I've been slowly plowing my way through Astronomy Cast, a weekly astronomy podcast.  I'm not sure where I heard about it.  Jennifer Saylor sounds like the obvious culprit.  But I'm thinking it was off digg.com or just some serendipitous google search.  There are 32 episodes currently archived, each about 30 minutes.  I've gone through more than half of them.  Today, while listening to episode 11, about Dark Energy, someone hammered on my door.  I hit pause.

It was the mailman.  He had a package from my sister.  For filler, she had stuffed in the latest catalogue from Forced Exposure.  It had arrived at the bookstore where she works.  Forced Exposure is a music distributer in Massachusetts — it's the one-stop source for the most adventurous, innovative, and odd music you could hope to find.  On those rare occasions when I have money not needed by my landlady, utility companies, and collection agencies, I hop onto the Forced Exposure website and place an order.  It had been over two years since I'd seen one of their printed catalogues.  How exciting!  Over 60 pages of stuff, mostly of which I'd never heard of before.  But clearly the catalogue was an after thought.  Paula had also sent me two CDs.  Actually, two double CDs.

Roky Erickson, “Live! — Live at the Ritz 1987 / Live in Dallas 1979.”  It was put out in 2005 by a Paris-based label.  The Ritz is a theater in Austin.  And I had only a passing interest in this CD #1.  There are plenty of Roky Erickson live recordings from this period.  But CD #2 is Roky backed by the Nervebreakers, the seminal Dallas punk band.  I'm listening to it now.  It's pretty good stuff.  Poor recording quality.  But Roky's voice is clear and plaintive as he launches into such standards as “Two-Headed Dog,” and “Cold Night for Alligators.”

Also, Cafe Tacuba, “Un Viaje.”  Material from two days of live performances in Mexico (de efe) 2004.  I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but Cafe Tacuba's  live performances show amazing intricacy and depth.

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This morning I drove to the San Antonio Museum of Art (SAMA) to meet with Nicole.  She and Katie now run the museum's educational department.  I guess I hadn't been to the museum since Rose and Deborah left (they had the jobs that Katie and Nicole now have).  Nicole took me up to the projector room at the back of the auditorium.  It was much as I remembered.  I dropped my DVD into the projector to test it out.  The damn thing froze up at the 30 second mark.  I ejected it and rubbed it some with a lens cloth.  It played better, just a small hanging glitch.  Nicole seemed unconcerned.  She suggested I burn a fresh one.  “It'll be fine,” she said, with a smile.

I can never seem to adequately convey my ire of home-burned DVDs.  And I'm pissed.  We had this format shoved down our throats.  Perhaps the technology is sound, in theory — but there is no standardization of encoding, compression modes and rates, burners, players, blah blah blah.  Fuck the DVD!

But I'll come an hour early Sunday morning.  See if a newly burned disk will work.  I'll also have, as a backup, my camera to use as a deck.  If need be, I'll play a copy of the doc on mini DV tape.  Now there's a stable medium.  I just need to remember to bring an S-video cable, as well as a mini to RCA cord.

And, again, I put out the invite.  Two screenings Sunday.  One p.m., three p.m.  It's free.  SAMA.  The auditorium off the big hall.  This will be the largest screen I've shown it on, as well as the biggest sound system.  So I'll be cringing as I see every poor editing decision.  So, come on — watch me cringe!

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Christy Walsh is a dancer / choreographer I met through Russ.  She wants to make a dance film, and had contacted him.  Russ brought me along to the first meeting.  That first day, I realized I'd seen her dance months ago at an event at the Radius Center I attended with Deborah.  After having spoken with her as well as having reviewed a couple of DVDs of her dance and film work, it became obvious that Christy is one of the true artists working in this town (a town with more than its fair share of dilettantes and self-important gasbags).

Christy invited me to the Cameo for tonight's performance of Cabaret.  She knew well my disdain for musical theater, but she persisted.  She'd seen the piece the previous week, and was trying to spread the word.

The truth is, she didn't have to twist my arm over-much.  I adore Anne Gerber.  She's one of the great actors I've had the opportunity to work with.  The film I directed which featured her, barely took advantage of her talents — and I'm chagrined at the wasted opportunity.  In fact, I've seen her in a lot of bad films.  And a few good ones.  But she always stands outs.  And everyone loves to work with her.  As far as her stage work was concerned, I kept putting them off.  I love theater, and try to get out there when I can.  I knew I would have to go see her, even if so much of her stage work has been MUSICALS — the very word causing my sphincter to begin snapping like castanets.

My problems with musicals is that the songs are usually bad.  Kitsch, but not in a fun way.  There are, occasionally, perfectly valid story-lines which are pulled to a jarring stop as some smirking asshole begins to launch into some asinine sing-song bit of narrative exposition.  I don't like expository dialogue, so why should I like it when it's accompanied by music?

The musicals I tend to find palatable are where there is some framing device that allows for the musical interludes.  The campier and stagier the better.  Rocky Horror, Hedwig, and all of that tribe.  Great stuff.  About half of Cabaret fits into that category.

When I showed up at the Cameo, Christy could only manage to rope in two other people.  So we were four (not enough for a group price break), yet that still allowed us to have a table up close to the stage.

(I was there a bit early, so I was hanging out on a bench along the side of the building.  A couple of very attractive women walked up to me.  This is something that, as a general rule, just doesn't happen to me.  “Erik?” one of the women asked.  I looked up.  It was Evie Armstrong.  I forget what a stunningly beautiful woman she is.  I stood up and and she introduced me to a friend of hers.  I expressed my disappointment at missing the table reading of Dora Pena's up-coming feature, “The Dream Healer” (an unfortunate title).  Evie is playing the evil aunt, I believe, of Gabi Walker's character.  I think the last time I saw Evie was also at the Cameo, where she was one of the lead strippers in Kerry's feature, “Garrison.”  I did sound for that film (and I'm sure they're still cursing my name), and we turned the Cameo Theater into King Tut's Titty Bar.  It was a tiny role, but Evie put in a flawless performance.  She's great.)

Cabaret was a great show.  The best thing I've seen at the Cameo.  Because I've been working on a feature film where I've been designing most of the lighting set-ups, I found myself looking at the lighting arrangement for Cabaret.  Very nice.  And then I saw in the program that Jesse Arenas did the lighting.  H
ell, yeah.  Jesse knows his shit.

All the performances were solid (though some accents slid in and out).  I was very impressed by Amy Sloan as Fraulein Schneider.  I suspect she was playing significantly older than she really is, but she never wavered with the German accent (even in song), and gave a deep and nuanced performance.

But really the show belongs to Anne (as Sally Bowles) and Rick Sanchez (as the MC, AKA, “Emcee”).

After the first act, we had an intermission.  I scrambled for the program.  Why had I never encountered Rick Sanchez in local films or theater productions?  He's fucking amazing.  He is so over the top in every scene, but it's clear he remains in complete control.  As Emcee, he functions more often than not as a one-man Greek chorus.  This is a wonderful device that allows him to chew scenery like a brigade of beaver.  I mean this with the utmost respect.  He's playing this iconic character representing the pure id.  When things are going well in the world of pre-war decadent Berlin, he's randy and ready with winks and leers.  But as the city — the nation — falls under the shadow of repressive fascism, he begins to falter, a little bit more with each scene, like he's becoming drunk or ill.  And as I skimmed his CV in the program, I understood why I had never encounter him before.  He's mainly in musicals.  Ah, I see ….  Those damn musicals.

And then there's Anne.  I knew she's a great stage actor and singer even though I hadn't yet seen her on stage before tonight.  She gets all the plum roles.  And the critics seem unanimous singing her praise.  Probably I should have dragged my ass out to see her in Chicago, but I didn't.  She's just amazing.  The penultimate song starts off slow and lifeless and boozy.  Sally is in the eye of the Nazi storm that is about to lay waste to the giddy decadent freedom of the Berlin club scene.  The song moves from an off-kilter elegy into a heart-breaking condemnation.  That's when Anne is belting out the lyrics clean and big.  Wow!  At that point I can't imagine that anyone in the audience thought that he or she was sitting through some small town dinner theater bullshit.  One more night.  You gotta go.

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After the play, I came home and found one of Cara's friends standing on the sidewalk in front of the house talking on his cell phone.  It was about ten-thirty.  The frufru gingerbready house on the corner was having a dinner party that was just wrapping up — people were hugging on the porch and walking away to the half a dozen cars parked on Guenther and Constance.  Across the street, Hope was on her porch, hanging up Fiesta decorations with some friends and family.

Just another Friday night in the King William neighborhood.

I went inside to check my email.  Nothing.  So I grabbed my copy of Phil's house key and walked outside.  As I approached Cara's friend (still chatting away) he fell back into her driveway.  Two houses down, I let myself into Phil's place.  Cutesy stopped scratching herself and looked up at me.  She rushed up eagerly, and I took the leash off the inside door knob, made a loop, and offered it to her.  She pushed her head through.  We went outside for an evening walk.

As we moved to cross the street — I was moving at Cutesy-speed, as she has to sniff everything — I watched a middle aged woman in a white knit cap and a layer of skirts and jackets walk down the middle of the street towards Brackenridge High School.  When me and the dog were halfway across the street, the woman stopped.  She whipped around.

“Sir?”

I stopped in the middle of the street.

“Yes?”

“Where is it that I'm located right now?”

I knew this could become a very long and tedious exchange.  But I decided to take it bit by bit.

“You're on Guenther Street.  In the King William Neighborhood.”  She wasn't looking pleased with my response, so I pointed in the direction in which she had been heading.  “That's Brakenridge High School all the way down there where the street ends.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Oh, no.  Sorry.”

She moved in a bit closer to me, closer than strangers tend to stand.  She asked: “Where's Travelers Park?”

“You mean Travis Park?” I asked.

She made no response.

“It's downtown.  Just walk back to Alamo Street and turn right.”

“I've been walking around in circles.” 

“Sorry.  Um, but you just walk towards the big tall buildings of downtown.  You can see them from Alamo Street.  Remember, turn right, and then you–“

I don't know if my suggestions irritated her, or if maybe the vehicle coming up made her think it was a police car, but her eyes suddenly lost focus on me, and she turned and walked away, back towards Alamo.  That was great for me.  I didn't have to talk to her any more.  So I gave a tug to the leash and brought Cutesy over to the sidewalk in front of Chip's house.  I heard the car buzz behind me and then bump over a curb and slide to a stop.  There was the sound of a sliding door rolling open.

When I looked across the street at the front of my house, I saw a taxi cab van up on the curb and angled into my driveway.  A young man in brown brogans and a long sleeved black pullover tucked into black slacks tumbled out and he began retching violently onto the grassy parkway between my sidewalk and the street.  I mean, he was going to town.  Plunging and heaving.  I just stood watching in amazement.  The woman in the knit cap was long gone.  I could hardly blame her.  There was an ugly moment when I thought perhaps this was some guy who I knew, who had rented a cab to come visit.  But no.  I heard the cab driver say: “You probably should just starting walking.”  And another young man — this one dressed in white — stepped out.  I guess he paid the cab, because it drove off.  Man in white helped man in black to walk down the street, toward Alamo Street.

When me and Cutesie came abreast Hope's house, she came up to the fence with her daughter.

“That was disgusting.  He ruined my perfect moment.  I was hanging my Fiesta decorations, and I heard that taxi go up over the curb. And then it was a bunch of upchucking.”

(To those readers not native to San Antonio, a brief explanation is in order.  Fiesta is a ten day bacchanalia of parades, street fairs, parties, masquerade balls, and on and on.  The city plans for months, and when April hits, every thing takes it to the back-seat as Fiesta eclipses all, if you'll excuse the mixing of metaphor.)

I suggested she just put it behind her and try as best she could to salvage the rest of her evening.  “It's Fiesta, babe” I felt like saying, a la Chinatown.  And as tonight (Friday night) officially begins the ten days of Fiesta, I can think of no better line of demarkation than one's first sighting of vomiting connected with public intoxication.  And as that young gentleman anointed my lawn with his half-digested late night dinner of margaritas, peanuts, and light beer, I felt like walking out into the middle of my street and addressing the imaginary camera crew: “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, it is now officially Fiesta.  Let the festivities begin!  And back to you in the studio, Gwen.”

Yesterday afternoon Gloria stopped by.  I'm putting together for her a video slide show of her life she can screen at her retirement party this weekend.  She's leaving the IRS, which she fondly refers to as “The Service.”  We spent two or three hours putting a hundred and fifty photos in her preferred order, and choosing some music.

She was kind enough to treat me to dinner at Tito's.  I like Gloria.  She has a feisty, playful sense of humor.  She and Ramon divorced a long time ago, but they remain very close friends.  And as such, I know many people who Gloria knows.  We were getting a bit into some bitchy gossip, and then I realized how much a folly it is to engage in this sort of discourse in such a small town as San Antonio when you're sitting in a restaurant with your back to the door.  Especially when you're talking about arty people while dining in an arty neighborhood.  I did the wise thing.  Sat in the booth with my back to the wall and my feet along the padded bench, so that I could see who might be entering.

After saying goodnight to Gloria, I stopped by my neighbor Phil's place.  He wanted to show me how far his new contractor had progressed in his kitchen.

More than a year back, Phil had gotten irritated at the sloping floor in his kitchen.  He's a furniture restorer by trade.  Works on wood all the time.  He decided to do the floor job himself.  So, with the help of a friend, he began ripping up an area of the floor to get to the support pillars.  But he discovered all sorts of rot down there.  Eventually he had half of the kitchen floor torn up.  He suffered through the summer, because he couldn't cool his place off.  I mean, there was this gigantic hole in the floor.  Same problem in winter.  Freezing.  And, as I am his official dog-walker when he's spending quality time with his girlfriend up on the far north-side, I got to see the absolute lack of progress in the repair work.  Every so often, I would have to hop down into the hole to pull out one of his clumsy aging dogs who had fallen into the gaping wound in the kitchen floor.

Finally, at the beginning of the year, Phil hired a contractor to finish up the job.  The guy went in gangbusters.  Tore out all the floorboards in a day or two.  Then he started making excused.  He had other jobs across town.  He wasn't feeling well this week.  He needed more money to buy hammers or something.  Finally Phil had to fire him.  He's brought in this guy who's doing it right.  There is a floor now in the kitchen.  The back of the house has been gutted and reframed.  There will be a new bathroom.  A new bedroom.  As Phil gave me the tour of new work, I made the expected agreeable grunts which I assume men expect from other men when matters of construction is involved.

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Today I sent in my application to Christy in hopes of being part of her up-coming Dada Dinner Party.  Again, if anyone is interested, drop me a line.

In the application there is a space for “dish suggestion.”  One of the stipulations is for vegetarian dishes.  And, because of this notion of dadaism, I came up with a meatless art-related dish.  Experience my Kasimir Malevich's White on White Seven Layer Casserole.  (Malevich is best known for his most static work, white squares on a background of white — visually boring as hell, but conceptually … it was pure brilliance.)

Kasimir Malevich's White on White Seven Layer Casserole:

“In a lightly greased casserole dish place a foundation layer of steamed white rice.  Next, arrange a layer of slices from boiled or baked potatoes.  Atop the potatoes, scatter a covering of pine-nuts.  Add a layer of tofu slabs which have been fried with crushed garlic and peanut oil.  In the same oil, saute minced white onion and add them as the 5th layer.  Crumble a generous layer of ricotta cheese.  And finish with white bread-crumbs.  Bake in a pre-heated over at 325 F for 40 minutes.  Serve with a single large marshmallow as a garnish.”

I'm thinking that it might be a bit bland.  Probably the ricotta should be substituted with a mixture half-and-half of gorgonzola and ricotta.  Maybe I should prepare it myself and see if it's works.  Perhaps it needs some green leafy vegetables.  But that's just me thinking of what my mother would say.  It's white on white, dammit.  And probably it should be served by pulling it from the casserole dish with an ice-cream scoop and placed into a paper snow-cone thingy.  Food on the run.  Portable.  Dive right in!

All the cups of coffee at Tito's Saturday afternoon (and they have excellent coffee at Tito's) must have backed-up in my bloodstream.  I tossed and turned, and was lucky if I made it to sleep by three.  I finally reached over and switched on my reading light because of the futility of it all.  The short stack of books on the floor was a light-weight treatise on Buddhism from the '40s by Christmas Humphreys, one of Huysmans' lesser novels, and Montague Summers' “The History of Witchcraft.”  The Summers book (1926) is a masterpiece of paranoia gullibility.  He was an educated man who was convinced that witches (those historical as well as those contemporaneous to himself) were possessed of supernatural powers.  It's a giddy screed to read, with just enough turgid pomposity (or so I hoped) to nudge me towards the arms of Morpheus.  It apparently worked it's magic.  So to speak. And I slipped under.

I had time this morning to cook up a couple of banana oat cakes and make a cappuccino before Russ stopped by.  We loaded up my c-stands and field monitor, and took his truck to our restaurant location downtown for production Day 13 of Leftovers.

Some of the folks had gone to the Cameo last night Anne Gerber in Cabaret.  I was still feeling pretty puny, so I stayed home.  But it seemed that Anne's parents came to town from Toledo to cheer on their girl.  In fact, Anne showed up on set with the folks.  It was quite nice.  Anne's mom reads my blog (well, probably just to see references to her daughter), but mom and dad were wonderful, gracious, and totally supportive of Anne.  I tried to convey how integral Anne has become in the acting community in San Antonio.  In the two or three years she's been here, she's been in over a dozen short films, at least two feature films, and has been in quite a few plays and musicals, always managing to land leading roles in the bigger, more important productions.  I've never read anything but a glowing review of her work.  If she needs to put together a reel, she now has so much great work to choose from that came from her work in this town.

When we arrived, there was some minor misunderstanding about the call time.  We thought we had access to the restaurant at 8:30, but the people who would be letting us in weren't coming until nine.  That gave Robin, Russ, and myself time to shoot a few exterior establishing shots of the restaurant entrance.

Inside, we set up for a scene where Anne and Andrea are having a conversation in the kitchen area.  We staged it so that Anne moves around into the kitchen, and Andrea remains in the prep area.  They continue their conversation through the order-up window.  It proved to be a fun scene to light.  But with this cold, I'm all stopped up.  I probably only heard every third word anyone said to me.  Every few minutes I would blow my nose into a bandana handkerchief or fall into a coughing fit.  And because I certainly wasn't breathing much through my nose, I had little patience when Robin started complaining about smelling gas.  Of course she smelled gas.  The industrial stove had at least two dozen burners.  Maybe a pilot light had blown out.  Let's just shot this and move on.  But Rudolfo was taking Robin's side.  He claimed he heard gas hissing through his microphone.  I just sighed.  Rudolfo and his god damn meticulousness was going to keep us here forever.  If he could just —  But I watched him vindicate himself.  He waved a lit match across the range top.  One of the burners jumped to life.  It seemed, um, that a burner was turned to high — blowing out gas, all night long, and all the time we were there.

Maybe that explained why it took so long to shoot that first scene.  We were all doped up on toxic fumes.

We broke for lunch, and I was finally able to ask Erin why she had her arm in a sling.  (Actually I still don't know the full story about her unrelated pickax incident of the other week.)  Anyway, she's suffering a pulled tendon or muscle, but can't make it to the doctor because she's so busy prepping her students for the TAAS Test or the TAKS Test, or whatever standardized tests they're keel-hauling the poor kids (and teachers) with these days.

The next scene was in the kitchen prep area.  Anne, Andrea, and Rick.  It turned out to be one of the warmer, more playful interactions between Anne and Andrea.  Russ set up a beautiful shot where we saw Rick walking through the background, pause, ask the girls a question, and, perplexed with their off-color remarks, moves on.  It was a fairly tight shot of Rick, so that meant that the women were in extreme close-up, with just pieces of them hugging the left and right frames.  What a wonderful composition.

As we moved around to the interior of the restaurant proper, we set up for a scene where Anne's character is lounging on a stool at the counter before the lunch rush begins.  Matt, who players her manager, is trying in his awkward, neurotic way to get her to do something — clean some tables, fill up the mustard bottles, just do something, the lunch rush is minutes away.

Russ wanted to shoot a basic wide establishing shot.  He pulled his camera into the middle of the restaurant, along the side where the booths run against the wall.  He set the tripod low and shot across a table.

“I'm thinking you want to get someone wiping down the table,” I said to Russ as I moved my hand inches from the camera, as though I had a towel in my hand. “But, and I know this would have to me a different movie,” I began tentatively.  “But with this composition, it'd be so wonderful to have a seedy guy with fingerless gloves seated at this table hunkered over a cup of coffee.”  I illustrated by sitting down with my shoulder and chin and nose defining the right edge of the frame.  I lifted an imaginary coffee cup and took a sip.  A sad, dejected figure. Ephemeral.  Nothing more than set dressing.  Actually, I was just kidding around, while we were waiting on something.

But Russ took me seriously.  And the next thing I knew, I was constricted into being an extra.  And that's when it hit me.  I do look quite seedy and pathetic.  Well, the show must go on — so, I grabbed a coffee cup, filled it up, and found a spoon.

I have to admit, my dim, grizzled silhouette served well the scene.

Saturday I met with Russ and Christy at Tito's.  We had lunch and talked about the dance / film project Christy plans for late spring or early summer.  She's not expecting the full funding she had hoped for — a common stumbling block when it comes to grant monies — so we're looking at a more scaled down approach.  Instead of commissioning a sculpture to function as the centerpiece of an installation, she's leaning toward an exterior location.  One prop that will be needed is an old fashioned claw-foot bathtub.  We need to borrow one for a day, but it can't be hooked up, because we need to transport it to the location.

While we were hanging out at Tito's, talking about film, martial arts, and Christy's aversion to raisins, I noticed that Nicole, one of the waitresses at Tito's, as well as a local artist, was very clearly pregnant.  I realized it must have been some time since I'd last seen her.  And then I saw Deborah enter the restaurant. I waved her over and introduced her to Christy.  Deborah explained that she was here for Nicole's baby shower.  Nichol was one of the model's in Deborah's Tara series.  Before she headed back to the side room for the shower, I thanked her for wrangling a screening of our Locos documentary at the San Antonio Museum of Art.  I'll get some money out of it.  Deborah's always watching my back.

Christy then told us some more about where she is with her up-coming Dada Dinner Party, on the 12th of May.

She's looking for audience members as well as 6 diners (including a director and a server).  If anyone is interested in knowing more about this performance / happening, shoot me an email.

When I first heard of this, I immediately thought of “The Futurist Cookbook,” by Marinetti (the brilliant artist with questionable political leanings).  I looked around, but I can't find my copy.  It must be boxed up with many of my books in my mother's garage in Dallas.  It's not so much a cookbook, as it is a playful and poetic conceptual oddity, originally written in 1932.  I found a few passages on the internet.  Here's a nice one.

AUTUMN MUSICAL DINNER

In a hunter’s cabin secluded in a green-blue-gilded forest, two couples sit down at a rough table made from trunks of oak. The brief blood-red twilight lies in agony beneath the enormous bellies of darkness as if under rain-soaked and seemingly liquid whales. As they wait for the peasant woman to cook, the only food that passes along the still empty table is the whistle that the wind makes through the door lock, to the left of the diners. Dueling with that whistle is the long, sharp wail of a violin note escaping from the room on the right belonging to the peasant woman’s convalescent son. Then, silence for a moment. Then, two minutes of chick peas in oil and vinegar. Then, seven capers. Then twenty-five liqueur cherries. Then twelve fried potato chips. Then a silence of a quarter of an hour during which the mouths continue to chew the vacuum. Then, a sip of Barolo wine held in the mouth for one minute. Then a roast quail for each of the guests to look at and inhale deeply the smell of, without eating. Then four long handshakes of the peasant woman cook and off they all go into the darkness-wind-rain of the forest.

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My friend Rose, who's in Morocco with the Peace Corps, sent me an email.  She met a beekeeper who wants to make a documentary, and of course she invited me to come on over.  As much as I'd love to travel to Morocco, I can barely chase off the creditors, let alone travel to northern Africa.  And even if I could scrap together the funds, I'd find myself wrestling with whether I should update my video equipment.  But when else will I have an invite to Morocco?  Perhaps it's time to sell that kidney.

I just read a blog from my friend Melanie in Fort Worth.  She was musing on her dislike of storms — fear, actually.  (While she was writing, a storm was raging outside her home.)  She went on to mention specific incidents of devastation inflicted upon her and loved ones from lighting, tornados, hail, and the general wrath of the big storms that march through central Texas.  And just as I closed my web browser and starting writing this blog, I heard what I thought was a neighborhood kid throwing a rock against the house.  The second time it happened, I realized what was going on.  I rushed onto my porch, expecting a delightful, dramatic hail storm.  You see, I love that kind of stuff.  But all I saw was Jerry rushing back to the cover of his porch, pulling on his big black Labrador, their leisurely evening dog walk interrupted.  It might pick up some, but right now it's more rain than hail.

At least it'll be a cooler night then last night.

I didn't sleep too well last night.  I hadn't invested in a bottle of NyQuil, so the need to get up and blow my nose or cough up some mucus kept waking me.  For the best, I suppose.  I was having some fairly nasty dreams.  One sticks out.  I was wandering around an empty space which a friend wanted to rent for a shop or a gallery.  As she was talking to the realtor I looked around.  It'd be a great space for a bookstore, I found myself thinking.  In each room I made a quick count of how many bookcases would fit.  There were probably about nine rooms.  In the last room, I noticed a door, slightly ajar.  It had no lock, not even a knob.  I pushed through.  I found a narrow corridor  maybe five feet wide, twelve feet high.  The floor was cement.  The walls were painted a dingy green.  Flickering florescent lights in the ceiling were interspace at enough of a distance to keep the place in gloom.  Feeling adventurous, I started moving at a good pace along the corridor.  I was going up a slight slope.  There were doors every so often, and other corridors branching off here and there.  At times I would be going down a slight incline, at times, up.  After a couple of minutes of all this, taking a left branch here, a right branch there, I thought I should stop before I got absolutely lost.  And then, with a sinking feeling, I realized I was already lost.  Most dreams of labyrinths I welcome.  Getting lost is what it's all about.  One odd tableau would give way to another, even odder.  But here, it was all the same.  Unlike Borges' endless library, this place was unpardonably bleak and dead — besides, there was nothing to read, nowhere to sit down.  Just locked doors and narrow passageways.

I was happy to cough myself awake.

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Around one thirty I drove to UTSA.  Lisa Cortez-Walden was defending her dissertation (“Compromisos: Strategies of Transformative Media in the Latino Community”), and I was on her invite list.  I never knew such things were open to the public.  I was curious about the process.  Also, I'm very fond of Lisa and was happy for a chance to show my support.

Just as I started up my truck, I got a call from Christy Walsh.  She's the choreographer who Russ and I spoke with a couple months back about collaborating on a video dance piece for Contemporary Art Month (which is July, here in San Antonio).  She didn't get her grant, but she still wants to do at least part of her project.  She called to see if I could make a meeting with her and Russ tomorrow.  Of course, I said.  I had Saturday free from Leftovers (we'll be shooting Sunday).  She brought me up to speed on several of her projects.  And then she explained that she intended to see Anne Gerber in Cabaret this weekend.  I expressed my distaste for musicals in general, but my desire to see the show nonetheless, because of Anne.

By this time I had parked in the lot under the elevated section of I-35.  I put six quarters into the metal box, slot 242.  I walked toward the UTSA downtown campus, still talking on my phone.  I asked Christy to tell me more about her Dada Banquet.  She explained that this is a staged event where a dozen or so diners are seated at a banquet table eating absurdist meals of their own design.  There would be dada public speeches and bad tango dancing.  There would be an audience.  I expressed interest, as I no longer fear public speaking.  Also, I'm as capable of bad tango dancing as anyone else — more so, I suspect.  She was mostly concerned about a venue.  She really wanted an outside area in the Blue Star Arts Complex, but she was getting lost in the phone tag game of getting the go-ahead from board members.  She said she was heading over there right now to meet someone.  I wished her luck, hung up, and looked at the building I thought Lisa would be in.  She's mentioned in her email it was building MB, which stands for Main Building.

I was standing in front of the Durango Building.  I was already a minute late, so I hurried across the quad to the line of connected buildings.  None were the Main Building.  At the final building, I saw the offices of the campus police.  I leaned in and asked a man seated at a desk where I might find building MB, “You know, the Main Building?”

He smiled.  He looked over to a guy who was sitting half asleep at another desk.  He looked back at me, his smile half an inch larger.

“Yeah, I know where it is.”  And he laughed a little bit.  “You're not going to like it.”

“Um, is this a bad time?”

“Naw, it's not like that, man.  The Main Building is on the Main Campus.  Up at 1604.  Sorry to break the news?”

1604 is the outer loop highway.  I was something like 15 miles away from the main campus.

I shrugged, told the campus cop not to worry.  And I walked away.

It never occurred to me.  I associated Lisa with the downtown campus.  Oh, well.

I headed to the post office and mailed my IRS “I-need-more-time” form.  It's the 4868, if you're curious.  I never make enough to have to pay them money — and that's hard to do when you're self-employed.  But they still want all my information, and I just don't feel like making sense of it all right now.

Back home I took the little peanut butter jar I keep my change in to the HEB supermarket.  I fed the contents into one of those coin machines that counts the contents and gives you a redeemable ticket for the full amount … less 8.9 percent.  I remember back when banks used to do that.  It was just one of the services they provided for “free” — although it was understood that these services were underwritten by the interests they made holding onto the money in your account.  They don't give those “free” services anymore, do they?

I found myself 25 dollars richer.  Or did I find myself two dollars and something cents poorer?  Shit!

I made the rounds of HEB, shopping for the basic staples needed here at Casa Erik.  At the checkout, I noticed that the man in the next lane looked like Marcus Neundorf (the father of the late Josiah Neundorf, the namesake of the Josiah Youth Media Festival that I'm coordinating with Urban 15).  I'd only met Marcus once, and I wasn't certain it was him.  Five years ago I'd been too shy and neurotic to give it a shot; but, what the hell, I shouted out, “Marcus?”

He turned, and I knew it must be him.  He smiled and waved.  After paying for his groceries, he walked over.  He told me that he had an ar
t project in mind.  (He's pretty cool in this regard.  He's an architect, but he always seems to have several strange arty projects in the works, mostly for his own amusement.  Last time I saw him, he wanted Catherine Cisneros to give him some pointers on constructing an angler fish hand puppet.)  He told me that he had been in the Hill Country during the slight snow storm we had this Easter.  He'd taken some video with his cell phone.  And he wanted to edit it.  He had in mind “a very existential piece.”  I was intrigued.  All forms of media acquisition should be valid.  And because I do believe in this, I should know how to play around with cell phone video.  Marcus pointed to a port on his phone that took a memory card.  It was empty, because he'd not bought the card.  I asked if he had the instruction manual.  He grinned and told me he had downloaded a copy.  A hundred and fifty pages.  I could tell he wasn't keen on reading the whole thing.  I told him that when he found a way to get the file or files onto a computer (through a wireless transfer, a USB cable, or a memory card) he should give me a call.  I felt pretty sure I could work with what ever format the phone used.

These are the people I love.  The true artists.  They are always adrift in ideas and possibilities.

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When tonight's storm was at it's height (it's all over now), I was standing on my porch mesmerized by how the pecan tree in front of Marlys' house swayed under the onslaught of water and wind like an Indonesian dancer, fluid at the arms and shoulders, but always mannered and formal — a counter-point to the chaotic wind and rain.

I leaned against the pillar where my mailbox is attached.  I yawned and stretched and then put my hands into my pockets.  I found a half-dried bluebonnet blossom I had picked yesterday while on my weekly walk with Dar.

For those who were taught as was I that it is illegal to pick bluebonnets in Texas because it's the state flower, don't believe it.  Pure bullshit.  Pick away.  I mean, they're hardly endangered.

The bluebonnets are out in force in McAlister Park.  We saw at least two varieties.  The short, familiar ones.  Also, the taller species similar to those found in far west Texas.

It's always nice to hang out with Dar.  Not just because she's fun to talk to, but because we're doing similar things.  I'm running three film events so far this year.  Events established by preexistent organizations, I should point out.  What Dar is doing is something more interesting.  She's starting a film festival from the ground up.  SAL.  The San Antonio Local Film Festival.  I'm not sure if she's set a date for the screening.  Sometime in September or October.  But she's got all her non-profit paperwork in order.  And she's already getting donations coming in.  Dar and SAL are serious and definitely in it for the long haul.  I'm not at the point where I can toss some cash SAL's way, but I'll definitely be there every step of the way helping in any way I can.

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For those who have not yet seen my Dia de los Locos documentary, it will be screening a week from this Sunday.  On Sunday, April 22nd, the film will be shown in conjunction with the San Antonio Museum of Art's Family Day.  Bella Merriam will be running a mask-making workshop, as I understand it.  It will be a blast.  For those who have kids, check this out.  It's free.  The Family Day events at SAMA are always great fun.  The event runs noon to 4.    

I've gone through the scratchy throat and runny nose phases.  I fear the hacking cough comes next.  This afternoon I forced myself onto the bike trail.  I managed ten miles, and that was plenty.

Earlier I talked with Alan Govenar.  He and his wife Kaleta Doolin run a non-profit arts center in Dallas out of an old firehouse on Columbia Avenue.  Documentary Arts publishes books, produces films, archives photographs of historical importance, puts on arts events, and even is currently involved in an international touring musical on the life of blues legend Blind Lemon Jefferson.  I was pleased that he remembered who I was.  He seemed enthusiastic about screening his La Junta doc, “The Devil's Swing,” in San Antonio.  But on the date I'd hope to schedule the event, he'll be in Europe.  Ah, those damn scheduling conflicts.  My choices are to, a.) show it without Alan (but with Enrique, who was heavily involved in the production phase of the film), b.) try for another date, or c.) look for another film.  The final choice is best to be avoided.  After re-watching the VHS screener that Paula had given me a couple of years back, I realized it would be a perfect piece to show for an event cosponsored by NALIP and AIT.

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Later, as I was hauling out my recycling, I stopped to chat with my neighbor, Cara.  She lives on the south apartment in my three-plex.  She's the neighbor who works as a river boat captain on the tourist boats that cruise up and down the River Walk area of the San Antonio River.  Cara hadn't known that Matt had moved out.   It seems that Cara is also moving out.  End of the month.  And I'm currently looking for a cheaper place.  It might be getting pretty lonely on this side of the block this spring.

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I have two new links for my loyal fan-base.

The Nations Entertainment Group website has me on their front page in the Crew Spotlight section.  These are the folks producing the feature film “Leftovers,” that I'm helping out on.  Kevin Nations sent me some questions the other week, and I answered them, trying not to sound overly pompous or gassy.  The previous crew member to be spot-lit was Ezme Arana, the brilliant woman who's been providing make-up for the actors, and subtle therapy sessions for the production folks (thanks Ezme, for keeping us all from killing one another!).  I took Ezme's responses to her series of questions as my guide.

Also, I've posted a new video blog.  When I was on the phone the other day with Enrique, he reminded me of my last visit.  We were looking at some bluebonnets behind Rosendo's general store.  Enrique commented that they were the tallest he'd ever seen.  I should point out that the bluebonnets most people see are of the Texas Hill Country variety.  These are the ones that are seeded along the highways of Texas as part of Ladybird Johnson's legacy:  the Highway Beautification Act.  But the feral bluebonnets of Trans-Pecos Texas are a tough, rugged subspecies.  The blossoms are not such a deep blue.  Some are even pinkish, or almost white.  They don't clump together quite so much.  And they are significantly taller.  In fact, as the bluebonnet is the state flower, there had been questions in the Texas legislation if these mavericks should even be given that exalted designation of State Flower.  But the wise bureaucrats, who hunker down beneath the pink dome of Austin, made sure in 1971 that all of the bluebonnet variants be included.  Anyway, the bluebonnets behind the Redford general store came up as high as my sternum.  I'm about 6'1″, so that's a tall flower.  But I shook my head when Enrique praised the height the the blossoms.  I told him that I had been riding my mountain bike on the unpaved ranch roads back towards the Bofecillos Mountains.  I discovered a taller flower.  Ruby gave a shrug and a bit of a laugh.  She's not into any sort of competitiveness.  But Enrique was intrigued.  He raised an eyebrow.  “How tall?”  I shrugged, and put my hand to my adam's apple.  “Think you can find it again?”  I told him I knew exactly where it was.  We went back to his place to pick up my video camera.  As we were loading up the truck for a flower safari, a man who was in town visiting his girlfriend who worked with the local Outward Bound field school asked us what was up.  We explained our quest.  He enthusiastically begged to come along.  He asked the girlfriend.  She rolled her eyes, assuming us all mad, and apparently found something better to do.  But we found that flower.  And I have the video evidence.  I'm thinking five foot one inch probably isn't the tallest bluebonnet, but it was a fun day.

I awoke feeling muddled.  It took me almost twenty minutes just to load up the espresso machine. I kept getting side-tracked answering email, reading people's blogs, and playing with an inflamed and swollen fingertip (some sort of in-growing fingernail that hurts like hell — but it looks so pleasingly hideous that I can't leave it alone).  And by the time I'm hearing the steam hissing and the coffee gurgling, I realize I'm having this oh too familiar tickle and soreness in my throat.  Damn, I'm coming down with a cold.

Jorge had sent me an email a day or two previous asking if we could meet today for lunch.  I finally got around to answering him in the affirmative.  Not much of a lead time, but I'll blame the swarm of rhinoviruses storm-trooping across my every corpuscle.

I switched on my DVD player and watched two projects of which Jorge wants feedback.  One was a music video for his nephew's band, Frequencia.  This isn't the video he played the other week at the NALIP video slam.  This is for another song.  He's using footage from my short, “Awakened by an R,” interspersed with shots of the band playing live.  The other project is a narrative he's doing in collaboration with Roland Jasso (no relation to Matthew Jasso).  The latter was freezing up.  This is why I hate home-burned DVDs.  Someone please tell me how it's supposed to be done.  Is there some failure-free authoring software?

Next I watched Alan Governor's excellent documentary on La Junta de los Rios, entitled “The Devil's Swing.”  It was done seven or eight years back.  I hadn't seen it in a while, but, as I want to bring it to San Antonio for a screening, I needed to see it afresh.

La Junta de los Rios is that region where the flood-plains of the Rio Grande and the Rio Conchos join at the US/Mexican towns of Presidio and Ojinaga.  It's a region rich in history, culture, and beauty.  I suppose it's my favorite place on earth.  And not a day goes by when I wonder why I'm here, and not there.

After the credits rolled, it hit me how long it's been since I was last in La Junta.  A year and a half?  Too long.

I called up Enrique.  He lives down there, and is not only one of the on-camera subjects of the film, but the translator and location scout.  I want him to come to town to present the film.

The phone rang twice, and Ruby answered. And it was like that year and a half and those four hundred and fifty miles just melted away.  Both Enrique and Ruby are friends of mine who I consider family.  If we're lucky, we have people like this in our lives.  And I'm blessed with a good number of these friends who I love deeply, and who I believe feel the same way about me.  But, at times, a dreadful chill passes over me, and I wonder if I've taken this person or that person for granted.  But, no chills today.  Ruby brought me up to speed on life in the tiny hamlet of Redford, Texas (AKA El Polvo).  The Outward Bound field school came very close to shutting down their Big Bend location.  This would have devastated Enrique and Ruby.  They rent out three or four apartments to the instructors, and thus the school provides almost all of their income (southern Presidio County is one of the most impoverished regions in the country).    But there was a huge letter writing campaign of previous instructors and students, and the corporate office decided to keep a presence in Redford.  Ruby said that Enrique had finished a new book.  It's a translation of three different Spanish expeditions that came into the Big Bend region in the eighteenth century.  It will be a lavish coffee table book with maps, photographs of the region, the translations, and scholarly notes.  It's slated for a fall 2007 release, published by the Center for Big Bend Studies at Sul Ross University.

Ruby talked some about the work she's been doing.  Odd jobs, mostly.  The Redford school, where she once taught the elementary students, has closed down.

“Enrique's working at the post office right now,” she said.  “And we're probably going into town this afternoon.  You can call us back tonight.”

I hung up and was eyeballing my espresso machine with thoughts of a second cup of coffee when I heard footfalls on my porch.  It was Jorge.

He let me choose the restaurant.  There was only one choice.  Pepe's daily special for Monday is a chili relleno, and it's sublime in it's tasty simplicity.  I usually wait until after two to hit Pepe's.  I don't like crowds, and for some reason I prefer to have lunch around three or four, no matter how early I might have eaten breakfast.  But today I was looking forward to lunch, because I'd never got around to breakfast.  The waiter, Carlos, brought me a cup of coffee without being asked.  He knew I took iced tea when it was sunny, and coffee when cloudy.  The place was packed and the poor guy was working his ass off.  Just him and a waitress in training.

Jorge and I hung out talking for quite awhile.  It eventually calmed down, and we were one of the few tables occupied.

Back at my place we watched the narrative film Jorge had done with Roland. He had another DVD.  It played without troubles.  I gave some generic feedback.  And then I played it again, pausing here and there to make a point.  I hope I didn't overwhelm him with critical observations.  I only wish Roland had been there.  He had been making some classic mistakes.  I wanted a chance to tell him that there's absolutely nothing wrong with making mistakes early on in any creative endeavor.  But here they were, mistakes.  You might fix them this way, or you might fix them that way.  They're there to learn from.  Do another film and try it a different way.  Keep tinkering.  Keep learning.

It was nice to see two actors who I like.  Kareem.  He's always so appealing.  And Amanda.  She's beautiful, charismatic, never stumbles over a line, and the camera just can't get enough of her.

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I drove over to the offices of the American Indians in Texas to drop off a video tape of “The Devil's Swing.”  A young man walked up when I entered.

“Um, is John here?” I asked.

He looked puzzled.

“Juan, Juan Vasquez,” I said.

His smiled became a bit more indulgent and confused.

“I mean, Ramon,” I said.  The young man brightened.  “Sorry,” I mumbled.  “I use the name his father calls him.”

“No, he's gone for the day.”

“Well, if you could put this on his desk.”  I handed him the video, gave my name and departed.

I drove home, and with my cold coming on full-bore, I crawled into bed and clocked out for an hour.

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This evening I phoned up Enrique.  He seemed okay with the idea of coming to San Antonio to present a film.  But, because he's so god damn humble, he kept mentioning other films.

Her mentioned “The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.”  “It's a bit moralistic,” he added.  “But it captures the anglo ranchers in this area.  Your film group would like it.  I have the phone number for Tommy Lee Jones' production company around here somewhere.”  I said that was bigger in scale than I had planned.  I knew that Enrique had been hired on by that particular production when they were shooting in southern Presidio County, but I wanted to show a film more personal, and directed by an individual more accessible.

He mentioned a documentary on Esequiel Hernandez, the teenage boy from Redford who, while out herding his family's goats,  was shot to death by a covert team of US Marines stationed on the border ostensibly to curtail drug trafficking: our country's insane drug interdiction policy, coupled with the dangers inherent in militarizing the border, resulted in the slaughter of one of the most indisputably innocent individuals on the planet.  I knew there was a production company working on Esequiel's story, but I had not known they had it in the festival circuit.  I need to track down more information.

I explained that his ideas were sound, but I wanted to stick with the Devil's Swing.

We talked about Richard Dawkins' new book on atheism, alien species thriving in La Junta (Russian Boar and Aoudad Sheep), where to find good tamales in San Antonio, Daniel Dennett's theory on the consciousness of — “Oh, um, Ruby's giving me a look.”

“I know that look.”

“Dinner's about ready.  You're invited.”

“Sure, you're just down the road.”

“There's a flight from San Antonio to Lajitas.  Once a week, I think.”

“It's tempting, but ….  I'll talk to you soon,” I said.  We made our goodbyes and I hung up.

Tonight I feel like I'm a long way from home.  

Sunday I headed downtown to crew on a friend's film project.  It was pretty last-minute because a couple of crew members weren't available.  Seeing as it was Easter Sunday, I wasn't too surprised.  We were shooting at a tourist bar on the riverwalk.  Even though we had two hours on premises before they opened for business, the place was a lively echo chamber of raw noise.  Coolers, compressors, ice machines, the screech of stacked metal chairs being dragged across the cement floor, and employees double-checking with one another the daily specials from opposite side of the place.  Blacken tilapia.  But the manager, Mimi, was very accommodating.  We had the upper bar all to ourselves until three, and she kept the music off for us.  There were two shop lights on a single stand.  I bounced them off the ceiling, and then checked it out in my camera's monitor.  There was some pleasing shadows.  But later, I noticed that the other camera had not only not been white balanced, but was cranked opened so the light was flat and unvariegated.  In the interest of civility, I kept my mouth shut.  And in the interest of delivering a better chance of matching these two cameras (of different manufactures), I shifted my settings a bit brighter.

I've mixed feelings about running a two camera shoot.  I've only done it twice.  The first time I was producing and directing a recruitment film for a university's graduate department.  I kept my GL2 on a tripod for all the interviews, and another camera operator used a PD150, keeping it handheld and constantly in motion.  The idea was to be able to generate perfected synched jump cuts.  We fed the audio into the stationary camera.  I did an intriguing and dynamic edit where I desaturated the footage from the moving camera and bled out the edges with a Gaussian blur.  It was funky, but the client chose the more sedate edit which only used the interview footage from the stationary footage.

The second time I used a second camera was in the restaurant scene in my short, “I Do Adore Cream Corn.”  Alston had recently bought a GL2, so I knew the footage would match.  And I plugged both cameras into my field monitor, which takes two feeds.  I could toggled back and forth between cameras A and B, and make sure we were getting visual parity.  I decided on a second camera because I only had the location for two hours, and I needed to shoot about three pages.  The two hours were for set-up, tear-down, and the orchestrating of about a dozen extras and five featured performers.  I planned it out in advance.  Light for wide shots.  Decide which couplets of set-ups would best facilitate in the editing process.  It's a technique that provides certain solutions, while at the same time introducing new problems.  But we moved through without any significant snags.  And, man, we got that stuff done fast, with time to spare.

So, my advice on multiple camera work is to either do it all the time so that you become adept at it, or plan it out damn tight in advance.  Half-assing with two cameras in a run-and-gun approach is guaranteed to bite you when you get around to editing.  Mismatched cameras, different shooters with different aesthetics, compromised lighting, and the occasional redundant angle (“I told you to go wide!” “oh no, you told me to go tight!”).

After the shoot, I headed to Pete and Lisa's for Easter dinner.  When I rang the bell, Cooper flung open the door.  “Uncle Erik, Uncle Erik,” he shouted, as Ripley and Hazel barked and snapped and danced across the foyer. “Uncle Erik, I'm five years old and I've lost two teeth.”  Clearly he knew that I was well aware how old he was.  Pete cleared it up later.  “He's the only one in his class who's lost two teeth.”  So that was it.  He meant he was only five, yet had ALREADY lost two teeth.  Clearly well ahead of the tyke pack.

Earlier, Jean had called.  I told her I'd call her back.  When I got home I climbed under the covers — because it was still freezing — and had a nice long chat about what we've both been up to and what I'm missing out on in Dallas.

Not a bad Easter.  I succeeding in avoiding almost any exposure to Jesus or bunnies.  

It's a miserable cold, sloppy day.  It's 10 at night, 35 degrees.  I don't think it ever got over 45 today.  Those days early in the week that got up to 85 spoiled me.  It's freezing in this place.  I got home from Robin's shoot about an hour ago.  And with the heat up all the way in this drafty place, I'm hunched up at the keyboard, periodically warming my hands with my breath.  It's well into April, this sort of weather is supposed to be little more than a vague, unpleasant memory.

I was far from thrilled getting up this morning at 5:30 to make the 7am call-time in Seguin, but I knew it'd be warmer there then it'd be at my house.  I was correct, and no matter how much our cast and crew carped about the location house being cold, I was happy.  At least I wasn't able to see my breath.

We had five scenes to shoot.  Really, four.  One was broken up by an insert scene.  But we had to drop three scenes (that broken-up one as well as the insert).  It was, as I've more than amply made clear, cold and raining.  So, we didn't bother shooting the bit where DB and the boys are fishing at the river.  And as the scene connected to this exterior bit was where one of the boys brings a wriggling fish into the kitchen — a fish he had just caught from the river —  we found ourselves without the live prop fish.  Someone from Robin or Kevin's family was apparently in the neighborhood dangling a baited hook into the Guadalupe River.  Kevin received the occasional fishing up-date.  It just wasn't happening.  The fish were torpid and huddled down in the mud, probably a good sight more miserable than myself.  So, we concentrated on the two other scenes, and brought in a third, alternate scene.

We began the morning with a night scene in the master bedroom.  We blacked out the windows and threw in some blue-gelled lights to give the impression of moonlight.  We added a practical reading light to warm things up, and let some light spill in from the bathroom.  The information conveyed in this scene is that David and Carol have taken in three young boys until their irresponsible mother can be found.  As David and Carol are starting to get PG frisky, the youngest two boys rush the room and tumble into bed with them, wanting to play and share knock-knock jokes.  As they're led back to their room, the high-strung of the two gets over-excited and vomits.  David escorts the two boys into the bathroom, and the third boy comes in to apologize for his brothers.  And then, David and Carol's granddaughter comes in to see what all the hubbub is about.  When she see the mess on the carpet, she gets grossed out, and also vomits.

It's maybe two and a half pages.  Three at the tops.  Yes, there was a fair amount of blocking.  Six actors, four of them children.  But, damn!, it sure as hell shouldn't have taken us six hours.  I don't know what happened.  (Well, the problem all along has been that we lack a whip-cracking AD.)  We should have knocked that whole scene out in three hours.  It was involved.  But not to that degree.

Here's one thing that worked against us.  We realized that we had significantly fewer pages to shoot because of the weather.  So instead of getting out of there a few hours earlier then our 12 hour maximum day of shooting, we found ourselves in this weird scenario where we kept to that 12 hour schedule and just shot much … much … much … more… slowly.  In fact, we put in a 13 hour day.

We didn't even have a kid vomit on camera.  Not that I thought that we should.  But it would have helped justify that endless scene.  I should point out that we (production/crew) were the problem.  The cast gave us whatever we asked, and never disappointed.  Somehow we just got caught in a funk.

The next scene was more straight-forward.  Less lighting needs.  More simple blocking.  Less dialog.  It still dragged a bit.

Our final scene was the only one I was really satisfied with.  We shot in this incredible bathroom that's bigger then my whole apartment.  It was a short, basic throw-away scene.  It's the other side of a phone conversation which we'd already shot.  The fact is, we could have shot Carol's side of the phone call almost anywhere, but because Robin (wisely) decided to use that amazing bathroom, me and Russ put some significant work into lighting and deciding camera set-ups.  Hell, we already knew we weren't getting out early.  Besides, we were working with Sherri (who plays Carol), and she's getting ready for a bath when the phone rings.  Sherri is a very beautiful woman.  And that's all that is needed to make me and Russ slow down and begin to tinker with lighting and camera set-ups to make the whole scene with the pretty girl as aesthetically pleasing as possible.  I recall that Robin had initially praised the bathroom because it was so large, clean, and white.  But by the time the camera rolled for the first take of the first set-up, we had that bathroom lit warm and intimate.  I mean we had candles around the edge of the tub.  The robe Sherri first had on wasn't working.  Soon we had her wrapped in a towel, and nothing else (well, I suspect Sherri had something on under that towel (we'll analyze the footage later)).  It looked great.  The lighting.  The candles. And, especially, Sherri.  That was the fun scene to shoot.  Cozy, warm, intimate.  And Carol receives a panicky phone call from her daughter.

Things are moving along well.  We only have a handful of shooting days left.  When you run the sorts of feature film productions where the crew are working for free, points, or a pittance, it's often the case that by the halfway mark, the crew is lean, stream-lined … because some people have dropped away.  Often it's understandable.  Things come up in peoples' lives.  Such as, well, paying gigs.  And sometimes you have to be understanding and let these people go do their thing somewhere else.  So, we've become a bit smaller of a production.  Mark is still working on a paid gig.  That's a shame.  I don't know what his specific designation was on Leftovers, but he did a bit of everything.  Perfectly.  Mark is one of those folks who knows all aspects of production.  You need him to do that, he'll do that.  Perfectly.  Mark is worth five standard crew people.  And I'm sure the production he's currently working on has also learned this fact.

Since Mark has been on hiatus, Erin continues to be the most valuable crew member.  Yeah, sure, she's our art department, but she's there when you need her to do everything else.  Said it before, I'll say it again.  Before you have to ask for something, Erin's there with it.  When we were in the cold bedroom (we had to turn off the heater while shooting for audio reasons), poor Sherri was in a skimpy nightgown.  After a take, it became clear we needed to adjust the lighting scheme.  Russ was just about to ask someone to get a blanket for Sherri, and there was Erin, as if by magic, draping a blanket over Sherri's shoulders.  Also, Erin's kid sister Karli is still coming to help us.  She's there with the slate, our little clapper girl:  “Scene 53-G, take 7!”  SNAP!

Man, it's late.  I'm still cold.  Even with my oven broiling with the door open and two burners on high on the range-top.

It's pushing midnight.  And for some reason, I said yes when Matthew Jasso called up yesterday, asking if I could help him shoot a scene for one of his films Sunday morning. That's tomorrow.  Easter Sunday.  8am call time.  My life of pro-bonery never ends.  It'll be beastly cold.  And we'll be shooting in some River Walk bar — it calls itself an Authentic British Pub.  Sounds ghastly.  Don't people realize that the only authentic British pubs are to be found in that island nation, thousands of miles away?  Fuck.  I need to make a stand.  You know, where I refuse to shoot video or film in a location where I'd not otherwise go.  That would rule out all of Bexar County north of highway 410; homes in gated communities; apartment complexes; fast food restaurants; shopping malls; house built after 1940; and god damn quote unquote Authentic British Pubs.

Oh, man.  My bed's going to be so warm and cozy tomorrow morning.

What have I done by saying yes?

Just a quick blog up-date.  It's pushing midnight, and I have to be Seguin in the morning for a seven o'clock call time.

But now I have to catch some sleep for the larger, non-paying job.  Crack of dawn on the banks of the Guadalupe River.