Click here to read a new short piece I read recently at the Gemini Ink monthly free workshop.

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http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2007/08/28/just-enough-time-for-gin-and-tonics/

I've had a few people asking me what's next for me.  These questions strike me as ambiguous, though I'm sure the curious friend or acquaintance thinks he or she has asked a straightforward and legitimate question.  I see there to be two interpretations.  A.) “What is Erik's next production gig?”  (And as much as I cringe at the notion that running film festivals is “production work” — because the work involved is absolutely anathema to creativity — it is still a fair question.)  Or, B.)  “What is Erik's next scheme to manage to pay his bills?”

As I see no production gig on the horizon wagging cash my way, the only pertinent interpretation is the latter — question B.

Actually, I received a phone call yesterday morning from a very pleasant robot.  The pre-recorded voice announced that the Company needed me for a temp job for three weeks in September.  The Company is where I pick up occasional cash scoring standardized tests.  I haven't pursued work with them since the first in my 2007 trifecta of (paid) film event jobs went into high gear back in May.  I turned my back on the height of the summer scoring season to involve myself in more interesting work … though these film events certainly paid less than the Company's $9 per hour.

And so I will have another month of financial cushionary, thanks to the ISDs nationwide “teaching to the test,” and thus destroying yet another generation of young people who we should be better preparing to save this planet we've fucked up.

But I digress.

Maybe October I'll take some time off to head out to West Texas or New Mexico.  I'm not sure if me and the other two members of Proyecto Locos will be visiting San Miguel de Allende for the Dia de los Muertos celebrations (that would fall on November 2nd).  Need to get together with Deborah and Ramon and sound them out.  However, that might mess up my November which, if you have not yet marked your calendars, is National Novel Writing Month.  I think I'll give it a try this year.  One month to hammer out a 50,000 word minimum novel (which is pretty slight for a novel — but whatcha expect for a month's turnaround?).  But if it comes down to a trip to Mexico, or writing a novel in a month, I'll always take Mexico.  Of course, I really don't see why I can't do both.  Maybe I'll head down to San Miguel in November and write a novel down there.  I've already decided on the cyber cafe (the G-Spot) in which I'll work.  Maybe I should stop kidding about this and find out how to make it a reality.

I could petition sponsors from among my friends, family, and the rabid internet fanbase of this blog.  It'd be like one of those disease marathons for a cure, but the funds, unfortunately, wouldn't be going to doe-eyed youngsters in electric wheelchairs or complicated body braces … just to me, Erik Bosse, to defray the cost of a room at a rustic colonial period pension and the daily infusions of huevos rancheros and tortas milanesa and cafe con leche necessary to fuel the great work.

Please, can you dig deep to help this middle-aged lay-about continue his irresponsible existence in an exotic locale?

The BIG DAY … una vez más. If Tuesday's 48 Hour Film Project wasn't hairy enough, you might want to revisit it with the 48 Hour Film Project “Best of” Screening & Awards Ceremony. I know I did.

I spent today folding the last of the programs. I bought 13 gift bags and filled them with the modicum of swag I had. I even drove to Wal-Mart (yes, fucking Wal-Mart) to buy some frames for all the awards I'd printed up. 19 awards. 19 frames. Add the gift bags, and it seems I'm burdening myself with some serious over-head which will cut into my meager profit of the whole endeavor. But, really, I would feel like a royal piker if I just handed out limp printed paper — “Here ya go, sport, try not to wrinkle it.”

Carlos and Adrian came by to help me with the set-up for the event. I'm glad Carlos was able to see some of the 48 films. He wasn't able to make the screening on Tuesday because he was on set, I believe, in Austin. Unfortunately Carlos' film didn't make the audience's cut to move on to tonight's screening, but he decided to show up to see what his peers were up to.

We got to Urban-15 at about 5:30. I knew that George was inside involved with a board meeting, or something important like that. So we waited until someone came out. After five minutes Catherine and her son Antonio drove up. The meeting was going on in the basement, so we started setting things up in the sanctuary (aka, the performance space), and the Yellow Room (aka the Mirror Room) — the Yellow Room is where Urban-15 sets up A/V equipment for people in wheelchairs; one day they hope to get an elevator, but this is the best they can do at the present.

As I was setting up the box office area, Amy showed up. She wanted to volunteer her son, Douglas. He's pretty young, but Amy wants to get him involved volunteering in arts projects to help get him into NESA (one of the arts magnets in San Antonio). They turned out to be indispensable working the front of the house. I put Adrian upstairs tearing tickets and passing out programs. Carlos helped out doing whatever needed to be done at any given moment. Like any good filmmaker, he's flexible and can move seamlessly from task to task.

Around 6:30 things were getting fairly intense. The space was filling up fast. Catherine was asking if I thought we should move the plastic adirondack chairs up into the orchestra pit. I said yes. And at that moment Travis arrived. He asked what he could go to help. I turned him over to Catherine.

And then my Masters of Ceremony showed up. Jade Esteban Estrada. “Gay Latin Icon” is, I believe, how some reviewer designated him. His own website (www.getjaded.com) is less effusive: “Jade Esteban Estrada, the Master Entertainer.” I'm willing to agree with both. But there can be no dispute that the guy looks great in a tux. We went into the upstairs lobby and talked over the night's agenda. He'd already researched the whole history of the 48 Hour Film Project. Wow. He certainly came prepared!

George was busy patching a microphone into the sound system for Jade. I took Carlos over to the video player and soundboard and let him run tech.

When I mentioned the awards certificates, Jade asked to see them. He didn't care that I had them in an ugly blue plastic storage bin. I offered to stack them on the stage. He said that would be much better. When he wondered if he would have an assistant to help with the certificates, I muttered something about how I could do it. Jade, ever the consummate professional, didn't skip a beat. “Perhaps there's some glamorous person in the audience we could ask.” I agreed with him. No one wants to see or hear me. “You know many of the beautiful extroverts in this room, Jade,” I said. “Think of who would be good.”

“Well, I think I saw Vanessa Reyes around here somewhere….”

“Great,” I said. “She's gorgeous and engaging.”

“There she is,” Jade said. “But, oh, she's wearing blue.”

I had no idea what he meant by that. “But blue is good. Let's ask her — she'll be a hit. What's not to love? Just look at her!”

We asked, and Vanessa agreed.

I had to rush away because we were getting too many people coming in. I began cautioning the people lining up that it might be standing room only.

The full audience number was probably 140. It did indeed become standing room only. At 7:30, when the screening was officially to begin, we shut the doors with a “Sold Out” sign outside.

When Jade began doing his thing, it all smoothed out. He's a truly gifted performer. Intuitive, charismatic, and eminently watchable.

The night would have given me a fresh ulcer were it not for Jade controlling the audience, Amy running the box-office, and Carlos handling the video / audio. I can't thank those guys enough!

We broke for an intermission midpoint. And like most every other Urban-15 event, the audience was invited to the basement space for complementary aguas frescas, which are always deliciously designed by George Cisneros.

After the break we had some drawing for door prizes. And then the second half of the films began.

And just like the Tuesday screening, I was nervously pacing about. I nosed around trying to see how I could be of use.

Eventually the films ended. And Jade began to do his stuff again. I only wish we could have given him a spotlight.

I took loads of bad photos of the event. Lee was busy snapping away as well. If it's okay with him, I'll post some of his photos on a later blog.

My favorite photo ops have to be iChingao Productions (these kids are pumped and a little crazy — they are also damn good filmmakers); Fat Bird Productions (students from Saint Mary's Hall with the help of their teacher, Carol Parker, who is not just the director of this piece, but also gives us a very cute and quirky performance as the antagonist of the piece); and Princess (three filmmakers from Brackenridge High School — all guys — who did a wonderful meditation of growing up that swept the audience awards of group B). I guess I like these three teams because I met all these kids at the Josiah Youth Media Festival earlier in the summer. They might be kids, but they are serious about what they are doing.

After all the awards were handed out, I wandered around shaking hands when people offered. And I made sure that those people who were still hanging around who I felt I could ask to help with the clean up were roped into a quick shut down of the event. Mostly we were moving chairs down to the basement. Carlos, Adrian, Pete, Marcus, and Antonio moved damn fast. Seven minutes, I'm guessing, and we were all ready to pour out a celebratory bottle of wine and toast the success of the night.

Congratulations to all those involved — filmmakers, crew, actors, sponsors, audiences members, the helpful folks in the local media, and the volunteers. I take all responsibilities for the rough edges in this first year of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project, and I want to thank all of you for those very frequent moments when this whole production moved smoothly.

Let's to it again next year!

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Here are the awards presented:

Best Film Audience Award Group A: Dating Danielle
Best Film Audience Award Group B: Golden Birthday
Best Costumes was a tie: Trick or Tweet; No Man's Land.
Best Musical Score: Last Chance
Best Special Effects: Golden Birthday
Best Graphics: Dream Job
Best Use of Line of Dialogue: Dating Danielle
Best Use of Prop: Trick or Tweet
Best Use of Character: Dead Man's Hand
Best Sound Design: Cat of the Month
Best Cinematography: No Man's Land
Best Acting: Cat of the Month
Best Editing: Reflection
Best Writing was a tie: Dating Danielle; Blinding
Best Directing: Last ChanceBest
Best Film: Reflections

Friday turned out to be a long day working towards the final 48 Hour Film Project event — the Awards Ceremony. I printed up the programs, got the DVD mastered, printed the certificates, and hauled 96 chairs up two flights of stairs (with the aid of Pete, who was conscripted at the last minute). I dropped by Drew's office downtown and picked up some freebies to hand out — some things cluttering up the San Antonio Film Commission's offices.

I was at Urban-15, using their copy machine, until nine Friday night. George and Cat had left a couple hours earlier to pick up their son at the airport. I should point out, again, that I do not believe in ghosts. But I do possess a very active imagination, and am as susceptible as anyone, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are a fairly big thing in San Antonio. Growing up in Dallas, I heard my share of local urban legends involving ghosts. But rarely did I meet anyone who had claimed to have seen a ghost. In San Antonio I know quite a few folks who readily admit to having seen ghosts. Let me pause for a few seconds and count who comes to mind. (Fifteen seconds later.) I just came up with eight people. And with all the talk around Urban-15 about their ghosts — the present benign entities, and the raucous ones that George said had been exercised a few years back — it should not have surprised me when, just Wednesday, I was working in the basement on a project, and I realized that I needed a file off Catherine's computer. I wandered about the rambling property and I couldn't find anyone. It appeared I was left in the building alone. I called Cat's cell number. She answered, but it was a bad connection. I wanted to know which hard drive the file might be on. But she could only hear bits of what I was saying. Things like “it looks like I'm here all alone.” Anyway, I swear she replied: “Oh no! Did you see something?” The implication was not lost on me. However, Friday night as I was sitting at a table in the Yellow Room folding programs, I heard a few distant sounds that made me stop and listen more intently. They were most likely doors on another floor squeaking as the air-conditioning wafted so slightly to cause them to move a fraction of an inch. Or perhaps the copy machine in the other room with those little squeaking servo motors making themselves known so quietly under the noisier chug chug chug of the copier's illumination arm slamming back and forth. Hell, what I was hearing were slight, distant sounds which could have been caused by any of a number of things. But the one thing that took me quite aback was the clear and unmistakable sound of a shoe on the linoleum — just one step — on the threshold between the Yellow Room and the kitchen. The two rooms are separated by a four foot high counter, so I was easily able to look up and see that no one was there.

A trick of the mind, I have no doubt.

But I began to pounder what is it that makes us afraid of ghosts? Even just the ideas of ghosts. Outside of gothic novels and Hollywood, no one dies from a ghost encounter. Maybe the urban legends has someone dying of fright. But most “authentic” ghost stories are about someone having a very unsettling encounter, and little more. They're just spooky. End of story. I think it comes down to this notion of an encounter with the irrational. This is similar to the fascination people have with UFOs — or more specifically, the aliens purported to be aboard them. In the common lore, these otherworldly critters are intelligent and almost resemble us — but they aren't human. Their presence and their intentions are incomprehensible.

One of my favorite legends of the border is the Bulto. Bulto is Spanish for package, parcel, bundle. I heard about the Bulto in Redford, which is on the Mexican border in the region of the Texas Big Bend. The Bulto is an amorphous blob which one might encounter in a lonely stretch of the desert in the daytime or at night. People find it terrifying in it's ambiguity. What does it want!?!? It simply hangs there in the air — an irrational apparition.

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn't take a leisurely tour of the old church which houses Urban-15. I didn't have a flashlight, but I probably could have scared one up (so to speak). Also, there are plenty of votive candles around the place. I guess it comes down to a couple of reasons. First off, I would be searching, ostensibly, for something which I don't believe exists. And that seems pointless. Then there is the fact that that imagined footfall had given me the willies. If I had butched it up and took a candle-lit tour of the second floor of the old dormitory and the choir loft over in the sanctuary, I would have had to embrace the endeavor as a legitimate ghost-hunt. Basically I'm a writer, a story-teller. And when I'm not in the midst of a short story or a film script, I'm usually working on narratives in my head. I suspect that most writers and filmmakers also do this all the time. When I'm, say, walking through downtown at night, I find myself conceptualizing the autobiographical “me,” or else some fictional character moving through the city in my own footsteps: I consider camera set-ups; back-story; narrative presentation, such as first person, second person, or third person omniscient; and so on and so on. So, if I decided to poke around the darkened church at 2500 S. Presa with a flickering Lady of Guadalupe candle, I would be very deep into creating a ghost story narrative in my head (and I love ghost stories — MR James, Sheridan Le Fanu, Arthur Machen, William Hope Hodgson, and all those guys continue to resurface on my reading list over the decades). My suspension of disbelief would cranked up to 11. Ultimately, I guess I just wasn't in the mood to scare the crap out of myself.

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After setting the alarm at Urban-15, I headed home. My neighbor Phil is in England for a week visiting family. And because I'm such a soft touch, I'm having to walk his dog twice a day. Actually, I believe he thinks I'm walking his darling pooch four times a day. But, dammit, with Erik's pro-bona pet-sitting, you get very little. Mainly I make sure the pet doesn't relieve itself on the carpet, nor starve to death. And I feel confident coming clean here. Phil's not gonna be reading my blog — hell, he doesn't even have a computer.

But last night, I spent about 15 minutes looking everywhere for my key to Phil's house. It seemed I had lost it. I noticed that the Tolands (my next door neighbor's) were hanging out on their porch with the Witties (who live across the street). I headed over. I was pretty sure that Jerry had a key to Phil's place. I asked, and he said he'd go across the street to his house and get it. I was invited up onto the porch for ice cream. I had already missed the gin and tonics, but ice cream is always a treat. Eventually Jerry came back with a key. We spent some time gossiping about the folks in the neighborhood. And when we came to Phil, the two couples on the porch wanted to know how he was coming along in his renovations to the back rooms of his house. One thing led to another, and soon we were all heading to Phil's place. Actually, it was rather creepy. Fueled by gin and tonics, the two couples issued a running commentary (mostly praiseworthy) in the language of realtors. Much of what Phil was doing to fix up his place seemed to me like a massive yuppification project, at the expense of the historical elements of his 1940s era home. The neighbors praised his choice of large appliances, cabinets, and creation of new closet space.

So, beware. Don't go handing out your keys to just anyone. You might encounter some unscrupulous ass like myself who lets your tipsy neighbors in for a tour.

In my defense, these are people who love Phil. Besides, he&apo
s;s dragged me in to see his renovations even when I'm not conscripted onto dog patrol.

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It's almost midnight tonight. And I need to head over to Phil's place. It's time to switch my laundry from the washer to the drier. Also, I believe there's a bag of fresh spinach in his fridge — so, I think I'll make some spinach & tuna salad for a midnight snack. Oh, yeah, I guess I really should also walk that dog while I'm over there.

Well, Tuesday night was bound to arrive … eventually. The big screening of the first annual San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project.

When I answered an ad off Craig's List all those months ago, I don't give much thought to this thing really happening.

I just now looked back in the email archives. It was all the way back in October 25 of 2006 that I sent the following email:

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Dear Mark, Liz, and Christina:

I found your listing on Craig's List for a local producer to bring the 48 Hour Film Project to San Antonio.

My name is Erik Bosse. I've been involved in film and video production for the last five years. And for three years, I have been living and working in San Antonio. I am very familiar with the film and arts scenes here. I am a member of three local film organizations, Short Ends Projects, IFMASA, and NALIP. In the last few weeks I have helped with the promotion of the Manhattan Short Film Festival as well as the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Experience, which was sponsored by the San Antonio Film Commission. I have worked, in various capacities, with half a dozen local production companies. I have taught filmmaking and have sat on panels at local film and music forums; and, as such, I have no problem speaking in front of crowds. By January of 2007 I expect to begin contract work as the blog writer for the San Antonio Film Commission. I write, produce, direct, and more often than not, shoot my own short narrative projects. I have a GL2, a slew of sound equipment, and I edit on Final Cut.

I think I'd be perfect for the job of local producer for the 48 Hour Film Project. All the components of the job are things I have done many times before, and always with great success.

Please find attached my resume in PDF format.

Feel free to peruse my website:

www.eyewashpictures.com

You can see many samples of my writing and short films.

If you would like references, I'd be only happy to provide them.

Feel free to contact me at your connivence. Thank you for your time.

Erik Bosse

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Shit, I sounded so eager and enthusiastic. Little did I know that in May I would find myself up to my eyeballs in political nonsense while trying to organize a seemingly simple and straight-forward local film event. An ordeal? You bet. But I made it happen. And people did show up. And I got on with my life. (I also managed to squeeze some morsels of pleasure out of the whole thing.)

And then I found myself scrambling to make the first annual Josiah Youth Media Festival a reality. It happened. The attendance wasn't quite what I had hoped for, but, in retrospect, it was a nice first year event.

So this 48 Hour Film Project should be a lazy mid-summer buggy ride. My email made me sound like a natural for this stuff. Top that off with two recent film events which I coordinated, and I should have waltzed through the 48.

So, why am I so numb? And I've still loads of work to do. Getting ready for the “Best Of” screening and awards ceremony. Getting awards certificates printed. Ditto on the programs. Set up the screening space. Create a master DVD for the event. Square things with some of my sponsors. Petition my friends for volunteers. And on and on.

Last night our judges met and they came to agreement on all the categories. Also, I spent a couple of hours tabulating all the audience ballots. The audience favorite for group A wasn't a great surprise. But the huge number of votes cast for the audience winner in group B was unexpected, but, I think deserved.

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Tuesday I showed up at the Alamo Drafthouse at about 4:50. I tried to figure out how they were going to run things. Turns out, for the most part, they weren't there for us. That would have been fine, if only I had known this in advance. I found myself with too few volunteers. The Drafthouse, it seems, doesn't take tickets (actually I don't know if this is true, but one of the employees pointedly told me this). If I do this again (a big “if”) — and if I do this again at the Alamo Drafthouse (which is still a possibility, as they are really great people) — well, I will make it a point to bring a troop of burly volunteers who won't put up with any crap. In retrospect, I needed my own crew of ticket-takers. But I just didn't know this. And it became something of a free-for-all.

Pete and Lee were indispensable making sure everyone got the required ballots. And Monica arrived for the second block of screenings just when I needed some more help. I felt sort of weird conscripting Kareem (who I'm hopping didn't have to pay for a ticket) — but he helped some with handing out and collecting ballots.

Because I had two theaters playing two different programs twice in the course of the evening with a thirty minute over-lap, I found myself rushing from theater #1 to theater #8 often.

Six o'clock I introduced the screening in theater #1. Then I headed over to the other theater. Made sure the ballots were being handed out. And made sure that the projectionist (who was great!) knew when I would make my intro of the PA system, and then, when the screening would commence. And I made the introductory remarks, and the first screening of theater #8 began.

I panicked a bit because there were only eleven films screening in theater #8, but thirteen in #1. And I need to close each screening with a Q & A session with representatives of each team. This would last about 30 minutes. And my fear was that by the time I finished the Q&A for the audience in theater #1, the last film would have long ago ended in theater #8. I sent Pete over to theater #8 to do my job if I couldn't get there in time. I've seen him in front of audiences before. He could handle himself. Better than I, actually.

When the credits of the final film rolled to the top of the screen in theater #1, I headed up to the front, switched on the microphone, and called filmmakers to the front to let them talk some about their experiences. It seemed to go well. No one hogged their time over-much. And when the last filmmaker walked off, I made my “thank you all and see you next year!” and hurried my way through the milling crowds and made it to the corridor and all the way to theater #8.

The house lights were just coming up. Pete was at the mike saying some opening remarks and then he noticed me and turned things over to me. I hope I didn't disappoint him. Because I wasn't gleefully grabbing away the microphone. Public speaking is not one of my favorite things. Nope. It's not.

I ran the same dog and pony show.

And then I had about thirty minutes before I had to do all that over for the two second screenings.

I did a quick and dirty cursory head-count from the back of all four screenings. It seemed fairly impressive. Six hundred in all. But when I get the final count of ticket sales, I'm expecting maybe four hundred. I heard so many people saying how they were just buying one ticket and attending two screenings. I applaud their resourcefulness, but, dammit, I've been busting my ass on this project for two months (it's been my full-time job) — and a percentage of the ticket sales eventually goes to me. I still don't know the final figures, but I'm beginning to realize that for the last two months I've been working for about five dollars an hour. Oh well, at least I'm not punching a time clock.

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The best thing about the screening was the films themselves. Out of the 24 pieces we showed, there were 14 that I quite enjoyed. Nothing was execrable. Well, not when you realize that they were all cobbled together in 48 hours. In fact, there are eight which I've enjoyed watching more than once, and would be happy to see again.

I might provide my one critique on the films once all the dust settles from Sunday's awards ceremony.

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What follows are some photos of the big event. About half of the pictures were taken by Pete. Once he realized I was trapped into the glad-handing mode of the event organizer, he took my little digital camera from my hand, and roamed around, snapping pictures.

Sunday night was the savage deadline for the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project.

The teams needed to get their final edit into my clutches no later than 7:30.

I showed up at the drop off location — the bar / lobby of the Alamo Drafthouse — at about five o'clock Sunday afternoon. I met with Monica and Pete, my volunteers. And then we waited. A couple of teams showed up quite early. But most came just under the wire. I was constantly checking the nine dollar watch I had bought for this event. Celina, from Texas Public Radio, was roaming around with her Maranzt solid state recorder and head phones and shotgun mike. When we were about five minutes from the deadline she moseyed up to me and stuck that mike in my face. She asked me how many teams wouldn't make it — something like that. I was getting pretty antsy, because several people had told me or phoned me that there was a massive traffic jam caused by an accident on I-10 or loop 410. This was unfortunate, but there wasn't much I could do about it. As I was giving some vague answer to Celina, my cell phone rang. And, knowing that it must be a freaked-out team member, the girl grinned and made sure the microphone was close to my mouth as I tried to console some poor bastard who was probably going to be late because of insane traffic. I probably said something inane such as: “Now, I'm not suggesting that you get out of the car and start running — but can you see the sign for the Drafthouse from where you are?”

18 teams made it before deadline. One dropped out. And one (the team from Corpus Christi — yeah, you heard right) had sent their tape via a friend of a friend who was driving inland. Seems that the courier, realizing that she'd miss the 7:30 deadline, decided to continue on to her destination. Long story short, the tape eventually made it to me, after quite a convoluted journey.

And then there was Galen Church and the Bulverde Gentleman. They made it to the Drafthouse, in time, I believe, but they couldn't get their film off the laptop. They'd shot on high def, and were trying to get their editing software to print to tape or DVD on an NTSC SD format. When it was clear they'd not make the deadline, they just hung out with me at the bar ordering buffalo wings and imported beer as they tried various QuickTime formats, down-rez experiments, et al. They should have shot on standard definition. It's a real cute piece, corny as hell, but funny and effective. And they shot in a format that the 48HFP does not currently accept. True, others shot on HD (why, I can't even fathom), but they were savvy enough with the format and how their editing system could get that finished product to me in a screenable format. Finally, me and the Bulverde Gentlemen parted company at 11:30. The next day I met with Galen and got a useable version. And yes, that is allowed in the 48HFP rules. But the late films aren't allowed to make it to the national levels.

Here are a bunch of photos of the drop off.

Last night I finally headed off to bed at about two a.m. I'd just received my final phone call from the teams asking guidance concerning the rules, and I decided to keep my phone at the bedside. But I didn't get another call until maybe 7:30 this morning. It was one of the team leaders asking how he should go about shooting his piece. Aspect ration, frame rate, stuff like that. I was very pleasantly surprised. This was a team which had spent several hours working on a script and doing some serious pre-production. I was disheartened by the large number of teams who dived into production after two hours or so of getting the genres and elements. This meant one of two things was going on. Either these teams had written their script in advance, keeping it just vague enough to massage it to fit the parameters I handed out at 7 Friday night. Or, they were half-assing their pre-production. Both possibilities strike me as contrary to the spirit of this 48 hour development to post exercise.

Anyway, I told the caller what would be the least problematic way to shoot so as to cause as little problems as possible during the mastering process (what I'll have to do Monday to make the two master DVDs which will play Tuesday). But it looked like he was going to do what he wanted, my hints be damned.

“You can shoot that way if you want,” I said, angling the box fan more toward my face. “I'm sure you won't be the only one.” He thanked me and we said goodbye. I rolled over and went back to sleep. One of the reasons I so rarely give advice is that people so rarely take it. Fuck 'em.

Around 8:30 some Jehovah's Witnesses softly knocked on my door. They were persistent because I suspect they'd seen me peeking out the bathroom window earlier as I watched them working their way down the block. Fuck 'em, too. I grabbed another hour of sleep.

I took it easy, catching up on podcasts and email. Around 2:30 I headed to Pepe's Cafe for a late lunch.

Later in the day, I was back home, and I heard knocking. It wasn't those pesky witnesses, but the PrimaDonna team. I guess Nikki was serious when she asked me earlier if she could shot some exteriors on my porch. It was AJ, Lee, and Gillan. They were waiting on Chadd, Nikki, and Danni, their actress. Janet, from the Film Commission was also on the team as a lowly production assistant. She showed up in her Jeep just as AJ and the lads began to unload gear.

I hung out for awhile and watched them shoot a scene. Eventually, I headed off to see if anyone was shooting over at Urban-15. Joey's team was supposed to be doing some work there. But Herman explained that they'd already come and gone. I stopped to rubberneck a video crew in the Blue Star Arts complex. But as I failed to recognize anyone there (perhaps it had nothing to do with the 48 Hour Film Project), I didn't accost them.

Over near Guadalupe Street, I stopped and took some photos of an old defunct Humble Oil gas station. I couldn't resist. The place used to be encircled by an ugly wire fence. But now with easy access, I walked in and snapped away.

Back at my place, the PDP team was down to a final two or three camera set ups. They needed, as a prop, a hammer. They'd forgotten to bring it. And just minutes after I arrived, Janet — who had been sent to the Dollar General Store to get a hammer — drove up.

I hung back, snapping some more photos, and watched Chadd talking to AJ. Chadd was holding the hammer. I walked up and took it from him. He barely noticed. It had what I thought to be a horrid barcode sticker between the black rubber grip and the metal hammer head. I began peeling it off, but it was on there pretty seriously. Nikki was trying to get at it with here fingernails. A couple of the guys were saying it wouldn't show. Eventually AJ, who either agreed with me, or just wanted this bullshit I was bringing to the moment resolved, fetched a roll of white tape and covered the (to me) offending sticker.

They rolled on the little bits they needed, and were off … with a promise of a night shoot two hours later.

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A nine o'clock tonight, the PDP team was back. The previous suspects, along with Raven, Marc Daratt, Laura Evans, Wesley Blake Conklin, and a lovely woman doing the make-up whose name I never got.

It's always a treat to see Marc, Wes, and Laura. They are wonderful people, gifted actors, and people who I have always enjoyed working with.

I'm still vague on the basic story line. But it seems that Wes is a bad guy. The stocking over his head was my first clue. The gun, my second. But, of course, everyone had a great time.

The group struck the set at about 11:30 tonight. And they were off to another location.

The San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project kick off event earlier this evening was a great success. The traffic, on late Friday afternoon, was a real mess. No surprise there. But representatives of all our 26 teams were in attendance and on time for the genera drawings. Even the teams from Austin, Houston, and Corpus Christi!

The press was also in attendance. A young man from WOAI (the San Antonio NBC affiliate) was there with camera, though sadly I've forgotten his name. He got a couple of sound bites from me. We had Mike Greenberg (the senior critic of the San Antonio Express-News) — he's following Travis Thomsen's team, Dark Design. An embedded reporter. And Celina Montoya of Texas Public Radio was there covering the kick off — and she also will be following teams around this weekend. She began the evening with the kids from the San Anto Cultural Arts center, who are going by the team name of iChingao Productions. Next, she's off for a midnight rendezvous with PrimaDonna Productions, who began shooting at 10 p.m. this evening.

Only one team decided to gamble with the Wild Card genera replacement. They seemed happy enough with their new genera.

I'm looking forward to see what all these filmmakers are going to bring in Sunday evening! Things are definitely moving along.

Everyone mark your calendars for this coming Tuesday, August 14th. We will be screening all the films produced this weekend. Visit the website of the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas Westlakes for times. Tickets can be purchased online.

http://www.alamodrafthouse-westlakes.com/

An update to our website is the addition of another screening opportunity of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project. On Sunday, August 19, we will present the Best Films of the San Antonio 48HFP. Following the screening, we will have our awards ceremony where all the prize-winning teams will be announced. The screening will be at Urban-15, just south of downtown San Antonio at 2500 S. Presa. Doors open at 7 p.m. Screening begins at 7:30 p.m. Tickets are $8 at the door.

If you have any questions, please call me at 210-482-0273.

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The above is what I just sent out to the SA48HFP listserv. (Whatever that is. Though I believe it goes to all the folks who signed up to receive updates on the website — and damn if I use it much at all. Shame on me.)

I spent the day running around, trying to make sure I had all my bases covered. Today was the big event. I needed to not screw up.

After big-ass-capiccino #1, I was deep into printing up all my paperwork I needed for the kick off event. Fearing that my last ink cartridge in my printer might punk out at any moment, I ran all the stuff through as “gray scale.” This uses less ink and works loads faster. I had a form I needed to personalize, but it was on MS Word. My Mac doesn't let me work on those documents. So I emailed the file off to Pete, requesting the changes. By the time I'd taken a shower, I'd received the file back with the needed changes. Great! I then drove out to Fox News to pick up the 48HFP promo DVD which I had forgotten when I was on the air the other day. As I was in the parking lot I called Chadd to see if I could borrow PrimaDonna Production's PA system. It occurred to me that I'd have a good sized crowd for the kick off. At least 50 people. I might need some volume. Chadd said I could come on over.

Me, Chadd, and Nikki quickly caught up on the standard San Antonio entertainment scene news/gossip. (Remember folks, we filmmakers, producers, and etc., all talk to each other — your gaffs and poor behavior (as well as your wonderful successes) are carried along the most ancient form of broadcast medium there is. The chin wag network.)

I then visited with George and Cat over at Urban-15. We've firmed up the 48HFP awards ceremony at their space. And though I had several things left to do, I wasn't able make good my escape without being treated to lunch. On-site handyman, Hector, whipped up some vittles in the industrial kitchen, and we all set up a table in the Orange Room.

Next I drove home and ran through the check list and made sure I had everything I needed for the kick off event. I printed up the list of the genres which the teams' representatives would pull from a hat. And I cut them into Fortune Cookie slips of paper. (As for the hat, well, the national folks had mailed me a box of supplies. Inside was the hat. The official hat. It's some limp green felt shapeless semi-pouch. Hat? Well, out of curiosity, I pulled it over my head, and it stayed; however, I'd rather not be called in front of a jury and asked to proclaim this thing a “hat.”)

I made some phone calls to secure my judges for Wednesday night. And I called my volunteers to find out who could make it for the kick off event.

After all that, I realized things seemed pretty much in hand. I went for an hour long bike ride down the Mission Trail. I'd forgotten the headphones for my iPod, so I heard my phone the three times it rang. I pulled over and answered the 48HFP-related questions, and I moved back on down the bike path.

That was a precursor to my day so far. Loads of phone calls. In fact, I made a point to get on-line and pay my phone bill. (Poverty keeps me paying many of my bills only when they threaten to turn off service. I'd not got that prodding message concerning my cell phone, but I still didn't want any surprises.)

I arrived at the Drafthouse at about 5:15, and dragged all my shit in. The PA, cables, easel, posters, Alston's great painting, and all my supplies. I sat down in the larger bar area and finished the paperwork.

Around 5:30 Carlos showed up. He was gracious enough to set up the PA system and set all the levels. He also put up some signs.

Pete showed up next. I'd already learned that my three copies of the preliminary form that all teams needed to bring with them, had already been taken up by unprepared teams. Pete offered to drive to the nearby HEB to make some more copies.

Lee, my other volunteer, got caught in the monster traffic jam on loop 410. I'd received about three calls from panicky teams caught in crawling lanes just a couple of exits away. I told everyone not to panic.

Though I was trying hard not to panic myself.

I'd not set up the sign-in process very clearly, and I found myself having to do more work than I should have. But every one was patient and tolerant. Pete and Lee signed in the teams and handed out some forms they needed.

When I stepped up to the microphone and began making the announcements, I noticed Nikki, who was sitting in the back, making fluttering motions with her hands. I asked if she could hear me. She pantomimed for more volume. Before I could figure out how to fix the problem, Carlos was at the PA, kicking up the juice.

I made my announcements (meaning I read stuff out of the 48HFP production manual), and then I began calling teams up to draw their genera from the ugly hat. Some were happy with their selections. Some just shrugged (“you get DRAMA!” humf, whatever). And a few noticeably stiffened, stuck with something they obviously held in disdain.

And then, one minute till seven, I opened the envelope and read off the “elements.” Each team needed to have, as a character, “Ted or Thelma Butler, Personal Assistant.” And a prop: “A calendar.” And a line of dialogue: “Keep that thing away from me.”

And as I write this, I wonder if I lead some of the folks down the wrong path regarding the character. When I opened the envelope I saw: “Ted or Thelma,” (pause) “Butler, Personal Assistant.” But now that I look at it, I think what I was supposed to see was “Ted Butler or Thelma Butler, Personal Assistant.”

I'm gonna have to chew on the national people for giving a surname that is also a profession.

But I digress. The damage — if damage it be — had already been done.

I'm ashamed that I didn't take more pictures, but I was trying so hard to look like I knew what I was doing. Next time, I'll hand the camera off to someone else.

If folks haven't heard from me for awhile, it might be because I'm still shouldering my way through the belly of the 48 Hour Film Project. I'm loath to continue this gastric metaphor to it's final conclusion, but, nonetheless, I don't expect to emerge from this dank tube until some time in late August.

Some people have asked in pleasant chirps, “So, what's next?” I just shrug and say something vague about how I guess I'll need to find a job. It's sad, I suppose, to not have a plan. But that's my life up to this point, in five words or less. On my tombstone, I have to assume: “Erik, he had no plan.” But you take those occasional sweet moments when they come. This afternoon I rode out to Espada Park. I got off my bike and walked along the freshly mowed levee-top. A couple of swifts flew by me as though they were anxious to reach a destination. And, suddenly, they banked, changing direction, and moved slower. They playfully corkscrewed around one another like vines twining up the steel cable supporting the stanchion of a power line. All around me dragonflies hung in the air frozen with a near imperceptible quiver; and they'd zip here and there and park themselves just there, where nothing else is, and thereby they'd place their dog-ear marker upon the space-time continuum. These critters display a primordial design which seems more modern than Web 2.0 or Ikea. And as I walked, the close-cropped grass opened frantically with tiny baby grasshoppers excitedly leaping anywhere … and anywhere again.

That was nice. But I can think of no job which pays one to wander through parks while watching bugs and birds. If you know otherwise, let me know. I don't know if I do it well, but I do enjoy the work.

The day after tomorrow is the launch. The teams get their assignments, and off they go. Probably you could say they are the ones who should be worrying, not me. Fuck that. Making a quick and dirty movie is a walk in the park compared to running a large-sized event. All you gotta do is take some pretty pictures of dragonflies doing their thing as an early afternoon breeze heaves a river-side cane-break up and down as lazily and drunkenly as an unemployed filmmaker lives his life when not making a film in 48 hours. It's second nature to us, dammit, and we all know it.

But me, I gotta worry and fret and oh damn I have to do paperwork and keep up a fake smile like this is all some weird reality show. Perhaps it is.

I've said it before. I'll say it again.

All I ever wanted to do was live in a two room adobe shack in the Chihuahua Desert … and watch the dragonflies hang in zero G as they ponder the withered blossom of an ocotillo in exactly the same manner they did all those years ago in northern Gondwanaland.

But I need to get this show up and running and done with before I follow those ancient Anisozygoptera back into their fossilized realm.

I've secured a venue for a “best of” the 48 Hour Film Project. This will also allow us to have an awards ceremony. Today I spoke with George and Cat Cisneros over at Urban 15. They were all for it. I called up the national 48 Hour folks this evening, and it looks like a done deal.

Sunday, August 19, we will have our awards show with a screening of the very best of this, the first year of the 48 Hour Film Project. Be there at 7 o'clock. Tickets are available at the door. 8 bucks. Screenings begin at 7:30. If there are any changes, I'll make it known here (and, I assume, elsewhere).

You can pick up copies of the new Current and 210SA and read more about the 48 Hour Film Project. You'll learn that I was the “co-creator” of the 48 Hour Film Experience. Well, I was nothing of the sort. And I had to phone up San Antonio Film Commissioner Drew Mayer-Oakes (who I always assumed was the sole creator of the 48 Hour Film Experience — but for the love all of things holy, please don't quote me!), and let him know I never said no such thing … dammit! Weren't me. And then there was the piece written by Jessica Belasco. She made me laugh aloud. She had me speaking about these sorts of film races in general.

“Surprisingly, the films don't suck, said Erik Bosse, the coordinator of the San Antonio competition.”

You'll see there are no direct quotes of me speaking. Of course I said something just like that. And then she goes on to quote me (accurately, I'm pretty sure) in such a way that makes me look fairly cool. And as such, I'm a huge (and I mean HUGE) Jessica Belasco fan. She can do no wrong.

I've been tooling around on my bike the last few days shooting photos of this and that in my neighborhood and points to the south. It's still damn humid … but, oh, blessed sunshine!

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Late Satuday afternoon, after stowing away my bike and taking a shower, I headed over to Russ' new place in a quiet neighborhood tucked away off Austin Highway near the McNay. He had his friends from East Texas visiting him over the weekend. I'd met Gem and Jon maybe two years ago at a restaurant following a Short Ends screening. Russ has known them for about thirty years.

Because of Russ' love of the infamously derided (and justly so) Corsicana fruit cake, his friends stopped in that town to bring him a prime example of the Collin Street Bakery's “mouth-watering DeLuxe Texas Fruitcake” (and here I quote their website). And after a wonderful and delicious meal prepared by Russ and Gem, what most enraptured Russ was the unveiling of the fifth guest at the table. The hefty gentleman from Corsicana. The pristine shipping box fell away under an assault from a sturdy chefs knife Gem passed to Russ.

I must admit I politely allowed a portion to be placed on my dessert plate. I am now set for another two decades.

After dessert, Jon invited me and Russ out to Russ' garage, which Russ has turned into a workshop — currently he's building a camera dolly. Anyway, Jon, when he's home in Kilgore, is in the habit of working on his art in the evenings in his studio. And he's apparently a serious artist. He'd been working on a drawing out in Russ' garage while the rest of us were watching a movie.

“Okay,” Jon said. “I've done a pencil drawing in here. It's up to you guys to find it.”

Me and Russ wandered around the garage. We looked at the floor, the walls, the exposed beams. We checked out cardboard boxes. We finally gave up, baffled.

“Okay, where is it?”

Jon pointed to a metal bucket.

Pretty cool.

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One of the team leaders of the San Antonio 48 Hour Film Project (henceforth, SA48HFP), Lorenzo Lopez, used to work for one of the local TV stations. He managed, unbeknownst to me, to line up a spot on the local Fox affiliate morning news show. It's great when other people help to make me look savvy and on top of things.

I met Lorenzo this morning at about 7:15. He had brought along a friend who shoots for Kens 5 (another local TV station) — this guy (whose name I've forgotten) was there to chronicle Lorenzo's 48 Hour film-making endeavor. We should all have a camera crew following us around.

In lieu of a green room, we waited in the lobby. Eventually we were joined by a couple of other guests.

One of the station's tech people came up to us and she asked who'd be doing the most talking. Lorenzo hooked his thumb at me. “Well, Erik's the producer, so I guess he will.” I soon learned that despite Lorenzo's years of TV news, he was much more comfortable behind the camera. As am I.

The woman began to place a wireless lavaliere microphone on Lorenzo. It was rather comical, because he was already wearing one, the receiver of which was attached to the Sony HD camcorder wielded by his electronic Boswell. But the woman didn't miss a beat. She had Lorenzo wired up in a matter of seconds.

Soon we were escorted into an ante room which opened onto four studios and a very busy control room. Even after a whopping large cappuccino I'd had before leaving home, I was relatively calm. Lorenzo seemed slightly nervous. He peered through the glass window of a door into the main studio and made mention of the attractiveness of one of the on-camera talent — meteorologist, I believe (and am I really using that word??). It's not that is was off-color or anything, but clearly Lorenzo knew most of these people. I pointed out that he was, indeed, wired up with a live microphone and surely someone was monitoring him. He just shrugged.

Me, Lorenzo, and his camera man, had been curious about a crawl we'd been seeing on all of the TV monitors around the building (which showed us the show in progress). It mentioned something about “Gore is still being sought in connection to rape.” Surely not Al? Maybe his son? There was another update. The rape happened somewhere in west Texas. And then we learned that the suspect was not related to Al Gore.

The camera guy shook his head. “But why would they keep announcing just the last name? Gore?”

“You kidding?” I asked. “I thought you're in the media. We're in the belly of the beast. It's fucking Fox news.” I was about to throw in that whole Obama Osama thing, which, as I thought about it, was probably not Fox, but CNN, when the techie woman began piloting us into the studio.

Lorenzo, who obviously knows his way around a TV studio, knew what the vertical mirror on the outer edge of the studio was for. He gave himself a quick once over. I knew I was a lost cause, and continued into the studio. We were either at a commercial break, or the local feed had been exchanged for the national signal to show weather across the country or to return to the crucial on-the-scene reporting with the crews at the American Idol auditions in Dallas. Pleasantly controlled chaos — like any good production. The woman who would be interviewing us introduced herself. And I quickly forgot her name as the tech woman snaked a lav mike up my shirt. Lorenzo seemed to know everyone in the room. He made the rounds, shaking hands.

There was a comfy chair for the interviewer, and an overstuffed sofa for us. I took a seat closest to my interviewer. Lorenzo sat down on the other side of me.

“Erik Boss?” the woman asked me.

“Bosse,” I said. “Like a bossy person.” She nodded, smiled, and looked down at her clipboard in her lap. “And, um, your name again? I have to confess, I don't watch much TV.”

She gave me a sweet smile. “Stephanie,” she said. I've checked the website. Make that Stephanie Rivas.

I believe we had a three minute slot. And it goes pretty fast. She began as if both me and Lorenzo would each be making movies for the 48 Hour Film Festival.

I did my best to channel Nikki Young ('cause she does this shit so much better than I could ever do). I tried to keep myself from speaking to fast, and said something along the lines of: “Yes, I'm the San Antonio producer for the 48 Hour Film Project. And Lorenzo is leading one of our twenty-five teams. He's got to make a movie in 48 hours.”

Perhaps I came off as a robot, but I don't think it went so bad. (However, as I was driving home, it occurred to me that I never mentioned where and when the films would be screened — maybe they placed a text crawl. Hope so. Also, I don't think it was ever made clear that these were short films. Oh, well. Press is almost always good.)

After I untethered myself from the microphone, I whipped out my camera. I toggled on the flash — seeing as there were no cameras in the studio “on air” — and I took a picture of Stephanie.

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I headed home and caught up on some email.

Around one I took a proper bike ride. From my house to Mission Espada and back. About 20 miles. I stopped and took some photos of the recently defunct Mission Drive-In Theater and the adjacent Rosicrucian club house.

Out at Mission Espada I played around with some close-ups of an artist's 3D depiction of the mission site sculpted on bronze or some other kind of metal which, in the onslaught of summer, becomes insanely hot. I want one of the local news stations to come out during a 104 degree day and blast the bronze courtyard with a liberal coating of Pam and crack on egg on that sucker.

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Back home, I had to decline an invite from Janet of the film commission to join her panel for tomorrow's Film Forum at the downtown library. The topic is film festivals. And of the one or two times I have sat on last year's panels, this is a topic on which I can legitimately pontificate. But I have made it known that I will be available at Ruta Maya coffee shop every Tuesday night until the weekend of the 48HFP. Kind of silly. Ruta Maya is only three blocks from the library.

But Janet should feel confident. They have, as panelists, Adam Rocha (who's been successfully running his San Antonio Underground Film Festival for a damn long time); Graciela Sanchez (and she's brought some amazing work to the Esperanza Center for their Cine Mujer — hands down the best of about a dozen San Antonio film festivals); Denise Crettenden (she and her husband run Seguin Film & Arts Festival, one of the most pleasant and laid-back local film fests — I always submit work because I enjoy attending their events); and Dar Miller (whose SAL — San Antonio Local — first annual festival, which is fast approaching, promises to showcase all the great talent here in Bexar County). I would have been in great company. But it's a good panel. Try and make it. It's free. Nikki Young will be MCing the event. And as the coordinator for the SA to SA (San Antonio to South Africa) Film Festival, she'll be more than qualified to keep the panel on track and on topic.