I've decided to make the move from my cozy (yet pricey) home in the swanky King William neighborhood, to the squalor of a cold water walk-up flat on the West Side. And may God have mercy on my soul.

But before I drove over to speak with my landlady, I stopped off at Urban-15. George had wanted my help coordinating their up-coming Josiah Youth Media Festival. Actually, I was hoping that when I mentioned my financial straits, he'd realize the huge amount of unused space in their building, and suggest that …. We'll, it didn't happen. But it was good I had stopped by. He said he'd left a message on my phone Sunday. I never got it. The message he wanted to convey is that they had the funding to hire me on a part-time temporary basis to help run this festival.

We went down to the basement to talk. There was a young man sitting at a desk editing video. He turned and stood.

“Erik,” George said, “this is–”

“Oh, I know Herman.” Me and Herman shook. Herman Lira was one of the floating crew members on Garrison. Working sound, camera, lighting, whatever he was needed to do. I'm glad to see him working with George and Catherine. Herman is doing animation work for George's video art installation which he's been commissioned to do for the Smithsonian Museum branch here in San Antonio. Ray Santisteban (my neighbor who I've hardly ever met), is providing the video content to the motion collage. George is currently working his way through certain technical challenges involving three video projectors suspended from the ceiling, compounded by the needed specifications of projector lens, video cables least-likely to degrade their signal over a given distance, cost concerns of the various options, and a whole raft of stuff conveyed to me in a dense technicalese way over my head.

George printed me up the current draft of the Josiah Festival press release, and mentioned that we should meet Monday.

I drove to the Monte Vista neighborhood to tell my landlady I was moving out at the end of March. I rang the buzzer. I knocked on the door. I knocked louder. I looked down the drive and saw her Caddy in the garage. I walked across the front patio to look down the drive of the house next door, where her son lives.

“Erik,” I heard her shout, in her thick Irish accent straight out of central casting. I hadn't seen her in about five months. And with all her health problems, I had begun to suspect the worse. But she was moving around pretty well. She hugged me and we sat on the low wall of her patio.

“You're looking well,” I said.

She quickly set me straight with a litany of recent hospital and emergency room visits. Tales of blood clots, nerve damage, and some operation done on her toe to which she drew my attention by wiggling the foot in question barely concealed by a flip-flop sandal.

After she caught her breath, she asked how I was doing. Before I could answer, she clutched her chest.

“You're moving out,” she said. A statement, not a question.

The fact is, you can't hide anything from your barber or your landlady.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can't make ends meet. I love the place, but I'm constantly chasing money. I found a place where I'll be paying half what I'm paying now.”

I did not tell her I intended subleasing from a particular former tenant of hers whom she had threatened legal actions (because of a series of events — only some of which were misunderstandings).

She mentioned how she'd work with me. Even bringing the rent down. I believed her. But after I let her know that I needed a BIG decrease, she shrugged and said she'd be sorry to see me go.

Back home I met Dar for our weekly Thursday hike. We took the stretch of the Mission Trail between Mission Concepción and Mission San José. I made sure to slather on the sun block. I can still smell it on my arms. Very refreshing. The smell of summer. And it's about time.

Wednesday I met up with my friend Alston at the downtown campus of UTSA for a free screening of a PBS series on environmentally friendly architecture. We'd been the previous Wednesday for the first three episodes, and we were back for the rest.

As we walked into the architecture building, she shot me a glance. “Dude, you were way too nice in your blog about how really ugly this building is.”

I looked around. “Yeah, you're right.”

It's fucked up. Beyond ironic. Imagine attending Le Cordon Bleu cooking institute, only to discover that the school's cafeteria is catered by the Ralston Purina Company.

But don't let that dissuade you from their fine film program. I'm not sure how many more of these screenings they are having. It's part of the College of Architecture's spring semester focus on the subject of sustainable architecture.

Before the screening started, a middle aged man, looking very professorial, introduced himself to me and Alston. It seemed we were the only non-students in attendance.

“I remember the two of you from last week,” he said, impressed with our intrepidness.

He gave his name, but sometimes I'm very bad with names. I poked around on Google, and I think he's associate professor Marc Giaccardo.

At the end, Professor Giaccardo stood at the front of the room. He looked around at the crowd of maybe twenty people.

“Next week we're having Blue Vinyl. A very funny documentary about a woman's dilemma when she discovers how toxic vinyl siding truly is. Oh, and I'd like to introduce two guests.” I started to laugh. Me and Alston were already standing, ready to leave. “Austin, was it…?” “Alston,” she corrected. “Ah, then,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Alston and Erik.”

What do you know? We were famous. We received no applause; however, as attention, in a vague way, had been directed toward us, I turned to the students and said: “Definitely come to see Blue Vinyl. I saw it three or fours years ago at the Dallas Video Festival. It's very smart, and very funny.”

Our new professor friend walked us out and we chatted. A very warm, pleasant man. I decided not to query him as to why his department was edificed in such an aesthetic abortion.

Outside, I mentioned that the building I thought I might be moving into was only an eighth of a mile away. Alston was curious to see it. We got in my truck and I found myself getting turned around a couple of times. I hadn't been to the place before at night. In fact, I'd only ever visited there twice.

We came up on it from an unexpected direction. “Oh, there it is.”

“We going in?” she asked.

“I don't want Alex getting his hopes up. I'm still not sure if this is a good idea. Besides, there's no lights on. I don't think he's home.”

Alston seemed impressed. True, the building, as a whole, looks cool. It's boxy. Two stories. Probably built around 1900. A wide railed balcony. The ground floor still bears a faded sign for the Monterey Bar, although by the layer of dust on the fixtures inside, the place has been out of business for over a decade. The apartment in question is upstairs. I drove around the block so Alston could get an idea of the neighborhood. It's pretty down-at-the-heel, and possesses a level of desperation somewhere between plasma bank and crack house.

I'd gone by there just the previous morning with Alex. He'd hammered on my door about 8:45, waking me up. He brought me breakfast at Casa Chiapas, and then we headed over. The place looked a whole lot worse than I remembered when I looked at it a year and a half ago — back when Alex was planning to move in. A lot of it had to do with all his clutter. True, it'll save me scads of money, but I haltingly told him I'd let him know in a day or two. I wonder if I'll be able to talk myself out of it?

Yesterday was the Oscars.  I had zero interest in watching that long, bilious panegyric to Hollywood's mutual wankery.  Self-congratulation at it's most venal.  I didn't even check to see if it was being broadcasted on one of the four channels that my TV can adequately receive.

I go through cycles of movie watching.  There have been years when I see well over a hundred mainstream movies — and I'm talking new releases at the theaters.  And then there are years like 2006.  I just now glanced at all the titles of films nominated for the Academy Awards in all categories.  I managed to see five of them.  And two, I was able to see over the internet.  But as I attended about seven film festivals, and got out to quite a few other types on non-traditional screenings, I did indeed see quite a few new films in 2006.  But, apparently, not of Oscar-quality.

Tonight was the monthly free writers workshop put on by Gemini Ink.  I took one of the older pieces from my Fictional Bog site.  I felt kind of lame, not having brought something newer.  But there is one stipulation to those who show up.  You are limited to 4 pages, double-spaced.  And some of my recent work on the above-mentioned site is becoming longer than the first few, which were almost short enough to fall into that semi-genera of “flash fiction.”

I showed up with a 760 word piece, and really didn't get much in the way of constructive criticism.  The one thing that people mention about my fiction is that it has a strong voice.  Yeah.  That's the one thing I do well.  But occasionally, I'll get some helpful feedback.  I like to hear when people honestly tell that a particular passage confuses them.  A lack of clarity in fiction can get readers to turn away almost as quickly as flat dialog or an excess of cliche.

The group changes from month to month.  This time we had eight people reading.  I had seen four of them before.  Tonight, we had a new-comer who came across insightful and somewhat patronizing when commenting on the work of others, but when it came time for her to read, I found myself cringing.  Her anemic writing style was clearly “nourished” by a steady diet of bestseller hack work.

I think the reason I continue to show up is that one of the regulars, a guy in his late sixties, has clearly read a ton of brilliant literature and he has clearly been influenced by it all.  Trying to pin down his work is difficult.  It's dense, languid writing, with serpentine sentences that slither along for miles. There's a brittle wryness that makes me think of Cormac McCarthy, especially back when he was still a southern writer.  I see Faulkner all over the place.  And Thomas Wolfe.  John Fante.  Malcolm Lowry.  And enough of a whiff of of beats to make me think, for some reason, of Richard Farina.  He's either a genius, or a pretentious dilettante.  I need to sit down and read about a hundred pages of his stuff before I can figure it out.  The guy comes in with passages from at least two novels he's in the middle of.  They are both currently in the 300 to 400 page length.

After I told him, last month, that I was working on a novella that I wanted to then adapt to a screenplay, he wanted to know why I didn't just write a screenplay.  I tried to explain why I thought that the screenplay format was the express train to doggerel.  “It'll suck the poetry from your writing faster than huffing nail polish remover.”  He didn't understand me.  So when he asked if I planned to try and get the novella published as well as the screenplay produced, I said yes.  That seemed to make sense to him.  Tonight, he mentioned that since talking with me last month he had written a screenplay that would be perfect for Sally Fields.  “I saw her in a TV commercial,” he said.  “She's promoting some osteoporosis drug.”  “The kiss of death for an actor,” I replied, shaking my head.  “Pimping for the pharmaceutical companies is what an actor does when he or she is no longer fetching enough to turn to porno.”  “Oh, I think she's still got the fans.  And because, she's always complaining that there are no good roles for older women, I thought I'd write something just for her.”  Before he could go any further, the guy who runs the group called the name of the first reader.  So, I'll have to ask this guy, when I next see him, if he's serious.  Did he really hammer out a screenplay in a month?  I'm rather curious how prolific he might be.

Prolific?  Damn, I need to write more.  (Just not screenplays for washed up actresses.)  

After maybe three and a half hours of sleep, I found myself rolling into the Seguin city limits.  I thought I'd call Russ and tell him I was only a couple minutes out from the neighborhood recreation area the crew had been shuttling back and forth from, so that our cars won't clog the driveway of our location house.  Over the phone he sounded a bit groggy.  And when he hit me with the prefaced salvo of: “oh, I guess we forgot to call you,” I was pretty sure he wasn't joking.  It seems the call time had been pushed back to 7am.  Only no one had thought to call me.

Note to Ford Motors, Pickup Truck division: “Dear sirs and madams, your clever ergonomic design has resulted in a truck seat so firm and exquisitely molded to my posterior and lower back, that I can drive, without the slightest fatigue, for over ten hours with respite only for refueling (body and vehicle); however, I feel I should draw your attention to the most egregious design flaw, resultant in a seat so ill-fitted for napping, that a mere ten minutes in a recumbent posturer leaves one feeling not so much refreshed, but as though half a hundred morbidly obese tabby cats have scampered all over ones body.”

As I waited for dawn to break over my parking-lot in Seguin, Texas, I thought back to my 1969 Couple de Ville, a car in which I often napped, front seat and rear seat.  Oh, for a return to the era where cars were designed for comfort not safety.  Don't worry, Detroit, I'll have plenty of time to be safe when I'm dead.  Just give me a broad spring bench-seat I can curl up on.

Day 4 on the set of Leftovers was a simple affair.  We were working with only three actors.  One room.  And almost all the action took place while the actors were seated.  We shot over ten pages in under eight hours.  And we wrapped and packed and were on the road by six this afternoon.

Me and Russ lit the room dim and warm.  The scene called for a therapist's consulting room which she maintains in her home.  Erin dressed the set with loads of photographs of the protagonist's family.  We had two overly-stuffed armchairs which the therapist and her clients sit.  One of the clients is played by Tracie Hunter, who was in Water's Edge.  Tracie is graduating from high-school this year.  She's a beautiful young woman, and quite a strong actor.  She's always on script, gives wonderful facial reactions, and conveys a graceful combination of confidence and vulnerability.  And the other client is the costar, played by Anne Gerber.  I'm sure I'll later devote more space to Anne.  But she has quickly become the most sought-after young leading women in San Antonio films, theater, and musical theater.  I can't think of anyone more deserving of such attention.  But as a musical theater bigot, I just wish Anne would do more challenging roles on stage — performances I'm be more likely to see.

And of course, we have the star of Leftovers.  The woman sitting in the therapist's chair.  Sherri Small Truitt.  When I'm functioning on more than three hours of sleep, I'll give my impressions on Sherri — her depth of performance, and her playful nature which makes the long hours of shooting quite enjoyable.

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There was a moment when our director, Robin, decided to switch around the camera positions to better display certain elements of the set dressing — mostly, so that the audience could see the photos of the characters on some bookshelves in the background.  Russ was grumbling about this last minute change.  I shared Russ sentiments, but, still, I understood WHY Robin wanted this camera set-ups.  Most everyone was taking a lunch break.  So I moved in some lights and offered a quick and dirty, and possibly workable solution.  As I'm aiming a Lowell Pro-Light through this two-sided glass enclosed fireplace, so that the light will wash across Sherri's face, Russ comes back in and says that we're going back to the original plan.

Now I'm getting pissed.  Actually, I'm okay with last minute changes.  I like a challenge.  You work through to a solution, and make it happen.  But my solution wasn't going to be given a chnace.  I tried to fight for the changes, but Russ wouldn't have it.  He was trying to keep us on a sane schedule.

“But we can do it.  We've set the lights.  And it won't take that much more time–”

“Don't get your panties in a wad,” Russ said good-naturedly.

And as I'm breaking down the lights I had set up, I fire back in pretend petulance:  “Don't be so presumptuous.  You're not the boss of my panties.”

And at that moment cast and crew enter, refreshed from lunch, curious about all this panty stuff.

The theme was pulled in later when I'm sitting on the floor and watching the  field monitor.  The camera aims at Tracie seated across from Sherri.  Half of the back of Sherri's head is in the extreme foreground — a sort of over-the-shoulder shot.  There's a moment when Sherri stands and crosses the room.  And I think I see … something ….  I'm almost but not certain I see some underwear peeking between her white skirt and white jacket.

After she runs through the scene and returns to her seat, Robin gets poised for a second take.  I clear my throat and ask if Sherri can stand up so I can check to see if she's showing, um, something she isn't supposed to be showing.

“What do you mean?” Sherri asks.

“Well it happened so fast.  I have this fleeting image of a … thong?”

She stands, but I don't see anything this time.

“I'm sorry, guys.  I must have been mistaken,” I say, feeling a bit embarrassed.  Some of the crew joke about me placing so much attention upon Sherri's rear end.  But Sherri looks down over her shoulder to check herself out, and then she glances over that same shoulder at me.

“What color?  I mean, was it–”

“I saw a flash of pink.”

Sherri laughs and becomes a bit self-conscious.  She wiggles her hips and tugs some at her skirt.  We're all pretty goofy from a lack of sleep.  But Robin pushes us to do another take.  Move along, folks.  Nothing to see here.

I got up Saturday morning at 4:45.  And even that early, I didn't have enough time to fire up the espresso machine.  And, still, I didn't make it to the shoot in Seguin until 6:15, a quarter hour after my call time.  But I wasn't too distressed.  I arrived just in time to follow the first three cars as they turned into the swanky house on the banks of the Guadalupe that is our principle location.

We were looking at an ambitious weekend with an expectation of 23 pages.  That's more — much more — than I care to schedule.  But it wasn't my call.

The call sheet for Saturday had the crew slated for 6am until 6pm.  A page an hour.  This is possible if you're running two cameras, or if the camera set-ups are simple, or if you don't care if the footage sucks.  We only had the one camera.  The set-ups were somewhat involved.  And we certainly didn't want to do sub-par work.  The answer was, shoot for an additional five hours.  (Fortunately, I slithered out around 8:30 in the evening.)

It was a day of working with children.  Nikki from PrimaDonna Productions was on set to coach the kids.  She, as always, did an incredible job.

Ayla did great work, but I knew she would.  She was running a couple of scenes with Dallin, a young actor from Austin.  He's, I guess, about 11 or 12.  A very seasoned and natural performer.  Neither he nor Ayla flubbed a single line.

Cameron, an actor from Houston, a bit younger than Dallin, didn't have an opportunity to deliver too many lines.  But he did some fine work screaming and fighting as mom (played by Anne Gerber) dragged him out of the house.  He argued.  He screamed.  He went limp.  And as Anne tucked him under her arm and lugged him out the door, the kid fought like a champ.

And then there was Atticus (Robin and Kevin's son).  He's not a trained actor.  And he's really too young to deliver a long sequence of dialogue.  But he actually had a somewhat lengthy scene where he's telling this rambling and barely intelligible story kids so often feel a need to convey.  He actually had the story in his head, but he kept trying to impress all of us cast and crew with digressions and augmentations of his tale of Power Rangers and people sprouting wings, motorcycles, and, of course, explosions.  I think after several takes, we got the gist.  But I was impressed that Atticus did such a good job delivering his part of the dialogue that followed the free-wheeling story he told.  He's also incredibly cute.

At about 8 in the evening, Robin took a vote (I tried to explain to her the following day that a movie production is not a democracy).  Actually, it was like the old story (most likely apocryphal) where Travis drew this sword through the dirt on the plaza of the Alamo.  I declined to remain through to midnight.  Usually, I pride myself of being first on set, and last to leave.  But I had promised Carlos I would burn him a DVD of the rough edit I did for our music video, and get it to the wrap party by ten that night.

The party was at Brenda's house.  I showed up with three copies of the DVD, in case some refused to play.  Actually, none worked on my DVD player, but they all played on my computer.  I hoped for the best, and drove over.

We didn't get around to watching the video until just after midnight.  That was when it officially became Carlos' birthday.  His wife Shelly turned a video camera on Carlos.  He was a bit tipsy, and he launched into a birthday speech.  Afterwards, he toasted us from the silver flask he had received as a gift.  It's a mini-style hip-flask that snaps into a belt-buckle.  Very suave.  Very El Picante.

The DVD seized up for a fraction of a second about five times, making me wince and cringe.  I hate home-burned DVDs.  But the crowd was positive, upbeat, and best of all, pretty drunk.  Cheers all around.

I headed out by 12:30.  I had to get up, again, at 4:45 to make a 6am call time in Seguin for Day 4 of Leftovers.

Well, for those invited to the wrap party for the Nov. 2nd music video, you will get to see something.  Carlos wanted to have a party …'cause, well, Carlos always wants to have a party.  The video isn't finished.  Hell, we still haven't shot the band performance footage.  But I spent most of today putting together a rough edit.  Maybe some time this weekend (after the “rough edit premier” tomorrow night), I'll post it online.

Around five-thirty this afternoon, I called the edit done well enough for the drunken revelers who will be stuffed into Brenda's house (I expect those not invited to crash it anyway).  I needed to head over to the Bihl Haus for the 4th annual “Olvidate del Alamo,” which, irreverently, commemorates the day the Alamo was besieged back in 1836.

Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez curated the show.  There was work by about 20 different artists.  Poetry readings.  And a bit of theater, where George Cisneros, dressed as a drummer with Santa Anna's troops, proceeded some more of the general's men who escorted some anglo prisoners.  The prisoners wore stetsons, sunglasses, and orange prison jumpsuits with “illegal alien” stenciled on the back.  All in good fun … I think.

Ramon was playing the MC.  He, too, wore an officer's uniform from Santa Anna's troop.  I was able to give him a CD of photos he had asked me for months ago.

Deborah was there, mingling with her admirers.

Jon Philip Santos was there, and if he did a reading, I had arrived too late to hear him.

JoEl from Comedia A Go-Go was there.  He told me his comedy troop was planning a couple of shows at the Jump-Start in  April.

It was a great evening.  It's so refreshing to hear so much truly good poetry.  Most of the stuff should never make it to the ears of the public.

I just had enough time to leave, stop by the grocery store, and type out this short post.  I have to be in Seguin tomorrow for a 6am call-time.  Do these people never learn that I'm used to waking with the sun. or, better yet, the soft footfalls of the postman climbing my porch in the early afternoon.  So, I'm setting my alarm clock for 4:45.  And there'd better be a carafe of hot coffee awaiting me, dammit.

Carlos stopped by to drop off some stills and video he wants to incorporate into this music video we are doing for the band Nov. 2nd.  He wants to get a rough edit together for the wrap party this Saturday.  We still have to shoot the band playing.  But all the scenes of the narrative have been shot.  All four video tapes.  Well, I should point out that not every tape is a full hour.  One of them I almost lost.  It seems that tape number two had some bits of a possible video blog as well as some footage from an audition a month back.  I'm usually assiduous in labeling my tapes.  I guess I'm slipping.  And then there's tape number three which has only 20 minutes of a series of scenes shot out by Mission San Juan.  And for some reason I can't get my camera to play it back.  I'll have to use some other device to capture onto my computer.  Actually, if I had that footage on the computer, I'd gladly edit the sequence where Rosalinda (as our homicide detective) roughs up a drug-addled snitch (played by Carlos) to get a lead on the serial killer (as portrayed by Christopher Dean).  But other than those scenes, everything else is on my computer … waiting.

Earlier today, I pulled out a frame and pasted it onto Rosalinda's MySpace page.  It's her birthday (Feb 22nd, I believe).  The image is a rather glamorous  picture for a homicide detective.  But the job can't be all leaning on preps and sliding open morgue drawers as next-of-kin reel back in horror.  A girl's gotta let loose every so often.

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Alston alerted me to a free weekly film series happening on the UTSA downtown campus Wednesday afternoons.  This week and next week they're screening a six-part PBS series on environmentally responsible architecture called “Design: e2.”

“It's in the gallery,” Alston had emailed.  “The building on Durango Street.”

Normally I would walk — the campus is maybe 20 minutes away on foot — but I was running late, and also I needed to return some books to the library.

When I got to the arts building, I tracked down the gallery.  There were no chairs set up.  Clearly this wasn't the right gallery.  I wandered around the building, looking for Alston.  Over near the elevator, as I turning a corner, I heard a woman shout: “Hey, Erik Bosse.”  I wouldn't expect Alston to use both my names. I turned around.  It was Lisa Cortez Walden.  She was getting off the elevator with a fellow grad student.  She invited me out for drinks.  (So that's what grad students do?  I thought it was just a stale and false stereotype.)  She was soon jointed by another friend.  I explained that I was here to see a film.  She clearly knew her way around the campus, but she couldn't think of where it might be playing.  We parted.  And as I wandered back toward the gallery I bumped into Alston.

“This is the wrong gallery,” she said straight up, after a quick look around.

We headed across the campus to the architecture building.

The “gallery” was a bleak shell of a room with eight panels of glass doors in the rear.  We were early and no one was yet in the room.  We peered into the darkness.  The glass doors didn't bode well a movie-watching experience, what with the lights from the corridor shining through.  But I really couldn't complain about the price.

However, I certainly could complain about the building we were in.  It possessed the aesthetic appeal of a russet potato.  The drab green linoleum floor had fat abbreviated salmon stripes running the longitude.  The florescent tubes overhead hummed louder then the water coolers and they flickered with an urgent desperation.  This hallway in which we waited could have better served the ground floor of the School of Euthanasic Science.

The three episodes we watched were quite well done.  They discussed buildings one would actually  enjoy entering.  Brad Pitt narrated the episodes, and although I never gave his speaking voice much thought, he never struck a wrong cord — he can manage to have a strong, neutral voice.

We avoided the tourists restaurants surround the campus, and headed to Tito's Tacos for a leisurely dinner.

I'm still trying to find stuff in my apartment.  Yesterday we were shooting a scene from my new short film.  The front room is still fairly sparse, with much of the furniture, and all the books and bookcases crammed in the bedroom.    I wanted a minimal set.  In fact, as I came home earlier this evening, while I stood in the porch, I could hear the sound of my key turning in the lock with that distinctive echo known to all realtors: the sound of a door opened into an empty home.

We were a crew of five.  Me, Russ, Carlos, Daniel, and Chris.  Carlos had Rockie in tow, and she did help out a bit when she wasn't busying herself with her plastic dinosaurs and Barbies (and probably THAT was the movie we should have been shooting — just how did this leggy fashion-slave find herself in the Cretaceous Period, and more importantly, once she evades that ravenous Allosaur, how will she replenish her hair-care products?).

Once Chris, our actor, had arrived (who I'll refer to as Christopher, to avoid confusion), we had to come to terms with the fact that the second actor we needed was not going to make it.

We came up with a scenario that I think will work.  Tight shots of a stand-in (Chris).  All we need to sell the sequence of shots — or so I hope — will be a reaction shot on my front porch, once we get the actor.  I believe it was also Chris who suggested a clever transition shot.  It involved Christopher falling past frame onto my hardwood floor.  I offered some cushions from my sofa, but Christopher would have none of that.  And I recalled that he often did prat-falls and such on stage.  This I think is his West Texas heritage.  Lacking a good wholesome rodeo, the lad has to make do throwing himself down onto hard surfaces; thus making sure that he'll be stove up like hell by the time he's checked himself into the Old Thespian's Home, that shrubbery-encircled compound just down the road past the rendering plant.

The fourth take was the keeper.  Finally!  The poor boy had been dropping face-forward like a sack of potatoes for way too long.  If he was in pain by the final shout of “CUT” he never let it show.  I guess that's why it's called acting.  Let them never see your misery … unless they ask for it.

Daniel wanted to know if we could do a shot from my neighbor's balcony across the street.  This is the swanky house on the block.  The mini mansion from, I'm guessing, the late '20s.  Daniel thought it's make a nice establishing shot.

“If you see the owner drive up,” I told him, “give me a shout, and I'll ask.”

As we were setting up the first shot of the day, someone drew my attention to an SUV pulling to the curb across the street.  I went over to talk to Hope.  When I told her we were making a movie, she laughed.  It seems that her husband, Carlos, who has a business in the neighborhood, had spent the best part of the previous day being interviewed by Bob Phillips of Texas Country Reporter fame.  (For those unfamiliar with Bob Phillips, he has one of the great jobs.  He travels the state, doing human interest stories.  He started in Dallas at KDFW, channel 4, and called his show 4 Country Reporter.  He changed TV stations.  And it was 8 Country Reporter.  But, throughout the state, as a syndicated show, it's called Texas Country Reporter.  If there's a 90 year old woman who runs the most famous pie shop in Lavaca County, Bob Phillips will be there.  If you run a parasailing school in Fort Graham or have unearthed the world's largest trilobite fossil outside of Sanderson, given enough time, you'd be safe to assume that Bob Phillips will be knocking on your door with his small production crew.)  I explained to Hope that we'd be in and out of her house faster than Bob Phillips, but she seemed unfazed.  “Come on over whenever you're ready.”

Maybe an hour later, we took the camera and tripod up to Hope's balcony.  Daniel explained how he saw the camera work.  “Sounds good,” I said, 'cause it did.  “Do it.”  We planned to have Rockie ride her tricycle down the sidewalk, and when she's out of sight, Christopher, lurking in the bushes, breaks into the house with a crowbar (courtesy of my neighbor, Phil).  I shouted to Carlos to release Rockie, who was pressing urgently on her pedals, hot to be in a movie (though this is far from her first movie appearance).  We did three takes, and had to rush across to my place to do a close-up shot of Christopher staring in the window … before the late afternoon sun dropped a shadow onto that part of my house.  And as we were talking to Hope on her front porch, she said how we were welcomed to shoot in her place at any time.  Me and Russ exchanged sly smiles, and made some vague comment about how we'd be back … or, yeah, we'd be back.  I would love to have full run of that house for a feature.  But it's a delicate game, taking advantage of your neighbors.  You got to be gentle about it … or things could turn ugly fast.  I'm happy to say that Hope is still smiling and nodding when she looks up from her rose bushes.

Neighbors.  Such a strange concept.  I have never found myself in such a close and warm exchange with my neighbors than I have had here in San Antonio.  I know their names.  They know mine.  They come to my film screenings and they let me shoot my little film projects in and around their homes.  I go to their art shows, eat at the local restaurants they run, walk their dogs, appear at the schools where they teach in my capacity as a local filmmaker, and even help the local Boy Scout troop with their Cinematography merit badge.  It's a new world, really.  Neighbors, that is.  They're like friends, but you don't have to like them.  Just tolerate them. And, hey, I can tolerate just about anyone.

Yesterday I hung out some with Russ and AJ over enchiladas at Tito's Tacos.

AJ gave me a huge poster he designed for the 30th anniversary of Carnaval Brasileiro, held this time of year in Austin.  I'd never even heard of the event.  Pete sent out an email drawing attention to their website, since it had several images of posters that AJ has designed over the years.

Most people I know think of AJ Garces mainly as a filmmaker.  But he pays the bills as a freelance graphic artist.  Some of his stuff can be seen at havanastreet.com.

The poster looks great.  He even signed it for me.

He groused a bit about Alamo Heights SA, the online bilingual telenovela, which I believe I heard someone refer to as a cyber-telenovela.  The short episodes I've seen are technically slick, filled with pretty people, and nicely shot.  But AJ is a perfectionist.  Also, he fought to keep the project in San Antonio, until most of those sorts of decisions were taken from his hands.  Mostly he remained as director.  His input during post-production wasn't anywhere near as involved as he'd hoped.  But there's always another project on the horizon.

Russ seems to be getting into a comfortable rhythm in his new teaching job at Harlandale High-school, AKA, the Film School of San Antonio.  He's teaching animation.

He asked AJ how much of his art work was done on the computer.  AJ said he did the preliminary sketches and inking free hand.  Scanned the work.  And took it from there in PhotoShop.

“You use a tablet?”

“Yes, sure.  You've got to use one.”

But Russ was fishing.  He had received a shipment of electronic tablets for his students, and after he figures out how to hook them all up, he wants a guest artist to come in and talk about the confluence of art and of computers in the work-a-day world.

“So,” Russ asked, “can I get you to come by one day?”

“Oh, of course,” AJ said without out a second thought.

So, there you go, Russ.  A witness.  And I do believe blog comments are as binding as an affidavit.

We three then launched into what we thought was wrong with film in San Antonio.  The one thing that allowed us to be on the same page was that we desire to work on projects of an artistic depth and weight.  We each wish to be better than we are, and we try to learn from all those around us.  But even with our common sensibilities, we each have slightly different thoughts on how to bring the local film community together.  The notion of having an opportunity to get together, show work in progress or completed pieces, and exchange critique is something we could all agree on.  AJ talked of a biannual event, where the work will screen at a venue with the best projector, sound system, and acoustics.  I lean more to a monthly salon, with a casual setting, and time set aside for screening a few items for discussion.  Russ seemed to think that some of the elements of Short Ends still have validity — I think he is interested in an organization, a context, which drives the production of the work that will be screened.  These are all minor things, I think.  What most interests me is to get away from these cliquish groups and clubs, have people show up with one thing in common:  they are making — or are interested in making — visual time-based media.  Everyone is welcome.

I still want to start up my monthly salon.  But this Robin Nations film is robbing me of my weekends until … um, I dunno, April?

Actually, there is no Nations shooting this weekend.  But I'm doing other production work, which also will pay me nothing, so it all works out.

After AJ left to pick up a kid from soccer practice, or whatever it is that family men do, me and Russ spent way too much time talking about Robin's film, Leftovers.  We were there in Tito's until the waiters began clearing their throats and locking doors.

“I just wasn't having fun last weekend,” Russ said solemnly.  “Kick me when you see I'm not having fun.”

I said I'd do my best.

He wants to place the video tapes from last Saturday under the wheels of his truck and roll over them.

“Go ahead,” I said.  “Last I heard you were one of the producers.”

“It's too late.  Kevin and Robin have already captured it to their computer.”

Usually I'm opposed to re-shooting a whole day of work.  I get snarky and feel that if the people running the production fuck up, let them live with it.  But that sort of punitive mindset presupposed two things.  One, that the buck stops somewhere.  And, two, that whomsoever that metaphoric buck ultimately nuzzles up to deserves to be left in the lurch.  But the fact is, the weight of responsibility on this project is principally shared by four people, and, in a slightly less manner, shared by the entire cast and crew.  And as for the thought that Robin should sink or swim based on the whole productions' efforts (whether they be of the half-assed or full-assed variety) serves absolutely no  purpose.

We will regroup for next weekend, no doubt.  Whether we re-shoot the kitchen scenes from last Saturday, I don't know.  I've not seen the footage.  But if it needs to be done, I'm all set.  There needs to be beautiful photography that is motivated by each scene.  There needs to a serious person running the art department who will not accept, “it'll be good enough.”  We need some whip-cracking from Bob to get us to stop dicking around and wasting time.  And, here I know I'm going to get voted down, just one boom-pole.  This is insane.  There are microphone shadows everywhere, like sidewalk slugs after a summer rain.  If we need a second microphone, stick a lavalier on someone.  Get on with it, already.

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Finally, a day with sun and vague warmth.  I was able to hang up my laundry and go for a bike ride.  I mean, really, my needs are simple.  (My tombstone will read: “And all we really wanted was to live in a one room adobe house in the Chihuahua Desert.”)

Actually, tonight I should be cleaning up this rat hole I live in.  Tomorrow I'm shooting a small scene for the next round of the Short Ends Project.  I need to move two bookcases out of the living room, because this character isn't a big reader.  The 800 or so books can be piled on my window-seats in the bedroom (once I remove all the crap stacked there) — that's just a lot of trips back and forth.  But the bookcases are hardwood, and even though I can move them, it's a real bitch to move and then restack them.  I'll wait on that until someone shows up.

Basically, I have until noon to sweep the floors, wash and put away the dishes, and dispatch some of the more adventurous cockroaches.  That'll leave me just enough time to brew up some coffee and put out an assortment of pan dulce.

If anyone is in the King William neighborhood tomorrow late afternoon, stop by Tito's Tacos.  Local filmmaker AJ Garces (apparently chagrined to have missed my birthday lunch last week) is wanting an opportunity to hang out with groovy people over a plate of enchiladas.  I know, I know.  Many of you work “real” jobs.  But try to make it out.  Or if you want to come, but are afraid you'll be late, call me, and I'll let you know if we're still encamped.  And when I say “tomorrow,” I mean Friday, Feb. 16th.

210-482-0273.  That is me.  If you read this silly blog, I'd love you to show.  Don't be shy.  We're just eatin' and talkin'.

I am able to enjoy a leisurely late lunch / early dinner (we need a PM version of brunch, I'm thinking), because my project with the Company ended tonight.  Those bastards hinted at a two week assignment.  And because I contacted them too late to get the plum daytime shift, I got stuck with the night shift.  The best I can hope for at night is 4.5 hours.  But because of technical problems, we had not enough work to keep us busy on ANY night.  The first two nights were training sessions, so I can expect a full shift payment.  But that's it.  And with just a measly hour last Friday, and no work at all Tuesday and Wednesday and Friday nights of this week, I'm not going to get much more out of a fortnight's worth of work than the amount of my admittedly delinquent CPS (gas/electric) bill.  Oh, don't worry, there's undoubtedly enough left over to cover the enchiladas tejanos plate at Tito's Tacos.  But, mercy!

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Winter won't leave.  Why won't winter leave?  I've been dropping hints all over the place.  I've made enough snide comments, I thought were loud enough: “The biggest asshole of all the seasons;” “At the party last night I was trying to chat up Spring, but you-know-who staggered up and puked on my fucking shoes — what a disgrace.”

I was huddled in my tiny office off the kitchen, where I had the oven broiling its little heart out with the oven door open.  Two range top burners on high.  I was doing a bit of work for PrimaDonna Productions, digitizing some analog video tape.  My computer was doing most of the work.  And as I contemplated loading my espresso machine up for the second latte of the day, I heard a car roll up to the curb in front of my house.

I did a Gladys Kravitz out the window over my kitchen sink.  I watched Alejandro getting out of a small nondescript car.  There was someone I didn't recognize in the passenger seat.

As I was putting on some pants, I could hear Alex clumping up my wooden steps.  He hammered on my door as inelegantly as he did back when he was my neighbor.

“Erik!  It's Alex.”

When I opened up, I was glad to see he was looking well.

After the preliminaries of men who haven't seen each other in nine months (a protracted ritual of maybe a minute and a half), I asked if he was still living in his apartment on the westside.

“No, I'm living in Mexico.”  Before I could convey my surprise, he added:  “But I'm still renting that apartment.”

“So,” I asked, a bit confused.  “Where in Mexico?”

“Guanajuato.”

Sweet, I thought.  This is one beautiful town.  Now I have someone I can leech off of on my next trip into the colonial interior.

“Wow,” I said.  “That's an incredible town.”

“What?”

“Guanajuato.  I was there over the sumer.”

“No, I'm in Leon.”

This is something I need to learn.  Many Mexicans, and Mexican-Americans with family down south, tend to speak first of their homes not by the city name, but by the state.  Like I would tell people I'm from Texas, perhaps, before specifying San Antonio.  So, Alex was living in the state of Guanajuato (GTO being the dynamic abbreviation), and the city of Leon.

“Oh….”  I muttered, trying to hide my disappointment — Leon is a major city, the industrial hub of the state of Guanajuato, and not the hipster artsy college town of Guanajuato.

“It's great.  I'm taking some art classes and having a great time in Leon.”

He had come by not just to reconnect, but to offer me a proposition.  He wanted to keep his apartment here in San Antonio; but because he was here so infrequently, he wanted to sub-lease it out.  We were talking about a rent for me that would be half of what I'm currently paying.  That alone interested me. My finances are stretched so fucking thin, that even Alex's place seemed enticing.  I'll hook up with him in the next few days to go and see how he's fixed up the place.

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A year and a half back, I looked at the place with Alex.  He had already moved from my three-plex into a place over in the Lavaca neighborhood.  His wife was back in Mexico, looking after an ill parent.  He wanted something cheap and interesting.

We met at this two story building on the boundary between a residential neighborhood and a light-industrial region.  The railroad tracks ran alongside the building.  The ground floor was a defunct beer joint.

“You gotta see this,” Alex cried, dragging me from my truck.  He led me to the front of the building.  We peered into the bar.  It still had all the fixtures.  I was already thinking of how to use it was a location for a film.

“The owner is out of town, or else I'd get him to give us a tour of the bar.”  He grabbed my shoulder.  “Let's go upstairs.”

We walked around to the back of the building.  There was a steep metal staircase, as we walked up, I felt like I was walking up to the pilot's deck in a boat.

Upstairs there was a corridor running the length of the building.

“I'm going to put a lock on that door,” Alex said, motioning to the door we'd just pushed through.

“There are two apartments here,” he added.  “All the doors on this side,” he said, motioning to the right, “belong to these illegals from Guatemala.  I think there's five of them.”  Alex began hammering on the Guatemalans doors as we walked down the corridor.  “See?  They've always working.  It's peaceful as hell here.”

At the end of the corridor, we pushed our way through a door onto a rickety balcony.

“This is great.  I can sit out here, drink my morning coffee, and make sketches of downtown San Antonio.”

He was right.  It was a great view.  I was starting to get intrigued.

We reentered the corridor.  Alex pushed his way into the apartment he wanted to rent.  It was basically one long shot of rooms.  Room, bathroom, kitchen, room.

I must admit I was a bit envious.  It was cheap, gritty, and groovy in a very low-rent kind of way.

As I recall, I described it to people at the time as “this really cool shit-hole over on the westside.”

So, what I'm trying to say is, I might be moving.  Maybe a mile and a half distant, but a world away.  Maybe this would be a good idea.  I'm getting massively bored and complacent in this shit-hole.

I'll just have to see how this all works out.