The Answer is Always “Anthracite”

I was up at 5:30 this morning to make a 6:30 call time up on the northside.  Nancy and Keith (who I know from the SA to SA Festival (that's San Antonio to South Africa)) have been hosting Teko Hlapo while he's been studying in Texas.

Coetzee Zietsman is the South African filmmaker putting together a documentary on Teko for the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC).  I had first met him yesterday.  I was wrong in thinking Coetzee was his surname.  It's his first name.  And he explained that he's not related to J.M. Coetzee.

We shot some bits of Teko getting ready for an important day of finals.  He explained his nervousness as he fixed a basic breakfast of a peanut butter and honey sandwich with a glass of grape juice (thankfully Coetzee, who's staying with Nancy and Keith for the next couple of weeks) made a pot of good, solid African coffee.

There was a shot we had planned to set up where Teko catches the bus to the campus.  We must have been running a bit behind.  Instead of a nice tripod shot with my shotgun mike picking up the bus' air-breaks, Coetzee burned off a few seconds of Teko getting on the bus.  He shouted over his shoulder that he was riding on the bus with Teko for some traveling shots, and I was supposed to meet them at the student center on the SAC campus.  I got in my truck and took what I thought was the most straightforward route.  Well, I'm not too familiar with that region north of loop 410.  But I did manage to find my way to the student center a good five minutes before Coetzee and Teko.

Here's a snapshot I got of them yesterday.  Coetzee told me that they are from the same region of the South African highlands.  He knew Teko as a boy.  In fact, he pitched this documentary to the SABC.

Some of Coetzee's work can been scene on his website.

http://www.chedzamedia.co.za/

He gave me a great honor by placing a photo I took of Teko on his company's website.

We followed Teko to his first stop of the day.  A three hour comprehensive exam in his geology class.  He was about ten minutes early, but his instructor wouldn't let us (the film crew) inside.  So we got a quick interview with Teko.  And then we shot him (from the hallway) entering the class room.  Coetzee got a shot of him through the tall, skinny glass window in the door.  Teko was wearing a wireless microphone.  Through headphones we could hear the scribbling of his pencil.  I only wish the wireless setup had been set up to send, for at that moment my college geology courses came flooding back to me.  I would have liked the opportunity of imparting me experience to the lad.  “In multiple choice, the answer is usually, C.  With a fill-in-the-blank question, you can hardly go wrong with anthracite.”

Oh, well.  We packed up the equipment and left Teko to his ordeal.  We had plenty of time to head out for breakfast.  We both had only been able to grab coffee at Nancy's.

I drove to Tito's Tacos.  They make a good and cheap huevos rancheros plate.  We grabbed a booth and I ordered a couple of coffees while Coetzee checked in with his wife.  He spoke for awhile in Afrikaans.  The chattier of the waitresses lingered as she placed down the coffee.  I told her we'd be a few minutes.

Afterwards, the waitress asked how we enjoyed our breakfast.  Coetzee, in his mode of playful banter, praised the meal as a delicious high-cholesterol excursion of which his doctor might not approve.

“So,” she asked, “what do you usually have?”  Clearly she knew he wasn't from 'round-these-parts, and I don't really know what she expected him to say.  “Walrus blubber, when in season, with a steaming mug of mint tea.”  Sure, that sounds tasty.  Or, maybe: “Hippopotami sausage with a quarter ostrich egg omelet.”

He said something about Special K cereal.  Maybe even skim milk.  She smiled indulgently, but she wasn't buying it.  There was an exotic film strip playing in her head, and corn flakes had no place there, no sir.

Back on the campus, we set up camera and sound outside the geology room just in time.  Teko walked out about two minutes after we set up.

We interviewed him in the hallway.  He grinned and told us he thought he did pretty well.

Then we followed him to another building.  He needed to speak with his French instructor.  There had been some misunderstanding.  Teko needed to reschedule his French exam to accommodate another exam.  But somehow the French instructor had dropped the ball and Teko had to re-reschedule.  We followed Teko down a hallway to the teacher's office.  I knew Coetzee was hoping for a confrontation.  He wants some sort of conflict or ambiguity in the piece.  But all we got was some sweet, apologetic guy in a beret (does he wear that thing all the time??).

It was agreed that Teko would take his French exam with his classmates, right now.  Meaning in 15 minutes.

We headed up one floor.  We were in the biggest and ugliest building on  campus.  It's a six or seven story white cube.  There are a few windows with nice views, but the building has little going for it, other than a very convenient series of escalators.

There was only one other student in the classroom when we entered.  It was still early.  Coetzee placed his tripod on the last aisle along the windows.  He had set up for a shot of the door, the clock above the teacher's desk, and Teko's desk, on the front row.  A couple more students entered and sat.  Coetzee leaned back, scrutinizing the image in the camera's monitor.  He was oblivious of the perplexed students, staring goggled-eyed at this film crew of two.

“Teko, I need you over there,” Coetzee said, pointing to a desk two aisles closer to the camera, but still on the front row.  Teko smiled nervously.  He complied, putting his backpack on the desktop, be he didn't sit.  He said something about this might not be a good idea.

It took a moment for the absurd notion of assigned seating to occur to Coetzee.

“How big is the person who sits there?” he asked the room.  “Because,” he continued,” I'm pretty tough.”

The guy in the seat next to the desk in question made a grimace.  “I donno.  She works out.”

I muttered something about pulling the camera back six feet and letting Teko sit in his original seat.  Coetzee shrugged.  And Teko lifted his backpack off the desk just as a beautiful young women, lithe, yet toned, entered and sat at the desk.

“What's all this?” she asked, pleasantly enough.

“We're doing a documentary for South African television,” Coetzee began, innocently.  “It's about American Universities … and sexual harassment in the classroom.”

There was the expected uncomfortable silence.

“With, you know,” I added, “a French twist.”

A chuckle or two.

Coetzee snapped his camera onto the tripod.  “It's a documentary about Teko, commissioned for South African TV.”

And the beret-wearing French teacher entered.  This was a far cry f
rom the geology teacher who had what I can only assume was a polished rod of oolitic limestone rammed up inside to better his posture and dampen his joie de vivre.  Our French teacher scrambled to put on a good face.  A great success.  He graciously allowed us to shoot until the exam began.

We retreated, me and Coetzee, to the student center, until Teko completed exam number deux.  There were two other quick scenes, but that was pretty much my morning and afternoon.  There will be maybe a couple more days of this work before Teko leaves.  I'm looking forward.  Coetzee Zietsman is living a life I find very appealing.

And then I had to head out to the Company for five hours.

Ernest Borgnine and Stan Ridgway comments welcomed here.

I'm back on dog patrol.  Phil's on a week-long vacation from … well, whatever it is he does to fill his days.  We are actually rather similar as guys with no visible means of support.  Generally loafing and leeching.  Yeah, he does furniture restoration.  But that's like me claiming that I do freelance video production.  The real paying work is practically nonexistent.  As for Phil, he seems to do about a piece a month.  Perhaps his girlfriend is helping to support him.  Hell, maybe there's a baronetage in his lineage (and he's been exiled to yankeelandia so his yobbo tendencies won't shock the cotillion class).

I've fridge-raiding privilege.  Finally, the guy's starting to get a clue.  So after walking Cutsie, I walked the two doors back home with a bag of salad and two avocados.  Strictly speaking I'm not a salad bag man.  I prefer mixing my own greens.  I'm not convinced sweat shop workers can do it with the same love as myself. But, certainly, I'll not carp about free food.  I just need to find out where he keeps the chocolate truffles and the smoked salmon.

Things seem to be coming to a head in the NALIP Meet-the-Maker series,  Too many people wanting different results.  I have no problem with a bit of compromise, but, dammit, I need certain people to communicate with me.  We'll just have to see how it all works out.

I got a call yesterday from Chadd Green of PrimaDonna Productions.  Could I help out as crew on a documentary being filmed about Chadd and Nikki's friend, Teko.  Teko's a young man from South Africa studying at SAC (San Antonio College).  The filmmaker is also from South Africa.  Sure, I said.

So today I met up with Teko, Chadd, and the filmmaker, Coetzee (no, I don't know his first name, and no, I don't know if he's any relation to the Nobel Laureate).

First we did some quickie interviews with some folks from the international students club who were having a goodbye party.  Then we headed over to the RTF building and did an interview with John Onderdonk, the big cheese over there.  His office is next to the KSYM radio station studio.  And that's where we shot next.  Teko gave us a taste of his radio show.

A nice surprise for a Tuesday afternoon.  Coetzee has a wonderful wry sense of humor.  His camera style is very shoot-from-the-hip.  It was fun.  But I had to scurry back home, leave off my equipment, grab a couple of 50 cent tacos from the Pik-Nik up the street, and head off to the Company for five hours of mind-numbing data-entry work.

They do give me a 15 minute break.  I fleshed out some notes on a narrative film project and bolted down a tricolor ice cream sandwich.  Neapolitan, they call it.  (But, really, these aren't the colors of Naples.  Or are they…?)

I probably need to call it a night.  I have to get back on this Teko project early tomorrow morning.  A 6:30 call-time.  Yikes!  It's Seguin all over again!

Today marked the final production day for Leftovers. I looked back at my blog. Feb. 10th marked the first day of shooting. And with maybe three exceptions, my weekends of February, March, and April were taken up by the shooting. Now I've made no pretense to be a fan of the sort of family melodrama of the story-line — with very few exceptions, I don't find myself in movie theaters watching films such as Leftovers. Having said that, I want to commend Robin for an excellent job coaxing out performances from over a dozen actors to bring the words and scenarios of her script into a large, sustained narrative in line with her vision. You did an excellent job, Robin. You remained upbeat and in good spirits even when those occasional unexpected nuisances popped up. And you hardly ever allowed your frustration to become apparent. We stayed pretty much on schedule and I never saw an actor cringe because of something unprofessional or half-assed. And I know I had a blast every day of shooting.

And for the whole masthead of producers: Robin Nations, Kevin Nations, Russ Ansley, and Sherri Small Truitt — you guys pulled it off with class and panache. All the locations, cast, crew, props, wardrobe, and the miscellany one encounters in any situation of event planning and production coordinating — all this ran together smoother than one would expect, with all the variables taken into consideration.

Today Russ asked what I would do now that I had my weekends back. I shrugged. I never do much with my weekends. I try to keep weekdays open. Weekday slack-time is so much more fun. I guess I'll eventually find myself doing much the same. Production work. And again, which will most likely be unpaid. But I will miss all the great people. Many of them I encountered often in other related projects. But it will be sad not to see some of the folks from out of town, like Erin, Ezme, and Mark. I can only hope our paths will cross again. Soon and often.

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Like many of the older high-school students across this town, I had something akin to their Senioritis. The last day of shooting. Call time 7am. Ah, yeah … right. I don't think I made it to set until 7:20. My shame might have been greater were I being paid. Just sayin' ….

Okay. There was shame. Even Kevin, with his bruised kidney, was there on time. Of course, he was hopped up on painkillers (which, I should point out, he selfishly kept to himself).

We only had three scenes. Call it five, if you want to get technical. But three or five, we needed to be out of the location by two. So, we had to move fast.

The first scene had Cameron and Atticus in high horseplay mode as Sherri comes into the kitchen to get her morning coffee. I lumbered up on to the counter to clamp a Lowell Pro to the upper cabinets. It pointed down on the coffee pot, with a warmly glowing light filtered through an amber gel. I put two Lowell Omni's (gelled blue, color-balanced for sunlight (since we had ambient light coming in through quite a few windows)). Russ set up for a low master-shot. The boys were on both sides of Sherri, Cameron on the kitchen island, Atticus on the side counter. It was a strong composition. Cameron was shirtless, and Robin had him lounging on the island counter flat on his belly. He wore pajama trousers. Russ suggested he kick his legs up.

“Wow,” Cameron said, getting of glance of what the camera saw through the monitor. “This looks awful. I've got two legs growing out of my head.” He moved his legs around, fascinated. I admit I was laughing. The kid cracks me up. “How about just one leg,” he suggested. And so it was.

Sherri asked what we should put in the coffee pot so she could actually pour something out for herself. Russ leaped in and began making a pot of coffee. He's a coffee maniac. And besides, the house belongs to friends of his — he often housesits and looks after their little dogs. So with nary a fumble, Russ poured some coffee beans into a grinder, ran it rough and loud, loaded up the top of the electric coffee pot, fed in some water, and he set the thing in motion.

As we waited, Cameron cracked wise about Nikki Young involving a sound effect she provided earlier on in the shooting. Sherri had not been there for the shooting that day, so we all jumped in and gave our impressions of Nikki.

Suddenly Cameron swiveled around, his eyes huge. A mixture of coyness and embarrassment flashed across his face. “Oh, my. It's Miss Nikki.”

Cameron was looking at the doorway behind me. Yeah right, I though. The most classic example of the boy who cries wolf would be the hammy kid actor. But that weren't just ham on rye — that was Cameron doing his best to save face, because at the moment Nikki did indeed walk on set.

We all laughed. Nikki, I suspect, most of all. She knows we all love her.

Once the coffee pot was full, we fell to work. Cameron's ham fell away and he was in character. The boy is an extraordinary actor. Like so many impressive child actors, it only helps that Cameron is a very intelligent kid.

We moved through a few set-ups. One was an idea I mentioned to Russ (though it was pretty obvious and he might well have done it without my suggestion). Cameron's character was up on the kitchen island because he was pretending that the floor was covered in hot lava (a game I too played as a kid). So, of course, he takes off his shirt to toss it on the floor to see if it will burst into flame. Russ set up the camera on the floor looking up at Cameron as the boy peered speculatively down at the floor before dropping his shirt down so it fell right by the lens.

I was just watching a bit of this because I was setting up lighting for the next scene at the dinning table in the next room. I hung a white plastic table cloth on two C-stands as a diffuser. I blasted three Omnis with blue gels through the table cloth. But when the actors finally arrived, Robin positioned them in a configuration I wasn't expecting. Time was crunching down on us. I woke up our sound department.

We needed able hands to clear out every piece of equipment so we could shoot wide. I place two Omnis on extended arms of C-stands, and ran them up high, pointing down. Russ suggested a Pro light bounced off a white board for fill.

And we started shooting the scene.

Andrea was the sole adult at the beginning of the scene. Cameron sat next to her. Across the table from her was Atticus, Dallin, and Ayla. We got the first part of the scene done. And then three new adults entered: Sherri, DB, and Tasha. There's this piece of action where Atticus brings a rag doll to Ayla. A sort of bonding moment between two children not related. I thought the scene would have been bett
er without the doll. Ayla's character just didn't strike me as emotionally insecure enough to need a doll.

The problem with melodrama is that it can't withstand the sarcasm of parody.   After a few takes of Atticus bringing the doll to Ayla, we took a moment to reset the camera.

Cameron decided to amuse us all. He started out slow. He turned to Andrea and looked up at her with moist doeful eyes.

“It's so sad. I, um, I just …. It's really tearing me apart.” There were tears working their way down his face. He threw himself against Andrea's voluptuous body. She smiled indulgently and patted him, half-hearted, on his back.

He kept this up for at least ten minutes as we tried to find a good shot.

“Atticus just wants to give her that … that doll.” Cameron gulped for air. He wiped his face and looked up at Andrea. Her smile hadn't changed. Maybe it was even getting weaker. “It's like my chest is being crushed,” he said in a breathless whisper. “He has this doll … this [gasp] rag doll. Oh, my goodness. And he … he … GIVES to to her! Oh, my, it hurts. It hurts!” Cameron buries his face in Andrea's bosom.

I notice Russ checking his cell phone for the time.

DB, at the end of the table, shakes his head. “Kids, you can stop beating that horse. He is dead. Long dead.”

I yell out for everyone to be quiet. And I do it again.

Cameron shrugs. He was just trying to keep us entertained. He makes one solid pass across his tearful face with a tissue, and fall into character.

Sometime around 1:45 we end our final shot. The martini shot. No celebration. Just “cut” from Robin, and, “Let's get the hell out of here,” from Russ.

And it was over. Lots of hugs and talk of a wrap party.

Me and Russ were the last people out. He needed to make sure the location was secure, and I needed his truck to take my equipment to my truck, parked outside the gate.

Russ offered to buy me lunch. I followed him to his stomping grounds. New Braunfels. He continued through to Gruene, Texas, a charming historical town with way too many tourists. I think the last time I was in Gruene was with Jean, and that was probably more than ten years ago.

We ate at the Grist Mill (which isn't a very appetizing name).

And I knew I would be remise if I left town without taking a snapshot of the facade of Gruene Hall (one of Texas' greatest honky-tonk dance-halls — the best of traditional roots country folks play Gruen Hall, such as Dale Watson, Alvin Crow, the Derailers, James Hand, et al).

(Keeping in the parenthetical, I should point out that I've currently posted to my MySpace site, as music, “Raspberry Beret,” as performed by the Derailers. This is indeed the Prince song. And for those who doubt that Prince is a universal singer/songwriter, give this a listen. The first time I saw the Derailers live was in Alpine, Texas. Me and my sister were visited friends down in the Big Bend. And Paula (that's my sister) read in one of the local papers that the Derailers were playing in Alpine. We were in Redford. Keep in mind that distances are relative in far west Texas. We drove a hundred and thirty miles — just down the road in the Big Bend. And when the guys did their Prince cover Paula dug her elbow into my ribs. It took me until deep into the song for me to understand that poke. These guys are great. If Ernest Tubb and Lefty Frizzell were still taking breath, they'd be dipping their heads to the Derailers.)

Last night I had over-stoked my system on bad coffee at the Company. It's free, is one of my excuses. Also, the trips to the coffee station down the hall are rewards for succeeding in scoring another hour or so of standardized test. The most disquieting thing about my job is that so many of my coworkers are intellectually inferior to the students whose papers we are scrutinizing. Allow me to put things into perspective. We scorers must have a minimum of a four year college degree. And the tests we are currently scoring are from fourth graders. From Alabama. And so, do my exchanges with my colleagues around the break-room most resemble: a.) the Algonquin Round Table, b.) the line at the methadone clinic, or, c.) the Green Room at the annual PEN/Faulkner Awards? The chilling fact is that more then 50 percent of these morons are professional educators — either retired or picking up some extra cash.

After work, I headed home. I made it to my neighborhood by about 10:30 at night. Just as I rolled down my street, I heard fireworks going off downtown. I watched bits from my driveway. I can get a glimpse of the Tower of the Americas at the end of my drive, just over my trees. In San Antonio they try to have the major fireworks displays come up from the Hemisfair Park, so that the iconic tower can function as a photo op backdrop.

As I'm grooving in the lights and explosions, Phil comes ambling up. He seems clueless about the festivities. Sure, his British accent might be as thick as Richard Briers', but make no mistake, the guy's been in this country twenty years. Hell, he's lived on this street for over six years.

I explain that tomorrow will be Cinco de Mayo. He seems doubtful. “Oh, come on, man,” I say. “Don't play coy. You know, the Battle of Puebla?” He just shrugs. “You're going to have to trust me on this.”

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This morning I got up at six. All that coffee from last night kept me drifting in and out for most of the night. And when I woke up … the first thing I did was make a pot of coffee.

By the time I made it to Sequin, the sun was up (well, up there somewhere above the thick cloud cover). The river road up to our location house was lush with new growth from the recent rains. I hadn't been out to the location in three or four weeks. I almost thought I was on the wrong street. But then I saw the driveway.

Robin was running maybe 15 minutes late. It seems she had to take Kevin to the emergency room. Last night he had been skating on this half-pipe he's been building in the backyard. He took a nasty spill and is currently on Vicodin and bed-rest. I hope it's nothing too lingering.

Get well, soon, dude!

But we plodded ahead. The first shot of the morning was the barbecue scene. The insane humidity had us all moving real slow. It took over an hour to set up some lights and put the camera on sticks. Russ thought it might be nice to set up the huge jib arm. New lighting set-up, new camera set-up.

We wanted the grill to pump out some smoke. I suggested we just use some of the home-owners' garden mulch. It kind of worked. And then DB sheepishly announced that he had brought along some smoke chips that he uses with his barbecue. You know, just in case. They worked fine.

We had strange weather throughout the day. Overcast in the morning. Rain at noon. Spots of sun and cloud until three. And then, pretty much full sunlight. I think we made it work. And then there were the neighbors with their lawnmowers and chainsaws. (The big rains recently knocked down limbs and even whole trees. In fact, a large pecan tree down on the backs of the Guadalupe River in the backyard of our location house had just given way and fallen into the river. It knocked down a smaller tree and just barely missed the dock. It's going to take some major work chopping it up and removing it. Good thing we finished our work shooting out by the river. Otherwise we'd have some major continuity issues.)

I have to get up damn early again for tomorrow morning. Seguin again. Our last day of shooting.

Can it finally be?

Here are some photos of the day.

(Click on the images for larger pictures.)

Erin as cast member


Mark hard at work downstairs


Atticus looks at a bug


Cameron dubious of the paparazzi


Erin as crew member


Mark hard at work upstairs


Scene eighty-something


Burger-cam

Ezme and Sherri

One of the problems with working the night shift for the Company is that it's part time hours.  And with my truck's poor gas milage, the long commute, and the meager pay (not to mention soaring gas prices), I'm pissing away 20% of my pay on getting to work.

I got out tonight at 10 o'clock.  I lingered in the parking-lot watching the gibbous moon low on the horizon, bloated and bloody.  I whipped out my camera in hopes of catching its dusty red hue, but I knew it was too damn dark for my cheap digital point-and-shoot.  Sad, really, because it was just a few degrees above this refinery half a mile away — a stunning tangle of cylindrical chimneys and gantry-ways, all in sharp relief with that unwholesome jaundiced glow of powerful sodium vapor lights.

But here's a quick-from-the-hip shot of the train crossing near my place as I made my way to the HEB supermarket on S. Presa before it closed for the night.  For some reason they always play ossified hits from the '80s (just wait until a brace of ASCAP lawyers takes an asscrap on them).  This is where Kim Carnes and Bram Tchaikovsky songs come to die; here amid the displays of tripas, carnitas, and Topo Chico Tamarindo, you can always catch that brittle Euro Synth crap poorly produced by Steve Lillywhite and his coked-out imitators.  Actually, I have a nostalgic weakness for this stuff.  And the truth is, the disconnect of “Video Killed the Video Star” by the Buggles playing where 90% of the patrons are blue collar Latinos would be stronger were the folks around me not also humming along in fond recognition.  Cultura?  Hell, we all had our MTV back in the day.

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The last few days have been dreary with overcast skies and spates of unpredictable rains.  But this morning as I was loading up on coffee and cutting up a mango, I saw blue skies creeping in from the south.  I rushed to fill the washing machine on the back porch.  After catching up on a few blogs, I pulled out my laundry and hung it up on the line.  The weeds were up to my knees, and there was a scattering of bamboo shoots taller than my head.  Oh, and the mosquitos, they were overjoyed with my presence.

I made a few phone calls to confirm elements of up-coming film events.  I sent a couple of emails.  I finished the pot of coffee and my breakfast.  But really, it was the sky.  The blue sky was fighting with scraps of slow, low-flying clouds.  It was just as likely that it would rain as it wouldn't.  I headed out on a bike ride nonetheless.  The super-saturated atmosphere had the humidity at about at a hundred and thirty percent.  Nature was in some freakish imbalance.  Undoubtedly all it would take for the rain to come pissing down would be for some sad sap to feed three quarters into the slot of bay number three at the Mission Car Wash — and that vague aeolian consciousness that we all breathe in and out every day would rear back with knitted brows:  “Oh, wow, that's right.  I could precipitate.  Yeah, piddle-down on all these fuckers!”  But it was not to happen.  I stayed dry as I rolled into Padre Park.

I believe that the sign above is using the lingo of the edict.  Pity the poor critters just across the barbed-wire fence on the Charro Ranch property.  If those beasts had known of this inhospitable county-sanctioned bigotry, their nobel elongated faces would grown damp as tears rolled down.  And the vague aeolian consciousness would reel back on on his haunches and–

Oh, so cool.  Remember that bright flash the other night during the storm?  You were bitching because your on-line order to QVC was disrupted and you had to wait twenty minutes until you could get back into their labyrinthine catalogue in hopes of relocating the product order number of the jumbo tube of Estonian anchovy paste (it's what Martha S. uses for her Cesar Salad, don't'cha know).  Well, this is the result of that lightening strike.  And I'm sure there were squirrels in this tree.  Baby squirrels.  Can you fathom how adorable baby squirrels are?  I expect that there are about half a dozen of those little furry guys beneath that enormous tree limb.  So ponder that the next time you rail against Nature diminishing your precious Technology.

Yesterday was quiet after the hullabaloo of the King William Parade & Street Fair of the previous day.  My neighbors were, for the most part, on their second drinks of the morning when the parade kicked off.  And they kept at the festival work throughout the day.  When Sunday rolled around, there was nary a soul stirring.  I was on dog patrol for Phil.  I took Cutesy down to the river so she could sniff around the wildflowers.

I got up early this morning to collate and staple a hundred or so sets of forms for the youth film fest I'm coordinating.  I have appointments at two schools.

And just as I stepped out the door to drive to my 9am appointment with George Ozuna at Harlandale High School (AKA, the Film School of San Antonio), the skies opened up with some heavy, heavy rain.

The San Antonio Current is our local free weekly “newspaper” — it promises hard-hitting regional journalism with a vaguely left-leaning slant and delivers neither.  Recently the Current had it's Best of SA 2007 issue.  The opportunity to praise those restaurants and clubs which have never defaulted on their weekly advertisements.  There are also those categories which were never offered to the readers to vote on. This allows for the staff writers to gush in unrestrained efflorescent prose more colorful than a baboons behind.  That's not to say that these subjects of celebration aren't deserving.  Best Film Teacher is awarded to George Ozuna.  And even though the readership of the Current weren't consulted, who else could it be.  George is the man.

I was looking forward to see what his department in the Harlandale magnet school looked like.  I was very impressed with the place.  He's only been there for three years, but it seems to be running smoothly, with growth and expansion in the works.  He teaches the advanced students.  Dago runs the earlier classes.  Russ is there teaching animation.

After spending time in George's class, he took me down the hall to Russ' room.  I watched Russ do this thing.  He played a wonderfully surreal work by Run Wrake titled Rabbit.  Eight and a half minutes of beautiful kitsch madness.  Then he turned them loose to work on their projects.  Dago poked his head in and we all visited for a while.

Dago asked me and Russ if we'd care to visit the set of Pablo Veliz's current feature, 7 Kilos.  Pablo had already shot a scene where the lead actress gets shot at in a public restroom.  But Pablo needed to build a replicate of the toilet stall so he could shoot it up.  Dago said it would be a quick scene, and that they'd be filming around five.  Sounded fun.

“Give me a call when you guys head out,” I said.

I left to make my second campus visit of the day.  Just as I stepped out the door of Harlandale, the skies opened again.  These were those fat heavy cold drops of water that make you think hail or a tornado is coming in fast over the tree line.  But only rain.  And it lasted just long enough for me to get to my car.

There was some nice flooding around town.

When I arrived at Northwest Vista College, the rain was pretty well sewn up for the day.

With ten minutes to spare I made it to the media arts department.  Bill Colangelo met me.  He toured me around, introducing me to students he thought might be interested in submitting to the festival.  I left plenty of forms.  The classrooms are large and open, yet manage to be cozy.  They have plenty of toys.  A great bank of computer work stations.  There's a classroom devoted to audio work, with a sound-booth.

I headed back to my neighborhood.  Stopped by Pepe's Cafe for Monday's special, chili rellenos.  I was sipping coffee and reading the San Antonio Express-News.  There was a story about an alligator which had crawled out onto the highway on the far southside.  Loop 1604.  The cops closed down the highway until the animal control agents could escort the critter back to a nearby lake.  What got my attention was that it was an eight-foot gator.  That's damn big.

And then I got a call from Sam Lerma.  He wanted to know if I could think of location for a film project he's working on.  He wants an interior which will work as the home of a decaying family, once well-to-do.  Something Faulknerian.  I explained that there were plenty of places in King William, but the folks I know live in more humble homes.  If anyone out there knows of a possibility, get in touch with me or Sam.

I should point out that Sam was also in this San Antonio Current's Best of … issue.  Third place for best local filmmaker.  He should have gotten first place.  I can say this because I voted for him.  Still, it's some sort of recognition.

Sam told me that he was the only news shooter on the scene for that alligator event.  He instructed me click over to the KSAT website.  Go to their Video section.  And scroll down for the video.  It's called “Gator Slithers On Freeway, Snaps At Police.”  They've no committed link location, so check it out before it buried by too many traffic jams and drug busts.

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Russ dropped by around 4:45, and we headed off to the eastside, just a couple of miles away, to meet up with Pablo and his crew.

The address took us to a small strip mall of three businesses.  A barbacoa place, hairdresser, and a building contractor.  We didn't see any film people.  But soon Pablo showed up.  We were indeed at the correct place.  The contractor opened up a side gate, and we began loading equipment into a small warehouse in the back.

The owner, Adrian, had built a perfect public toilet stall.  A guy — I believe his name was Gabriel — had placed squibs on two of the walls, which would explode in a manner to resemble the strafing of machine gun fire.  He said he had experimented with electric detonation, but it didn't work as well as firecrackers gouged into the wall from behind and lit with butane lighters.

It was one of those wonderful “movie magic” opportunities.  You know, where a shit-load of people cram into a small space and obsessively spend several hours to capture footage that will translate into 30 seconds of movie time.

We had two cameras.  The Panasonic HVX200 high def camcorder.

We set up three lights, but only used two.

Dago assembled his crane and we used it as a jib.

The call-time was about 5pm.  We wrapped by 9pm.  It was a very time-intensive shot.  And when Pablo shouted “action” we had only one take.  The squibs we
nt off perfectly.

It was a real privilege for Pablo to allow me and Russ help out on crew.  I've seen his previous two features.  I'm quite a fan of his stuff.

The people on the set, and I only got maybe half of their names, were all comfortable working together.  And even with all the good-natured banter, things seemed to got fairly smoothly.

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Tomorrow I start a new assignment with the Company.  I'll be scoring standardized tests for a couple of weeks for the evening shift.  The thought of real work, even part-time, is making me pissy.  Oh well, I've got bills stacking up.

King William Parade!

For those who don't think San Antonio is a beautiful place

Last night was a-buzz with neighbors putting the final touches of banners and streamers and the assorted miscellany about the exterior of their homes for the big Fiesta event — the parade that would go down our street this morning.  I could tell some had began celebrating already.  Playful banter drifted back and forth across the street.  The people on my block all get along well with one another.  I was sitting at my desk with the windows open as I answered a couple of emails.  And then I noticed that the tone of the voices had changed.  I stepped out on the porch to investigate.  Phil was out walking his dog.  (That poor animal gets dragged out for walkies ten times a day, at least — otherwise, how else will Phil be able to know what's going on in the neighborhood?)  He saw me and crossed to my sidewalk.

“Have you heard the latest?” he asked.

I lifted my brows and he filled me in.  It seems that the group who runs the parade were changing the route.  This year it would begin on our street.  In fact, the floats would be staged along our block.  That meant that we would just be able to watch the last half of the parade.  There were also less groups represented.  Only 60 groups were allowed to match this year.  Last year it was a little over a hundred.  And people could no longer throw things to the crowds — like beads, candy, trinkets, et al.  They could hand them out.  But no throwing!  And the biggest pisser to the folks on the street is that because the floats would be set up as early as 7:30 in the morning, cars wouldn't be allowed down the street.  Everyone on my block was prepared for a party.  They were consolidating their cars where ever they could so some of their guests could park in their drives.

I called Alston to warn her. She was coming with some friends from out of town.  I told her to come really early, or just be prepared to spend some time looking for parking.  At that point it was too late for me to call anyone else.

Parade day I got up and sat on my porch drinking coffee and watching to see how things developed.

Lee strolled up.  He would be joining Nikki to march with the SATCO (San Antonio Theater Coalition) group.  Nikki was running late and I had little hope she would make it through the barricades.  But I had forgotten how tenacious and charming she and her family can be.  She arrived with her grandmother, her mom, and her stepfather.  They sweet-talked their way in.

Alston arrived on foot with her friends.  Everyone had those portable folding chairs.  Very useful things.  Finally Gloria showed up.  Her sister and brother-in-law decided not to come.  But she had her adorable granddaughter, Bella, in tow.  I motioned her into my driveway and pulled out a couple of chairs.  Gloria told me all the lies she gave to the various police, constables, and state troopers who were working crowd control.  “My mother lives at 716 East Guenther.  I live at 716 East Guenther.  My nephew lives at 716 East Guenther, and he has my insulin.”  Gloria looked over at Bella who was petting a neighbor's dog.  She leaned in and whispered to me.  “Bella kept asking me why I was lying. I need to sit down and explain it.”  I shrugged it off and gave her my take.  “It's always okay to lie to a man in a uniform.”  Gloria didn't disagree.

Gloria and Bella

My neighbor Cara had made the mistake of allowing the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz float to use her restroom.  He periodically brought other Oz characters over to also use the facilities.  Maybe Cara didn't see it as a mistake.  She's very sociable.  In fact, I assume that the Ozians were helping themselves to Cara's cooler of beer and her build-your-own cocktail table.

Bradley and Dian had a huge crowd milling on their front porch.  Champaign seemed to be the order of the morning.  The same across the street from them at Jerry and Becky's place.  Marlys and Michael were working on Bloody Marys.  And I was drinking coffee.

One of the groups staged in front of my house was the local Sierra Club.  For a description of a run-in I had with one of the paranoid assholes from their group, check my blog for the King William Parade of 2006.  I don't recall what the woman looked like who thought I, armed with my video camera last year, was with the FBI.  And truly I could care less.  But I was intrigued.  What would these people be like?  They set to decorating two hybrid cars.  Very green.  Very virtuous.  Good for them.  And then they began assembling some windmills to represent alternative power.  I was a bit bemused that they were spread out all across my front yard without even making eye contact, let alone asking permission.  One of them was puffing away on a cigarette.  I found this mildly ironic.  It's more of a vice than it is air pollution.  But later I heard Alston:  “No way, dude!”  I looked over.  She told me that the smoking woman had just tossed her cigarette butt onto my side yard.  I took a picture of the Sierra Club litterbug, but it came out kind of blurry.  Here's Alston pointing at the butt.

They also helped themselves to my trash barrel without asking.  Well, one time, one of their members crossed my yard and put a half empty plastic water bottle in the trash.  “Gotta keep the planet clean,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.  I was laughing.  My recycling bin was two feet away from the trash can.

And when they finally left, there was this decorative decal sitting in my yard.  A piece of trash.  Sure you could say I'm going overboard.  But one of the things I've carried with me all my life from those early years of camping with, yes, the Boy Scouts, is that you police your area, and, if possible, leave it cleaner than when you arrived.  I don't camp so much anymore, but I try and do the same when I shoot a film on location.  You pack it in, and you pack it out.

I respect the Sierra Club for the work they do and most of the causes they support.  (Except the anti-immigrant stance taken by the more reactionary of their members — but that stalled out.)  But they are not really activists.  The Sierra Club is the environmental group that the pussies and yuppies join to keep from going to hell.

Earth First! they ain't.

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The word came down the line that it was ON.  The floats with music cranked up their PAs, the folks on horseback nudged their beasts, and the Alamo Badminton Club broke out their shuttlecocks.

Even though we just got half a parade, it was still a blast.  I saw Amanda Silva.  She was with the SAC (San Antonio College) cheerleading squad.  She was super cute in her outfit.  She reminded me that she was also with the SAC debating club, in case my estimate of her was flagging.  No way!  I know Amanda will one day put all us wanna be film folks to shame.  And then Dago passed on the San Antonio Undergr
ound Film Festival float.  Nikki and Lee marched by with SATCO. I also recognized Jonathan from the Woodlawn Theater.  Gisha, who teaches film at Say Si, was out with her video camera.  A woman who I believe is named Sheila came up to say, Hi.  She's read my blog, it seems.  She's a photographer and was roaming around with her SLR.

Amanda Silva

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Gloria had promised that she would show up with breakfast tacos.  But because she didn't have time to pick any up, she felt honor-bound to treat me to lunch.  Bella was getting antsy, maybe even a little bit crabby.  We dropped her off at her mom's.

We had a nice lunch at Demo's, a Greek place on N. St. Mary's.

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Back home things had quieted down.  I was thinking of a nap.  And then Carlos called.  He was in the neighborhood and wanted to know if he could park in my driveway.  “Sure,” I said.

He was driving the Camaro and had his daughter Rockie with him.  Rockie was in a sort of white taffeta princess dress.  The three of us went to the King William Fair a few blocks away.  It was crowded, but not as dense with people as the years in the past.  After thirty minutes of aimless wandering, I decided to call up Nikki and see if she was still hanging about.

Rockie.  In princess mode.

Chadd answered.  “Hey, Erik.  We're on Johnston Street.”

“I'm on Johnson Street.”

“We're over by the music stage.  Nikki's standing up.”

I thanked him and hung up.  No mistaking Nikki.

Nikki, Chadd, Lori, and Lee were waiting for Luis Arizpe to begin his set.  Nikki commented that Rockie needed a tiara.  Carlos promised to pick one up for her the next time he drove past the Dollar Store.

Luis started up, and Nikki took Rockie over to the stage and danced with her for a couple of songs.

Nikki, Rockie, Carlos.

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It was a nice day.  Aimless and somewhat strange.  Cloudy, mostly, though I have a bit of a sunburn.  I didn't have a gordita.  Nor did I get a good photo of someone eating a turkey leg.  But you can't have everything.

Or can you?  Just looking at these lovely lasses melts all my cares away.

Yesterday and today I've been working on the three film events I'm coordinating.  Meet The Makers on June 1st and 2nd.  The Josiah Youth Media Festival on July 12th, 13th, 14th.  And the 48 Hour Film Project either the first or the second weekend in August.

This morning I called around to the folks who run the film departments in the local high-schools and colleges and set up dates to speak with the students about the Josiah Fest.

Around noon I managed to talk myself into going out to buy a little digital still camera.  My sister provided me with a windfall via a book she sold over the internet.  160 sounded like the perfect price for a cheapie camera, some batteries, and an SD card.  I was right.  I'm now the proud owner of a Nikon Coolpix.  I guess I could have used it to pay my electric bill, but fuck it.

The camera's damn tiny.  I figured out the menus quick enough.  It's a basic point and shoot.  But it has several white balance presets, a macro close-up setting, flash over-ride, and an ability to force the exposure over or under.

Now I can clutter up this blog with pictures.

Like this, my new camera.  I believe this is the first photo everyone does with a new camera.  “This is me photographing myself in a mirror.”  So ubiquitous do I imagine this to be, that I think camera manufacturers should just go ahead and load up every camera, at the factory, with a generic blurry photo of some person holding a camera and facing a mirror.

It was a perfect day — maybe a bit humid with the recent rains — but the sky was clear and the wind not too fierce.  I decided to hop on the bike and ride out to Mission Espada and back.

Here is the old Espada Dam, which was constructed around 1745 to divert irrigation water for the fields around the missions.  At this point, the irrigation channel is running between the fence line of the Mission Burial Park (one of the older and grander cemeteries in San Antonio), and the San Antonio River.  It's always lush and green here where the water cascades over the dam, but spring is when it gets truly tropical.

In the same area, a bit further south, is the Espada Aqueduct.  It's from the same period, and carries water over Piedras Creek.  The park is usually empty, peaceful, and it's filled with shade trees.  There's a misshapened pecan tree which grows parallel to the ground for about ten feet before going up.  It's low enough to lounge on.  Many times I've been stretched out on it, my shoulders supported at the bend where the tree goes up, and I've watched car after car roll into the parking-lot, stop at the historical marker sign long enough for those inside to read it — and off they drive.  They're missing a lot.

If you eschew the bike trail, and head out of the Aqueduct park on Espada Road, you'll go through a peaceful farming community that no doubt has it roots all the way back to the indians who built the missions.  And then the bucolic idyllicness is mangled by the scar of I-410 cutting a frenetic path to the horizons, both east and west.

On the south side of the overpass is a dead-end street leading to a small cemetery.  I'd been down that road before, but never with a camera.  The local families who have their ancestors interred here have placed a fairly tall fence around the place.  The gates are kept locked.  Still, it's a nice road to go down and explore.  The whole place is canopied by large trees.

Just a bend in the road beyond the turn off to the cemetery is Mission Espada.  It's my favorite of the missions.  Smallest, and in a sense, the most crudely designed.  But it's a work of art.  The interior of the sanctuary vibrates with a warm intimacy.  Because it's the last Mission out from San Antonio, it's the least visited.  That's nice, in a way, because there are never any crowds.  But the downside is that fewer people get to appreciate the place.

If you head further south, the road curves around and crosses the San Antonio river.  This kilometer or so length of road is the Camino Coahuilteca, named for the indigenous people whose labor built the missions and worked the fields for the Spanish.  I wonder how much politicking it took the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation to get those street signs up.  Sounds like a nice small documentary.

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Fiesta (San Antonio's two week city-wide booze-up) is drawing to a close.  But the fact is, this final weekend is what people have really been holding back for.  For some, it's when they really let wail on their livers.  For others (like Nikki Y-) it's when they can indulge in a gordita (maybe 2!) with no sense of shame.  [For the uninitiated, a gordita is masa dough — the same stuff you use to make corn tortillas — formed into a patty and fried.  Most likely in lard.  It's split open along its perimeter like a pita bread … an artery-clogging pita bread.  And it's stuffed with savory goodies.  And if you're lucky, those goodies too have been fried.  Throw on some grated cheese, and you're in business.  Salsa is optional, sissy boy.  Make no mistake, a well constructed gordita can rock your world.]

But I digress.

In my neighborhood, the big Fiesta event is the King William Parade.  That is followed by the King William Street Fair.  I live in the King William neighborhood of San Antonio.  It's become very prestigious, with very beautiful mansions dating back to the 1880s or earlier.  I live on the south side of South Alamo Street.  The houses are not so grand (such as my hovel), but for some reason we have been pulled into the fold (I blame realtors … I always blame realtors).

The parade comes right down my street.  And for some reason I thought the parade was Sunday.  But this is what I saw on my street when I came back from my bike ride.

I shot both sides of the sign.  They've been designed like this for the three years (or has it been four?) in which I've lived here.  The signs, if you haven't noticed, are printed on paper bags.  Maybe they do this so that when they clean the streets at the end, the broom-pushers can just snatch a paper bag off a stick and start stuffing it.

I got online and discovered that the parade and street fair are Saturday.  That still works for me.

For those local folks who read this and are dithering as to attending the shindiggery in King William this Saturday — just do it.  The parade is great fun.  And this is coming from a confirmed parade bigot (my disgust for parades is on par with my hatred of sports and musical theater).  And the street fair is surreal.  I just wander the streets on the other side of South Alamo Street watching people who are … watching people.  It's an insane crush of humanity, but there's this great warm vibe.

Parking is a bitch.  But if you come down as early as seven or eight in the morning (the parade officially begins at nine) I might be so kind as to let you park in my driveway.  I can cr
am quite a few cars in there now that Matt has moved out of his apartment.

I'm at 716 E. Guenther
Call me at 210.482.0273.

Be prepared to bring breakfast tacos, mimosas, and lawn chairs.

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After my bike ride, I enjoyed a feast of Pik-Nik 50 cent tacos and a a couple of tumblers of aguas frescas.  And then I walked down to the river, two blocks from my house.  I wanted to photograph (with my new camera) the wildflowers growing in profusion along the banks.

Later, after looking at the shots, I wasn't too happy with the lighting (which I had thought would be low enough to be beautiful — I was wrong).  But I quite like this view looking up at one of the more beautiful houses in my neighborhood.  The picture might not do justice to the house, but I love how the sunflower is rising from the chaos of vegetation — those raw, ragged, undifferentiated weeds.

I'm fascinated by these profuse riots of weeds which grow tall and unsupervised.  It's not the inviting garden of picnics and badminton.  These are the areas grown wild with stinging nettles, poison oak and sumac; where famished ticks and chiggers clutch desperately to blades of grass awaiting some warm blooded creature to fumble passed.

Weed-choked gardens are flawlessly defined in literature by both Thomas Hardy and H. P. Lovecraft.  These authors really have nothing in common, other than their ability to know how crazed an untended garden can get in the height of spring.

I dig it.

Today, as part of Fiesta, the San Antonio Museum of Art had a family event which celebrated the city's patron saint, San Antonio de Padua.  That's why we screened the Dia de los Locos documentary we made last summer.  The Locos parade in San Miguel de Allende that me, Deborah, and Ramon documented exists as a thanksgiving to that city's patron saint, also San Antonio de Padua.  Deborah helped arrange the screening.  But sadly she was busy today and wasn't able to make it out.  But Ramon was there, giving an impromptu lecture for both of the screenings.

“Locos” doc viewed from projection booth at SAMA

I was up in the projection booth, operating the equipment.  The attendance could have been better, but it went off well.  No technical surprises.  And Ramon's a charming and effective off-the-cuff public speaker.

For the first screening Alston showed up.  She brazenly brought in a brown bag lunch, flagrantly ignoring the proscription against food and drink posted on the door into the auditorium.  Well done, Alston — you're my hero.  You give those docents hell!

For the second screening, Carlos entered just as I was dropping the house lights.

Out in the main hall, Los Inocentes were singing ballads and corridos.  There were tables set up for various crafts for the kids.  And somewhere in the museum a scavenger hunt was going on.

After the event, I went for a late lunch with Carlos at Pepe's Cafe.  He pitched for me a trilogy of short films that sound pretty funny.

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The other week a major cultural event went down here in san Antonio.  April 13th was the opening of, well, this museum downtown.  I guess they kind of screwed up with the last decade of hype. Trying to please too many people has given it too many names.  Let me try to make sense of their website.

It's called the “Alameda.”  Okay?  So, it's in the old Alameda Movie Theater?  Um, no.  It's pretty close, but ….  Oh, here we go.  “The Alameda National Center for Latino Arts and Culture.”  Right?  But — dammit! — lower on the page I read: “The Museo Alameda.”  But, wait, because this museum is an affiliate with the Smithsonian, I see they're also referring to it as “The Smithsonian in San Antonio.”

What jackasses are running PR on this thing which is potentially one of the most important cultural centers to hit this city in over a decade?  I guess it's too late to fire them.

Here's a quote from the website.

“In 1997, The Alameda National Center for Latino Arts and Culture became the first organization in the United States to sign an affiliation agreement with The Smithsonian Institution. President Bush, then Governor Bush, designated The Museo Alameda as the Official Texas State Latino Museum.”

Oh, that clears up everything.  It's the “Official Texas State Latino Museum.”

Um, I don't think that's it ….

Who writes this shit?

I'll keep calling it the Smithsonian Annex until I see some letterhead.

But the fact is, other than the local media parroting press releases, there really was no buzz.  I know a lot of people in this town affiliated with museums, galleries, latino cultural centers.  They don't talk about this place.  All the painters, sculptors, architects, and filmmakers I know in San Antonio barely are cognizant of this place.  And were it not that I've been currently working with George Cisneros, and the fact that he was commissioned to create a large installation project for the museum, I'd not have known when the place opened.  True, I don't read the paper every day, but I pick it up fairly often.  The point is, this should be a big word-of-mouth thing within the local art community. The only other person I know who was involved in the museum, is my friend Alejandro (AKA Alex).  He assisted artist Franco Mondini-Ruiz who designed the museum's gift shop, which was also something of an installation piece.

Earlier this night I got a call from Alex.  He told me I needed to read Edward Rothstein's piece on the museum published recently in the New York Times.  While I listened to Alex talk trash about the museum, I got online and looked up the review.  Pretty savage.  Rothstein had little positive to say about the museo, with the exception of the gift shop.  “That says a lot,” Alex paused thoughtfully in his rant.  “I mean, who reviews a fucking gift shop?  They've got Laura Bush's purse on display and some shit belonging to Ladybird Johnson.  What the fuck have those women done for my people?  Maybe if they had the purse open so you could see a box of condoms and a crackpipe to make some kind of statement.  Hey, can I call you back?  I've got a call coming in.”  And thus ended another adrenaline-driven rant that periodically comes in over my phone line.

I blanch at the 8 dollar admission fee, but I feel I should visit the museum just to see if it really is that lame.  It certainly doesn't sound like it's serving the community, beyond the rich locals who like to think that they're doing good work bringing us their watered-down notion of art and culture.

Oh, and here's a nifty quote from a puff piece on the museum that appeared in the LA Times.

“Locals have nicknamed the museum MAS — Museo Alameda Smithsonian — Spanish for more.”

Yet another name.  And I'd like to know what “locals” are saying this.  I want attribution.  Probably some pinche gabachos holding forth expansively over a bottle of Chardonnay in the bar of the Menger Hotel.

I've heard, in passing, the vague buzz about a fistfight at the Museo on the VIP opening night.  This really doesn't interest me.  Uppercrust assholes and their drunken misbehavior is rather tiresome.  This level of entitlement is the ugly side of American culture.  But as I'm sitting here writing this out, I thought I'd see what it was that went down.  A simple Google search with the key words Museo, Alameda, and Fight brought up a few selections.  This turned out quite fortuitous.  I discovered the website of Barbara Renaud Gonzalez.  Her blog is called Las True Stories from San Antonio.  She's a very good writer, and I immediately put her blog into my online aggregator so I can keep up with her work.

I'm reminded of one of the things Alex told me tonight.  When he was a kid and he used to go to the Teatro Alameda (back when it was a movie house screening spanish language films).  He and he friends called it the Alamierda.  Somebody better get his or her, um, shit together, or the people who brought this Museo Alameda to town will find that it has yet another name.

I took a day off from Leftovers.  In fact, I took a weekend off from Leftovers.

Today I needed to finish off a DVD slide show for a retirement party as well as show up and present it.  And tomorrow I need to do the same thing with a different DVD at the San Antonio Museum of Art.  Both gigs are paying me.  Not a lot, but enough so that each will pay off a utility bill.

I got up at seven this morning.  And I was so happy that I didn't have to be up in Seguin for a 5:30 call time.  In fact, I realized that seven was way too early.  I rolled over and slept for two more hours.

Nine o'clock I woke refreshed.  Made a pot of coffee and began playing with all those little pesky things that need to be addressed in the final edit of a video project.  Opening and closing credits, transitions, font choices, audio (or in this case, music) cross-fades.  I was done by noon.  I took a break to pick up some tacos at a little drive-through place on Presa and Steves.

Back home I ate tacos and finished off the orange juice that Pete and Cooper had brought me earlier in the week to help me through my cold.  I designed a basic DVD menu.  I burned five DVDs in all, just in case family or friends wanted to buy some.  I also printed a copy to mDV tape as a fall-back.  And then, in preparation for tomorrow, I burned a couple of fresh DVDs of the Locos documentary.

Burning disks is a baby-sitting job.  I sat at my desk and listened to some more science podcasts.

I made it to Centro Cultural Aztlan by 5:30, half an hour before Gloria Vasquez's retirement party began.  I hadn't been to the Centro since it officially opened its doors at the new location in the Deco Building.  But it's looking great.  Malena Gonzalez-Cid is pulling it all together nicely.

When I walked in, Gloria was sitting with one of her sisters who was in from out of town.  Javier was there.  As was Juan.  And I finally got to meet Gloria and Ramon's two daughters, Edna and Marisol.  They are wonderful and beautiful women.  The grandchildren, the cousins, the co-workers, the old friends, the new friends … everyone started coming in.  And I was wrestling with a digital projector loaned to us by Gabriel, the DJ.  It had a fixed lens, so I had to drag it closer to the screen.  I plugged it into my DVD player, and managed (with the help of Gabriel) to patch the audio into the DJ PA system.

The video slide show was well-received.  I thought 12 minutes would be too long.  But there were enough family members in the room, so that people were whooping it up throughout.

A success.

I was sitting at Gloria's table.  Her daughter Marisol was sitting beside me punching at her cell phone trying to get ahold of her father.  Marisol's parents, Gloria and Ramon, have been divorced for most of her life, but they remain good friends.  I made some quip that maybe Ramon was having a hard time making it to the party — he lives about five blocks away.

Ramon finally showed up.  When the mariachis arrived along with the video guy (Roger, and I can't remember his last name — but he's a fellow NALIP member), I looked up.  There was Ramon, in the middle of a knot of people.  Later I kidded him about how he must have waited until he saw a man with a camera, and then he made his entrance.

It was a nice evening.  Good food, good people, good music.  I felt included in this extraordinary family's extended circle.