For those half-dozen loyal blog readers, I'm sure my absence has been chalked up to the fact that I've been slaving away on my November Novel (because, least we forget, November is national-novel-writing-month). I only wish that were true. Well, it is, to some degree. I've been moving along fairly well, but I have to admit I've fallen behind a bit in my word count.

The truth is I'm always on the lookout for an excuse to put off … well, anything.

Like last night. I had a dinner meeting with AJ Garces. We were supposed to meet at a particular Jims restaurant, but it was packed. We relocated to a nearby Dennys. AJ noticed that Dennys was using some of his clip art (Havana Street dot com). And so we talked about a couple of different projects we were working on. Nothing too extreme. Yet we didn't get out of there until midnight. Now, sure, I could have explained that “I need to get home and work on my novel.” I did not. And there went my Thursday night.

Or how about tonight. It's now seven thirty. I was over at Urban-15 earlier this afternoon talking to Catherine Cisneros. She and her husband George have enough faith in me that they're bringing me onboard to write grants. Although, because George had to head up to the north-side, and because their groundskeeper and their building manager eventually left, I hung out to keep Catherine company, even after we'd wrapped up business. Because, well, you know, the place is haunted, and I'd be remise to leave her alone with the unsettled spirits. (Even I, an agnostic in such matters, had heard at least one of the ghosts be a pest.) She suggested I microwave some rice and fish left over from lunch and we had a bottle of white wine as we trash-talked some about the local luminaries whose acquaintanceships we had in common. She eventually received a phone call from George. He decided he had no reason to return to the building, so we could lock up and leave. So we did.

And now, back home, I have no reason not to add more pages to my novel. Except … hmm, wait! It's been a spell since I've added to that ol' blog. And I believe I have at least a photo to upload.

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If those bastards who run a particular national film organization would just pay me the damn money for the work I did for them seven weeks ago, I wouldn't be begging rice and fish. But on a bright side, I picked up a useful tip from my sister's blog. Boil pecans for five minutes and they are easier to shell. I don't know if you could get the same effect by soaking them in room temperature water (I'll do that experiment when CPS turns off my gas because of lack of payment — you know, because of those bastards with that national film organization who are so slow to pay). But back to pecans. This does work. Boiled, they peel real well. And because the mammoth pecan tree above my driveway has unleashed chingas (if I might be excused use of the local patois) of nutty goodness, I've been able to add free food to my meals. It seems I'm well on my way to embracing the hunter and gatherer lifestyle. The latter is a snap, and the former seems a clear enough path — I've already formed a palpable dislike for the Alsatian over the back fence who shoots me a baleful glare as I hang my laundry. I've begun to appraise those meaty haunches with a culinary calculation.

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Day before last — Wednesday — I made sure to keep my calendar open (don't smirk). San Antonio's Office of Cultural Affairs (OCA) was having their annual Creating Ways conference. It was free. All I had to do was sign up via their website (which doesn't seem to support any browser but Internet Explorer — people still use that?). I didn't have much of an idea what to expect, but it was downtown (a five minute trolly ride away), and I was promised a free box lunch. Also, I knew about six people who were also going. Count me in.

I got there a bit after eight in the morning. Great coffee. Fruit and croissants. I talked some with Rogelio, a fellow filmmaker who I hadn't seen in months. And then I went and spoke with my friend Deborah who was standing with some of the docents from Bihl Haus Arts. I then realized they had a table set up there in the lobby. Kellen and the docents were setting up piles of literature.

Just before the doors to the conference opened at nine, I saw Catherine Cisneros (of Urban-15) and Malena Gonzalalez-Cid (of Centro Cultural Aztlan). They invited me to their table. I followed them inside. Denise Cadena (also of the Centro) was there as well.

We began with the basic opening comments from gassy bureaucrats. Eventually Felix Padrone, the director of OCA, stepped up and gave a nice over-view of what his office is currently engaged in. OCA is connected to several really great programs to help both individual artists as well as artistic organizations. Sadly, Pete Barnstrom couldn't make it. He had just returned from a film festival in Costa Rica, and, one can only imagine, was busy weaning his young'un off the week's worth of pure cane sugar and caffeine made available by an indulgent baby-sitting grandmother. But Felix made mention of “enjoying those amusing emails from Pete Barnstrom,” and then there was a quote from Pete (concerning, I believe, the Creative Capital conference, funded by OCA) which was projected on screen during one of the Power Point presentations.

Who still uses Power Point?

There were 400 artists in attendance. Can there be a format more aesthetically bereft than Power Point? No, I think not. And some of these drones were giving us texts on randomly chosen color schemes such as lime text on magenta background. This sounds comical, I understand. But take a moment to consider this. Artists are trained in this sort of graphic layout approach, with color and proportion and et al. And these assholes with the city seem not to have considered it worthwhile to hire an artist to design their presentations. Tax dollars are going to fund this, the Office of Cultural Affairs, and there seems to be no one with a modicum of art training on hand to interface with the public, or worse, to interface with the art community.

And then we got what, I assume, the whole performance was all about. The unveiling of a new ad campaign. The ad group is PR titans, Bromley Communications. They trotted out some tissue of crap meant to distill the San Antonio art scene. They were gonna brand us! While their ill-conceived ad campaign played itself out on the two big video screens on each side of the podium, we were also treated to images from the website … a website designed by G2E Services. There can be only one reaction. Dump Bromley, and give the entire contract to G2E. Do it today.

What this Bromely chap told us, with a chuckle in his voice, that his firm had looked into the demographic they wanted to pull into the arts. “She's a woman,” he began, “between the ages of 18 and 48. Married with children.” I guess he assumed she was the culprit. You know, that person who wasn't patronizing the arts enough. “We call her Minnie Van Norma.” Or was that “Mini Van Norma?” It took me until the third time he said that line to figure out this play on words. You see, this Bromely dude was labeling soccer moms. I'd like to know where is the line-item of the budget they've tended to the city which breaks down the amount they think this phrase is worth — 'cause it strikes me as an in-house bit of rhetoric that no self-respecting ad firm would ever allow to get out into general circulation; and there they were, spouting it out for 400 artists to hear. That's strike one against them.

Now, as someone who was brought up as a good all-American feminist, I was rather offended. And during one of the breaks, I did my own straw poll. I found no one who thought it clever. Two people smiled indulgently as I sputtered my own disbelief. Four individuals agreed with me. And six people, all women, and all heads of arts organizations in town, were even more disturbed than myself.

Beyond Minnie Van Norma, they showed us their logo. “SA[heart shape]ARTS.” And then they expanded it to slogans such as SAHEARTS. One of the folks at my table scribbled on a napkin, and passed it around our group. SA[heart shape]ARTS — a letter “F” had been placed inside the heart shape. SAFARTS. I whipped off the pen I carry clipped to my collar and added some radiating lines coming from the rounded cleft top of the heart, representing the gassy and farty nonsense emanating from this conference. A couple of folks at an adjacent table, spying this whole new exciting logo, smiled and nodded encouragement my way.

SAFARTS it is.

But don't think I wasn't impressed and entertained and informed. I mean, shit, the coffee was good, I enjoyed my free box lunch, I met some good friends, and, best of all, I was absolutely blown away by the guest speaker, Sir Ken Robinson. He's featured on the TED talks website. He's one of the great public speakers and one of the great minds of our age. It was an amazing privilege to spend over an hour in his presence.

Also, I bumped into Mark Walley and Angela Guerra. They make video and graphic art under the guise of the Prime Eights, but all I've been able to see so far has been their website (brilliant!). Their video is compressed and provided in some manner in which my computer, operating system, internet browser (or some combination) won't allow me to access. When I mentioned this, Angela reached into her shoulder bag and handed me a DVD of their reel with killer cover art. Maybe I should watch it right now. But do I dare? Aren't I supposed to be writing a novel?

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When I blogged about what a blast it was wandering the ruins of the drowned city of Antigua Guerrero, I made a point to explain that the gothic factor of this ultra cool experience was sure to outstrip what my friends would be doing in the days to come with Halloween and Dia de los Muertos.

For those readers out of state, Dia de los Muertos is a celebration of those loved ones and family members who have passed on. It's celebrated on November 2nd. There are plenty of internet resources to enlighten. But here in San Antonio, there is a more specific component (which has moved out to many other cities). And that is bringing these Dia de los Muetros alters into the galleries. Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez, a man whom I'm privileged to call my friend, brought these alters into the local galleries as an expression of Chicano art way back in the '70s. And this practice has become ubiquitous in the San Antonio art scene, and it's moving out into the society in general.

And so I made sure to attend the show at the Centro Cultural Aztlan before considering all the other choices offered in the art galleries throughout San Antonio on the night of November 2nd (which happened to fall on a Friday, a night of gallery openings, but this was also First Friday, when the galleries in the artsy neighborhood I call home would be making significant noises). Ramon had his own artist alter across town at the McNay Art Museum. But Ramon is one of the founders of the Centro Cultural Aztlan (though he's recently retired), and as the chief of the local Indian tribe (a part of the Coahuiltecan nation), Ramon was on hand to provided the blessing. He was in his indigenous garb, holding a stone with sage and other herbs burning — he wafted the smoke our way with an eagle feather. He's a very articulate and moving speaker. It was a wonderful evening.

Deborah and the docents from the Bihl Haus Arts Center invited me to dinner. We went to Jacals, a nearby Mexican restaurant Pete and Lisa turned me on to when I first visited them here in San Antonio. The Bihl Haus docents are all elderly women. The gallery is in an ancient refurbished house which has been surrounded by a retirement community (the Prime Rose), and as such, the residents help run the place. There were 12 of us at the table. And not only was I the only man there, I was also the youngest. And as the Margaritas began to flow, I had the head docent leered over to me and ask how it felt to be surrounded by my own harem of Golden Girls.

I muttered something noncommittal (probably about the weather) as I scarfed down my guacamole chalupa.

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Okay. I really do have to head off and write a novel. Or, um, go to bed….

I'm going to make a quickie cursory entry about days two and three on Anne Wallace's Marchanta project.

The fact is, I'm in the midst of November — you know, national novel writing month. And so, much of my free time is being taken up by working on my novel. Or so I tell myself.

The second day of Anne's shoot was back to the ferry. We shot on the American side, Mexican side, and then on the ferry itself, traveling between the two nations. Sadly, however, we were kicked out of Mexico when the Mexican customs official ambled up and politely told us we didn't have clearance. Anne had assumed we were cleared. But somewhere, among all the convoluted bureaucratic entities, she's forgotten one. But it was okay. We'd already gotten plenty of footage.

Back on the US side we set up a few more shots. And then we all piled into our vehicles and caravanned into Mexico. We crossed over by driving across the Falcon Dam. Very spectacular. Anne had a Mexican official meet us at the other side to expedite our entrance into Mexico. We were 12 individuals in five vehicles transporting about fifty thousand dollars worth of camera and sound equipment.

After getting the okay, we took a moment at a Pemex station for one of the cars to gas up. Many of us took advantage of the adjacent drive-thru beer store. This was the town of Guerrero, or, more to the point, Nuevo Guerrero.

And then we headed to the highway and drove upriver. We were driving to the town listed on the map as Guerrero Viejo. AKA, Antigua Guerrero. The ancient town of old Guerrero is my half-ass translation. I knew nothing about the place, except what Anne had told me. Something about a town that had been submerged by Falcon Reservoir.

We drove maybe 25 miles on the highway before turning off onto a rutted dirt road. We were a pickup truck (me and Carlos), two robust SUVs, and two little cars. The cars slowed us down somewhat. But the hour we spent on the unpaved road wouldn't have been that much shorter without the cars. It was rough going.

I would like to have the time to describe the extraordinary ruins of Guerrero Viejo, but, again, I have a novel I need to be working on. Actually, I decided to use my experience in this wonderful town as the opening chapter of my November novel. And I'll post those pages eventually.

To put it into a thumbnail, we had the ruins to ourselves. There were scenes involving galloping horses, underwater videography, audio recording of bats, and cameras mounted in a canoe.

I had a blast. One of the best memories was when me and Carlos (Carlos Pina — filmmaker and actor — not to be confused with the other Carlos, the caretaker of Guerrero Viejo) decided to wander the ruins of the city in the bright light of a gibbous moon when everyone else had gone to sleep. It was so damn cool. And I knew that this would blow away all the bullshit my friends would experience in their impending Halloween AND Dia de los Muertos party plans. Fuck, I was poking around the dead and haunted ruined city of Guerrero Viejo, in the state of Tamaulipas, in Mexico.

Maybe when I get this novel shit out of the way, I'll blog more about the experience. It was really wonderful.

Below are a bunch of photos from the trip.

Click on the tumbnails for bigger images.

It's Halloween night. The kids were out in force on my block. Personally, I kept the lights off. However, I did wander over to Jerry and Becky's place to watch the festivities from their porch. Jerry has managed to rig a pulley system from his porch to the Toland's house across the street. Folks on each porch took turns pulling a suspended ghost from one side of the street to the other in attempts to scare the trick-or-treaters. Amusement in lieu of fear is also allowed during this celebrated night. The Cortez's have their house decked out in spider webs and caution tape and etc. Our street has a very festive air.

Midnight will usher in November — AKA Novel-Writing month. Only two hours away.

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I arrived back in town this morning at 5:30 after three days shooting with artist Anne Wallace on her project entitle La Marchanta. I hit the sheets, exhausted, a bit before seven this morning and slept through till two in the afternoon.

Back on Sunday morning I met the group at Anne's place. She lives about six blocks from me in a lovely, funky clapboard home. Monessa Esquivel answered the door. Up to then I wasn't sure if she really knew who I was, but she smiled and greeted me by name and invited me inside. She was trying on some of the costumes her character would be sporting. Anne came into the room and I was finally able to put a face to the voice — I'd only communicated previously on phone and email. She escorted me into the kitchen and fixed me a cup of cafe con leche. Soon Rick Frederick and Ethel Shipton entered, as good friends do, unannounced and through the back door. Rick was officially listed as Assistant Director. But he was as new to production as Anne, our Director. Neither were completely sure what their roles entailed. (Actually, I should point out that Rick, recently relocated to San Antonio from the midwest (Chicago? Detroit?), is an actor and no stranger to a film set, at least in that capacity. Ethel was to be our still photographer. But, as the three days unfolded, they both would prove to be the hardest working and most crucial members of the crew.

There had been some hold up with the camera folks coming down from Austin. But they finally showed. They all seemed to know one another — most had met while taking film classes as undergraduates at UT. They were kids — at least relative to us of the San Antonio contingent (with exception of the youthful and glamorous Monessa).

Ellie Ann Fenton was our DP. She'd rented or otherwise acquired an Aaton super 16 camera. We also had Mike Simpson, first assistant camera. Homer Leal, second assistant camera (who would meet up with us at our first location). Jesse Haas, streadicam operator (he would also be doing the underwater video footage). Marco Pena, gaffer. Robert Garza, second unit (he'd be shooting video elements that Anne wanted incorporated in with the film footage). We'd also be meeting up with Carlos Pina when we reached our first location. And with me, running audio, it took us to 12.

When all the Austinites arrived, we repacked the cars, and soon we were ready to head out. Five vehicles. Luckily I had my truck. We were hauling so much crap, I don't know how we'd of done it without. Next stop, the Rio Grande Valley.

I drove down with Marco. We managed to meet up with Carlos at an HEB on highway 83. Cell phones have changed the world of film production. I explained where we were headed to, and as a valley boy who knew the area, Carlos took the lead. We followed him back on to the highway. After only a quarter of a mile, Marco said: “There's Jesse.” And it wasn't just Jesse' Jeep, it was Ethel's SUV, Ellie's car, and Rick's car. And I thought we weren't caravanning. But I guess everyone else was. Carlos, in his van, me and Marcos in my truck, eased into the convoy's wake and followed them out to Sullivan City, and took a left, toward the river, toward Mexico.

All of us pulled into an unpaved parkinglot. This was the Ebanos Ferry. The ferry holds three cars and, I suppose, as many people as can stand on it. It's positioned at a bit of an angle on the river, so that when it crosses to Mexico, the current pulls it across (the boat is attached by pulleys to a cable that runs from one country to the other). But on the return trip, they have four men pulling the ferry back across.

Anne had cleared things with Homeland Security. And she went to their kiosk to see if things were okay. Things are never 100 percent okay when men wearing uniforms are involved. But she cleared things up with a single phone call. The guy who owns and operates the crossing was another matter. He was wonderful and accommodating.

Our biggest concern was time. The ferry only ran until mid afternoon. And we had made our start out of San Antonio late. We put ourselves into gear, and tried our best. But every new production is on a fresh learning curve. You're never getting to optimal interactivity as a group until at least the third day. So, as the camera crew were setting up equipment, we had to just stand back and let them do their thing.

There was a point when a key got locked in a car. I'll refrain from saying who did what, but I took a photo of Monessa trying to gain access to the car with the only piece of wire available … unwoven from a barbed wire fence.

I made a comment to Ethel about Monessa's character from “As Filthy as it Gets” (a two-woman show written and performed by Monessa and Annelle Spector where they transform into the self-destructive rockers May Joon & Ann Jewlie, AKA, the Methane Sisters). I said she'd never be stymied by such a problems. She'd either just pick up a rock, or —

Ethel held up her hand.

“Or she'd rip out the underwire from her bra –”

“And,” I said diving in, “in one fluid motion she'd bend a hook on one end and slip the wire through the top of the window and whip it back out. Snap, Unlocked! And she'd lean in and root around the backseat, screaming that some asshole had got in and stole her fucking Jägermeister! At which point Ann Jewlie would walk up and ask wasn't her car red? May Joon would then stand up, nod solemnly — the mistake seeping in — and she'd stuff into her pockets the pack of cigarettes and the pair of sunglasses she'd lifted from the car, and then she'd slam the door with her hip.”

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We'd met up with Homer at the Ferry. But we only had a short period to shoot there, so by later afternoon we wrapped and caravanned to Roma where our motel was located. We'd be back the next day to shoot more at the crossing.

Anne checked in for all of us at the motel. Four rooms with two big beds apiece. The rest of us began unloading the vehicles and putting the more precious items inside. We decided to go get dinner. But because we were in a small American border town on a Sunday night, we of course decided to grab a bite in Mexico. We then headed to the international bridge. Ciudad Miguel Alemán is across from Roma. It's much more lively. We found a good restaurant and had them pull three tables together.

Click on the photo below for a larger image of Anne Wallace, our director, enjoying a milanesa plate.

I was happy to be back in Mexico, even if it was a border town and just for dinner.

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Well, I see it's about midnight. I need to write a November novel.

More Marchanta later.

Yesterday I met up with Dar for lunch. She'd been contacted by Michelle Brower, a freelance writer, who wanted to write about the local film scene for a new arts magazine called Collapse. I gather Dar wanted some moral support. And I went a bit overboard printing up an eight page annotated list of people Michelle might want to talk to. Perhaps I wouldn't have bothered if I had first looked up info about the magazine. It's not really what I'd call an arts magazine, but more of a local entertainment scene magazine. It's still at the on-line phase, but a print version is coming soon. We'll see where it goes as it grows.

Michelle was very pleasant. She has a background in therapeutic message, but wants to get into freelance writing. And as the magazine in question is okay with, as they say, “novice writers,” she is clearly making a calculated decision to write for free, to put herself on the freelance map. I might do something along the same lines. Why not?

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There was a production gig I'd agreed to maybe a month ago. A filmmaker got my info from Pete. It was never more than a possibility. And as the weeks went by, I never heard back from the woman. Well, not until the middle of this week. She'd first spoke to me to run camera. She wanted to shoot both film and video. She had her film DP, and I was hoping I would be the video shooter. She has a budget. That's always nice to hear. But the other day she asked if I could do sound. I enthusiastically said yes.

And so, this Sunday, I'm heading down to the Rio Grande Valley to crew on a film to be shot on this side of the river, as well as over in Mexico. Sounds like great fun. In fact, Carlos Pina (getting a warm recommendation from both Pete and myself) will be onboard as PA — that's great, we'll be in his neck of the world.

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Today I realized that my lists of items needed for the shoot down in the Valley was so diverse that I probably should visit the dreaded Wal-Mart. So, the closest one to me was on the southside. Fine. I also needed to pay my internet bill and make a deposit at my bank. Time Warner and Washington Mutual both have branches off of SW Military, my Wal-Mart Highway.

When ever I visit Wal-Mart, I'm reminded of a Simpsons gag. Marge and the kids are shopping at the Monstro-Mart (which, actually, is supposed to be Sam's Club). The motto of Monstro-Mart is, as I recall: “Where shopping is a baffling ordeal.”

I wanted a pair of short pants. Ooops. The season of short trousers seems to be over. Sorry.

What? This is Texas. South Texas! We wear shorts and flip flops in December. For Christmas mass, for chrissakes!

How about the sun block?

“Sorry sir, I guess it's really a seasonal item.”

I looked at the dear child filling the shelves with Lubriderm products.

I wanted to explain that even though I understood this was the Southside with a certain ethnic demographic, the fact is, if she'd subscribe to the CDC listserv newsletter, she's learn that, indeed, melanoma is on an increase among Latinos. But all I did was whimper something asinine like, “It's always sunscreen season in Texas,” as I stroked my lilly white facade — a face so pale that I believe that the Eskimo have a thousand words to describe the nuances of my skin tone.

She gave me one of those kooky “I'd be a lot happier if you weren't here” smiles, and suggested that I try the cosmetic aisle.

I gave her my best “I'd be a lot happier if I weren't here, either” smile, and decamped Aisle 23-H Skin Care, and headed to Cosmetics. Why not?

But she was right. I spent about ten minutes in the cosmetics section perusing the wares (or, as the gents in the security room watching monitors 213 – 215 might say: “mincing about mid the lipsticks and eyeliners). And finally, there it was. A tiny section of sunblock on a shelf three inches from the floor. At 7 bucks, I really couldn't afford more than one bottle, but I panicked. I bought two. Lord knows when I'd see another one again.

…until I stopped at the Dollar Tree, where “everything is a dollar” (perhaps they should clarify, “each thing is a dollar”), and I found bottle after bottle of sunblock for, yep, a dollar apiece.

Cool weather has arrived.

Monday night I checked the Weather Underground website (sadly, not a militant activist clearing house, but rather a weather resource). Eleven p.m., and it was 51 degrees Fahrenheit. Mild, to be sure, but I was fucking freezing!

The previous night (Sunday) at the Jump Start Theater, Monessa (who was working the front of the house) wore a pull-over hoodie with pale blue and turquoise stripes. These were straight from the color pallet of the show, including the promo materials. I was a bit bemused in that, as she worked the box office, she had the hood deployed. Fashion decision or a bad hair day? I could not be sure which. Later, when she walked on to the stage to introduce the show, she made some comment that she was bundled up in preparation for the cold front that would soon hit town.

Sounded suspicious to me. Sure, I was wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt, but that was because it'd been awhile since I'd last done laundry. The fact is, it was pretty warm out. I just assumed she'd suffered a bad perm.

However, Monessa proved to have good weather sources.

Sunday night I had a fan two feet from my bed, with all my windows open, hoping I could cool off enough to drift off to sleep. Around three or four the winds started to get crazy. The flapping of the curtains woke me. Or was it all the pecans raining on to the driveway and the roof of my truck? Well, I got up and closed the windows to muffle the irritating noises. But it was also getting pretty cold.

Monday morning I looked out the window. My truck was covered with pecans, leaves, and a couple of branches that'd snapped off the big pecan tree. There was also a huge branch stretched out on the drive, mortally felled by the rambunctious cold front which had muscled into town.

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I spent way too many hours early in the week engaged in a cursory edit of the Quinceañera I shot Saturday night. I'm turning the major editing over to someone else. But because I decided to use two cameras during the mass at the church, and seeing as I was jumping from one camera to another (repositioning each on its tripod), I knew there would be some real sloppy shots. I felt it was incumbent upon me to fix my own mess. I was using two Canon GL2s. And even though I set them both on the same white balance presets, they didn't come out matching perfectly. I decided it was good enough, and concentrated on a simple picture edit, keeping the entire high mass in real time, with all it's tedium. I pumped up the luminosity on a few clips. And even though I wasn't given the opportunity to pull audio off a soundboard, I laid down the cleanest audio track the cameras picked up. I also managed to tone down the sound when it got too hot. (Actually, I had four different sound levels to chose from. A quick and dirty way to give yourself audio options to chose from is to set one channel (there are controls on the pricier camcorders for both left and right audio channels) higher than the other — so, with two cameras, that gave me four discreet channels to chose from … four choices of varying degrees of awfulness.)

One of the strange dynamics of editing video footage of real people (as opposed to actors playing roles) — such as interviews or things like weddings or Quinceañeras — is that you spend loads of time with these people. And you begin to connect with them.

It's, of course, a wholly irrational situation. And you've got to keep in mind that you don't know these people, and they don't know you. The first time I was struck by the creepy transgressive nature of this line of work was when I was directing a video project maybe five years ago at UTA (when I first got into film and video production). It was a commercial video class, and the project was to produce a recruiting video for the graduate programs of the university. One of the interview subjects graciously made time for me and my crew of two. She was shy and unassuming. I sat beside the camera and interviewed her, telling her to ignore that soul-sucking machine with one glassy eye. Just look at me, I said. It's just you and me talking.

And as artificial as that situation was, there quickly developed this rapport. There was this sense — well to me — of a deep intimacy. I've spoken to some of my photographer friends about this. They face the same dynamics when they do portraits. You connect … and it seems real. Actors, also, have to deal with this weird energy of intimacy (or pretend intimacy) all the time. Though for them it's ten times worse, because they are absolutely vulnerable; whereas we — directors, cinematographers, photographers, editors — hell, we're just voyeurs, usually with some sort of machine between us and the other.

What I discovered on my UTA project was that these feelings of connection I had during the interview process were intensified then I began editing the interview. I could see every nuance of expression. I could freeze the frame. I could stop and see an honest smile, play a genuine laugh over and over again. I could even pick out the occasional soft-footed skirting of the truth. Editors see all your lies.

There was this guy I interviewed — same project — from the biology department. Herpetologist. He was a dead-ringer for the actor Edward Norton. It wasn't me who mentioned it, but one of my crew members. The snake guy laughed. It turned out he was a huge Edward Norton fan, and we weren't the first to make the connection. While the camera was rolling, he gave us some really good Norton imitations. And later, as I was editing his interview, I had this unsettling feeling that were I to encounter him at a bar or a grocery store — even years later — I would walk up to him all enthusiastic and ask how he's been … only to have him fearfully reel back, wondering who is this freak. Because, the truth is, thanks to the editing process, I'd spent loads more time with him that he spent with me. And I mean, hours.

I guess this is how it plays out when you subscribe to someone's blog. Especially when it's someone you've never met.

It's hard, at times, to keep the real world separate from the virtual world.

For some reason, the newest neighbor in my little triplex house has fled. And I never learned her name. So, once again, it's just me in this building. She'd mentioned something about a job offer in another city. I guess she took it. This situation allowed another opportunity for an unanticipated alarm clock to prod me from bed. Earlier in the week it was the street crews from the City of San Antonio. This time it was some outfit called Half Price Movers.

My neighbors, as well as those driving by, got a chance to see this woman's furniture while the movers were Tetrising her belongings into the most efficient configuration within the moving van. She had pretty good taste. I pity those poor thieves driving by who had to get a taste of what could have been, but too late. Burglar's remorse.

“Chet, slow it down, man.”

“Yeah, Jasper, I'm seeing it too.”

“Damn! Looks like she's moving out.”

“Fuck me, Aunt Fritzi! Is that a Tiffany lampshade?”

“Good eye, Chet. Close. It's Stueben — and it's sweet.”

“Should we make a grab?”

“You crazy? Those Half Price Movers are tough hombres. They'll fuck you up. Just drive, man.”

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She took her dryer with her. Dammit. However, the washing machine Alejandro and Lupita left behind for me is still working well enough. And actually, I prefer to hang my laundry out on the line.

So, this morning, as I waiting on the wash while catching up on Democracy Now via the internet, I heard a knock on my door. It was George Cisneros inviting me to Urban 15 for lunch. “It's just tacos, but we need to catch up.”

I never turn down lunch with the Cisneros. They brought me up to speed. There are definitely things in the works over on the southside. I don't know how much is ready for public disclosure, but I'm glad to see progress within the arts organizations in one of my favorite neighborhoods here in San
Antonio.

I was honored to be included, even peripherally, with this work.

But the main reason I was invited to lunch was for us all to talk about the best way to move the Josiah Youth Media Festival into its second year. The idea is to expand it. And to do that, we need to start early.

I keep trying to tell people that I'm not good at this sort of promotional crap. And I don't enjoy it. However, what makes this different, is that I believe in the work that George and Catherine are doing. They're wonderful people, and I value their friendship. I'll keep working with them if they see a reason to keep working with me.

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I now know my most recent former neighbor's name. She's didn't forward her mail, so I can peek at what's spilling out of her mailbox. Valerie. I knew it began with a V.

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This weekend I shot a Quinceañera. It reminded me of when I first video-taped a wedding. It took me a while to get the swing of things because I'd really not been to a wedding before (leastwise, not a church wedding), and as such was clueless what goes on, and when. Quinceañera? I treated it like a wedding — just pointed the camera on the most over-dressed girl who is getting the most attention. Isn't that also the key secret of the paparazzi?

At least it got me out of the house. I've been obsessively running through hours of video lectures on the TED.com site. People like Wade Davis, Jane Goodall, E. O. Wilson, Daniel Dennett, and their ilk. Two of my favorites were Erin McKean, a disarmingly witty lexicographer (editor in chief of The New Oxford American Dictionary) — and then there was James Howard Kunstler, author and social critic, whose talk, entitled, The Tragedy of Suburbia, viciously points out all the vapid, soulless nausea of contemporary trends in American architecture and city planning, such as suburbia, and other “places not worth caring about.” For those with slow internet connections, it appears that these short TED talks (each averaging 18 minutes) can also be accessed as audio files.

The Quinceañera didn't end until midnight. There was lots of nothing to do. Like shooting a wedding, pretty much. There's the ceremony. And later, the reception. The reception usually has a program of little, scattered events. But for the Quinceañera, like all those weddings I video-taped, the final two hours is nothing but people dancing to some lame DJ (but isn't that a redundancy?). The first hour or two is kind of fun. Video-taping people dancing is a good cover for introverted social cripples (such as myself). You really have to get in there with the folks, move around with them, and not step on anyone's feet. Because you're the video guy — hiding behind an exotic camera rig — no one notices that you're behaving like an ass, 'cause you're making them all stars. But after you gather, say, an hour of folks dancing, it doesn't really change. So, it's time to stop. And wait. Wait for the whole affair to end.

What makes weddings different (well, most of them) is the alcohol. Maybe some kids were sneaking in some cough medicine this weekend, but it was mainly the slices of heavily frosted cake passed out around ten that kept them dancing until midnight.

The people were wonderful, but I don't think I can do this sort of stuff any more. Ultimately, just like weddings, it involves me attending an event that I would never consider were it not presented as a job. And, really, I'm just not that driven by a buck. There was, for a time, an added component to the weddings. I was working for a local company. And there was always another video shooter at each gig. And often the company also provided the still photography. So we were there as a crew, and could more easily handle the down-time. For awhile I was actually fascinated by this subculture of the wedding industry. The veterans would be chummy with photogs from other companies. They also seemed to know all the local DJs. And often they were on first name terms with the pastors and priests of the local churches. Well, I think I managed to squeeze the fascination out of that peculiar industry after working in it — off and no — for about a year and a half. I did not want to become one of them.

There was a guy at the Quinceañera who I'd seen before. Well, not actually him, but his type … his tribe. It seems that every wedding (and perhaps Quinceañera) has a mentally handicapped relative who really loves to dance. I mean, when the music starts, these folks can't stand still. They are great. They help to shame others to come up and dance during those more boring songs.

On the drive home I stopped to snap a photo of this neon sign advertising an extermination company.

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Tonight I dropped by the Jump-Start Performance Company for the last performance of “On the Island.” I've drifted away from reading the San Antonio Current (our free weekly guide to the local arts and cultural events, as it seems to have lost its edge and its relevance (if, indeed, it ever had these qualities)). And so, I manage to keep on top of local events through San Antonio bloggers from within the arts scene, email blasts, flyers at local coffee houses, and word-of-mouth. In fact, I knew about this Jump-Start show from a postcard displayed at Jupiter Java on S. Alamo. So, yes, this sort of promotion does work. It didn't hurt that it was advertised as “written and performed by S. T. Shimi.” I'd seen Shimi at the Jump-Start's anniversary party at the beginning of the year. She did a short ariel dance piece. And she also served as one of the Mistresses of Ceremonies … in the guise of Nicole Richie.

I'd almost forgotten all about it when I got a call from Russ. He read something about the piece and was interested in going.

Monessa Esquival (Jump-Start house manager, and one half of the Methane Sisters) was taking tickets. It was dead in the Blue Star Arts complex. And there were only two other people in the audience when me and Russ arrived. But by the time the show began, the audience beefed up considerably.

Michael Verdi sat down in front of me. I mentioned that I thought he was living in San Francisco. He said he was spending a lot of time traveling back and forth between these two San cities.

The show begins with Shimi behind two falls of drapery. They hang down from over the stage as a single loose rope. When doing the aerial parts of the piece, she can climb up, using it as one rope or two; loop the drapery around herself to swing in suspended contortions; or she can open up the cloth and use it as a flowing counterpart to the poetic narrative piece.

The “island” is, of course, Guantanamo. But Shimi breaks that theme open so as to play with greater concepts of isolation, subjugation, and incarceration. She often returns to a major narrative thread which features a playwright whose work (and the performance of that work) has become inexplicably subjected to torture (or, euphemistically, if you must, “stress positions”) … all played out to an audience of none. Much like our country's torture chambers that apparently don't exist. That tree falling in an uninhabited forest, making no sound.

It was a very powerful piece. Shimi's athletic, graceful, and a great writer. I'm always impressed with one-person shows, because the performer is burdened with such a mountain of material. Shimi only faltered on one line. And that, only barely. She was climbing a bolt of turquoise Rayon at the time, as I recall.

I've said it before, the Jump-Start is the only San Antonio theater that consistently programs real art. Sad for San Antonio, but great for Jump-Start.

As I am currently on sabbatical from the work-a-day world, I certainly did not set my alarm clock to wake me Tuesday morning. But sleeping late was not an option. The city of San Antonio decided that the best time to begin resurfacing the 700 block of E. Guenther was seven a.m. The jack hammers (as in the plural) tried with a sad lack of success to harmonize along side the heavy equipment which were sounding off with those insane robot beeps when traveling in reverse (which, from under my pillow, seemed to be the only direction in which they moved).

I'm assuming the plan is to, in a day or week or so (again, at the crack of dawn), lay down a fresh new surface. But I quite like the old road they've exposed. Hardly a rustic hardwood floor fortuitously revealed, but, nonetheless, a nice cement, charmingly battered and grooved by the diesel powered exfoliating devices. They've also rid the street of those damned speed-bumps (I know I shouldn't gush overmuch, as I suspect they will be replaced in good time).

Strange. I had a dream that previous night that my driveway had been resurfaced in black asphalt. It was late, when I walked outside in my dream. There was a full moon overhead. No cars in the drive. No gazebo. No detritus from the pecan tree. The bamboo back at the fence-line was still there, thick and primordial, no doubt hiding tigers or clowns or other typically sinister inhabitants of the dream world.

But maybe the dream wasn't really so strange and prophetic. Monday afternoon, a city worker wearing a florescent yellow vest canvassed my street, placing notices on the door of each house. The fellow paused on my sidewalk to pick up several of my crop of wind-fallen pecans. He had delivered a letter from Brenda Ann Garza, Pavement Engineering Projects Officer with the Public Works Department. Now, I've never met Brenda, but I'll give the benefit of the doubt and assume she runs a pretty slick operation down at the PWD. I was notified to expect the appearance of heavy machinery at any time between 7 am to 7 pm during a ten day period (beginning the very next DAY!), and as such, no cars could be parked on the street during those times. There were no threats, nor were there hints as what might be expected by the scofflaws. Not that I care. I never park on the street. But it seems that this message from Brenda of the PWD, made its way into my subconscious.

Also, the last major road work in this neighborhood was just around the corner from my house on the quiet little block of Constance Street. It was given a smooth, unblemished surface, as dark and dense as blackberry fruit leather. And I was dutifully impressed on one of those nights when I found myself conscripted into walking my neighbor's dog. It was absolutely black, a ribbon of an abyss, so that looking down as you walked was a bit unsettling. And the sky, when you looked up, was, by comparison, bright and lively, with the clouds smearing their lazy gauze across the disk of the moon. Ah, yes, the unnatural perfection of a paved surface. No wonder it made its way into the lower compartments of my brain, readied to be accessed when needed. Or, on a different metaphoric tack (and here I paraphrase from Macbeth), waiting for the pillows to discharge their secrets.

Thankfully the Tuesday morning cacophony was but a short-lived irritant.

I was able to escape the racket. Deborah called and invited me to breakfast. I met up with her and Ramon. I realized I hadn't seen Deborah since her very successful photo show she had shared with Ramin at the UTSA downtown campus. They both sold quite a few pieces.

Deborah is teaching a couple of Humanities classes at Northwest Vista (one of the local community colleges); curating and promoting shows at Bihl Haus Arts (a paying gig, I believe); and, off and on, selling her art. She seems to be doing pretty well.

Ramon is working on art for a few up-coming group shows. And he mentioned something about working on a play. He also continues to research and create coats of arms for Spanish surnames — works of art in watercolor. This is his life in retirement.

When they asked what I was involved in, I just sputtered something about November being national novel writing month, and I'd be doing one of those.

It made me wince, as I realized how I really have no plans. Just a novel … to be written for fun ….

I just got on to the www.nanowrimo.org site and signed up. The website is perplexing and far from user-friendly. Besides, it is torturously sluggish to navigate the forums. I managed to get to the San Antonio section. Oh, sweet fuck! What a bunch of self-involved wankers! Can there be anything more horrendous than listening to a writer talk about his or her novel or screenplay? Perhaps being waterboarded at Guantanamo. Perhaps.

Yes, I understand that some of the members of the site are naive teens or Christian housewives abuzz with thoughts of finally getting around to that romance novel … but, really, people. Really.

And here I'd put a lengthy dissertation on the brilliant novel I plan to write in the month of November. But my snarky bitchery above would make me come across as a hypocritical blowhard.

As if I gave a flip.

On the website's forums it appears that genera writing is king for this crowd. This would be the literary equivalent to calling frozen dinners or sugar frosted breakfast cereals food. In point of fact, they are no such thing.

But I'm beginning to realize that such aesthetic snobbery may well place me in the pariah box.

And so, on to the self-promotion section. My November novel, “The Pariah Box,” is a taut medical legal thriller about an alcoholic attorney who comes to the aid of his ex-wife, a gerontologist, who is being investigated for the apparent mercy killing of several silent screen-era nonagenarian film stars.

Wait wait wait. No. What I really want to write is a sweeping tale of lust and betrayal in Oliver Cromwell's court, where, Lila, a virginal handmaiden, with a terrible secret, finds herself protecting the Earl of Manchester's wayward stableboy who holds the future of–

Whoa! Scratch that! It couldn't be clearer. The direction is, of course, science fiction. Here we go. The space cruiser Epsilon Fantastique has made a diversion to to an asteroid in the Bellatrix system to replenish it's stockpiles of inflatons needed to fuel the scalar field drive. And there the octogenarian crew fall afoul to the virginal handmaidens of the serpent overlord by the name of–

Ah, fuck it. I'll just play it by ear.

I spent a three day weekend at the Austin Film Festival. This yearly event is often eclipsed by South by Southwest. If my quickie “research” via Google can be trusted, the film component of SXSW began the same year as the AFF. 1994. What sets the AFF apart, is that it's principally a screenwriter festival. Many of the panelists, attendees, and featured guests are not likely to be known by general moviegoers. However, they make it a point to have at least one big name to slap onto the promotional materials. This year it was Oliver Stone … noted for such stellar screenplays such as Conan the Barbarian and The Hand.

The best thing about the festival is that it's headquartered in the 19th century Driscoll Hotel. The swankiest edifice on 6th Street. The entrance off 7th Street through the Driscoll Bar reminds you how grand and eccentric some Texans used to be, with one boot in a cow pie, and the other on an immaculate carpet of a Swiss bank. The millionaire shit-kicker is now little more than a guise the monstrously well-to-do put on for BBQ photo-ops. Our ranching barons and oil moguls have always flaunted their humble roots. In fact, Stanley Marcus, of Neiman-Marcus fame, demanded that all his employees treat every person with the same degree of polite deference — the woman in the blouse with the frayed cuffs might be their biggest customer who just came off the Lear Jet from her west Texas ranch. This disinclination of Texans to dress up just because they're rich, is now endemic throughout this country. And so, in the 21st century, that guy entering the Driscoll Bar in torn jeans, sandals, and a flannel shirt worn open over a faded t-shirt bearing some cryptic logo, may well be a Hollywood power-broker just off the redeye from LAX — it could well be that he will close a seven figure deal before he checks out … or maybe he's just some UT student bar-hopping on 6th Street who really needs to use the can. As Ricardo Montalban, in the role of Mr. Roarke, insisted of his underlings: “Smiles, everyone. Smiles!” 'Cause, well, you never know.

The AFF isn't for the squeamish. It's too expensive for the squeamish. But this year (like the other time I visited, maybe four years ago), I rode on Pete's coat-tails. This time around, he'd submitted a festival promo trailer. And he won. The festival folks presented him with a full festival pass. In fact, I believe, 4 festival passes. He gave me one. I could hardly say no.

So, we pushed our way into the Driscoll Bar last Friday a bit before noon. We stepped into the cozy gloom of dark wood, deep carpet, and ornately stamped brass-work on the ceiling. It's a long space with the semi-circular bar near the doors, a few tables scattered about, and as you walk the length, you pass a grand piano with bar stools surrounding it, and then comes about a dozen huge leather and cowhide sofas, facing one another two by two with low tables between. Then you come to a huge wooden railing where the lobby opens up, and you find yourself looking into a large, airy space busy with immaculately dressed hotel employees and the greater crush of slovenly conventioneers.

We descended into the lobby and turned into a side room and signed in for the festival. (We didn't register at the hotel — we'd rented a cheap motel a few miles away.)

I attended several panels. Presently, they are all merging together in my head. Maybe after a week or so, I'll process it all. Separate the useful stuff from the gassy chin music. I also watched a few blocks of short films, as well as a couple of features. About half great, half awful.

I put in an appearance at some parties. Hit a few places for free eats. Pretty much a fun time.

It's hard for me to chastise my San Antonio film colleagues for not showing. If I didn't have the free all access Pete Barnstrom pass, I'd certainly not have gone. But, still, I saw some familiar faces.

Janet Vasquez was in line with a friend for a screening at the Hideout. I saw Konise Millender at a couple of panels. Russ Ansley and Dago Patlan were there Saturday with their film students from Harlandale high school — and they returned Sunday, with a second batch of students. Modrea Mitchell-Reichert was all over the place. She's pretty serious about writing for the stage as well as film. Also, I kept bumping into Richard Dane Scott. He wrote the excellent script for Operation Hitman. Beyond his obvious talent, he's working hard and in a methodical manner to reach the point where he can make a living working as a screenwriter. My money's on Richard. Also, I saw Drew Mayer-Oakes on Saturday. We leafed through the schedule of screenings and exchanged notes on what we thought might be worth seeing. Tim Caswell dropped by to talk to Pete. It was great to see him again. Tim's a filmmaker, but he also created The OUTer Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction / Fantasy Film Festival. I saw Lisa McWilliams of the Mobile Film School on Saturday and Sunday. I'm immensely enamored of the concept of the Mobile Film School, where a group of film professionals with the requisite equipment travel anywhere to provide an intense film class to under-served school districts. Where do I sign up? It doesn't hurt that their first project — and keep in mind they were working with high school kids whose school had no film department — is winning and placing at festivals, and it damn well should: In a Place Like This as a slick and moving short documentary. I first met Lisa while helping to run the Josiah Youth Media Festival (where the MFS's In a Place Like This won best of show). That's also where I met Remington Dewan. At the AFF, I saw him all three days. His short film, First Day at the Firm (which won best narrative film at Josiah), was selected to play at the AFF. He took advantage of his festival pass, attending as many panels as he could manage. He's still just a kid, and I forget this at times; but he reminds me when he begins to explain how he must schedule his shooting, editing, and festival time around his school work. He's sure to be going places, and clearly he has a wonderful and supportive family.

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I had a couple quick sightings of Oliver Stone. He was wearing a white jacket, and were it not for his retinue of bootlicks, one might have been excused confusing him for a waiter. During one of his perambulations through the Driscoll lobby, I whipped out my camera. But he moved too fast for my puny attempts as paparazzo.

Of course, if I really gave a toss about the man, I'd have attended one of the events featuring him. (That sounds harsh. I will readily admit to being a fan of two or three of his films.)

My blurry photo of Ollie, of which I will spare my gentle readers, was snapped while I was hanging out with a contingent of instructors from two of San Antonio's high school film programs.

Here we have Dago, inexplicably giving Konise what appears to be a Cub Scout salute. Russ looks on bemused (and no doubt damn glad to be out of the HISD panel truck he had driven all the way from San Antonio to Austin, packed with hormonal teens).

Some of the Harlandale kids are milling around in the back.

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The Sunday morning “Hair of the Dog Brunch” was held at Ranch 616, a low-key hipster eatery at the intersection of Nueces and 6th Street. It sports a pleasantly hideous snake sign design by the inimitable Bob “Daddy-O” Wade. I guess that sort of forced kitsch has worn thin on me. Instead of snapping a photo of Wade's work, I took a picture of the other side of the building.

Sadly frog legs were not an option at the buffet-style brunch. But I will give thumbs-up to what they were serving. The papas rancheros and scrambled eggs were tasty enough, but once you ladled on the tomatillo salsa, it was well worth the hike out from the Driscoll.

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There are all sorts of alcoves, patios, and balconies throughout the Driscoll if you need to escape the surging conflux. And, let me tell you, the level of unabashed narcissism projected by screenwriters (the successful as well as the hopeful) was simply staggering.

Here's a view off one of the Driscoll's balconies, looking off toward one of the modern hotels patronized by rubes and the aesthetically clueless.

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The festival sprawled all over town. There were screenings at seven different venues. Some distant enough to necessitate free shuttle buses out from the Driscoll. Also, some of the panels were held across the street from the Driscoll at another swank downtown hotel, the Stephen F. Austin.

As me and Pete were walking past one of the small ballrooms of the SFA Hotel, which at that moment was not being used, Pete wandered inside. He started dicking around with the PA system. Apparently the microphones were still switched on. I entered and took a few action shots of him addressing the crowd on the topic of … um, perhaps it was “Expletives in Your Logline: Hindrance or Fucking Asset?”

The festival-goers didn't know what they were missing.

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Over the weekend I received a call from my sister. She had been contacted by a fellow book dealer we had met at the Fort Worth Book Show. He was interested in one of my more pricey items.

I've sent it to him this afternoon on approval. If all goes well, I will find myself with a hefty windfall — one of those life-changing events that can happen to the impoverished when significant cash comes our way.

I'll just have to wait and see.

And maybe some day those folks who run the 48 Hour Film thing will send me my payment for the work which generated my last ulcer. I mean, hey, it only seems fair.

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I've been listening to LastFM.com tonight. You type in a specific artist, and you can listen to a generated playlist of similar music. An hour ago I typed in Ed Hall. They were a great Texas post-punk band. Much of the music that has been playing off their name tonight has been from some of their label-mates off of the Trance Syndicate label. But I wasn't prepared for the Bad Livers (a wonderful Texas bluegrass punk band) doing a great bluegrass rendition of Iggy Pop's Lust For Life, with banjo and fiddle in lieu of a guitar solo … and yet it rocks! I really should go out and buy every damn Bad Livers CD!

Outside the wind is picking up. Autumn is on the way, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I feel robbed of a proper Texas summer because of the endless cool and wet weather. Oh, well. Best to embrace the coming season. No one likes a whiner. The heavy atypical rains have created a massive crop of pecans loading down the tree over my drive. And as the autumnal cool front pushes presumptuously into town, the pecan tree can't help but to release some of the under-ripe pecans weighting down the branches. They've been clattering down all night onto the tin roof of my house, as well as onto the steel roof of my pickup truck.

My neighbors are aware of the coming holiday. They are festooning their homes from mailbox to satellite dish with strings of orange lights, fiber glass spider webs, and ginormous pumpkins not yet carved into the sorts of apocalyptic jack-o-lanterns certain to put to shame those lesser contraptions which will grace the stoops of lesser homes in lesser neighborhoods. I live in ground zero of San Antonio Halloween insanity. This is where the poor kids commute for the best candy and the best decorated homes. It's crazy in the King William neighborhood during Halloween. And now that Cat, my Halloween friend, is married and living in another city far far away, I might have to refrain from the festivities.

But maybe not. I still have two weeks to decide.

Dar and I have returned to our weekly hikes. We got sidetracked by film events that we both became enmeshed in promoting. The other week it was up at McAllister Park, on her side of town. Wednesday it was the Mission Trail, down in my realm.

It's a time to bitch and commiserate and generally gossip about the folks we both know (chiefly in the local film world). I think it's finally sinking in. Dar's realizing what a potential monster she created in the SAL Film Festival. Its hugely successful first year has set into motion high expectations for the next year. This also means that she has the opportunity to solicit more and larger donations. I hope that all of the emerging independent filmmakers in San Antonio understand that for Dar this is a labor of love. This endeavor (at least in its current incarnation) is far from a cash cow. She passed all the funding dollars into the cash prizes; and the ticket sales were used to pay for the venue — the very swanky Aztec don't come cheap, but for all those who attended the event, there can be no dispute that it was the perfect place to showcase some of the finest San Antonio short films. And the thought that the sophomore year of SAL will be on a grander scale, with more and larger cash prizes, well, I can only hope that all of us in the San Antonio film community understand the full implication. This is a film festival for us, done right.

And as me and Dar were dodging the cyclists zipping by on the Mission Trail, it occurred to me that 2007 witnessed the birth of two crucial local film festivals. SAL and the Josiah Youth Media Festival. It's rare to find small film festivals (especially in their early years) offering sizable cash prizes. These two festivals each provided prizes totaling a thousand dollars. And in their first year. (Actually, Josiah provided the “cash” in the form of lines of credit at B & H, the premiere online source of film and video supplies.) This is significant. For those with a working knowledge of how film festivals work (and there are literally hundreds in this country alone), it's clear why so many don't offer cash prizes. Film festivals are damn expensive to run. And most of them pay staff. But to see tiny operations like SAL and Josiah manage to reward struggling artists with the most useful form of recognition — money — is a remarkable thing. What I'm getting at is that film festivals are often crass moneymaking operations that prey upon desperate filmmakers, who often pony up festival fee after festival fee in hope of exposure. Rarely are their films even deemed worthy enough to screen in the festival. But SAL charges no submission fee. And Josiah only charges 5 bucks. I'm proud to have been involved, in some degree or another, with both of these festivals.

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I met with Michael Druck that Wednesday afternoon at Jupiter Java and Jazz, on S. Alamo, pretty much in my neighborhood. The coffee there is phenomenal. I had a truly kickass latte, constructed by co-owner Vanessa. She and her husband John were gracious enough not to kick us out. As me and Druck were leaving, I realized we'd stayed there an hour after closing. John dismissed my apologies. “Oh, don't worry. I'm still cleaning up.”

The reason I was meeting with Druck was that he was soliciting feedback concerning the feature he and Bryan Ortiz produced, Doctor “S” Battles the Sex Crazed Reefer Zombies. I was a bit uncomfortable giving critical feedback. I knew that Bryan was still working on adding to the edit, especially the audio. I've seen three of Bryan's short films, and I felt fairly confident on what elements he would fix. I made a few suggestions to Michael. Ultimately I think the piece has the potential to find distribution through the avenues that Michael and Bryan have already considered … such as Troma Entertainment. It's good to see that they are sticking with things. Michael is the guy you want on your team. Bryan is very lucky to have him as a producer. Not that I want to diminish Bryan as a filmmaker. He might be very young (as is Michael), but his understanding of visual story-telling is quite advanced.

I expect only success after success from Bryan and Michael's Film Classics Productions. I only hope that once they finish this corny, campy feature, that they stop doing what I refer to as “intentionally bad” films. As a director/producer team, they are better than that. Mark my words, seven years from now they'll both be lounging in their Malibu mansions while I'm hustling drinks with Three-card Monte in a seedy suburb of Saltillo.

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Last Tuesday night I attended the San Antonio Film Commission's Film Forum. It's a monthly affair. Last year it was held in the summer. But this year, it started late, in August. I really hope Drew manages to keep it running year round.

This October forum was all about audio in film. Great. We need as much info as possible. Too many zero-budget films have miserable sound.

The panel, moderated by Nikki Young of PrimaDonna Productions, included Frederico Chavez-Blanco, Roland Perez, Gerard Bustos, AJ Garces, and Rodolfo Fernandez. I only knew the last two gents, so it was a great opportunity to listen to some new voices.

Much of what was covered I already knew. Gerard had some useful and pragmatic information. He seemed to be a well-rounded generalist. He's a camera guy as well as a sound guy. He cleared up a couple of misconceptions I had.

However there was a bit more hot air than I would have cared for as these experts in a narrow field of production began to pontificate. It's hard to hold it against them. They were just geeking out to an audience who had a fighting chance of understanding their arcane lingo. But there was way too much chatter about preferred hardware and software, and not enough explication on the methods to get the best audio with the tools you already have. This sort of equipment fetishism wastes everyone's time.

Also, I would have liked to hear more information about Foley work and ADR.

But, really, it was great having a panel of five sound specialists talk for an hour and a half.

The attendance could have been better. But it was nice to see Scott Greenberg. I don't think I've seen him in a year. Also, Kevin Williams was there — Rodolfo handled all the sound work on his feature film, Sandwich. And Hector Machado, one of this city's great actors, showed up. As did the beautiful and brilliant Laura Evans. Sometimes I think that our actors are more interested in the local film scene than our filmmakers.

I should point out that Rick Lopez and Russ Ansley were in the audience. Chadd Green, of PrimaDonna, was running the front of the house. And Lee Hurtado was al over the place, getting photos of the event. There were probably a couple of folks I forgot. And then there was the scattering of folks I didn't know. But where were the three or four dozen San Antonio filmmakers who I do know of?

Guys … you gotta get out and meet one another.

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My little Guenther Street house is partitioned into three apartments. The property manager is obviously asking way too much, because the other two places had been empty for months. However, recently, one has been rented. The smallest, though, is still waiting, lonely and unloved. I feel the pain. But I wonder if the woman who rented the apartment on the north side of my building, scant weeks ago, is still enamored of the apartment she once called charming. She had gone to considerable length to assemble a canvas-topped gazebo at the end of the long driveway we both share. Last week, when I returned from a long day working for the Company, I nosed my truck into the drive. I noticed that what had previously served as a dense bamboo privacy fence between the rear or my house and the rear of the house on the next street over had been savagely eradicated. A once lovely lush green wall was now a naked hurricane fence — just wires and poles — looking into a lifeless backyard of a paint-chipped bungalow … obviously recently bought and in the midst of renovation before the big investment resale.

I guess I'll one day get used to this. But what most irritated me was that I had written a short story where that stand of bamboo was an important plot point. There was supposed to be a wonderful garden of loquat trees and ferns and a fucking swimming pool hidden behind the wall of bamboo. But all I see now is a sad little backyard with a refrigerator on its side and a cracked and lopsided birdbath.

One of the great problems of augmenting the world around you into a fictionalized form, is that reality will be proved to be so slight and anemic, whereas imagination will offer color and grandeur. Of course the exceptions occasionally present themselves, and a real life event unfolds that could never have been imagined … such as Klaus Nomi, quantum gravity, and the Monte Cristo sandwich.

I believe the acme of social decadence is when a deep fried sandwich is universally embraced.

You must fight the down-turn of society. Do not fry that sandwich!

My sister was wondering if we should attend the Fort Worth Book Show (in our alternate guise of the Aldredge Book Store (actually, she's been the one continuing the family business as an on-line entity, and I'm just occasional back-up)). I hemmed and hawed, putting things off until the last minute. I finally said, yes. Hauling inventory to a trade show can be a major pain, and I knew she'd not do it if I didn't agree to help out. We both are (perennially) strapped for cash, so we decided to gamble.

I drove up Friday morning. Probably I should have contacted the friends I still have (or hope I still have) in Dallas, to arrange some quality time. But I've not been feeling very sociable lately. Nonetheless, I loaded up about 125 “collectable” books (chiefly on Texas history) and pointed my Ford F-150 north — I entered the Interstate flow of drunken jackasses who were headed to the Texas / OU Weekend. For those who aren't cognizant of the north Texas folkways, the Texas / OU Weekend is when two college football teams (University of Texas, in Austin, and the University of Oklahoma, in Norman), along with boozy boosters from these two worthless institutions, descend upon Dallas, a neutral town which lies at the midpoint between the two campuses. They play their big yearly game in the Cotton Bowl during the State Fair of Texas. Dallasites, throughout the generations, have hunkered down, shuttered themselves inside, and, like Kansas farmers waiting out a tornado or a locust swarm in the deepest recesses of their root cellars, would only cautiously emerge on Sunday morning to assess the damage, count up the dead and the outrages committed against their young’uns foolish enough to be abroad during the spirited and unfocused bacchanal. What a way to pimp a city. The local news outlets play it up all fiscally fluorescent with the smiley faces wearing dollar signs for eyes by gushing that this pestilence generates over 17 million dollars into the local economy. Lovely. Thumbs up for the sports industrial complex — a big foam thumb.

Add Columbus Day to the mix to provided a three day weekend, and was it any wonder that on my morning drive to Dallas, I had to navigate three major accidents? It did make the drive entertaining. There were some very creative lane-changing strategies involving staccato horn-blasts and extended digits.

I'm not so irrational as to propose extermination for sports fans. That's just nuts. But I do feel a certain affinity with British 19th century jurisprudence. They managed their social undesirables via “transportation.” Australia's fairly well settled. And the Moon and Mars is still a bit in the future. One day … ah, one day. Currently, Antarctica seems the perfect place. Just set up a guacamole and beer pipeline along the sea floor of the Drake Passage, and make sure that a stable satellite feed of ESPN can be secured year-round to the plasma TVs of the dormitory Quonset huts at Faraday Station. And they can probably do something useful as they sit there watching their sports. Perhaps manufacturing tube socks. Or maybe spell-checking transcripts of congressional hearings. Probably they can never be made whole enough to enter into the complex society of the 21st century. But they can still provide a service, even if it is meager.

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An Antiquarian Book Show (or, Book Fair, as they might say back East) is far from the snooty affair one might imagine. Especially in Texas. Some of our bibliophiles hail from regions such as Balch Springs and White Settlement where the citizens have only recently learned to walk erect, or so my sources insist. But we welcome their custom and commerce, as well as the inbred older-monied folks from the magnolia ghettos of the 75205 postal code within Dallas County. As for the book dealers, all we need is enough to rent a table on which to display our choicest items. Hardly the recipe for elitism.

The sad fact is that the antiquarian book market is just shy of flat-lining. In the good old days, it was unheard to not cover your overheard for the show. But now, we're all gambling. You're just as likely to make a profit as to incur a loss.

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For the last decade or so, the Fort Worth Book Show has been held in the wonderful deco-styled Will Rogers Complex. This charming architectural gem was built for the Texas Centennial in 1936. (The State Fair grounds in Dallas, a similarly deco-styled project on a much more massive scale, was also created to help celebrate the state's centennial.)

During a lull at the book show, I strolled around the grounds. This is where they celebrate the annual Southwestern Exposition and Livestock Show — formerly the Texas Fat Stock Show. The Fort Worth fat stock show isn't until January, but there was still a critter-related event: they were having a miniature horse show just across a side street in one of the livestock buildings. These are huge buildings with pens for cattle, sheep, and swine. I missed out on those little horses. But, over in Cattle Barn #1, the weekly flea market was in progress. Treasures amide the manure.

Next I headed over to the Will Rogers Auditorium. Well, actually it's three attached buildings: the Will Rogers Auditorium, Coliseum, and Pioneer Tower. The tower is in the middle and is visible for miles around.

There was nothing going on inside these buildings, but I tried the door into the tower building. Surprisingly, it opened. I'd forgotten how laid back it is in Fort Worth. I wandered around and snapped some pictures.

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By the second (and final) day of the book show, it was clear that we would do okay, but nothing to get too excited about. Too bad. Both me and Paula had each brought a personal prize book, because we need money more than we need books, no matter how personally valuable they might be. Neither book sold. A mixed blessing, I guess.

Here are two of my favorite book-dealers, Dennis and Dennis of First Folio in Paris, Tennessee.

It was nice to see many of these people from my previous life in the book business. But the ranks are thinning every year. Back in April of this year we lost Tom Munnerlyn, a respected and beloved fellow bookman. It's really the passing of an era.