I headed over to Urban-15 this morning to meet with George and Cat.  They are always in the middle of half a dozen real projects, and the same number of potential schemes.  It's breathtaking to watch the dynamic of the two.  Very often these products of brain-storming sessions morph into actual events.

While talking, we stapled 60 three-page packets of paperwork for the Josiah Youth Media Festival.

I had a 11:45 appointment with Konise Millender over at Robert E. Lee high school.  She teaches film at NESA (the North East School of the Arts), the school within the school.

George and Cat gave me what they swore was a shortcut to NESA.  Sounded bogus to me.  But I made it there in plenty of time, even after missing my exit onto 281.  The campus is huge.  A couple of hulking modern buildings face the street.  The architect should be driven out of the profession.  They look like a cross between an upscale retirement community and one of those vile mega churches so common in far far north Dallas.  But after I parked and began to wander around the center of the campus, looking for the administrative building, it became clear that the core of the school had been built back in the '50s.

When I found the main building, a woman in the admissions office took my drivers license, pressed it against a little label-making machine.  It printed out a black and white visitor's pass with my photo on it.  As I peeled off the slick plastic backing and stuck the “pass” on my shirt, I gushed, “how cool.”  The office girl looked at me blankly with a hint of what she tried to make into a professional smile.  With thumb and forefinger she pulled a string of gum from the mother wad clenched between incisors.  I watched as she retracted the string by coiling it around the tip of her finger.

“So, um,” I began, gently prompting her, “where can I find the film department?”

“Oh….  Well, I really don't know.”  I saw a hint of embarrassment.  She looked over her shoulder.

An older woman at a desk in the back never looked up from her computer nor did she pause in her frantic typing.

“Out that door you came in.  Straight through a set of glass doors.  Turn right.  You'll see the auditorium building.  Up the steps and….” She trailed off, muttered under her breath, and I heard the clatter of a backspace key being worked like a teletype.

The girl with gum on her finger nodded encouragingly.  She pointed out the doors I came in.

The auditorium was easy enough to find.  But it took a few false turns to find the NESA classrooms.  They are in the basement.  Kind of sad when you think about it.

Konise was as kind and gracious as always.  When I entered her room, she waved me up.  The place is painted black like a darkroom.  There are banks of editing stations.  Each suit has a monitor, a Casablanca editing deck, and a Behringer mix board.  At the far reach or the room was a U of three tables with about ten kids seated.  Konise introduced me.  And I pitched the festival for them.

Earlier in the week the school had a screening at the Woodlawn Theater.  I really wanted to go, but I had to earn some money working at the Company.  I asked who in the class had screened a piece Tuesday night.  Most raised their hands.  I reminded them that Josiah (the name-sake of the festival) had been a student in this same school, same program.

There was another class to speak to after lunch.  So I took a break and drove to the Camera Exchange.  I needed a new one of their lens cloths.  And because one of the film events I'm helping to put together has paid me some up front money, I was feeling fairly flush.  (A nice feeling.  Just gotta remember to make it to the bank.  The check's not doing me much good sitting tucked under my computer's keyboard.)  I splurged and bought a roll of gaff tape.  And I also found myself drooling over a Manfrotto tripod dolly.  It's one of those spreaders on casters which you lock onto your the tripod's feet.  It was nowhere as pricey as I thought they were.  I rolled it around the place some, scribbled some notes, and decided to mull it over for a few days.

I returned to speak to the second class.  Chatted some with Konise (which is always a pleasant and rewarding experience). And I headed out.

It was pushing two, and I been running all day with nothing to eat.  Not even coffee.  I headed straight to Pepe's Cafe.  Inside I waved to Carlos, the waiter.  “Cafe, por favor.”

It's good strong diner coffee and compliments whatever their daily special might be.

My phone had been off while at the high school.  I noticed that I had a message from Carlos.  As In Carlos Pina.  He's working on a trilogy of shorts.  Like all his work, it's redolent with that Rio Grande Valley sensibility.  I read the scripts yesterday.  The dialogue, I decided, has a distinctive Damon Runyon quality.  And that's good.  I love Runyon.  And I suspect he would have been quite at home in the Valley.

Carlos explained that he was having a production meeting at South Park Mall. In the food court.  It sounded kind of perfect.

But at that moment I got a call from Christy.  She wanted to know if we could look at the bathtub she wants to use for an art film piece she plans to direct and choreograph in June.

Well, I only had so much time before I had to head up north for my night job.  And I hope Carlos will appreciate that Christy is considerably cuter than he.  I made a decision, and I'm sticking with it.

Christy and her friend Jim met me at my place.  They were at Blue Star getting the final approval for the Dada Dinner Party Christy is putting on Saturday.  (And, again, come one, come all.  5:30 pm in the parking lot of the Blue Star Arts Complex.  We'll be near the river, some ways away from Alamo Street.  The Dada Dinner Party is a performance art piece featuring half a dozen “performers,” one being myself.  We'll be reading a post-modern adaption of a Noh play.  I don't believe I've had my part assigned yet.  As the cast reads the play, we will be served five courses of questionable, absurd foods.  I'm quite looking forward to the premier of my impromptu creation, Kasimir Malevich's White on White Seven Layer Casserole (I'm hoping to convince some swank, intrepid San Antonio beanery to lay this on their menu).  So, dammit, come on out.  I guarantee I will be making an ass of myself, though, likely not on purpose.)

When Christy and Jim showed up, we walked over to the weed-choked cottage where Crofton Ave. bends into Constance St.  The homeowners are only periodically in town, so we had to peer over the fence at the old iron clawfoot bathtub stowed away in the distance.  Phil had spoken to the folks on my behalf.  They were cool with the idea of the tub borrowed for a performance piece.  This is something more serious than the Dada Dinner Party that Christy is doing.  Me and Russ will be helping her with camera work, art design, etc.

Christy seemed to think the tub would work.  I let her know I'd give her a call as soon as I contacted the owners.

Next, me, Christy and Jim went in search of sporks.  It really shouldn't be this difficult to find one of the most forward-thinking eating utensils since the genius who married the chop with the stick.  But they're proving quite elusive.  (Actually, I'm convinced I saw a box of them at the craft service table on the set of Leftovers.)  However, I was convinced we could find some in my neighborhood.  The stretch of South St. Mary's between Alamo St. and Brackenridge high school has become the restaurant supply district.  We've got Mission Restaurant Supplies, Ace Mart, and (for the low-enders), AAA Food Salvage.

Three promising retailers.  Zero sporks.  I'm speechless.  The spork is right up there with Velcro and the Nicotine Patch.  I'm pretty fucking sure that the astronauts ate their lasagna paste and desiccated split pea soup with sporks fashioned from a non-magnetic alloy of silicon manganese.  Well, that's NASA — very specialized and high-tech.  All I wanted was five white plastic sporks, so that the diners in Saturday's event could enjoy their white on white delicacy transported mouthward on the proper utensil.

I've a couple of places I'll try tomorrow.

The Answer is Always “Anthracite”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was the expected uncomfortable silence.

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

A chuckle or two.

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

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

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

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

Ernest Borgnine and Stan Ridgway comments welcomed here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we started shooting the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I notice Russ checking his cell phone for the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get well, soon, dude!

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

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

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

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

Can it finally be?

Here are some photos of the day.

(Click on the images for larger pictures.)

Erin as cast member


Mark hard at work downstairs


Atticus looks at a bug


Cameron dubious of the paparazzi


Erin as crew member


Mark hard at work upstairs


Scene eighty-something


Burger-cam

Ezme and Sherri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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