, now a Seattle band, and made up of three members of New Bohemians, as well as a member from Ten Hands, another high-profile Dallas band from the eighties.

But other then clicking on the YouTube button to hear a great Critters Buggin song (Brozo the Clone), I was completely taken by the incredible claymation in the video. There were a few moments when I thought it might be from one of Karl Krogstad's early pieces, but the work was way too intricate and organic. I quickly found out it was from a well-known animator (though unknown to me) named Bruce Bickford.

I next discovered that there is a newish (2005) documentary on Bickford titled “Monster Road” (which, sadly, is not yet available on NetFlix). I did head over to the website of “Monster Road” director, Brett Ingram. He's got some nice videos of some earlier work of his on his website.

Ah, sweet serendipity!

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There have been some amazing technological innovations that I'm all over. These are things that have recently become ubiquitous which certainly do improve our lives. See, I personally can't envision a world without sun-block, rechargeable batteries, digital photography, wireless communication, and I could go on and on until I end up sputtering out with things I don't really use like Viagra and portable dialysis machines (though, those sound grand!). But the one thing I think is wrong on all fronts is the leaf blower. Electric or gas powered. Doesn't matter. Because someone could come up with a solar powered leaf blower that was silent and I'd still pan it. The noise of the god damn leaf blower is just scratching the surface of the idiocy of this hellish device.

Let's put this into context. It wasn't just crushing boredom and general ennui that forced me out of the house this afternoon, it was also because there was some damn noisy machine screaming in the apartment on the southside of me (note: I'm still the only person occupying this tri-plex). It was no doubt the landlady's son working a carpet cleaner, or something.

When I stepped outside, I noticed I needed to retrieve my plastic trash barrel from the road where the garbage men had cavalierly tossed it. And as I was doing this, I noticed that an electric leaf-blower was sitting on the sidewalk. Ah, so the landlady's son was not rug-shampooing, he was leaf-blowing.

But as I placed my trash barrel alongside my porch, I saw a man walk up to retrieve the leaf-blower. He was not my landlady's son. He was some aging golden-haired surfer new to me. He walked up and introduced himself as Michael, my new neighbor. (Note: I'm no longer the only person occupying this tri-plex.) He said we has a chef, recently relocated from San Francisco. He apologized about the leaf-blower by explaining that he was “a real clean freak.” He couldn't abide by the pile of leaves that had collected around the door of his new place. I won't argue. There were loads of leaves there. If I were a neat freak (and, um, I'm not), damn if I'd be happy to strap on a leaf-blower and begin spreading all the waste here and there and well, I guess I'd have to put it somewhere. I guess I can't put it in other people's yards (well, can I?) so I guess I'll just blow it all out into the street. Great. And so now, Mr. Fucking clean freak, what do you do with a big ugly mess of dead leaves in the street in front of your house? I say: Fuck leaf blowers and the assholes who use them! If you're green, you mulch the leaves into your lawn with a lawn mower (probably of the push-mower variety) — or, more likely, you add them to the compost pile. Okay … not so green? You do what I did as a kid. Rake, bag, and sweep up the detritus. How hard is that? I tell you, it looks damn neat.

So, Mister chef from San Francisco, clean up your mess, don't spread it to the rest of the block. But, welcome to the neighborhood! Just place the crème brûlée on the back porch, and all will be forgiven.