A new year of Short Ends Project is off and running.  This is bringing the group into it's 4th year. (And I'm entering into my 4th year living in San Antonio — I'm not sure how I feel about that.)  I was not involved with Short Ends since the beginning.  I attended the very second screening.  And by the third round of the first year I began directing and writing.  I have, to date, directed eight shorts for Short Ends; never missing a round until summer of 2006.  I believe I have written two scripts that were directed by others.  I edited two projects by other filmmakers.  I operated camera on four films I didn't direct.  And even “acted” (sort of) in one.  I think I might have more credits in the organization than anyone.  Wait, I take that back.  Because of his prolific writing and acting, Matthew probably gets the number one place.  Pete and Carlos are snapping at our heels.

I had pretty much walked away from Shorts Ends (though I did let them show my Dia de los Locos doc at the last screening for filler).  I felt that my work was not improving.  But it seems I have been sucked back in for, at least, one more round.  This time the writers were allowed to choose who would direct their scripts.  Carlos decided on me.  Matthew (who is producing this round (year?) of Short Ends) seconded Carlos, and, unbeknownst to me, I was conscripted.  As is often the case in my life, I followed the path of least resistance, and acquiesced.

Through the luck of the draw, Carlos found himself saddled with writing a romance.  For the fans and foes of Carlos' films, this is actually quite funny.  In his dark world of Mafia del Monte, filled with small time coke dealers, shadowy demonic beings, doomed hitchhikers, punk rock anti-heros, and heads stuffed in gym-bags, there seems little room for the stuff of Andy Hardy winking at Judy Garland or Nora Ephron's insipid banter.  Well, dammit!, we'll pull warm and fuzzy from a sullen rock & roll chick, just you wait and see.

The directors meeting yesterday at Ruta Maya was productive … for me.  I met a couple of new guys to work with.  But I wonder how useful the meeting was as a whole.  Matthew seemed positive.  But, here's what bugged me.  There are six projects.  And there should have been at least 12 people in attendance.  Six writers, with six directors.  I counted one director (me), and three writers.  Four out of twelve. Hmmm?  Me and Carlos were the only complete team.  Sure, everyone has excuses, but, shit!  There were several people who showed up hoping to get on these projects as crew.  Half of the projects didn't have anyone there representing them.  Those wanna-be crew folks were screwed.

Roland showed up.  He's been in a production class I team-taught with Pete.  I also expect he had been in one or more of Pete's screenwriting classes.  He's on-board as crew for me.  He mentioned something about having quit his job to follow the Robert Rodriguez path of signing up with both of the two major medical testing laboratories in this town to finance his own projects.  (I blogged some time back about my bleak mortification of being turned down by one of them — the abyss of rejection: I can't even get paid to have Sterno injected into my ass, or have a baboon gallbladder grafted to my descending duodenum (to, um, test anti-rejection drugs, the attending nurse would have explained unconvincingly.) )  Roland said, brightly, that the two week inpatient session would give him plenty of time to work on his screenplay.  Best of luck, Roland!  Let's just finish this film first.

A guy new to Short Ends found himself seated at my table.  Chris seemed torn between working as crew, or coming back next week for the acting meeting to see if he can get casted.  I hope he comes on board as crew.  He's not afraid to say what's on his mind — and he has good ideas.  I mean, man, save me from “yes men,” or those people who smilingly go with the flow and then fall anonymously back into the shadows.

Matthew brought Daniel over to our table.  He's worked with Pablo Veliz on Clemente.  But more important, he was working with Brian Gonzalez, Pablo's DP.  I have enormous respect for Brian.  I don't know what experience Daniel has, but he can hold his own talking about films and film aesthetics.  More than I can say about the general membership of Short Ends.

This should be fun.

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Tonight I Googled myself, as is my wont (and, again, people, why aren't you writing about me?).  I discovered that my name is on the 48 Hour Film Project site (that's 48HFP, not to be confused with Drew's SA48HR Film Experience).

I guess if it's accessible by Google, it's official.  They just need to post a photo of me.  I'll probably find one that Emily took that doesn't make me look too old, too fat, or too bald.  (Hmm, there's a few she took of my hands riffling pages of a book ….)  Or I could send that photo of me and my sister as toddlers at Turtle Creek [you know the one Paula — I poached a copy off your blog, but could you send me a larger file version?].

When I first looked into this 48 Hour film thing, it looked like a pretty sweet deal.  But for the whole thing to be done the way it should be, it's an enormous amount of work for only a medium amount of pay.  However, this will be a damn cool event, a sweet happening — hmm, I wonder if I can get Babycakes to do something … unusual?

Keep watching this space for 48HFP info.  I'm slated to confab with the HQ this week on some sort of conference call.  Time to recharge that cell phone. 

Hey, I seem to recall mentioning something in Friday's blog about last night's super cheap 22nd anniversary “performance party” at Jump-Start.  The place was packed, and with the exception of performers I knew (or knew of), I didn't see any familiar faces in the audience.

It was pretty impressive.  Over 25 performances of music, comedy, theater, dance, film, and the uncategorizable.  It must have gone on for about 4 hours.  And there was a free buffet.

I attended with my friend Alston.  She had told my to keep her informed if I were going to any plays.  Well, tonight didn't exactly fit the bill.  But she was one of the first to run on stage when Urban-15, for their last number, began pulling audience members on stage to dance with them.  I don't normally succumb to these sorts of frivolities, but when Catherine Cisneros (the co-founder (along with her husband George) of this dance and drum troupe) made her way into the audience and took my hand, how could I argue.  Catherine and George are two of my favorite people.  Soon, it was over half the audience on stage in a dense dance party.  Take in to account that Jump-Start, a smallish black box space, holds maybe 175 to 200 people, and thats a whole lotta stompin goin on.  If you haven't seen Urban 15 really get down — and I mean in a closed space, and not all those parades they perform in — you're really missing out: imagine Test Department (before they got all techno) hammering an industrial percussive pulse while women in flowery dresses dance like some Busby Berkeley number of idealized Polynesian women working themselves up into choreographed abandon … and you're thinking that before the night's over some girl's going to get tossed into a volcano.  Yeah, I guess it's something like that.

Comedia A Go-Go did a wonderfully surreal piece that ended with two members of the comedy troupe shot dead.  Afterwards I asked Alston if she realized that in the tumult, a guitar got crushed.  “The neck was snapped.  That's why JoEl was apologizing.”  “Was he the guy with the camel-toe?” she asked.  Indeed.  He was the guy with a pair of tight short pants pulled so high, so snug to his crouch, that the cuffs of his tartan boxers were peeking out at mid-thigh.

I don't know who or what Babycakes is, but their performance was sublime.  When the lights came up, head honcho Daniel Jackson was standing on a couple of barstools, but the stools were hidden under a huge sequined dress he had on, making him into a gigantic glam queen.  His left arm cradled a long bouquet of flowers.  And with his right hand, he was flashing around one of those ribbons on a stick like gymnastic dancers use.  I don't even know what music was playing over the sound system.  I was simply mesmerized by the three “dancers:” two women and a man moving around haltingly like kindergartners who have gotten into mom's mescaline stash, their perplexed grins added to this effect.  But why did they have their mid-sections stuffed with padding like oompa loompas?  When this low-key insanity was about to collapse into the bathos of its own weird sluggishness, the music pumped up, and the tubby dancers began clawing at the enormous glam queen, causing “her” to obligingly remove fistfuls of candies from an over-stuffed bra.  Soon candy was flying all over the place.  It was very nearly brilliant.  I know I was laughing until it hurt.

We got a sample of the Church Theater's upcoming production of the Vagina Monologues.  Dos Generaciones gave us two or three pristine conjunto numbers.  The East Side Boys & Girls Club treated us to an historical account of the Brazilian martial arts, Capoeira.  There was fire eating, belly dancing, and S. T. Shimi did an arial dance piece where she climbed up, wrapped herself around, and rolled back down two hanging pieces of drapery — beautiful.

And, of course, the Methane Sisters.  Until tonight, I knew them only through Sam Lerma's incredible music video.  He was supposed to make a piece for the stage show Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector have been working on, to show the Methane Sisters at the height of their fame in the '80s.  This allowed Sam to use all the cheesy video transitions that he'd never use otherwise.  But after seeing Monessa and Annele tonight (they MC'ed the third act), I'm a convert.  Monessa was slugging back a nearly empty bottle of Jose Cuervo and Annele was more sedate (back from rehab, it seemed), but they were in character of washed up pop stars of that past where the sun shone brightest on brittle Euro-disco and designer drugs.  Monessa, searching the audience from behind her sunglasses: “This is the worst fucking awards show I've ever hosted.”  Annele: “The gift bags they're offering just suck.”  Monessa: “Back stage they have these little Prada bags with puppies and shit in them.”  Annele: “Prada and puppies, that's so so last year.”

I'll be there for the Methane Sisters in As Filthy As It Gets, Jump-Start Performance Space, January 19th to 28th.  I'm anticipating something along the lines of Hedwig.  We'll see.

I don't give Jump-Start enough credit, really.  It's occurred to me recently how much talent there is in this town, but how little good theater there is.  Jump-Start is the only serious performance space left.  Until the Guadalupe regains its footing (if it ever does), this city must deal with the occasional flashes of innovation in a sea of vomitous musicals and proven money-makers like that Nunsense franchise.  Theater is exciting, vibrant, and alive.  Even when I sit through Larry Shue's The Foreigner for the umpteenth time, I can enjoy actors' performances — especially if they are people I know and have worked with before.  Don't get me wrong, I love farce.  But I want variety.  I want to be challenged, fucked with.  Christ, Beckett would play in San Antonio as avant grade, and the poor bastard's been dead since 1989.  I remember when Samuel Beckett died.  I was living in a 6,000 square foot loft in the Deep Ellum area of Dallas.  At the time theater was exciting in Dallas.  Even the boring theater companies would take chances once or twice a year.  But luckily I was within walking distance of the two most exciting theaters in Dallas.  The Undermain Theatre and the Deep Ellum Theatre Garage.  You never knew what was going to happen.  That was back when the most watchable local actor was Matthew Posey, and the greatest local playwright was Octavio Solis, and Raphael Perry was making waves as actor, director, and impresario.  San Antonio?  We are currently at a cultural nadir.  We just ride it through.  But when the artistic winds really begin to pick up, they well come from Jump-Start, seemingly the only place where performance as art dwells in this city.

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My sister is the only person I can trust to buy me a book or a CD.  She's said that I'm the easiest person to shop for, because I have so many interests.  I'd go a bit further.  I have some many interests that she understands well enough to make a judgment call.

One of the things I received from her for Christmas is a trade paperback (hey, Paula, did this ever come out in hardback?) from Texas A & M University Press.  It's by Rob Johnson, entitled: The Lost Years of William S. Burroughs, Beats in South Texas.

No surprise she'd get me this.  Burroughs is on of my favorite writers.  Anyway, it's a recent book, so
she can be pretty sure my poverty has kept me from buying it.  But, hell, I didn't even know it existed.

Sure, I knew Burroughs spent time in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas.  He was, in a very half-assed manner, trying to be a gentleman farmer.  This was in 1949, before he'd become a writer.  He was a 35 year old drugged-out trust-fund baby trying to find his way in the world.  What makes this book work is two things.  First, Johnson lives in the valley, so he has the resources to try and track down primary sources who remember Willy El Puto of Pharr, Texas.  Also, this is the life of Bill Burroughs before he became an icon.  He was just this asshole that drank too much, got stoned, and tried to pick up cab drivers in Reynosa.  (“So, why aren't there any boys in Boys Town?”)  Honesty, free of glamour.

But beyond its humanizing of Burroughs, this is also a great book to open up the history of the Rio Grande Valley.

Check it out.  It's in paperback.  And if that's still too pricey (and I hear you), try the library.  If they don't have it, raise hell.  Willy El Puto would have.

Click here to catch my current video blog, the first of 2007.  Warning!  Not for the squeamish — it involves me eating some uninviting exotic junk food gifted by my sister (who wisely choses to live vicariously through me when such questionable and onerous snacks are concerned).  Bon appetit!

My aunt took pity on me, and as a Christmas present deposited enough money in my account so I could get my car legal again.  It's really quite amazing that I haven't gotten busted yet.  My inspection sticker expired July of 2006.  My registration has been inactive since January of 2006.  And I never got around to, um, updating my car insurance payment back in August.  My landlady and the electric and gas companies come first in my pathetic system of fiscal allocations.

For some reason my insurance company sends me their wallet-sized certificates establishing my policy to be in good standing even before I shoot them off a check.  This of course means nothing if I were to plow into some poor bastard.  But for the moment it should placate a cop.   This bogus scrap of paper also served me quite well today when I put into action part one of my three-pronged plan to become, once again, that upright citizen most people know me to be.  No longer will I assiduously avoid eye-contact with passing peace offers; nor will I have to keep a cautious eye on my rear mirror as I pass a parked cop car, breathing slowly in anticipation of my reaction if the prowl car starts to move — will I choose fight or flight?  (Though I suspect they both would result in a hosing down with some type of delousing compound rich in polychlorinates and raw kerosine.)

I'm still a moving target until all three components are addressed.  But, and hold your applause, I have a shiny new Texas State Inspection sticker, courtesy of a tire place on South Presa — the Se Habla Ingles sign was not entirely accurate, but I have no complaints.  Next week, registration and insurance.  Wow!  Those Hobbits searching for Mordar got nothing on me.  It's a rough and tumble world here on the southside.

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First Friday over at the Blue Star Arts Complex was pretty sedate tonight.  I was surprised.  The weather is warm and clear.  Beautiful.

I made a short promenade.  I caught Venus at her studio just as she was heading out.  She has to get up early tomorrow for a teaching gig.  She left her space with Erik Collins.  I didn't even know they were friends.  Seems they go way back.  Erik seems to be doing great.  He had a couple of digitally manipulated photographs on Venus' studio wall.  He told me he was on IMDB.  I had to look when I got home.  Here's a link.  I really like his photos.

Kick ass, Erik!

I hoped to see Deborah.  I tried to arrange lunch during the holidays, but one of her daughters came into town early, and she got swallowed up by all that family stuff.  I was sad to see she wasn't in her studio.  She's let some friends use it to sell jewelry this month.  I guess I'll have to track her down.

Speaking of the Blue Star Arts Complex, I expect to see everyone tomorrow night at the Jump-Start theater for their 22th anniversary Performance Party.  Five dollar donation.  It's fucking cheaper than a southside inspection sticker (and that's pretty damn cheap), so you got no excuse.

But, if for some reason you can't make it, there's As Filthy As It Gets, featuring the Methane Sisters (Annele Spector and Monessa Esquivel), beginning January 19th.  Those of you lucky enough to have seen Sam Lerma's brilliant Methane Sisters music video will have some idea of what to expect.  I know I'm looking forward to the great, filthy experience (with or without the cucumber-cam). 

There was some blue sky yesterday.  This motivated me to drive to the car wash.  I've finally found myself with a little mound of quarters which had accumulated on the padded exam table by my front door (when I got this piece of “furniture” I promised myself I'd not use it to pile crap on — but alas, it has become as cluttered as any other flat surface in my life).  I've been listening to people snipe about the roof of my pickup since the fall.  The pecan tree over my driveway misted down with several gallons of sap over the weeks, leaving a tacky crust of syrup which attracted every bit of dirt, bark, and fine fur pulled from the delicate paws of the neighborhood cats careless enough to scamper across the top of the cab.  The layer of filth looked like a bad toupee.  I believe I've heard Russ, Carlos, and Brenda make snide comments.  Everyone else, I guess, is too polite.

Armed with six quarters, I eased into a stall at the car wash across from the Mission Street Drive-In Theater.  The first three quarters knocked off the foreign objects and added a thick lather.  When the time ran out, I took the brush attachment and worked the sides and the front.  Then I jumped into the bed and scrubbed the roof.  The next 75 cents was a good rinse.  And as I finished up, I noticed there were some places I could get a bit better if I quickly grabbed the brush and scrubbed some more.  But I saw this geezer pilot his grocery cart to a stop near my front bumper.  He smiled and waved at me.  I knew my time was ticking away, but I stopped the spray and approached.  He surprised me by not asking for money, but pointed out that I should be giving more attention to the grill work.  What's up with a fucking peanut gallery at the car wash?  I was tempted to hunker down and draw his attention to the front wobbly wheel of his cart and ask if maybe he had a toothbrush he could use to clean off that smudge of dog shit.  But I grinned — thanks, guy! — and grabbed back up the spray wand to continue my work … but time was up.  The pressure was gone.  I had to laugh at myself for coming to within a couple of angstroms of a Basil Fawlty moment.  But, really, the truck looks a thousand times better than it has in a year.  As symbolism goes, it's pretty weak stuff, but still, I relish my first fresh start of the new year.

I also swung by the library to return a couple of video tapes.  I had to explain to the woman at the return desk that I didn't destroy Werner Hertzog's Herz aus Glas.  It was jammed at the mid-point by the last person to check it out.  I hope the San Antonio Library system has another copy.  Maybe a new addition on DVD?  I should check their catalogue.  It's an amazing film, as I recall.  I have seen it two or three times, but never within the last twenty years.  The story line involves a village where the sole economic industry is a glass factory.  They are famous for their beautiful ruby glass.  But the last person who knows the method of making this popular red glass dies without passing on the secret.  This means the death of the city.  Hertzog supposedly hypnotized all the actors so that everything would have a numb, dream-like quality.  I don't know if this is more than Hertzog's self-promoting bullshit, but the film does have a wonderful disconcerting quality.  It's the sort of film I love, but most people hate.

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My sister keeps a blog.  She has recently written about a manuscript she's currently polishing.  In the tradition of many bloggers who become published authors, she's pulling work from her years of entries.  Pamela Ribon is one person I know of who has succeeded in this.  I know of a couple others, but because I'm presently removed from the world of current publishing, I'm a bit vague on just how common this whole phenomena is.

My sister is one of the best writers I know.  But no matter what degree of native talent any of us may have, we need to spend as much time as possible sitting down and just doing the work.  The blog helps many of us who fancy ourselves writers from having our talents atrophy.  We have a place to do work.  And not just private work.  The thing about on-line journals is that other people are reading them.  Or so we hope.  Otherwise, we'd buy one of those little books with the snap lock, and write brusque, soulless entries. 

In a recent posting she raises something interesting:

One thing that seems a little odd to me is that of the few people I've told about this [manuscript], only ONE person has expressed any discernible interest – a female co-worker who actually asked questions about it. It's not like I've gone on and on and on about this before and people are sick of hearing me talk about it. Most people have no idea I even have any interest in writing. I don't think my mother even knows. If someone *I* knew had told me they were writing a book, I'd be all over them, asking all sorts of questions. I think people think of me as being a very private person. All my life I've heard people say, “I don't know anything about you – you're so mysterious.” I'm not mysterious. They don't know anything about me because they never ask me any questions! And when I volunteer information, nobody seems to care. Kind of a catch-22 there.

I think two things are going on here.  First off, my sister is indeed a very private person.  Many of us are.  I certainly am.  And no matter how cavalier we might seem when we discuss ourselves in our blogs, this isn't always how we act in real life.  As an example, I'll bring in San Antonio actress Laura Evans.  She's very outspoken in her blog (and I hope she continues to be), but in a room of people, she can be quite shy.  She's working on this, and I have no doubt she'll get to where she wants to be.

I'd like my sister to take a moment to reflect on those gregarious people she works with.  I'm sure they're not waiting around for someone to asking them what's up in their lives.  Nope.  They're spilling 24/7.

However, self-promotion isn't always a good thing. Let's take the tiny world of the  San Antonio film scene — there are those who build their work up as brilliant and a goddamned force to be reckoned with; however, when we see that work, it's almost always vapid and watery.

And as far as failing to get people you know interested in your work, I think this has something to do with the digital revolution.  (First off, let me put this into context: my sister works at a huge book store, and it's still common to find the over-educated under-achievers working these jobs: e.i., well-read bookish people, often with multiple degrees.  They should be the antithesis of the Philistine.)  When I was finishing off an undergraduate degree in English Lit in 2002, I was taking some film classes.  It was still pretty cool to call yourself a filmmaker; back then people might even raise a brow, impressed.  But even then, I knew those days were about to end.  Digital video was soon going to make everyone a filmmaker.  And, yep, it happened.  Seven-year-olds are filmmakers, so get over yourself.  The same forces were working in the writing scenes.  The internet gave birth to this extraordinary culture of content providers.  What's been going on for years finally got the attention of Time magazine (we'll blame it on YouTube): the vast amount of informational content in the world is being provided by Jane and Joe Six-pack.  Is it any surprise people just smile
and nod when you say you've finished a feature film, written a novel, or are putting the polishing touches to a manuscript of essays?

I have a feature film I want to make.  I know of over a half a dozen folks locally who are going to make feature films in 2007.  I will not make mine until I know I can do it justice.  But a desire for quality won't be hampering many of the aforementioned filmmakers, because they are simply providing content.

And that's where things stand in the 21st century.  Any fool can type a book or slap together a movie.  But audiences and the distribution networks are looking for quality.  I aim for quality, and one day I hope to succeed. 

If you have a book and your friends and coworkers are not intrigued, what does it matter?  They probably aren't your audience. And, really, the world of creative brokers are the ones to impress.  They are who will finally appreciate quality … or so we hope.  And, best case scenario, they are the ones who will get your work to an audience.

I've tracked down a few literary agents who write blogs.  And they all say the same thing.  They want good writing.  Well, yeah, sure.  The Bosse's can do that.

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I haven't seen any movies yet this year, but allow me to give a review on pet-sitting gigs.

PHIL:  Okay, he's a neighbor I've known for almost three years.  I had the privilege of using his dog, Peewee, in a short film.  Peewee passed away.  But his other dog, Cutsie, continues to thrive.  Now Phil takes advantages of my good nature almost every weekend when he heads up to the northside to spend time with his girlfriend.  I should make a fuss, but I rarely have anything going on in my life.  Walking a dog a couple of times for a day or two is no big deal.  But Christmas, Phil and the girlfriend went off to Colorado for a week. For my attentiveness I was allowed free refrigerator privileges (and I helped myself to half a liter of milk for my morning latte), but there was not much else there.  And after Phil returned, he gave me a Christmas present (and surely this was the girlfriend's prodding): a rather nice wooden ink pen with “Colorado” etched on one side, and “Eric” on another.  I give the experience 2 stars.

PETE & LISA:  This is one of those you-can't-say-no situations.  I've known Pete since elementary school, so when he asks me to look after his two dogs and two birds, the answer is always an unequivocal “of course”  It was made easier by the fact that Pete & Lisa's friend Shari would work tag-team style with me.  I would make a morning visit, she an evening visit.  Stack on some serious 'fridge-raiding privileges, and the fact that I managed to do two loads of my own laundry, who could complain?  But wait, I got tortilla soup and cough drops and some chocolate.  Plus, some cash “for gas” which more than covered my fuel expenditures.  It's an obvious 4 star experience.

MATT & JACKIE:  My nearest neighbors.  They live here in this three-plex with me.  They had a friend of theirs to look after their two cats.  Something happened and the friend was unavailable.  Matt called me from Chicago in a panic.  I told him to sweat not.  I took over the cat-sitting.  Six days.  No big deal.  The critters were in the same building.  And they were fucking cats.  The most intelligent, least needy pets designed by god or nature.  I dropped by three times.  Petted them, added foot and water to dishes, and changed the litter box once.  No problem.  Cats are cool.  When the kids returned, I found, in my mailbox, a gushing Thank You note with a a 25 dollar gift card to Borders Books.  This is a really high 3 star.  Why no four?  True, the demands were tiny, and the recompense large.  But I got no chocolate, dammit. 3.5 stars.