There are several blogs I read where I really can't keep up with the massive waves of prose generated. And Dennis Cooper is one of those. Curious as to how he ever finds time in writing his novels, I looked him up in Wikipedia, wondering if there was some sort of correlation between the beginning of his blogging life and the end of his publishing life. Well, it seems that he's still actively writing for publication (you know, in those old clunky things they sell in book store — you can find them if you ventured beyond the racks of calendars, Harry Potter air fresheners, plush animals, and electronic handheld Scrabble dictionaries). I learned that Cooper considers his blog as a literary entity itself. Yeah, I like that idea. But daily 2500 word posts can be fairly exhausting to keep up with.

However, he often offers a post which is a series of pasted in images or YouTube vids.

Recently he threw in a whole slew of links to Roy Wood-related video links.

Roy Wood fronted the Move, one of the great late period psychedelic Brit bands. From about 1967 to 1972 they remained extremely popular in Britain. But until they morphed into the Electric Light Orchestra, they were pretty much unknown in the states.

My sister turned me on to the Move. I was skeptical at first. I hated ELO (and it should be noted that Roy Wood left that band after their first album). But Paula played me some the Move's songs off a “best of” album. I was hooked. She always has good taste. It's wonderful stuff — sometimes power pop not too far removed from the first generation mods (like the Who), sometimes straight-ahead '60s brit rock (like the Hollies), and, eventually, pushing into the Slade glam realm. There are some songs with a clearly Beatles tone (such as the dark side of “Penny Lane,” “Blackberry Way”). Where would I be without “I Can Hear the Grass Grow,” and “The Lemon Tree” on my iPod?

But from the Dennis Cooper posting I learned something new. When Roy Wood left ELO, he formed something called Wizzard. It's a crazy hybrid of George Clinton, Gary Glitter, and Phil Spector. I've watched several live performances of Wizzard on YouTube. Brilliant … or maybe awful? I don't know yet. But I'm still intrigued.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Thursday I had an appointment at PrimaDonna Productions. Nikki is running an acting summer camp for kids. She wanted me to show up as a filmmaking guest. She also requested the presence of Carlos Pina. Oh, I know how Nikki's mind works. She wanted to show her kids some of my films, because they are, for the most part G-rated (what I like to call a Hard “G,” to hold my head high among the rough-and-tumbled world of renegade filmmakers), and many of them featured Nikki Young herself. They also featured Carlos Pina (in his capacity of actor).

But those were all wise reasons. The kids got to learn about the collaborative process. And they would certainly be interested in watching short films which stared their teacher, a woman they now know well.

We started with the kids taking turns as if me, Carlos, and Nikki were running auditions for commercials. They entered, introduced themselves, allowed for a short interview where we asked all sorts of impromptu questions, and then they had to read or recite the lines. We had, I believe, five kids.

When it looked like that portion was done with, Carlos leaned to me and whispered: “You're gonna have to photograph me. No one's going to believe I'm lecturing to kids.”

And he stood up and gave his story. There was a whiteboard, and he used it!

I'm not sure if Nikki really wanted us to get up in front of the kids and do a little presentation, but Carlos was quite a success. The kids loved him. Forget all his bluster about being a dark-core bad-ass, he's just a sweet guy who makes movies about parallel universes infested with demons and crime lords, ambiguously working towards bringing about some sort of apocalypse. But Carlos has an unswerving moral code. Violence in his films is stylized to the point of artificiality. And, in his own life, he almost never resorts to profanity.

After Carlos' presentation, Nikki allowed the kids a snack break.

And then we screened some of my short films. “Treasure of the Perro Diablo,” “The Price of Stamps,” “I Do Adore Cream Corn,” and “Operation Hitman.”

It was strange revisiting a bunch of my stuff. These aren't all aimed at kids (and, hell, they certainly aren't all good films), but they went over fairly well. Nikki starred in two of the pieces, and was a featured extra in another. Carlos was in all four. He also provided the score to three of the films.

The kids had some interesting comments. When they mentioned that they had trouble understanding some of the passages I was able to explain what the problem was — and usually it wasn't because they're kids, but because I screwed up.

As me and Carlos were saying our goodbyes, Nikki whispered that she was looking forward to reading about my take of the class in this blog.

Damn! First Carlos wants me to photograph him for the blog, and then Nikki ponders how this will play out in my silly little on-line journal.

I'm feeling the pressure.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Friday I drove out to the Fox TV affiliate studio here in San Antonio. Lorenzo Lopez wrangled an invite for him and myself onto the Fox morning new show. I delivered a 48 Hour Film Project promo DVD so they can have some visual cut-aways. I don't know how the show is structured. I stopped trying to watch TV because my television gets such poor reception. Anyway, Jessica Hernandez is the newscaster who's producing our part. It's a good thing that I'm no longer crippled with neurotic shyness when it comes to this sort of stuff (and, man, I've come a long long way), but I'd much prefer not to subject the gentle Monday morning viewers — who are no doubt cautiously feeding their raw hangovers a heavily-sugared steaming cup of Tasters Choice — to my bloated, slovenly visage.

“Oh, good lord! What is that? Brrrr…. Millie, you can pull the plug on the waffle iron. I'm heading back to bed. Call my boss, would you please.”

Monday night I took the chair at the head of the table during the Last Monday night at Gemini Ink. For those outside the loop, Gemini Ink is the most visible literary non-profit group in town. They bring in top writers to run classes and give readings. I've groused before about the prices for their classes, but my friend Jean made a point that they're actually considerably cheaper than classes offered by other, similar organizations. She's right. It's just that I'm poor. Anyway, Gemini Ink offers a monthly free writers workshop on the last Monday of every month. It's run by Jim Dawes. One of its weakness is also one of its strengths: you never know who will show up one month to the next. There are times when only six folks show up, and the awful writers out-number the passable ones. But the next month, it might be all gravy, and lots of it.

Last night we had plenty of good gravy flowing. 12 people showed up. Two decided to just observe. But ten readers is a pretty damn big group, seeing as there are only two hours to get to everyone. (Actually, I let the evening go from 6:30 until 9:15, so that everyone would have a chance to read and receive feed-back.)

Michael Faia was first up. He's an extraordinary writer. He's got at least two huge novels going. Hundreds of thousands of words. He's an older man. Maybe 70? He writes with a density of Faulkner or Thomas Wolfe (though not so youthful and giddy as the latter) — stories that fold in upon themselves, told in pristine syntax and a marvelous flow of lovely, unexpected vocabulary. Michael does what I do when faced with Gemini Ink's imposed four page double spaced limit. He pushes out his margins and manages to sneak in a 1.5 space between the lines. Also, no 12 point bullshit for him — it's 10 point font. But who's gonna gripe. He can write, yes sir. Monday night, three and a half of his four pages was a description of a car crash in progress. Brilliant stuff.

We had two poets, a novelist with her first chapter, a couple of complete short stories, a middle chapter of a young adult novel, and some works-in-progress where the authors are still deciding where the work is headed. All was refreshingly good.

We closed with a dense three page piece Russ had written earlier that day in a single, purging session. One of his strongest pieces, hands down. It, like Michael's piece, had an automobile theme. And, like Michael, Russ was using a density of prose, complex syntax, and an impressive vocabulary. He also inserted this sense of velocity that kept things moving and always in focus.

Here is a blog where the story, with a few changes, can be found.

I only hope Russ doesn't decided to edit this piece too much. He's never satisfied with his creations, and is forever tinkering. He needs to walk away from this piece. It stands alone and complete damn well.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Tuesday was another Erik Bosse event. And, like the Last Monday at Gemini Ink, I really didn't do anything except show up, hang out, and turn out the lights when I left.

We had our second Tuesday night 48 Hour Film Project meet-and-greet at the Ruta Maya Riverwalk Coffee Shop in downtown San Antonio.

We had maybe thirty-five people show up throughout the night.

The first people who arrived were Sterling and Julian. They're high-school students who attend Brakenridge. But more importantly, they work with San Anto, the westside arts organization. They directed an excellent short documentary that screened at the Josiah Youth Media Festival. They also were gracious enough to be panelists for the Media Now Workshops we had during the Josiah Fest on Saturday.

As the evening progressed, we eventually had appearances by team leaders Lorenzo Lopez, Andy Miller, Richard Galindo, Nikki Young, Michael Druck, Joey Carrillo, and Travis Thomsen. Maybe there were some other team leaders I over-looked, or maybe they showed up while I was talking to the media.

Kiko Martinez, with the San Antonio Current, showed up and did a quick interview with me. He placed a recording device on the table, and I blathered out all sorts of useless crap. I'd just downed one of Ruta Maya's cappuccinos, so I was pretty wired. Actually, I believe, after a question concerning the San Antonio Film Council, I muttered something about, “well, this is better said off the record, you understand, but–” blah blah blah.

I then flagged down Travis as a good subject to be interviewed by Kiko. He is more articulate than I. He's leading a team. And, importantly, he was involved in a similar contest last year, the San Antonio Film Commission's 48 Hour Film Experience.

Just as Travis sat down with Kiko, Mike Greenberg of the San Antonio Express-News came in. I gave him the basic over-view. He told me that what he wants to do is to follow one of the teams through the process. Sounds great. I mentioned some of the teams I thought might make for a good story. Nikki's team would be very organized and professional. Andy's team would also be quite professional, yet no doubt achieve something of a free-wheeling party atmosphere on a set crammed with several charismatic extroverts; also, I quipped that the director of the new feature “Where's Chloe?” was an integral crew member, and, after the stress of his own huge project, he is past-due for a nervous breakdown. Always good material for a newspaper article.

We'll see if we can match Mike Greenberg up with just the right team.

During a lull, I noticed that Victor (Sterling and Julian's teacher from San Anto) had showed up. I went over to their table. I told Victor that I was trying to get a teenage girl to lead a team. A couple of local filmmakers want to sponsor a teen team, and they would rather the director be a girl, to help balance out the demographics which, in film, tends to skew towards the dreadfully macho. Victor told me that one of his talented students is a girl. Sterling (or was it Julian?) pulled out a flip phone and called the girl. She was interested and free on the dates needed. The three turned to me. “Let's do it,” I said.

We have the 48HFP teen team!

And I know they'll bring it to completion.

I shook their hands. Next Tuesday I'll get to meet the girl who will direct this team.

It was like Hollywood deal-making in miniature. It was also very sweet and cute (unlike Hollywood deal-making, I presume).

Herman showed up. I'd called him to see if he still wanted to lead a team. But his preferred crew had moved off to California. And money is pretty tight for him. But I think I might have got him on a team as an editor. Just what Herman likes to do and does well.

Lorenzo (who has a background in local TV) says he might have lined up some television interviews for the 48 Hour Film Project. That'd be great. We'll see how all this goes.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Today I received a call from Jennifer Belasco. She's doing a piece on the 48HFP for 210SA, a free weekly tabloid that concerns itself with the San Antonio entertainment scene. I suspect that their
targeted audience is significantly younger than myself, but I have no choice but to sing their accolades. The three film-related events that have consumed my summer have all been featured (or will be) in the pages of 210SA. Thanks guys!

I was watching some documentary online about the history of the Situationalists, with the obligatory sound bite from Greil Marcus connecting punk rock with the Parisian postmodern highbrowery (a particular intellectual contortion which has always made me suspicious) — and that gave the documentary the opportunity to cut to Malcolm McLaren. He was seated in some sedate Hyde Park garden wearing some ghastly collision of pinstripe and tartan. But what made me smile was the text in the lower third region of the screen: Malcolm McLaren, Impresario. Sure, it was accurate. But still wonderfully old world pompous.

If only I were more enamored of this event-organizing, I'd give thought to placing that on a business card. Erik Bosse, Impresario. This recalls my business card I had in my early 20s: Erik Bosse, Agent Provocateur. The woman at the passport department barely rolled her eyes and suggested that I change that title on the “occupation” line to “student.” Ah, but those were innocent times. Try that today, and mom would be sending those Christmas fruitcakes care of Camp X-Ray (now, the new, improved Camp Delta).

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Carlos was by earlier this evening. He's currently without internet access, and Time Warner Cable can't come out until Friday. So, he stopped by and sent some emails. He's got a couple of acting gigs up in Austin. One is a prison tough. And that's something he can do in his sleep. It's really just his El Picante (his own creation, a Mafia del Monte crime lord), but with a wide streak of overt cruelty.

While on my computer, Carlos apparently checked his MySpace account and forgot to log-off. Oh, but I was sorely tempted to go in and muck around with his profile. You know: favorite movie, Sound of Music; favorite music, hip hop and anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber; TV, Seventh Heaven and Sex and the City!!! But I didn't. And now, after closing the browser, it's too late. The password wasn't saved. I'm kicking myself now.

@@@@@@@@@@

For some time now I've been aware of another Erik Bosse. Well there are two — other than me. The info that Google brings to us is a boundless bounty. There is a guy in Massachusetts who's pretty young. Maybe 20? Rock and roller. Plays bass, writes poetry, and is a talented photographer.

As an art-minded guy, I'm curious if he's pissed off that there is this old guy (me) polluting the googleability of his name — a name which, by all rights, should be unusual enough to be unique. Sorry, Erik.

But the real problem is Eric Bosse.

He's maybe five years younger than me … but, as a sort of doppelganger, living the life I should be living.

Years ago I submitted a piece of prose to The Exquisite Corpse (a Louisiana Lit mag edited by Andrei Codrescu). It was turned down (probably because it sucked). Yet, Eric Bosse had no trouble getting published by the Corpse. I later discovered, as I was getting into film work, that Eric had also beat me to that. While living in Colorado, he had done a few films (and, it seems, continues to make films). And after visiting my friend Jo Smalley some years ago as he was working on his MFA at the writing program at the University of Montana in Missoula, I felt a strong twinge of envy — one day, perhaps, I could get into a MFA program. But wait! Eric Bosse, I believe, found his way to the very same Missoula MFA program. He's done pieces for McSweeney's, dammit! And while I'm sitting on my ass whining about — well, whatever — Eric is writing reviews on the works of some of my progressive heros such as Noam Chomsky and Greg Palast. Oh, least I forget, he has a collection of short stories coming out in 2008!

What the hell am I doing with my life?

Congratulations for all your successes, Eric Bosse!

There is mention, in passing, of me in Eric's blog.

“By the way, there's another filmmaker with my name out there–and he lives in San Antonio, the city of my birth, no less–though he spells his first name with a k. I'm quite sure he wouldn't want anyone mistaking my work for his.”

But the truth is, I have no problem with people mistaking Eric's work for mine. In fact, there is a misspelling on a link to a McSweeney's page where Eric's name is spelled with a “k.” Okay, the truth is, it looks like I'm the shit — McSweeney's & all that. But ever since I've gotten into the habit of self-Googling (yeah, I do it — proud of it … and don't look at me like that!), I've read a good amount of Eric's prose. He's very good. The themes we each explore aren't so divergent. I mean, it's not like one of us is writing romance novels or making Christian feel-good films.

As doppelgangers go, I don't think I could do better than being in the shadow of Eric Bosse.

I'm still enamored of my little Nikon CoolPix point-and-shoot camera. I try and keep it in reach as often as possible. And I have amassed a collection of rechargeable AA batteries which I keep in a constant rotation through my charger. But sometimes there are those photo-opportunities of which I find myself faltering. It was back on Thursday, I believe. I was driving to my favorite drive thru taqueria on the southside. I was on a side street across from Roosevelt Park. I pulled up to a stop sign and watched, incredulously, as some guy on an old and rusty 1970s era touring bike pedaled past. He wore a Darth Vader mask. A maroon knit cap. A small cape tied around his neck which appeared to have been cut from a black sheet. And black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. As he glided by, I turned and looked down at the camera on the passenger seat beside me. I knew that to get a decent shot I'd have to circle a couple of blocks and try and get in front of him. But, it occurred to me that anyone who is willing to cycle around cocooned in black on a hot summer afternoon with a hundred and something percent humidity may well be capable of just about anything. I continued to my taco connection.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

It was a lazy internet weekend. I spent quite a bit of time waiting around for my landlady's plumber to show up. And I ran through a whole slew of artsy films archived on UbuWeb. There's loads of tedious crap (those fluxus bastards should be horse whipped for wasting so much footage on their meditations upon the painfully obvious). But there are great things throughout this site. And it reminded me of the power of film, even if all you can budget is 8-mm. I checked some on-line resources, and discovered that since my last foray into working with film, it had jumped significantly in price. 30%, or so. My directorial debut was a college-level independent project. “Mr. Ponygraph.” It was shot on 16-mm, with a few short flashback scenes shot on super 8.

I've a long history of film animosity. Back when I was in high-school, pissing away my time in photography class, I can recall the day when 35mm still film practically doubled in price. A couple of the Hunt brothers (of the Texas millionaire family), had cornered the silver market. I believe they got busted on it (perhaps the last time anti-trust laws had been enforced in this country). But even after it was revealed that the price of film stock had radically increased because the price of silver (a commodity necessary to making film) had been artificially bloated, the fact was, film stock never returned to its pre-1980 retail prices. So, with the advent of the digital revolution, I was quite pleased to see the handwriting on the wall. Kodak, Ilford, Agfa, FugiFilm, et al, had decided to gouge the public, and now their products were fast becoming unnecessary. Karma can move slow at times. But the problem is, film still looks mighty cool. And as I found myself thinking about a return to film — say, 8-mm — I was slapped down by yet another increase of film stock then when I last used the stuff, back in 2001.

I guess the answer is to steal it. And process it oneself in a bathtub with the lights off agitating the stolen chemicals with a stolen ax-handle. It's time to return to art as an impolite endeavor.

Friday was a good day. Productive, fun, and full of surprises. I'd almost given up on these sorts of days.

I had a paying gig in the a.m. Pete's been working on a promotional video for an educational program. He needed a second camera. This is the second time I've been on location with this project. The people he's working with are very nice. I was on site at 9:30, and out of there by 12:30. We stopped for lunch and caught up on one another's various projects.

Not more than 30 seconds after walking in my front door, I got a call from Drew. He said that was out scouting locations in the film commission's van, and would it be okay if he picked up his mountain bike (which he had graciously loaned me many months ago after my bike was stolen — I've since bought a new one). Yeah, I said. Come on by. He confessed that he was in my driveway. I popped my head out. And waved to him and Janet. I wheeled out his bike (feeling a bit of a twinge in that I never got around to cleaning the chain — he'd loaned it to me immaculate, and I returned it to him otherwise).

Back inside I noticed that I had a message on my cell phone.

I called the number. It was a very pleasant woman who was calling around for an editor for a documentary she's working on. She confessed to having little money. I gave her a few suggestions. I even mentioned that, if she wasn't in a hurry, I might be able to help her out after I get this 48 Hour Film Project out of the way. She said she'd get back to me. It seems she got my number from Drew. When she said that, I felt doubly chagrined for that dirty chain.

@@@@@@@@@@

Because there was actually blue sky, I decided to head out for a bike ride. Along the Mission Trail I was able to see just how high the San Antonio river is running. In fact, I saw a big snapping turtle slowly making his way up a grassy slope beside the trail. He, too, finally had had enough of all that fucking water.

Way down at the southern end of the Mission Trail, the low water crossing at Mission Espada was closed because …. Well, this is why.

I returned back the way I had come. During any normal summer I would have been enjoying a strong wind at my back coming up from Mexico. But, nope, it was a blast from the east — more damp weather coming in from the Gulf. I guess more rain is soon on its way.

Back home, I barely had time to roll my bike inside before the mailman knocked on my door. He had a package. It was from the Aldredge Book Store. Meaning it was from my sister in Dallas.

It was a box of cereal. Or more specifically, a box of Frosted Krusty O's. In the lead-up to the Simpsons Movie, the PR gods have transformed several 7-11s into impromptu Kwik-E-Mart (the convenience store chain in the Simpsons universe). And, it seems, that in these refurbished 7-11s, they are selling, along with Fritos and microwave burritos, some novelty Simpsons stuff.

This box of cereal has a festive and sickening Matt Groening (or Matt Groening-inspired) illustration of famed Krusty the Clown holding a bowl of garbage-infested cereal (carpet tacks, earthworms, mold, et al). And, because this box of cereal is being sold, not in the Simpsons universe, but in a Dallas 7-11, there is a tiny printed caveat: “Product shown is not representative of the actual product inside.” Because, you see, it's really no more than a gussied-up box of corn flakes.

I wonder how long it'll take before, in a moment of weakness, I rip open the box and drown those flakes of frosted corny goodness with some HEB soy milk? I suspect after a month or so the novelty will wear off, and it'll be just another box of processed food sitting atop my fridge.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

As it drifted from late afternoon to early evening, I started to get ready for a dinner engagement for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. Josiah's parents, Marcus and Nancy, wanted to treat the film festival team to dinner. And so, around 7, I headed out.

But as I was almost out of gas, I stopped at the Citgo across the street from the Church Street Theatre and Bistro. I slipped my credit card into the slot and discovered that I was using a monstrously slow gas pump.

As I was standing there, watching the numbers creep, I noticed a car pull up to the other side of my pump. A chunky '80s model Buick or something. A beautiful woman in a Mexican peasant blouse and a shaw stepped out. It was Louisette. Louisette Zurita. One of my favorite actresses, even though I've only directed her in three tiny roles. But, mercy, she has presence.

We chatted some. She's in Dora's film, Dream Healer. But I already knew that. And I think that was why she was in my neighborhood. She said she was in her current outfit because of a show she's in at the Stoli Playhouse. I'm very happy to see that Louisette is getting back into acting. I really need to start writing a script for her.

The Josiah wrap-up dinner was at Paesano's in Lincoln Heights. It's an up-market Italian restaurant I'd never visit were someone not treating me. The food, however, was great. Marcus ordered the calamari for everyone as an appetizer — the addition of fresh basil made it kick ass.

It was a wonderful evening, and the perfect ending to the first enjoyable day I've had in some time.

Please excuse my bitchiness in the following post. But, shit, this ceaseless rain has me ready to bite someone. If it's not oppressively cloudy, it's hammering down in sheets. This is not the San Antonio I know.

I received a phone call last week from Deborah about a video/media meeting of some sort happening at the Bihl Haus Arts space. I told her I'd be happy to check it out. And a couple of days later I got an email from Kellen about the event. Kellen runs the fairly new gallery (well, it's almost two years old, and is just on the cusp of landing its non-profit status — but, all things relative, Bihl Huas is pretty new). The gallery has had some spectacular shows, not in any small part because of Deborah's hard work curating and promoting the shows.

Anyway, I'm very found of the folks at Bihl Haus. And, besides, I like to keep atop of the film & video goings-on here in San Antonio (actually, I'm trying to live up to Drew Mayer-Oakes' extemporaneous comment be made when introducing me to a local film audience as, “Erik Bosse, he's, um, a man about town”).

The event was a meeting with a city governmental agency. I'll not bother mentioning them, because I'm not exactly sure what it is they do.

Which brings me to my major problem with this meeting. I found myself roped into a presentation run by a gentleman by the name of McNeel. He's an important architect of local public radio, TV, and internet. Also, he's affiliated with SalsaNet. (Now I challenge anyone to spend an hour or more on the pages of the SalsaNet web site and try and find out what, exactly, it is they do. And look specifically at the page explicating the mission statement of the Public Studio project. I've tried, and I'm still baffled.)

Nevertheless, I was there with my sporty little Canon GL2. I also managed to coax Russ into this as well (of which I hope he accepts my humblest apologies). There were three other filmmakers in attendance (two with their cameras) — and I was glad for the opportunity to meet them. Also in attendance was a representative of NewTek. He was to have brought along the TriCaster Studio. The “studio in a box.” For some reason he arrived with the somewhat more scaled-down, TriCaster Pro. This meant we had to forgo a few of our microphones, as the Pro had fewer audio inputs (though in retrospect I think we should have brought a small soundboard). But this is all moot, as the TriCaster experienced some technical problems and shut down on us. Too bad. The NewTek representative held it together admirably. And McNeel shrugged it off as what it was, an unforeseen technical problem — these things happen. The sad thing is that the dozen folks who showed up were denied the opportunity to see how cool the TriCaster really is.

McNeel forged ahead, explaining to the people assembled his scheme to — well, I don't really know. A lot of “digital convergence” buzzwords: “global village” this, “streaming content” that, and something about international markets.

I wondered (and still wonder) what makes our current state of affairs so much different from what he envisions? Every jackass with a computer, a video camera, and broadband access (and that's a bunch of us jackasses), can do all this already. Barring the clampdown on Net Neutrality, we will continue to provide and distribute our own content.

I recall not so long ago — was it just last year? — I met Michael Verdi. He was running Node 101 out of the backroom of the Jump-Start Theater. And with extremely limited resources, he (and a handful of like-minded technophiles) helped to create FreeVlog. And those incredibly useful on-line video tutorials on how to create video content and then post them on-line are still there. The funding for Node 101 ran out, but Michael's work is still out there — free and available for all who care to use it.

Michael could talk for five minutes, and you knew exactly where he was coming from and what he was trying to do. But this afternoon, I was in the Bihl Haus for three hours with McNeel, and I still haven't a clue as to what he wants to do. What is his agenda? Is he wanting to help the group he was speaking to? Or does he want them to help him? One of the women there asked a question somewhat along those lines. The answer she got was an informative and entertaining digression; but, as a response to her query, it was delivered as a solid non sequitur. She was left perplexed, and clearly as SOL as the rest of us.

I can only hope that the meetings to come have some coherent agenda. The basic idea of utilizing the TriCaster as the powerhouse it was built for to deliver live content (in this case over the internet), and bring it into the reach of local arts organizations is laudable. I can get behind that. But that was only one of many ideas presented to these folks in a swirling miasma of vagary.

God forbid that this Public Studio project heads down the same road of, say, the San Antonio Film Council. Because, dammit, we don't need another reason for the rest of the world to chortle about those fools in San Antonio with their muddled, unfocused ideas.

You got vision? Great! Nail it down in clear language. Because, of course, if you want to be in the business of communication, there's one thing you need to be able to do. Communicate.

I want to thank everyone for showing up for the 48 Hour Film Project Meet-and-Greet at Ruta Maya. We had 15 people show up. There were five team leaders. The skies raged all over the county, and I'm glad we had such a nice turn out. Also, thanks so much to Catarina Velasquez and Angel Mena of Ruta Maya for hosting our group.

We're moving along. We now have 13 teams!

More than just working toward the 48HFP, I think we also gave a chance for the local filmmakers and some actors a chance to meet one another and network, perhaps for future projects. Personally, I met 4 new folks. Lorenzo Lopez, who is signed up as Team “Zovision.” Also, there was Ricky Moreno, I believe he plans to sign up a team of his own. And I had a chance to meet actors Stephen Brogdon and Janett Jaysek.

Brandon and Laurie, who I believe will be crewing on Andy's team (Team “Felonius Sloth”), were extending their invitation to many of us for the red carpet premier of Brandon's new feature, “Where's Chloe?” (Brandon was even more hyperactive than usual — I suspect it is nothing more than a basic mental breakdown from busting his ass on his current project. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure.)

I didn't get a chance to talk much with Andy, but it looks like he's got a solid team. And lord knows he has plenty of equipment. Also, he seems to have close ties with some excellent actors.

Carlos Pina (who will head Team “Haunted House Studio”), showed up with his friend Adrian (who was working the room like an excited puppy).

Nikki and Chadd (who will be heading, of course, Team “PrimaDonna Productions”), came out, mostly to show support and meet new show biz folks. I say that because they know as many cast and crew people as all the teams combined. My only problem with Team “PrimaDonna” is that I can't rope Nikki in as a MC for the night of the screening. Oh, well.

I saw a couple of people I know who were just dropping by for coffee. I guess, after the three or four years I've lived here, I've finally arrived. I've a fighting chance to know people is I find myself out in artsy locals. Gisha, one of the teachers from Say Si (a youth arts program), was there having coffee with a friend. And later, Natalie Goodnow, a teacher with the summer performing arts program at the Guadalupe Arts Cultural Center, dropped by with a couple of friends. She was on the other end of the leash of a black Labrador at least as large as she.

I hope we have even more people show up next Tuesday, for another meet-and-greet.

I'd begun a blog about Saturday night's NALIP screening. But it was rancor-heavy. I screened the first ten minutes of Heartcore. And I'll leave it at that.

Actually, the most memorable thing about the evening was when Adrian (Carlos' 32 year-old perennial punk rocker friend from the Valley — he who is known by his alternate moniker, “Vile Bastard”) was introduced to the woman who owns the gallery in which the films were screened. She offered her hand. But instead of shaking the woman's hand, Adrian brought it to his lips and kissed her hand. Long and lingering and wet. The mature sophisticated lady was charmed and repulsed at the same time. I damn well should have snapped a photo. Oh well. It is at least etched, indelibly, into my memory.

I'll cram in some photos of the NALIP CAM Slam:

Here are two cool artsy works in the Blue Star parking lot — installations for CAM (Contemporary Arts Month). The weird fake tree is prettiest. But the real tree, tethered with monofilaments, is my favorite.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Again, my hats off to George and Cat Cisneros for the espresso machine. Today I had the first home-made cappuccino I've had in months. And I make damn fine cappuccinos, second only to Ruby Jo Madrid of El Polvo, Texas.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

I have been through the fires of the NALIP Meet-the-Makers film screening. A frightful ordeal, which, for the attendees (whose lack of x-ray vision missed the sight of acidic gastric fluids burning through my stomach's lining), was a rousing success. I did managed to screen a film I love, wrangle a road trip to my favorite region of the world, and collect a curator fee. However, I have mixed feelings about the whole thing.

And then there was the Josiah Youth Media Festival. That monkey's finally off my back. I should state that (like the Meet-the-Maker series) I believe in this festival, and wanted it to be the best it could be. But I did find myself stressing out for different reasons along the way. Ultimately, it turned out pretty good. The films submitted amazed me — there are so many talented kids out there. But because Josiah overlapped with the difficulties of MTM as well as the 48 Hour gig, I found myself scrambling and trying to figure out how to prioritize my time.

Now that the first year of Josiah has ended, I'm still pissed off about the attendance. We should have had all those seats filled for all three nights. The schools in this city with film programs (and there are quite a few) should have snapped to attention — every last one of them — back in the spring when I tried to inform their instructors and their students about the festival. The level of apathy still burns. And those schools (and non-school youth programs) from whence we had submissions…. Well, many seemed disinclined to notify the kids. True it's summer — but I'd like to think that schools and teachers are in the business to be advocates of kids. I mean, dammit, I'm lucky if, in any given year, I make over 11,000 bucks. And here I am running myself ragged, trying to contact these kids, who I don't even know, that they have films in the Josiah festival. Clearly, I'm not doing it for the money.

And what about the film teachers who failed to show up to support their kids? I'm at an absolute loss.

I used to think that the biggest problem in public education was this whole teaching to the test. Now I know that the apathy of the teachers runs a close, cramped second place.

My desire for a full house on all three nights of the Josiah festival was not just to help justify my project-management stipend, but on a broader level, I became enamored with the idea that we were creating an arena where kids from all over the region could get together and network. Maybe they could begin working on projects on their own, independent of their schools or the arts programs where they did their work. Because, as Wikipedia has it: “San Antonio and Bexar County are served by 15 separate independent school districts.” That's madness. But the idea of getting kids from all the districts interacting seemed laudable, and there was a point where I was really stoked.

I guess that's a harder nut to crack than I'd thought it'd be. We'll see what next year brings.

But the screenings were great. The kids and adults who showed up were great. And the Saturday workshops were a blast. So I think we have a solid foundation for the years to come.

More outreach is clearly needed. And, personally, I guess I should stop all this bitching, and just do what it takes to make these sorts of things work.

And now, I'm drifting into the belly of the 48 Hour Film Project.

This is my third film event I'm organizing this summer. All this sort of stuff is better handled by my friends Nikki or Deborah. But for various reasons they have fallen upon me. And I do need the money (I mean, really, the alternative would be to find a job — and, as I've whined before, I don't know how to do one of those).

I thought this would be a breeze. I know scads of filmmakers (yep, I do). I really don't need to bust my ass with too many press releases, postings, and email blasts. Just concentrate on my people.

Easy, in theory. But “my people” are just like me. They work at their own rhythm. If they're interested in signing up for the 48 Hour Film Project, they'll take their sweet time. Actually, this is the San Antonio way. No hurry. No rush.

But the problem is that the national honchos are getting antsy. They saw that I had only a measly 5 teams signed up. I was given fives days to turn that five teams into ten. In a panic (my stomach positively frothing as the gastric acid laid waste to the mucus membrane on the midnight side of my tummy), I began a phone campaign. I tried everyone I know who had claimed interest. Some promised to sign up by my personal deadline. Some said they had to wait until a particular date (the teams have to pay $125, so I can understand the reluctance, or the waiting on a paycheck).

And so, by late this afternoon, my number ten came in. Great! Now I can worry about other matters. Like sponsors and promotion … and, well, signing up more teams. But we seem to be in a stable stage.

But pass the word. Even though I have a verbal agreement from eight other potential team leaders, we can easily accommodate 25 teams. So, don't hold back.

And again, tomorrow night (Tuesday), we will be having a Meet-and-Greet at Ruta Maya coffee house, downtown San Antonio. 6 – 9 pm.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I stopped by Deborah's space over at Blue Star. She's moved her computer back to her studio. I think this is an excellent idea. It means she's only blocks away from me. And I can pop in on my dear friend whenever I see her car in the parking-lot. And I did just that today. It was like old times. She showed me some of the images she's working on for her next show. Color photos which she plans to print on canvas in black and white and then hand paint them.

The pieces are great. And I look forward to the show.

But basically we spent a couple of hours bitching to one another about what things are pissing us off; and then gushing about those things going right in our lives.

Two hours of Deborah, and I feel almost sane.

I went home and oiled the chain on my bike and headed out for an hour ride down the Mission Trail.

We have sunshine again here in San Antonio.

Maybe the summer will come to me.

I remember when the sun shone…I think. It's orange and round, yeah?

My summer has been stolen from me. The culprit? Global warming? I donno. But I'm getting really pissed off. This endless rain is beating me down. I can't take much more of this.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I can't recall how I found my way to Dennis Cooper's blog. Probably through Boing Boing. But for some reason I discovered it. He's a fanatical blogger. I subscribed to his feed. Dennis Cooper is one of the most interesting working American novelists who, I admit with ample chagrin, I had not read. He's written a five novel series, collectively known as the George Miles cycle. I know I have at least two of them in my library stored and boxed up. I need to dip into his (non-online) work. He has all the post-punk sexual-transgressive mojo to fit into my criteria of an author worth exploring.

Anyway, I responded to one of his blog postings where he embedded a YouTube performance by one of those great post-punk Aussie garage bands — either the Scientists or Beasts of Bourbon. And he not only noticed my comment, but he got onto my blog — my website! He lifted three photos of mine (sour punch straws on a plate; the chandelier at the Aztec Theater; and the lovely Amanda Silva surrounded by DVDs. Dennis also placed links to “The short movies of Erik Bosse,” “The production blog of Erik Bosse,” and “The video blog of Erik Bosse.”

It's all here.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Tomorrow NALIP (the National Association of Latino Independent Producers) will be running their CAM (Contemporary Arts Month) video slam. It will be in the Blue Star Arts complex. Look for the Joan Gronas Gallery. Saturday, July 21, 7 pm.

The maximum length is ten minutes per work. And so, even though me and Russ haven't finished the edit on Heartcore, we'll have a version of the first ten minutes ready for NALIP. I should point out that I sent an email to new NALIP prez Jewels Rio late this night. It's possible that I missed some sort of deadline. But I'll be there nonetheless. And so should you. If you are reading this and are in San Antonio, come on down to the slam. It's like a three or five buck donation. But there is always cool stuff screened at these events. Cool stuff such as the first 10 minutes of Heartcore. 'Cause, if you haven't got the box of CLUE in the mail yet, smoldering actress Laura Evans is reason enough to see any film. Yeah, we got her. We also got Martha Prentiss. And she's pretty cute, too.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I'm blithely talking about this video slam like it's really going to happen. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Tomorrow, President Bush is handing over presidential authority to Cheney because he's going to get a colonoscopy. Yeah, this is very wise. If he were to die on the table without assigning authority to– What? A fucking colonoscopy? They're going to snake-out the First Man's ass with a lipstick camera on the end of a stiff cable. That's it. Hell, my last colonoscopy, I was treated to a Carta Blanca and a bucket of popcorn. And I enjoyed both while watching the action on a high definition monitor as the little moistened camera inched its way towards my duodenum.

Did I officially sign over my authority to anyone? Hell no. I'd be listening to shit for the rest of my life.

What next? Presidential pedicures necessitating a press release explaining that the commander in chief needs to transfer power to his second banana as he gets his cuticles beautified?

But I digress.

My neighbor Ross might have bitten off more than he bargained for. He's the gent who, when I found myself in line with him at the HEB, asked what was up with me always making movies. I replied with some vague bromide about artistic expression or some such nonsense. I queried if he'd ever be so disposed to let me or someone I could vouch for shot in his yard or in his house, to which he responded, sans pregnant pause, “Fuck yeah!” Well, now a featured film production has descended on his home. And I have a front row seat of the affair, as I can see it all through my kitchen window. And it looks like he's dealing with it all quite well.

Carlos stopped by this afternoon to pick up a DVD. I stepped out onto the porch, and we looked at the activity across the street. I ran through the names of people he knew who were involved on this project, “The Dream Healer,” written and directed by Dora Pena. Several people we had worked with together were in the movie. (Hell, Carlos himself had auditioned for a role, and had been, inexplicably, turned down.) I told him that I had seen Gabi Walker earlier in the day when I was returning from some errands. Gabi is one of the greatest actors in this city. And she's just 12 or 13 or something. I'm awful judging how old children are. She and Carlos shared a scene in a film I directed called “Operation Hitman: Sacrificial Pets.” I adore the girl, and I'm afraid that by the time I get ready for my next major project, she'll be out of my price-range. This Dora Pena film, in which little Gabi stars, has all the promise to succeed.

Carlos pulled out his new camcorder and showed my scenes from his recent project, a trilogy of shorts (celebrating certain Valley (that's the “Rio Grande Valley”) sensibilities), entitled, “Chorts.” The scene I watched — as yet unedited — was shot in front of Pete's house. Carlos was directing, and he was also acting. The scene also featured Kareem, who always gives a solid performance. Also, I got to see Matthew Beales. Weeks back, I'd suggested that Carlos contact him. Ever since Matthew played a waiter (with nary a speaking line) in my short film, “I Do Adore Cream Corn,” I knew I wanted to work with him again. (Matthew is another one of these extraordinarily talented locals who I would never have encountered were it not for Nikki Young, of PrimaDonna Productions fame.) The footage looks quite amusing. In fact, I was on the phone today with Pete. He was running camera for much of the shoot and he said it was all hilarious. Especially Carlos' prat fall.

After looking at the video, me and Carlos headed across the street to Ross' house to check out the activity. Dora (or her people) had managed to wrangled a guy with two beautiful refurbished classic cars. One was more in the low-rider tradition. The other was more sedate in its appearance.

Jesse Borrego (a San Antonio actor who has had tremendous success in Hollywood, yet spends considerable time back here in his home town) had just arrived — he waved to the crew, and went inside to talk with Dora. His character lives in Ross' house. And as me and Carlos were admiring the cars, a young man walked by us.

Carlos cleared his throat.

“What? I'm not good enough for you now?”

The guy froze. He slowly turned around.

It was Matthew Beales. He had arrived to work as a lowly production assistant. He seemed puzzled to see Carlos on set.

“Erik lives across the street,” Carlos explained. “I was visiting him.”

I'm not sure if Matthew remembered me. I offered my hand and told him how great he had been as a waiter in my film. And I said he had done very well in Carlos' piece. Who could have thought such a handsome, polite, well-groomed young man could make such a great white trash petty criminal. “Yeah, the acting was good,” I reiterated. “But you can't argue with the power a gimmie cap and three-day stubble can bring to a role.”

“Don't forget the wife-beater I was wearing,” Matthew said with a grin.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I stopped by Urban-15 to tie up the remaining loose ends of the Josiah Fest. Also, I had a check coming my way.

It's sad to know I will be drifting away from that group of wonderful people. True, I'll be back with them in September to help promote the Manhattan Film Festival (though it's not a gig with a budget allocated for me, but I'll gladly volunteer however they might need me). Still, it's kind of sad, closing down that project. And, you know, it's funny that I left my video monitor and Beringer soundboard behind. A subconscious action which forces me to return.

When I was over there this afternoon, George, Cat, Amanda, Antonio, Rene, Herman, and Hector broke for lunch. We stood around the island counter in the middle of the huge industrial kitchen making and eating sandwiches. George and Cat asked for a round of applause for all the hard work I'd done. Rene handed me an envelope with the second half of my payment for managing the festival. And then George handed me a pound of Archer Farms organic fair trade espresso whole bean coffee. “Because we know how much you like coffee.” And Cat opened a cupboard and removed a large box. “And something to make it in.” It was an espresso machine. I guess they'd heard me grousing about how both my two espresso machines had fairly recently crapped out on me.

It was a very sweet thing to do. Who couldn't love these people?

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

There's something very wonderful about the world of non-profit arts organizations in this city. It's really quite easy to offer assistance and find yourself doing work with them. Sometimes this work pays. More often than not, it doesn't. But if I could just be able to work the occasional gig with a place like Urban-15, which in this case happened to have a budget for me, and allow that stipend to give me the freedom to work here or there for this group or that group pro bono, I think I could get into this lifestyle. The problem is the absolute lack of financial security. I know I'm not enjoying this rambling existence anyway near as much as I should.

I stopped by Gemini Ink today. They are the pre-eminent literary non-profit group in town. A really well-organized powerhouse in the San Antonio cultural community. And because I said “yes” when Jim Dawes, the chap who runs the free monthly writers' workshops, asked if I would be interested in running the workshop in July because he was off to New Mexico for vacation, I am now in possession of the key to the Gemini Ink facilities. I'm not a member (because I'm too poor), but, well, they're just nice, trusting people.

And then there's Bihl Haus Arts. Because I'm chummy with Deborah and because I try to make it to the Bihl Haus shows as often as I can, I'm now on some sort of committee. The Video and On-Line Media Committee … or something like that.

Later in the year, when NALIP has their Adelante Film Forum, I'll be there — certainly as a participant — but also as a volunteer photographer. And at the same time I'll be doing whatever Dar needs me to do as a volunteer for her first annual SAL film festival.

I've said it before, I'll said it again: those who decry the paucity of art in San Antonio are just fucking nuts! It's everywhere. And I'm quite embarrassed that because I've been so focused on running the Josiah Youth Media Festival and trying to round up teams for the 48 Hour Film Project, I have missed out on scads of CAM events. For those in need of a clue, CAM is Contemporary Arts Month. In July, San Antonio revels in contemporary art. The pretentious, the unexpected, the challenging, the brilliant, and the refreshingly naive god-awful crap — it's all trotted out for the city to see in July. The month is not yet over. I need to get out and about and check some of it out. So, San Antonians, stop bitching. If you're not swimming in art, your drowning in it. And if you find yourself doing neither, I'll just assume you live under a rock … most likely on the northside. So, take a chance, squirm on out into the sunlight and check it out.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I just went over to see what's going on with “The Dream Healer.” They're shooting some bright-lit night-time exteriors. Jesse, in character (and in wife-beater), is roaming around with a six-pack of Shiner Bock which has been tricked out to be “Alamo Beer” (Dora can expect a terse email from the lawyers representing “King of the Hill” and/or Mike Judge).

But it looks like they're doing just fine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

On a 48 Hour note, if you guys are thinking about signing on as a team, do it right NOW! We need to know if we're going to have to use one theater or two theaters August 14th at the Alamo Drafthouse. I'm serious here. Sign up this very second!

I'll get you some prizes, some swag, something … perhaps a gift certificate to a lingerie emporium or a sushi joint. Just, please, get it moving, folks!

Thanks!

Cruise to:

www.48hourfilm.com/sanantonio

And if you are concerned about augmenting your team or roping in actors, not to worry. Every Tuesday until the kick-off (Aug. 10th) we'll be having mixers at Ruta Maya Riverwalk Coffee House, at 107 East Martin, downtown San Antonio. Join us 6 – 9 pm!

It'll be fun.

It seems my neighborhood is becoming a movie-making mecca, even when I'm not around. Sunday, while I was on a shoot at Canyon Lake, AJ Garces was shooting a scene from a short film across the street from my place at Jerry's house. And, this afternoon, as I returned from a few errands, I heard my name called out from a slow-moving SUV. It was Manuel Pena. He said he and Dora were shooting in Ross' house, next door to Jerry. I walked over and chatted some with Manuel, Robb Garcia, and Ross. Dora stuck her head out long enough to greet me with a smile. I politely made my goodbyes. There's rarely time for chit-chat during production. I was glad to discover that Dora resolved her location issues.

After some sunny days which almost resembled summer weather (though not hot enough and, still, humid as hell), it's back to the damn monsoons. I hate this weather. It pissed down from mid-morning to late afternoon. And I really need to do some laundry. I don't have a dryer, so I need sunshine to dry my togs on the line. Maybe tomorrow?

I decided to check the website of the local NALIP chapter to see when their next video slam will be. I assumed it would by the last weekend of July. Nope. It's this coming Saturday. I want to get Heartcore edited in time for the screening. Me and Russ are only about a quarter of the way through. I think that's what we'll be doing tomorrow.

Last week as I was tying up loose ends for the Josiah Fest, I wandered up to the Urban-15 performance room. George was sitting with Sandra Cisneros. (Sandra Cisneros is no relation to the San Antonio Cisneros — she moved here from Chicago some years back.) For some reason, when I drove into the parking lot just minutes earlier, I suspected that the new black SUV hybrid I parked next to might be hers. I really had no reason to think this. Her usual vehicle is a large black SUV, somewhat similar (I don't know one brand of car from another, nor do I particularly care). But my suspicions were correct.

George introduced me to Sandra — a woman who, for the last three and a half years I've been in this neighborhood, has lived less then 100 yards from me. She was very gracious and sweet. I tried not to make a fool of myself. Around 1990 a Random House promotional booklet found it's way into my hands. It had chapter excerpts from books slated for the publisher's 1991 releases. The only thing I recall from that collection was Sandra Cisneros. Her “House on Mango Street” was being reprinted by Random House. I bought it when it came out. I rarely do that with books (having grown up in a second-hand bookstore, I usually wait for the book to be resold). The pre-release snippet had turned me into a convert to the Cisneros style. I let everyone who'd listen to me know how important a writer she was. And when I finally got around to reading the entirety of the slim book, I was only further convinced of her genius. As the years passed, I'd pick up her new books — prose or poetry. I have had the good fortune to have seen her read three times. And when I found myself living in San Antonio just half a block from her house, I felt pretty lucky — you know, just to be in the proximity. I mean, shit, a recipient of the McArthur “Genius” Award lived on my block! How cool is that?

She's still a beautiful woman — no doubt about that — but a decade and a half back, when she was so easy to find on the lit fest circuit, she had this smoldering sex-appeal that could break a man's heart at a hundred paces. Now you have to look out the corner of your eye to see that in her. But it's still there.

George explained to Sandra that I lived on her block. She furrowed her brows.

“I'm across the street from the big house that Carlos and Hope moved into,” I said, assuming that she knew the couple, seeing as they are part of the San Antonio arts community.

She nodded and asked if they had spoken about the ghost in their new house.

I said they hadn't. Sandra cautioned me against mentioning that the house was haunted. “Well, certainly not around their children.”

George then mentioned that the Urban-15 building was haunted.

And then I listened to another typical San Antonio ghost discussion. Fuck me Mrs. Marple, but this is one haunted city.

“But they're nice ghost, right?” Sandra asked.

George shook his head and explained that of the original four ghosts, two of the meanest ones had to be exorcised. The remaining two were rather benign.

Sandra seemed to understand the ghost issues. Anyway, I said my goodbyes, and allowed George to give her a tour of the facilities.

I've heard ghost stories before at Urban-15. Last year Catherine had told me about the ghost up in the second floor of the dormitory. I expressed mild curiosity (okay — here's the deal — I don't believe in ghosts … but I'm a skeptic, even of my own skepticism). Catherine was doing something at the time, and, as an aside, she suggested I go up and see for myself. “The first three rooms on the left at the top of the stairs. That's a likely place.” And she went back to her computer working on a spreadsheet or something. I climbed the stairs and hung out in the suggested rooms. Nothing.

And so, yesterday, I found myself back at Urban-15 to close out the Josiah Festival. Thank-you letters, filing all the paperwork, and I had to send out the award to the girl from Minnesota who won best experimental film.

Catherine and George were scrambling to make a deadline for an on-line grant, so I didn't want to be too much of a pest. I asked Catherine if they had any boxes around, as I needed something in which to send the gift bag to LaShae Brooks in Minnesota.

“You'll have to look around,” she said over her shoulder. “There's plenty of boxes upstairs in ghost country.”

Ah. Ghost Country. Now the second floor of the old dormitory wing had a name. I'm learning.

Up in Ghost Country I took my time, poking around, keeping my back turned for minutes on end just like Eddie 'Rochester' Anderson would do before the spirit-generated histrionics ensued. But, alas, the Ghost Country had nothing to offer me. Maybe someday I'll talk George and Cat into letting me spend a couple of nights up there armed with camcorder and my most delicate microphone.

Oh, and to move quickly from spooky to nauseous, here's a picture I took the other day while riding my bike near the low-water crossing at Mission Espada.

Unpleasant? You bet. But you should always carry a camera, you never know what you might encounter. It might not be no ghost, but I'm pushing into the rumor-mill that it's the skeleton of the rare Northern Chupacabra. Yep.