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.

Today was a series of meetings, and many of the people turned out to be related to one another.

I joined Deborah and Ramon for breakfast.  Ramon's usual taqueria was closed for Good Friday.  So we went down the road to another little place on Hilderbrand.  I always enjoy spending time with the two of them.  We discussed letting the San Antonio Museum of Art screen our Dia de los Locos documentary for one of the museum's Family Day programs later this month.  It sounds like a nice idea.

Then I had to head over to Guadalupe street to meet Ramon's son, Juan.  He runs the American Indian's in Texas non-profit.  We discussed a joint program between NALIP and AIT.  I mentioned a documentary filmmaker I was keen to bring in to town.  And, in keeping with NALIP's Meet the Maker film series, we would need a filmmaker with San Antonio connections.  Juan said he'd track down a few leads.  I'll meet with him again Monday to give him a screener copy of the film I'd like at have shown.

And at some point, while driving around, I got a call from Ramon's ex-wife, Gloria.  She's retiring from the IRS (she refers to it as “The Service”) and wants me to put together a photo show of her family's history she can screen at the going-away party.  She dropped off a CD of the images around five and we chatted.  “It's been twenty years,” she told me, referring to her stint with The Service.  I feel like a prisoner finally getting released.”  She paused.  “The only difference is, I get a pension.”

Also, Pete comes by to borrow some wireless mikes from me.  But he phoned later, having some problems with them.  I hope he worked that out.

I met up with Dar, for our weekly hike.  We made the circuit along the River Walk.  She brought me up to speed with her new film festival, SAL (San Antonio Local).  And she mentioned that Dago and Andy have one more day of shooting for their short horror film.

A fairly well-rounded day that a traditional job would have mangled.  Most of these meetings are about small, but still paying jobs.

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

Thursday night was the final shooting for Heartcore, the Short Ends Project short film I've been working on.  We had five short scenes to do, and one quick insert for another scene we had already shot).  George and Catherine at Urban-15 were gracious enough to let us shoot at their space.

The first scene was in the basement space.  We needed Adrian, Roze, and Laura walking upstairs with their instruments to play an important gig.  Roze had brought along his fog machine, and we had it cranked up, with a light shining from behind.  It was a very striking shot, the band silhouetted as they vanish into a cloud of smoke.  They pass Carlos (as his menacing character El Picante), who is sitting in the doorway reading a book.  I'd set up a quickie bit of high, raking light onto him.  But before I could get around to fine-tuning it, Russ commented favorably on it.  I walked over and looked at the monitor.  Perfection!  It had this harsh Edward Hopped look.  The lamp painted a perfect, sharp right triangle on the wall behind him.  All very nice.

Next we set up a couple of lights outside the side entrance.  It would serve as our back entrance of a club.  Herman Lira (who's been doing shit-loads of animation work on George Cisneros' current Somos Project) was just clocking out for the night.  We conscripted him to play our door man.  He's a filmmaker himself, so he quickly understood what we wanted from him.  Also, I make a little cameo as the club owner, but because of my poor acting skilled I have yet had the stomach to look at the footage.

And finally, we did a couple of scenes in the parking-lot with Thorne playing a sketchy character who steals equipment out of the band's van.  He'd previously been studying this real person we all had seen at one of our locations from the other week.  And when I told him he could get in costume, I wasn't quite prepared for the transformation.  Pretty damn impressive.  He really got the essence of the guy, with his own particular spin added to it.  I really wish we'd thought to get a photo.

The night went a little long, and we kept some people there longer than I had planned (thanks for hanging in there with us, Laura), but we got some good shots out of it.

But the time I got home, I realized I'd been running all day with no lunch or dinner.  I scarfed down a banana and hit the sack.

Back to Leftovers.  I had Saturday off.  And I had a leisurely day of video editing, bike riding, and film viewing in the evening at the Blue Star Brewery.

But this morning I was up at 5:30, to give myself time to conjure up a mammoth cup of espresso, shower, load up a few pieces of film equipment, full up at the gas station, and head out on that drive to Seguin.

It was a light day.  I'd checked the script against the daily schedule posted on the Nation's Entertainment Group web-page.  It looked to me like a scant 1 2/8 pages.  I was pretty close.  We also picked up a couple of shots we missed in previous days.

The low page count, I assumed, was because of cast conflicts.

We started out with a tiny scene which serves as a morning establishing shot.  Tasha comes out to pick up the newspaper.  Simple enough, one would think.  But as I'm unloading equipment from various cars, I notice that the big crane on loan from NewTek is being assembled by Kevin and Russ.  We had it set up on a smooth paved driveway.  Russ wanted to pan, rise, and roll.  Well, the crane was indeed mounted on a wheeled tripod.  It seemed theoretically doable.  I was the one pushing the tripod in a slow, gentle arc.  Slow and gentle, I'm not so sure.  I hope it didn't shake the camera too much.  We did about seven takes.  Erin's sister Carly came to help out (she's been on set before, and her willingness to return may well mean that a second member of the Gray family has been pulled into the dark arts of movie making).  Carly took over with the slate.  It seems we've lost Mark — one of our most dependable stalwarts.  He was offered a paying gig, so I can hardly blame him.

The next scene was about a page.  Tasha, DB, and Ayla.  Ayla's fishing a bit away from Tasha and DB who are having an exchange of dialog.  Me and Russ set the crane on a wooden deck out over the river, maybe six feet above the water.  There are two smaller piers down at about water lever on each side of the deck.  Robin wanted Ayla to be fishing on a lower pier, while the adults are up on the deck.  I didn't like the lighting situation.  The pier was in full daylight.  The deck had a nice dappling of shade from a big pecan tree.  The initial plan was to use the crane as a jib, following DB from Ayla (he had just finished helping her stab a worm on her hook) as he then walked up to the deck to talk to Tasha about her trepidation concerning her enrollment in medical school.  But the camera was following DB from full-bore sunlight, to shade.  It wasn't looking good.  I mentioned that if we waited long enough, we'd have shade on the deck and both piers.  But Russ wasn't listening to me.  No one was.  There were these horrendous shouts from next door, as a couple of kids were screaming like they had decided to rub jalapeno juice in one another's eyes.  Russ trotted over to the fence line to appeal to their … well, they're kids — maybe he was just going to threaten them or ask if their parents were around.  I don't know what the parley was all about, but the hysterics pretty much subsided.  While this was going on, I wandered over to the other pier, to see how it might look as a crane placement.  It gave a beautiful view of the sun reflecting off the rippling water and onto the underside of the deck.  I was thinking of having Ayla do her fishing over on this other pier.  I waved Russ over.

He saw something I hadn't.  He say Ayla.  She was sitting over on her pier, waiting on us.  She was wonderfully framed by the deck.  We dragged the crane over to the far pier.  I hooked up my field monitor, and Russ showed me what he was thinking of.  He dropped the crane so that the camera was inches above the water.  And, from that warm, rustic shot of Ayla with her fishing-pole, Russ barked at DB to get onto Ayla's pier.  He did so.

“Let's see this,” Russ said, more to himself than to me.  He was lost in the possibility of the shot.  “DB,” he shouted, “Walk up and around to the deck, and go stand beside Tasha.”  DB got it.  He tousled Ayla's hair, keeping in character, and as he walked off the pier and up the small hill to the deck, Russ simply raised the crane.  The camera passed close to the edge of the deck, and suddenly we were looking at Tasha's feet, and following up her body as DB came into frame, laying his hand on her shoulder.  It was a beautiful, intimate establishing shot.  We did several takes, and then we moved off the crane, for more traditional camera placements to shoot Tasha and DB's conversation.

There was a moment where we were waiting on something.  Makeup?  Equipment to be moved?  Something.  Ayla was poking into the Styrofoam cup of dirt that held our prop worms.  I guess Robin had bought them from some fishing shop.  Ayla had one dangling up close to her face, sizing it up.  She mentioned that she'd acted in the movie How to Eat Fried Worms.  (Clint Howard keeps popping up in this blog, and I can't seen to stop it.)  She mentioned some other kid actor in the film who ate a worm.  I guess it was part of the script, rather than behind-the-scenes high-jinks, but I was only half listening.

“I'll lick this worm for a dollar,” she suddenly said.

That got my attention.  Ayla's, um, I guess about 12?  And like a lot of child actors, she can slip into a comfortable rapport with adults.  Don't get me wrong, she's as professional as they come, but she knew we are waiting on something that kept us from shooting.  Often these sorts of lulls are those wonderful moments on set where an actor shows a talent unknown to the production.  Singing, juggling, what have you.  And Ayla was willing to lick a live worm for a dollar.

Now, for a bit of disclosure.  I know that Ayla's mother subscribes to my blog.    And she's clearly aware of her daughter's quirky sense of humor and her general playfulness.  But I wonder, has Ayla told her folks the story?  I'm thinking yes, in graphic detail.

“A dollar?” Russ mused.  “I know Erik would do it for five dollars, or a plate of cheese enchiladas at Tito's Tacos ….  But one dollar?”  He fished in his pockets.  “I happen to have a one dollar bill.”

Ayla nodded.  The girl is fearless.

Russ started his camera rolling.  Ayla held up the worm for the camera.  It was all glistening and wriggling.  She slowly ran that worm along her tongue with a big defiant smile.  She dropped the worm back into the styrofoam cup of dirt, and, in one smooth motion, she allowed her hand to cross the camera and pull the dollar bill from Russ' hand, displaying it close beside her face.

“It's money in the bank,” she said with a grin.  She gave that dollar a couple of snaps — the sort of behavior of one who is absolutely in control of the situation.

Whatever was holding us up was at the moment being resolved.  Ayla announced that she had no pockets.  Who would be so kind as to hold her winnings?  Robin stepped forward and put the dollar bill in her pocket.

Ayla dropped back into her position on the pier and was back into character before we the rest of us were ready.

The remainder of the scene went great.

At the end of the day, I was packing the light kits.  Robin wandered by, and suddenly I heard her mutter to herself, “Oh, no.”

I looked up.

She slowly pulled a hand from her pocket.  When I saw that dollar bill, I just started laughing.

That poor girl was long gone.

I told Robin she should keep that ill-gained dollar.  Frame it.  When the IRS comes by to scrutinize her book-keeping (god forbid), she can point out that dollar on the wall to the auditor.

“You think you can just waltz in here with your pen-protector and hundred dollar calculator and I'll start to tremble and scribble you out a fucking check?  Look at that dollar bill.  It was my second feature film.  And I got a 12 year-old actress to lick a worm for that dollar.  She did.  Yeah, little Ayla Judson.  That's right, THE Ayla Judson.  And who has that dollar now?  I'll tell you who has that dollar now!  I do!”