I'm off this morning to far West Texas to pick up Enrique Madrid for the Meet the Maker series.

So, I'll take this time to remind the local folks again about the event. It's this Friday, June 1st, 6 p.m. at El Tropicano Riverwalk Hotel downtown.

Click on the thumbnail for more info.

Hope to see you there!

Now, back to my coffee.

Christy dropped by around noon. We were going to try again to make it up to Canyon Lake to scout locations for her film. After her car problem of last weekend (just a wheel snapping off on the interstate–clearly nothing she couldn't handle) I gave a bit more attention to my own car. I checked all tires this morning. The pressure was fairly low all around. I pulled out my compressor and topped them all off. And so I offered to drive this time. Not that I have any doubts as to Christy's driving skills or her car's abilities. But, a.) it was my turn now, and, b.) she didn't need the added stress (because once our cars do something dramatically unpleasant, it can take awhile to start trusting them again).

We stopped at Russ' apartment in New Braunfels. After cups of coffee all around, we piled into Russ' truck and headed to Canyon Lake. Christy wants a dead tree for a couple of dancers to climb up into and move around in her choreographed “phrases.” There will be some dance bits on terra firma as well. So, she was looking for sturdy trees, preferably one which had been weathered down so that the bark had been removed.

She'd seen some likely specimens in a park on the shores of Canyon Lake. Russ, who has a long history in that region, wanted to show us some other likely places. But the problem was, the recent rains had the lake level so high that many of his choice locations were under water.

I had fun traipsing around several parks, snapping shots of dead trees. When we found a potential location, Christy would “audition” the tree.

Russ maintains a membership at the LCYC (Lake Canyon Yacht Club), and we took a quick tour, checking out their dead trees. It was a shame we didn't find a suitable tree, the place has amenities — electricity, restrooms, and a comfy club house.

We ended up deciding on Christy's original site. The water was much higher than when she visited earlier, but the lake had not swamped the trees she wants to use.

Much of the tour I think served to help Russ work through his on-going separation anxiety with leaving the region. Last year he had to move from a house he loved on the shore of the lake. But the place he found in New Braunfels was just down the highway from the lake. And now, with a teaching gig in San Antonio, he's moving again. Much further away from his beloved lake. It can't be easy. Like saying goodbye twice.

Every Friday I make it a point to cruise over to www.dustedmagazine.com, because: “Every Friday, Dusted Magazine publishes a series of music-related lists compiled by our favorite artists.” At the top of this week's list by O'Death is the soundtrack from “Holy Mountain.” It's a Jodorowsky film, beloved by his fans second only to “El Topo.” I saw “Holy Mountain” once, maybe 15 years ago on a muddy VHS tape. The visuals were, of course, stunning, the sort of stuff that never really leaves your head. But for some reason, I didn't recall the music (probably because the copy was so poor, I kept the sound low). I decided to do a Google search and see if the soundtrack was ever re-released on CD. What I discovered was a cool blog called Dinosaur Gardens. In the archives was some info about the music to “Holy Mountain.” In fact, all 19 tracks were uploaded and linked to the page. The guy running the website, so it seems, had lifted the music off a VHS copy (and he apologizes as to the sound quality). It's great stuff. And as I was trying to subscribe to the RSS feed (which the blog seems not to have), I read some of the more recent entries. There was a bit about some of Mo Tucker's solo stuff she made after the Velvet Underground broke up. I think I had only heard two songs from her solo work, an A and B track off a vinyl single I don't seem to have any more. But, on Dinosaur Gardens, I found all 9 tracks of Maureen Tucker's 1981 LP, “Playin' Possum.” I'm listening to it right now. Beautiful lo-fi work. It reminds me of other folks who recorded in their living rooms, like Bobby Fuller and Chris Knox.

The last two weeks I have been running myself ragged on two film events I'm planning. The fact that there is money involved in each job comes as a mixed blessing. It will help keep the creditors at bay, which is good. But the downside is that I need to show tangible results. I'm used to running my own productions, and answering only to myself. Sure, there would be deadlines, and there would be other people who I would find myself collaborating with, but the projects started and stopped with me. If no one liked what I was doing, fuck it. You switched on the Erik-Bosse-show, and if you don't like it, change channels, why don't'cha? But now I find myself in a subordinate position. Well, more like a go-between. I have autonomy, but only to a point. I have to answer to the people running these non-profit groups. It would be different if these were more traditional jobs. I could just leave my opinions at home (in theory), and do the work. But with these current gigs, I've been ostensibly brought in because I have a certain expertise (if not in event planning, at least in knowing many of the local players in the film world), and I guess I feel an added pressure to protect my rep.

And my rep (not to mention my street cred) is legendary in this city. If in doubt, check my blog.

“You know me, my name's Erik Bosse.” (Cue aw-shucks Max Fischer grin from the opening of “Rushmore.”)

This is my summer of film event planning. Last year I had my autumn of film festival pro bono work, so I guess things are looking up. Yeah? Well, I dunno.

After the first week of June I'll have the Meet the Maker event behind me. And by the end of July, I will be done with the Josiah student fest. And then I have to get moving on the 48 Hour Film Project. That will be over — all the paperwork filed and done with — by the end of August.

So, by September, I'm hoping for a big-ass vacation. Or, ideally, just liquidate all my possessions, stick out my thumb on Interstate Whatever, and find a whole new life.

Erin, a fellow crew-member from “Leftovers,” had answered a random questionnaire and posted it through the MySpace bulletin network. It had to do with people on her “friends lists.” For my name, she was supposed to use three words to describe me. One of her words was “busy.” The other two words favorably stroked my ego, and so I just looked at that “busy” comment with vague perplexity and moved on. But, as the days went by, I realized she was right. First off, she only knows me from what nonsense I spouted off on the film set, and what I writ in my blog. And, hell, I WAS working my ass off. I might not have a traditional job. But I am in constant motion. This is truly bizarre for such a lazy person as myself.

True, I enjoy about half of the projects, the volunteer work, and the etcetera that I do. But I haven't felt truly good about anything I've worked on since a year ago, when I spent a wonderful and productive month in Mexico working on the Loco doc.

The weird thing is that I'm finally on IMDB … and I'm not doing a little jig and shouting for the world to hear.

For the uninitiated, that's Internet Movie DataBase. Before the advent of the internet (“tell us more, gramps!”) all important movie info came through the annual hardback book, “Screen World” (aka “John Willis Screen World Annual…”). Every year my father (owner of a bookstore) would give my sister the newest edition. I always read through it. It listed all the major studio pictures, here and abroad, with a synopsis and full credits — cast and crew. Pre-internet movie reviewers used these resource books to make them sound like know-it-all geniuses. And then came the internet. And IMDB. Click over to the site. Wondering why you loved “Conan the Destroyer” so much? Bingo. It was shot by the same guy who was the Director of Photography for “Rambo: First Blood Part II.”

But, levity aside, IMDB is still managing to function as a discriminating database for folks working in the film industry. Only films which have found distribution or found their way into a film festival are eligible (and I'm sure there are nuances within these parameters). Anyway, because a feature I worked on last year made it into a film festival, I am in that damn database. I'd name the film, but the writer/director/producer/star was not thrilled with my candor as I blogged about that particular production, so, I've decided to follow this individual's wishes and not be a part of the “promotion” of this film. Silly me, I thought (as Monty Python quoted from Wilde or Shaw or Whistler, or someone) that the only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.

I know that when Robin gets Leftovers into the festivals, I'll get another listing in IMDB. And that's good.

This is akin (almost) to getting published in the Screen World of yore.

When I was a kid in Dallas, I had the Granada Theater in walking distance. It was my cinema education. The Granada was a repertory theater and they played everything cool. Silent movies, foreign classics, new(ish) works from abroad, cult favorites, documentaries, animation, et al. It wasn't until later that I realized that every town didn't have something like the Granada.

If you had told me then that I would have been included in the future's version of “Screen World,” I'd've peed my pants.

But now I can relate to a scene in the Simpsons. Bart is helping out with Krusty the Clown's TV show. He's a wide-eyed kid, amazed to be working in the “industry.” Kid and clown walk through a sound-stage. A sour guy standing at a TV camera removes the cigar from his lips and mutters, to no one, “I wish I was dead.” Krusty turns to Bart and says, “Don't listen to him — this is a dream factory.”

Yeah. The truth is somewhere in the middle.

But I wish I could find that youthful enthusiasm again.

I don't want to be another Jack Cardiff, leaving for posterity such shit work that features Conan and Rambo (well, maybe he's a bad e
xample — he DID shoot “The African Queen” … sorry for being so rough, Jack).

The other day I was whining to Russ about finding myself holding the foul end of the stick so often. After holding his tongue until I had vented, he asked, “Well, Erik, you have heard of perceived value, right?”

Yeah, yeah.

So I'm trying to seem less like a whiny, impoverished, schmo. In fact, after getting a few checks from some production work, and feeling semi-flush, I decided to fill up my gas tank. I've been putting in five and ten dollars at a time. The low fuel light was on, so I stopped at the cheaper Citgo station near me (my tenuous support for Prez Chavez), and I gave the guy in the booth my credit card. “I'm filling it up.” Shit, I haven't said nor done that in half a year.

64 dollars. And I quote my sister: “Thank you George and Dick.”

I'm hoping a certain Ms. Pelosi is considering putting a certain something back on the table. And, dammit, it was never hers to take off that table.

To change the tone, here are several photos from my neighborhood. Click on the thumbnails for bigger images.

Weird day. Rainy and overcast until early afternoon. I sluggishly ran through my mind just how far I could go with procrastination. But putting things off is a bad habit I fall into so easily. Take Sunday. I could have done all sorts of stuff. But all I managed to do was head out to Woodlawn Lake where Christy was holding her dance auditions. I hasten to add that I was there in the capacity of video technician — I fear I'm about as graceful as a landlocked manatee.

Seven people showed up. And in retrospect I think we should have put the word out, not just through the dance community, but also into the acting world.

There were two who Christy felt strongly about. I think she's leaning towards casting them. And there were two others that seemed to her as having potential.

I enjoyed the opportunity to watch the process of a dance audition. I know so little about the art form that I was rather in the dark as to what Christy was looking for. One thing that became quickly apparent was that she was putting these people through their paces to see how they went about become familiar with the dance routines. It, at times, had the feel of a class. And I could see why Christy is in demand as a dance teacher. She is patient, encouraging, playful, but clearly focused on getting the best out of the people she's working with.

Afterwards, I headed home and started a short story. I got bogged down by introducing too many characters. I want something I can read at the next Gemini Ink free monthly writers workshop. It's going to be Monday the 27th. The problem is that the pieces you bring are supposed to be four pages or less. I either need to lose a character or two, or read just a piece from it — and I hate that.

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My useless Monday of procrastination had me single-mindedly working through a pot of coffee and watching a couple of recent episodes of Democracy Now, archived on the internet. I enjoyed a banana and a couple of brownies my mother recently mailed me, as if I were stationed in Fallujah … or Joliet. Damn good brownies, by the way.

Eventually I decided to embrace the day and, dammit, do something. As I was heading to the shower, I got a phone call. It was Clint Hale, a reporter from a freebie weekly entertainment tabloid called 210SA. I confessed to him that I'd never heard of it before. And yet he still wanted to talk to me. His call was in response to the Meet the Maker press release. And so I found myself blathering on about … god, I don't even know. I hope he excuses my glib pontifery and somehow manages to find his needed quota of material in my halting spiel.

After he thanked me, I showered, dressed, and prepared to head down to the Target on the southside to finally take advantage of a Christmas gift card. I needed underwear, boot-laces, VHS tapes, and a new tire gauge (this could indeed be the recipe for an entree of the next Dada Dinner Party). I had just enough time to visit Target, get a very late lunch at Pepe's Cafe, and make it to Nikki's place for a 5:30 appointment.

I got in my truck and drove off. When I was about seven blocks away, I got a call on my cell.

It was Ray Santisteban. Ray's one of the more accomplished local filmmakers. I'm quite a fan of his work. And even though I've met him maybe twice, I have a feeling he doesn't remember me. But we now have a connection, as he's slated to show some of his work at a film event I'm curating June 1st.

“Erik, hi. It's Ray. I have a DVD for you. You said you're in the neighborhood. So, I could come by and drop it off. What is your address, again?”

“716 E. Guenther,” I said, smiling to myself.

“Oh, well I guess I could just walk.”

Yeah. Walking would be a good idea. I can see Ray place from my kitchen window. He's across the street, four houses down.

“I'm in my car. But I'm just a few blocks away. I'll meet you at my place.”

As I doubled back, I made it to my street just as Ray was stepping out of his yard. I called his name. Introduced myself. And he handed me a DVD of four short pieces with a full run time of 20 minutes. And, no, I didn't get a sense he recalled having met me before. But I don't hold it against the guy. He's super-nice, and, as I've said, damn talented.

Target was a mild ordeal. And Pepe's Cafe was tasty.

I made it to Nikki's place on time. She's been running acting classes for kids. One of the classes is with two very talented girls, Marina and Caroline. I'm a bad judge of ages, but I think they're 12. Tonight was the final class, and Nikki wanted them to run through their paces in front of “industry people.” Now I have no problem with Michael Druck as a person of importance. He might be fairly young, but as the most important person to know at a certain local talent agency, you'd be a fool not to extend puckered lips in the direction of Druck's posterior. And then there was a representative of the acting community. Anne Gerber is clearly the highest profile local actor. She lands the lead with appalling frequency in local theater and film. Yep. She's at the top of the acting food chain. And this brings us to “industry” person number three. A representative from the filmmaking community. Me. Me? I wouldn't have been my first choice, I know that. But in retrospect, I guess it seemed justified. Nikki did have her students watching at least one of my short films.

In fact, one of the girls wrote a review of “The Treasure of the Perro Diablo.” Not my best work. An unfocused piece that barely makes sense. But the child was polite.

Here we have Marina, in her own words:

“The Treasure of the Perro Diablo is an interesting and intriguing independent film directed by the one and only Erik Bosse. This Short Ends Project film stars Nikki Young, Rosalinda Coto, Carlos Pina, and Kathleen O'Neal. Nikki Young played Jackie and was believable in her performance. Nikki had great facial expressions. Rosalinda Coto played Angela and had an overall good performance. Rosalinda seemed to be using the Misner method of acting although there were times I didn't find her character believable. The Perro Diablo was a foul smelling, glowing green-eyed dog that followed people around who eventually died mysteriously. This film will keep you guessing and ends with a cliffhanger. Possible sequel??”

How sweet. My first review! Thank you so much, Marina! A bit, um, harsh on Rosalinda…. Who, I should point out, is one of my favorite actors — she always gives me the performances I want, and then some.

Having said that, I really enjoyed the evening. The two kids are very talented, and lucky to be working with Nikki and PrimaDonna Productions — I'm convinced I witnessed the beginning of two great careers. Later, when they pitched to me that I should write a script to feature the both of them, don't think I'm not giving it serious consideration. They're fun, spunky, and blew us all away with an improve experiment.

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Here is my flyer for the Meet the Maker film series I'm curating. It's a thumbnail. Click on it for a larger image.

If my local blog readers aren't doing anything on the night of June 1st (and, yes, I know (now) that that's First Friday), please head over to El Tropicano Hotel downtown. You might want to find a parking space on the street somewhere. The hotel charges 10 dollars for parking. Yeah, you heard right. But, please, come on out. Park a few blacks away if you're poor like me. The headlining film is good. It's about my favorite place in the world. And my good friend, Enrique Madrid, will be there to talk about this film … and he can also talk about a few other films made in the La Junta region. For instance, he was the local liaison when Tommy Lee Jones took his production of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada into Enrique's turf.

It's going to be a fun night!

This morning I got up early. Christy was picking me up. The plan was to meet Russ up in New Braunfels and we'd all go out to Canyon Lake to scout a location for the dance film Christy is making this summer.

I'd gotten up with plenty of time to make a serious dent in pot of coffee. Seven forty-five she pulled up in front of my house in her little red car. We got on I-35 and headed north. A bit of cloud cover, but it promised to shape up into a good day for poking around the banks of the lake.

When the little red car began making rattling noises and shuttering a bit, I stole a glance at Christy to see if she found anything troubling about this new development. Having owned my share of older, used cars, I saw no reason to draw attention to something that might just be a pesky nuisance. Christy mentioned something about how her car had done this before. After five or ten minutes of this, I could tell it was getting on her nerves. She moved to the center lane and slowed down some. Perhaps she was thinking about pulling off the interstate.

And then the car lurched sickeningly. With admirable aplomb Christy tightened her grip on the steering wheel and said in a calm tone: “Guess who has a flat tire?” I knew it was a lot worse than that. At the lurch, I had seen, from the corner of my eye, a large shadow fly up and over the car. I assumed that the front passenger wheel had come off and we were on the naked metal rotor. I braced myself, assuming we'd slew deeply to the right and begin to roll. But Christy aimed unerringly to the shoulder, and brought us to a halt, perfectly alined on the shoulder.

If some serious shit goes down, I can only hope that Christy Walsh is there watching my back. She's brilliant under pressure … unexpected pressure.

I got out, and yep, the wheel had indeed sheared off the rotor. Quite cleanly. Two of the lugs had snapped off. I walked to the back of the car and looked to the highway behind us. The wheel had followed us and was lying in the slow lane thirty feet away. I walked down and pulled it from the flow of traffic.

Christy crossed around to the grassy verge and fished her AAA card from her purse and punched some numbers into her cell phone. I pulled out my phone and gave Russ a call. He said he'd come on down and meet us. If nothing else, he could provide moral support.

As Christy made another phone call (to her sister, perhaps), I cautiously slid my little digital camera out of my pocket. I was lining up a shot with Christy (her back to me), and the sad, broken car. She shifted her weight from one foot to another. I was afraid she'd turn and see me, vulture-like, snapping away. I put away the camera. I didn't want to add salt to the wound.

However, when Russ rolled up, he had no such concerns. Straightaway, he whipped out his own point-and-shoot camera and herded me and Christy together to shoot the poor car between and beyond us.

Once he broke the ice, I snapped off a few myself.

The AAA wrecker showed up in under 25 minutes. I think I need to get on with them.

We offered to follow Christy back to San Antonio — she said the car was going to the garage she and her family used. But she said her sister would meet her there to give her a ride home.

I felt kind of weird not going with her in the tow truck, but I didn't want to become another hassle in a day that had already started out so poorly for her. I mean, she'd have to have her sister drop me off at my place.

Russ said he was planning to drive to San Antonio later in the day, so I stuck with him.

We headed to a place in New Bransfeld for breakfast. He'd touted their migas and homemade corn tortillas before. In front of the restaurant was a huge rocking chair. Fuck if I know what it represents. But, at the risk of dating myself as an old man, it made me think of Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann character. I hopped up into it and felt like a kid again. And by that, I mean I felt incredibly self-conscious and awkward.

As we were enjoying some kick-ass migas and corn tortillas, Russ got a call from his daughter. She was getting a new tire at the Firestone place a couple of miles away. She was bored, while waiting for the tire to be mounted. Russ suggested she “read some of those hunting magazines they got there.”

But he's not really that callous. After we finished, we tracked her down at the tire place, and Russ paid for the two new tires she had ordered.

Russ needed to make a detour to Seguin to look after the two Pekinese he occasionally dog sits. They're delicate critters who need constant medication. On a positive note, they are pretty damn cute. For lap dogs, that is.

On the outskirts of Segiun (a town, apparently known for it's cash crop of pecans) was this gigantic pecan. I had an overwhelming desire to steal it and place it in that big-ass rocking chair. And it would still look like a huge pecan.

(This one's for you, Paula!)

Later I gave Christy a call. Her mechanic was on duty. On a Saturday! And she's back on the road. Amazing! Only something like 150 bucks poorer. Good for her. First, she didn't die. And then, she got her car repaired on the same day pretty damn cheap. We should all be shopping where this girl gets her karma.

My most recent gig for the Company ended tonight. It's seasonal work. And as I've mentioned before in this blog, the job is scoring standardized tests. Two of the items we had been working on concerned third graders reading a little passage about spiders, and then answering a couple of questions. No doubt I'm ripping asunder some confidentiality form I signed, but here are a few responses that got a smile out of me … those grim hours squinting at the eccentric handwriting of very young people.

“The jumping spider is very jumpy.”

“The jumping spider 'as you know' jumps.”

“The jumping spider can jump ten inches. That is probably over one whole foot!”

“A jumping spider uses its vision. After it sees a prey it jumps on the helpless little insect.”

“[Spiders hide] so they won't get termanaded. Sientest need spiders for cospearments.”

“It's important for spiders to hide because they can't just catch their prey by walking up to it and asking hey can I eat you they have to be stealthy.”

“So they sneak out of their cage when some body opens it. Then, they just start crawling on peoples back. Next when the buyer leaves the spider bites the clerk on the neck.”

And my favorite:

“It's C! The answer is always C.”

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My sister, in her blog, added a photo of the biohazard box she bought from the vet to dispose the needles she uses for her diabetic cat. She even went so far as to make a collage with Hummel figurines and biohazard logos.

I mentioned to her that there are needle disposal stations in the rest rooms of the Company (for the diabetic employees, one presumes — but, perhaps I'm not yet aware of their methadone program).

On a not so goofy pet note, Jennifer (whose blog I read without fail) writes about an elderly cat of hers whose health is quickly declining. I found myself wondering why reading about a dying pet can often carry more emotional weight than reading about a dying person? I think one of reasons has to do with the innocence of unconditional love that people receive from their pets. That, and these animals' absolute dependency upon us.

The heart-breaker is, it can't always be Jerry Falwell.

I been swamped by two projects. I don't know how I've stumbled into the role of an event organizer. I'm not a terribly organized person. I mean, really, I can't keep my own life out of a shambles. And so I scramble to make the Josiah Youth Media Festival and the Meet the Maker film series successes (and as we get closer to August, I'll be doing the same with the 48 Hour Film Project).

(I doff my hat (and I know I have one around here somewhere) to my friends Nikki and Deborah. They both do excellent jobs planning events. It can be a real pain in the ass.)

Things took a weird turn with the Meet the Maker event last Friday. I'd like to blame other people, but that serves no purpose. Besides, my impressions of the events may well be distorted and ill-informed. Best to take all the blame myself — which could well be the case anyway.

It appeared that the schedule of films had changed at the last minute late Friday afternoon. There really wasn't anything I could do until Monday. I spent the weekend with a churning stomach. Luckily I had the silliness of Christy's Dada Dinner Party on Saturday, and Sam's short film on Sunday. They helped keep my mind off things.

Come Monday, I hit the group running trying to revamp most of the event. It was only by Thursday night that I was able to take a breather.

There was a time I naively applauded myself that, as a relative new-comer to San Antonio, I had somehow managed to make the equivalent of a decade's-worth of connections within this city's art, film, and non-profit sectors. In many ways this is true. The problem is that no matter how well I might know these people and organizations, I'm still learning the nuanced dramas and back-stories of the members of these communities.

A couple months back, I attended the last NALIP meeting at Casa Chiapas coffee house. I had been meeting with someone else over at Titos Tacos. I thought it was too late to head down the block, but I did. The NALIPsters were still hanging out. As I walked in the door someone (probably TJ) nominated me to curate the upcoming Meet the Maker film event. I said, sure. I sounded fun.

And it isn't (though I'm sure I'll have a different take when it's over). There are all sorts of potential problems when you find yourself in the middle of two non-profit organizations. Erik's tip of the week: Try to avoid these sorts of situations.

Anyway, after busting my ass (as I no doubt should have been doing in the weeks leading up to this one), it seems to be shaping up.

But, damn, I am beat. And demoralized.

I still need to keep working on Josiah, but the Meet the Maker seems to be in calm waters. Finally.

I invite all and sundry to El Tropicano Riverwalk Hotel in downtown San Antonio on Friday June 1st. The National Association of Latino Independent Producers (NALIP) and The American Indians in Texas at the Spanish Colonial Missions (AIT-SCM) will present Alan Govenar's documentary, “The Devil's Swing.” Alan won't be able to make it. He's touring his Blind Lemon Jefferson musical in Europe. But my friend Enrique Madrid, one of my very favorite people (my guru in matters of quantum physics, enlightenment philosophy, archeology, et al), will be in attendance to talk about the film. He's in it for a couple of interviews. He provided the English translations. And he introduced the director to many of the citizens of La Junta de los Rios, that region where the Rio Conchos flows into the Rio Grande.

For an opening act we will have San Antonio filmmaker Ray Santisteban. He's offered to show three or four very short films before we move into the hour long “Devil's Swing.” I have enormous respect for Ray's work. He lives a block away from me, though I've never properly met the man.

It will be a great night of films. Also, it gives me a reason to hang out with Enrique. I haven't seen him in over a year. My plan is to drive down to Redford (about seven hours away) and drive him back to San Antonio. I hope his wife Ruby can come along. After the event I can spend a couple of days with them when I drive back to Redford.

I sent out the press release this afternoon. That act did wonders to settle my stomach. The date, the works to be screened, and the artists to attend is for the most part public record. The likelihood of people pushing for changes has pretty much evaporated.

Press release sent, I took a bike ride out towards the missions. I treated myself to a leisurely ramble around the grounds of Mission San Juan. These structures were built (under Spanish direction) by the Coahuiltecan people; in fact, the ancestors of the families who, under the recognition of the AIT-SCM, continue as the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation.

I made it to the NALIP meeting by 6:30. Roger was there. He had just made it back into town from a production gig in Houston. Lisa blushed a bit when we all applauded her recent Ph.D. Paul Ramirez told us that he's in the middle of post production on his third feature film. TJ has found himself in a writer for hire position that sounds incredibly promising.

When the meeting ended, I walked back home. Maybe eight blocks to my place. The air was cool, the neighborhood quiet. Twilight drifted into night, and the palm trees stood as silhouettes against the dark blue cloudless sky. Jasmine and mountain laurel filled the streets with their aroma. I made a conscious decision to appreciate the peacefulness. While it lasts.

If you're curious, here's a copy of the press release. Click on the thumbnail for a larger version.

I've fallen behind with this blog. Not such a big deal, but I've gotta get these photos posted.

They're from Sunday night. Sam Lerma was directing a little promo teaser for SAL (San Antonio Local film festival). Sam asked Russ to shoot the piece. Russ asked me to help him out. We had many people there I knew from other shoots. Andy, Xavier, Lani, Laura, Mike Richards. Brant showed up with Sergio and Manuel — they were there to turn some of our actors into down-on-their-luck indigents. There were also two guys whose names I forgot. After the makeup guys worked their magic, they were perfect as a couple of unkempt homeless guys.

It was a night shoot at a gas station downtown. Brant, Sergio, and Manuel showed up as the sun was beginning to set. Andy unpacked his new, snazzy HMI lights. I set up some Lowells from Russ' light kit.

Once everything was in place, the work moved pretty quick. It was great to watch Sam work. He's fast, efficient, and he seems to know pretty much what he wants.

A fun night.

It seems I fallen behind on my blog entries. It's almost midnight and I have to get up fairly early tomorrow, so I'll give a quick run down of Saturday, the day of the Dada Diner Party.

I started off the day with Teko and Coetzee for a few scenes for the documentary. First we headed over to UTSA (the north campus), where Teko plays in a soccer team. Many of his teammates are also foreign students.

Once the (very friendly and laid back) game began, Coetzee set up on tripod and I held back with the boom pole to get some ambient sound. After awhile Coetzee started getting antsy. “Let's go out onto the field and follow Teko around until they chase us off.”

They never did chase us off, though I'm afraid we cost one team an easy point because we were standing in front of the goal. But it seemed more a chance to socialize and get in some exercise.

Next we went to a polling station near Teko's American home. It was in a small elementary school on the northside. He was volunteering with a group getting the word out for a five-part bond package concerning basic infrastructure work: libraries, parks, roads, etc. It was mid-afternoon, and not many people were showing up. We shot a few encounters of Teko talking to the voters. One of the reasons we were there was that Mayor Hardberger was expected to drop by. I don't know why, but Nancy (Teko's American “mom”) knew he'd be there sometime between two and four.

At three o'clock, Coetzee looked up — he had been rooting around in his camera case — and he nodded to an approaching SUV. A big one. Black with tinted windows. “It's the mayor,” he said. And he was right.

There were no babies to kiss (thank god, because I've seen Phil Hardberger do that before). But we got some nice footage of Teko talking to the Mayor of San Antonio.

After that, I wriggled free from the shoot and headed south to prepare for the Dada Diner Party.

I'll allow a few pictures to sum it up. But, in brief, it was a great deal of fun. Just what I needed. Christy did a wonderful job pulling it together. I stumbled over some of the Japanese names in my reading (I DID have four parts). And we had a bit of rain which had us scrambling to move the diner table. The rain quickly passed, and we proceeded. Pete showed up with Lisa and Cooper. He was one of the few audience members (of which there were maybe a dozen) who had the foresight to wear a funny hat … embracing the spirit of us performers in OUR funny hats. Pete ran some footage with Russ' camera. Other than Pete's clan, the only other person in attendance who I invited was my neighbor Jerry. Our block is just a few minutes walk from the Blue Star Arts Complex, so he sauntered over, giving him an excuse to walk his dog, Sooty.

The food was … hmmm? Well, after we cleaned up the performance area, many of us headed to Tito's Tacos to get something to eat. Sam Lerma showed up, and he asked about the dada diner spread. After a few seconds of nothing, I decided to break the awkward silent.

“The first course of popsicles eaten with knives and forks was as simple in concept as it was in flavor. A study in pure minimalism. The second course, a single, succulent radish taco — the radishes sauteed in a beguiling bbq sauce — was served stuffed into chinese take-away cartons, the opening of which presented the diners with certain challenges as they pondered how to snag the tortilla-wrapped goodness with their large salad tongs. Next arrived the warm grits and sweet peas. They were ladled out into pasteboard Dora the Explorer bowls. The diners were presented with ungainly slotted serving spoons and invited to make quick work of the duotone mush. (It could have benefited from the addition of a bit of salt.) And finally the main course arrived to much fanfare. The diners lifted high their black plastic sporks in anticipation of an intimate encounter with the Kasimir Malevich White on White Seven Layer Casserole. A shinning slab of rice, topped with potatoes, a scattering of pine-nuts, a pavement of fried tofu slices, sautéed onions, a layer of ricotta cheese, and topped with white bread crumbs. The garnish of marshmallows only added to the emptiness of the barren and bland tundra of this starchy entree. The arrival of the final course, apricots stuffed with crunchy peanut-butter, clearly lifted the diners spirits. Once the they mastered the proffered eating utensils (beaded wire drink skirts), they were clearly overjoyed to place something into their mouths which didn't have them surreptitiously glancing about for the nearest bucket.”

Salud! Here's to the next Dada event — a picnic, I believe.

I know I'll be there. You?

I headed over to Urban-15 this morning to meet with George and Cat.  They are always in the middle of half a dozen real projects, and the same number of potential schemes.  It's breathtaking to watch the dynamic of the two.  Very often these products of brain-storming sessions morph into actual events.

While talking, we stapled 60 three-page packets of paperwork for the Josiah Youth Media Festival.

I had a 11:45 appointment with Konise Millender over at Robert E. Lee high school.  She teaches film at NESA (the North East School of the Arts), the school within the school.

George and Cat gave me what they swore was a shortcut to NESA.  Sounded bogus to me.  But I made it there in plenty of time, even after missing my exit onto 281.  The campus is huge.  A couple of hulking modern buildings face the street.  The architect should be driven out of the profession.  They look like a cross between an upscale retirement community and one of those vile mega churches so common in far far north Dallas.  But after I parked and began to wander around the center of the campus, looking for the administrative building, it became clear that the core of the school had been built back in the '50s.

When I found the main building, a woman in the admissions office took my drivers license, pressed it against a little label-making machine.  It printed out a black and white visitor's pass with my photo on it.  As I peeled off the slick plastic backing and stuck the “pass” on my shirt, I gushed, “how cool.”  The office girl looked at me blankly with a hint of what she tried to make into a professional smile.  With thumb and forefinger she pulled a string of gum from the mother wad clenched between incisors.  I watched as she retracted the string by coiling it around the tip of her finger.

“So, um,” I began, gently prompting her, “where can I find the film department?”

“Oh….  Well, I really don't know.”  I saw a hint of embarrassment.  She looked over her shoulder.

An older woman at a desk in the back never looked up from her computer nor did she pause in her frantic typing.

“Out that door you came in.  Straight through a set of glass doors.  Turn right.  You'll see the auditorium building.  Up the steps and….” She trailed off, muttered under her breath, and I heard the clatter of a backspace key being worked like a teletype.

The girl with gum on her finger nodded encouragingly.  She pointed out the doors I came in.

The auditorium was easy enough to find.  But it took a few false turns to find the NESA classrooms.  They are in the basement.  Kind of sad when you think about it.

Konise was as kind and gracious as always.  When I entered her room, she waved me up.  The place is painted black like a darkroom.  There are banks of editing stations.  Each suit has a monitor, a Casablanca editing deck, and a Behringer mix board.  At the far reach or the room was a U of three tables with about ten kids seated.  Konise introduced me.  And I pitched the festival for them.

Earlier in the week the school had a screening at the Woodlawn Theater.  I really wanted to go, but I had to earn some money working at the Company.  I asked who in the class had screened a piece Tuesday night.  Most raised their hands.  I reminded them that Josiah (the name-sake of the festival) had been a student in this same school, same program.

There was another class to speak to after lunch.  So I took a break and drove to the Camera Exchange.  I needed a new one of their lens cloths.  And because one of the film events I'm helping to put together has paid me some up front money, I was feeling fairly flush.  (A nice feeling.  Just gotta remember to make it to the bank.  The check's not doing me much good sitting tucked under my computer's keyboard.)  I splurged and bought a roll of gaff tape.  And I also found myself drooling over a Manfrotto tripod dolly.  It's one of those spreaders on casters which you lock onto your the tripod's feet.  It was nowhere as pricey as I thought they were.  I rolled it around the place some, scribbled some notes, and decided to mull it over for a few days.

I returned to speak to the second class.  Chatted some with Konise (which is always a pleasant and rewarding experience). And I headed out.

It was pushing two, and I been running all day with nothing to eat.  Not even coffee.  I headed straight to Pepe's Cafe.  Inside I waved to Carlos, the waiter.  “Cafe, por favor.”

It's good strong diner coffee and compliments whatever their daily special might be.

My phone had been off while at the high school.  I noticed that I had a message from Carlos.  As In Carlos Pina.  He's working on a trilogy of shorts.  Like all his work, it's redolent with that Rio Grande Valley sensibility.  I read the scripts yesterday.  The dialogue, I decided, has a distinctive Damon Runyon quality.  And that's good.  I love Runyon.  And I suspect he would have been quite at home in the Valley.

Carlos explained that he was having a production meeting at South Park Mall. In the food court.  It sounded kind of perfect.

But at that moment I got a call from Christy.  She wanted to know if we could look at the bathtub she wants to use for an art film piece she plans to direct and choreograph in June.

Well, I only had so much time before I had to head up north for my night job.  And I hope Carlos will appreciate that Christy is considerably cuter than he.  I made a decision, and I'm sticking with it.

Christy and her friend Jim met me at my place.  They were at Blue Star getting the final approval for the Dada Dinner Party Christy is putting on Saturday.  (And, again, come one, come all.  5:30 pm in the parking lot of the Blue Star Arts Complex.  We'll be near the river, some ways away from Alamo Street.  The Dada Dinner Party is a performance art piece featuring half a dozen “performers,” one being myself.  We'll be reading a post-modern adaption of a Noh play.  I don't believe I've had my part assigned yet.  As the cast reads the play, we will be served five courses of questionable, absurd foods.  I'm quite looking forward to the premier of my impromptu creation, Kasimir Malevich's White on White Seven Layer Casserole (I'm hoping to convince some swank, intrepid San Antonio beanery to lay this on their menu).  So, dammit, come on out.  I guarantee I will be making an ass of myself, though, likely not on purpose.)

When Christy and Jim showed up, we walked over to the weed-choked cottage where Crofton Ave. bends into Constance St.  The homeowners are only periodically in town, so we had to peer over the fence at the old iron clawfoot bathtub stowed away in the distance.  Phil had spoken to the folks on my behalf.  They were cool with the idea of the tub borrowed for a performance piece.  This is something more serious than the Dada Dinner Party that Christy is doing.  Me and Russ will be helping her with camera work, art design, etc.

Christy seemed to think the tub would work.  I let her know I'd give her a call as soon as I contacted the owners.

Next, me, Christy and Jim went in search of sporks.  It really shouldn't be this difficult to find one of the most forward-thinking eating utensils since the genius who married the chop with the stick.  But they're proving quite elusive.  (Actually, I'm convinced I saw a box of them at the craft service table on the set of Leftovers.)  However, I was convinced we could find some in my neighborhood.  The stretch of South St. Mary's between Alamo St. and Brackenridge high school has become the restaurant supply district.  We've got Mission Restaurant Supplies, Ace Mart, and (for the low-enders), AAA Food Salvage.

Three promising retailers.  Zero sporks.  I'm speechless.  The spork is right up there with Velcro and the Nicotine Patch.  I'm pretty fucking sure that the astronauts ate their lasagna paste and desiccated split pea soup with sporks fashioned from a non-magnetic alloy of silicon manganese.  Well, that's NASA — very specialized and high-tech.  All I wanted was five white plastic sporks, so that the diners in Saturday's event could enjoy their white on white delicacy transported mouthward on the proper utensil.

I've a couple of places I'll try tomorrow.