Friday

Tomorrow me and five other judges will spend a good chunk of our Saturday watching and evaluating the DVDs submitted for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. One of the judges (who will remain nameless) asked if alcohol was allowed. And another judge (also protected by my discretion) was quick with a reply. “Well, all the judges are above drinking age ….” I assured them that there were some wonderful and engaging pieces. I had already previewed every submission. And it’s true. There’s some great work being produced by kids 21 and under.

I’ve already spoken with one reporter about the festival. And I have an appointment with another on Monday. It’s weird doing phone interviews. I’ve given a few before, and because when someone from the press gets you on the phone, it seems to me that the wisest course of action is to give them something then and there. I would rather be seated with loads of notes spread out around me, but that’s not how things usually work. Thursday I got a call on my cell from a reporter. I was standing in the lobby of the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center’s theater. They were holding rehearsals, and so I retreated outside. The noon-time traffic was fairly noisy, but I did my best. And then there was an interview I did for the Meet the Maker Film Series. The call came just as I had finished pouring a cup of coffee in my kitchen. And because I knew the info about the two filmmakers I was promoting inside and out, I was able enjoy my coffee as well as the interview. (Although I’m sure the guy on the other end of the phone must have been cringing at my gassy blathering.) And then there was a phone interview I did for a story on the Short Ends Project — it was a perfect San Antonio moment. I was heading home (probably from Pete or Alston’s), and as I cruised through downtown, the phone began to beep. I was in mid-pontification as I rolled past the Alamo.

Today I was roaming the aisles of OfficeDepot looking for “neck badges.” At least that’s what their website calls them. We need some ID badges for the festival so that the filmmakers as well as the staff can feel important (and move about unimpeded). I thought they’d be pretty cheap. But when you want a hundred plus of most anything, the cost begins to add up. I bought a bunch of the plastic pouches, but the neck cords with the swivel hooks or the hinged clippers seem really steep. I even looked for some wholesale prices on-line. Same story. I guess it’s time to get creative.

As I was driving back, this guy in the lane beside me began waving. It was Bryan Ramirez, one of my favorite local filmmakers. He lives in my neighborhood, but I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months. I rolled down my window, and, for the duration of a red light, we had a quick chat. His wife Amanda gave birth, I believe just yesterday. They have a brand new daughter. Congratulations Bryan and Amanda!

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Saturday

This morning I brewed up three pots of coffee and filled up the big airpot coffee urn (a cast-off from the Aldredge Book Store). After a pit-stop at El Sol bakery for an assortment of pan dolce, I headed down S. Presa to Urban-15. I met George at nine, and we began setting up the large upstairs performance space as a screening room for the judging of about 45 student films for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. By ten we had everything set up. All six judges had arrived.

A preliminary round had cut fifty percent of the submissions, so we were watching the best of the crop.

A little over four and a half hours of material. It’s really some extraordinary stuff. The categories were “narrative,” “documentary,” and “experimental.” Within these categories we had maybe five animated pieces (yes, we even had an excellent documentary with a good chunk of animation within it). The distribution of the three categories leans perhaps more strongly towards narrative, but we have a solid offering from all three.

I think all the judges agreed that the documentaries were the more powerful. We wondered if that was because the filmmakers, all quite young, had not amassed enough life experiences to create clear, sophisticated narratives.

Just to give a glimpse of themes dealt with in the documentary division (pulled at random from my memory), we had: a piece from a young woman who had traveled to South Africa with her camera and put together an excellent doc on apartheid; a piece about a woman who escaped from WWII-era Dresden; the stories of a man and his wife who traveled from Laos to America; life on a Native American reservation in Minnesota; Jehovah’s Witness persecuted by the Nazis; a strong great piece about a farm house near Austin (and the family who owns it) which had been featured in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, as well as the Simple Life; and, well, there are just so many great videos.

But it’s not just docs. So many of the narratives and experimental pieces also stand out.

I’m hoping we’ll have a good turnout for the festival. I know people can often be dismissive of any film event featuring works labeled “student” or “youth.” But so much of what we viewed today can stand up against work done by adults with, supposedly, more experience.

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There’s a full moon out tonight which is heart-breaking in it’s beauty. This is when I have to stand down from my gushing praise of my little digital point-and-shoot camera. Film is where these exquisite low-light tableaux really come to life. I need a good, long exposure. I’m pretty sure my GL2 camcorder wouldn’t pick it up well either. Canons just don’t do well with a paucity of light. I just hope a certain someone with a Panasonic DVX (a camera which loves these sorts of low-light conditions) goes out tonight or tomorrow night and shoots some b-roll of the full moon with little scraps of gossamer clouds sliding across the lunar disk.

As I was out walking my neighbor’s dog, I found that perfect composition. The moon, still low to the horizon, splashed a reflection along the path of the San Antonio River. Palm trees, etched in silhouette, framed the foreground. And across the river, along the levee-top, the old corrugated iron silos illuminated by dusty, orangy mercury vapor lights, framed the upper right of the composition.

If I’ve learned anything from watching a shit load of works by young, precocious filmmakers, it’s the wisdom of collecting beautiful, lingering establishing shoots; or, well, anything beautiful that can be used effectively as inserts of cutaways.

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Ah, hell. I just walked back to the corner of Crofton and Constance. The moon was up higher then my perfect composition. And armed with my camcorder, a tripod, and my little Nikon Coolpix, well, I tried my best. The GL2 couldn’t handle it in either video or photo without pumping up the visual gain (and that always results in a picture that’s unacceptable to me).

The pocket-sized Nikon fared slightly better. But, as you can see by this crappy picture, it’s going into an automatic gain apparently just to spite me.

The difficulty (if not outright impossibility) or getting certain shots for film and video results in a level of frustration beyond the thresholds of most mortals. It’s rough, guys. What the eye sees, the camera can’t always capture.

As I was getting out of my truck this evening, I dropped the grocery bag holding a bottle of primo Hernandez Salsa. The red fluid oozed across the concrete like blood pooling in front of the Biograph Theater back in ’34. But, sadly, my jar of festive condiment was not the public’s enemy numero uno. I guess whatever I decide to make for dinner will be bland and grey.d.

Mini tragedies like this have been plaguing me of late. The more irritating one has been the disappearance of my jump-drive. It’s a red sporty quarter gig fellow. Catherine Cisneros (who gives all the hard-drives at Urban-15 dance-related names (Tango, Minuet, Merengue, etc.)) decided to christen mine while it was attached to her computer. “It says Unnamed,” she said, perplexed. I shrugged. “Everything must have a name,” she told me. After a second of furrowed brows, she opened up the drive and typed in the name. I looked over her shoulder at the monitor screen. “Pipsquawk?” She looked up at me and said something about a typo. But before she could correct it to Pipsqueak, we both smiled. Pipsquawk was much better, and so it remaineBut my little Pipsquawk is gone! If you see the critter, let me know. I don’t think there is anything crucial on it that I don’t have on another drive. Nor to I believe there is anything incriminating or embarrassing (like my luddite manifesto or my spanking videos). But I hope it turns up. I already checked the usual places. Refrigerator, ashtray in the truck, laundry basket. And when I checked under the seats of my sofa, I discovered an unopened package of candy called Sour Punch Straws. (I’ve narrowed my culprits down to either Cooper Barnstrom or Rockie Pina. So, Pete or Carlos, come pick up your young’un’s treats before, in a moment of weakness, I scarf it all down — and they look really awful.)

This week has been a strange and compressed series of days.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,m that is. Monday I mostly dicked around. Well, I did eventually head to the Gemini Ink free monthly writer workshop. 6:30 to 8:30 p.m., the final Monday of each month. I hadn’t a chance to write anything new, so I polished up a piece I’d written a few months back. Russ, who’d expressed interest, came along with a work in progress. Sadly, two of the stronger writers who usually show up, were no-shows this Monday. I guess the reason I try and make the group (though I’d missed out the previous two months because of scheduling conflicts) is because I like having a deadline to poke me to write something new. Motivation. I need it. So I feel I failed myself, dragging out something I had sitting around. But, when Jim, the gentleman who hosts the event, explained that he’d be in New Mexico during the final Monday in July, he asked if I would like to run the workshop next month. I told him I’d check my schedule. He sent me an email yesterday, and, well, it looks like I’ll be hopping in as a guest host. So, if you’re reading this blog, fancy yourself a writer, and want me to rip you a fresh one, come on down. Gemini Ink, 513 S. Presa. Show up with no more than 4 pages, doubled spaced. At least ten copies. And if you’re a poet, keep the page count about the same. Multiple poems are fine, but because the critique can last for awhile, rarely more than two poems are allowed because of time constraints … though it always depends on how many folks show up. So, come on down!

But back to Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Me and Herman have been canvassing the city with postcards and posters for the Josiah Festival. It’s a blast, really. Tooling around town, hitting the arty, cultural, or kid-friendly places. Everyone has been receptive. Well, everyone except HEB. Again, for those blog-readers outside of San Antonio, HEB is the local supermarket chains which has a virtual monopoly on this city. They also own Central Market, a fru fru supermarket for “foodies” where one can find Chilean sea bass, TVP (textured vegetable protein) in bulk, exotic cream sodas, shade grown coffee beans, and organic tamarindo pods. We here in the Alamo City call the Central Market on Broadway the Gucci HEB. It seems all new-agey, touchy-feely, socially responsible … but try and place a poster about a cultural event, and you get: “I’m sorry, but we only post HEB-related information. However, we do allow this sort of stuff on the employee bulletin board in the break-room.” I flashed a fake thanks-but-no-thanks smile and walked away. I was almost out the door, but Gloria Vasquez spied me and shouted out my name. She was there shopping. She’s looking great. Retirement seems to be treating her well. When I explained what me and Herman were doing, she immediately asked for a flyer. When I handed her one, I think I noticed the woman at the information desk stiffen. We’d just handed one of our non-HEB statements to one of her HEB customers. But me and Herman managed to move on out before that crabby woman got around to alerting security.

We got a lesser amount of run-around at Borders, but it was far from the red-carpet treatment. The woman at the info desk looked over her bifocals at the poster we held out to her. She made a point not to touch it.

“We have a bulletin board back towards the restrooms,” she said, waving her hand in some vague direction. Before I could thank her, she wandered away through a swinging door to the back of the store. Damn, and I never got a chance to ask when her hopes and dreams finally perished. Me and Herman found the restrooms. They were up on the second floor. (Behind a door with a sign that read “Beware of leopard.”) We put up a poster and a few postcards. I wish we had brought along some aerosol dry-mount adhesive spray. I’d sure like to have glued some posters to the underside of the toilet seats. And that will be the next stage of policy at Borders. “Why, yes. We’d love to help you promote the event. If you head upstairs you’ll find the men’s room. Feel free to tape your flyers to the backboards of the urinals — oh, I do hope the ink is waterproof and color-fast.”

But otherwise we had nothing but enthusiastic people more than happy to help us out. I also found some great places I’d never visited before. Allow me to promote two coffee houses.

Jupiter Java and Jazz at 726 S Alamo has damn good coffee at decent prices. It’s a small place with several tables, a cozy sofa area, a couple of tables on the sidewalk, and some very tempting gelato (I intend to try some on my next visit).

Olmos Perk. You can find it at 5223 McCullough in Olmos Park, north of the traffic circle. My friend Alston told me that they had the best coffee in town. Me and Herman both ordered cappuccinos. And, yeah, it might be the best coffee in town. Not convenient for me, but if you live in Olmos Park or Alamo Heights, it’s the place to go. The funny thing is that as Herman and I were walking across the parking-lot, this kid on a bicycle, who was leaving the coffee house, circled around and stopped in front of us. “You’re with the student film festival, right?” he asked me. I nodded, approving of the lad’s psychic abilities. “Oh,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m a film student at NESA — you came to our class.” We spoke to him, and he seemed excited about attending the event. And once inside, we discovered that the young man making our cappuccinos is involved with a local film. He’s a theater student at UIW (University of the Incarnate Word), and he’s part of the art department on Bryan Ortiz’s feature film which is currently in production.

What I discovered is that a shit-load of folks in this city are working on film and video projects. More than I would have guessed.

All part of the digital revolution, I guess.

Time to get back to work on that luddite manifesto.

I've posted a new video blog.

Visit my vlog:

http://eyewashpictures.blogspot.com/

Or go right to the video:

http://blip.tv/file/283113

Problems? Take it to the public commons with YouTube!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qe5jvaufyb8

The video is poet Eduardo Garza doing his piece “Earthling” with musical accompaniment. Check it out!

Sunday I had an appointment with nine poets at Luna, a jazz club on San Pedro. It’s that stretch of San Pedro a bit further north than I care to go — not too far inside the highway 410 loop.

The rains had been hammering down for some time. And even though the skies were clear and sunny, the roads around the iconic Rollercade (where the Alamo City Roller Girls call home) were impressive rivers. The obvious run-off from the Olmos Basin. Sometimes it’s good to own a truck.

Luna is in a fairly new strip shopping mall. But inside it possess a definite charm. Low lights, muted reds, tables with comfy chairs, and, on the walls, huge reproductions of classic Blue Note albums from an era of timeless bebop. I got there about thirty minutes before the show began, but there was already a good amount of people milling about. I set my camera on a tripod near the stage. I used a wireless lavaliere microphone to pull audio off the soundboard. I left the microphone itself in my audio case, and placed the transmitter box on a shelf beside the soundboard. It uses a mini plug, but I added a 1/4 inch adapter and tied in to the main line out. I rigged the receiver box onto my camera and plugged it into my microphone input. Checked it all with my headphones. Not bad — for a pro bono gig.

Nora, the owners’ mother, was buzzing about. She was our MC. Her sons were playing with the house band, Azul. They’re a trio, sometimes a quartet. And tonight, a quintet. An accordion player from the band Bombasta, and an upright bass player displaced from New Orleans, were sitting in. But the center of attention is, of course, Azul. A beautiful young singer. She also plays guitar. The music is a deep, aching post-modern Cumbia. Somewhere between Calexico and Lila Downs. Every Wednesday Azul plays Luna. Check it out. Definitely the good stuff.

I think I’ll post some of the poets’ works a bit at a time. I want to get their permission first.

The first I’m sticking on the web is Eduardo Garza. He’s something of a local legend. Actor, musician, poet, and etc. He did a piece titled, I believe, “Earthling.” He had the band come up and accompany him. It reminding me of some wonderful melange of Alice Coltrane, Gil Scott-Heron, and Los Lobos at their most sedate.

The whole show was a perfect balance of music and poetry.

After I packed up, I headed to San Pedro Park. Christy Walsh was holding her second monthly traveling Dada food-related event. A Dada Picnic … with bad badminton playing, selective readings from the San Antonio telephone book, and discordant sandwiches.

I knew I would be too late for most of the festivities, but I hoped to at least bat (badly) at a shuttlecock. No such luck. Adelle had already packed up her badminton set. And the handful of remaining folk were about to head out to get dinner (the sandwiches — no surprise there — failed to assuage any normal appetite). I helped load some items into Christy’s car, but didn’t feel like joining them at the Cove. I’d already spent enough time among people.

I was driving back home from a trip to the grocery store early Saturday evening. On Roosevelt there is an iconic gritty neighborhood beer joint called Vaqueros. In the parking-lot every Friday they set up a wrestling ring and have lucha libre matches. I really should check it out. And as I was passing Vaqueros I saw a middle-aged guy on a beautiful Harley with those fringed saddle bags festooned with buckles and ornaments in silver. He was waiting for me to pass before he pulled out of the parking-lot. As I passed, he nodded my way. He wore a black jockey style helmet, black leather chaps, and a denim jacket. The white reflection of my pickup truck wiped across the mirrored surface of his shades. And not half a block further, I passed a man waiting for a bus. He was lean as a racehorse in a leather jacket, jeans, and close-cropped grey hair. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses and a van dyke with the beard pointy and luciferian. He stood patient and with perfect military posture. I saw a flash of light off him that made me think of the cyclist with the silver on the saddlebags and the high polish of the bike’s chromework. But on the mexicano waiting for the bus, the gleam came from the prosthetic hook at the end of his left arm.

I think I have an idea to push through development. Though this is getting me into the Barnstromian territory. But put the one-armed guy in a sidecar, slap the UFW logo on our intrepid duo, and call them La Huelga Brothers. They’re “striking” out against crime. Yeah, something like that. Hell, lace them up in Lucha Libre masks and they’re ready for a tag-team match Friday night in Vaquero’s parking-lot.

Hmmm, maybe I’ve careened too far into that Tom of Finland territory….

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Friday night I took the bus downtown for the opening night of the San Antonio Underground Film Festival. The problem when events are held downtown is that parking is hard to find. Sure, there are parking-lots and a few parking garages, but they tend to be pretty steep. One of the things Fort Worth did right when revitalizing their downtown was to create a huge parking garage which was free in the evenings. And the parking meters are also free after five or six. Even on weekends. I guess the differences is that downtown San Antonio has always been active. But I live close enough to walk. Or I can take the buses or trolleys.

When I climbed on the bus, I asked the driver how much the fare was. I get confused. It’s either 80 or 85 cents. But I was prepared — I had three quarters, a dime, and a nickel in my hand. “A dollar,” he said.

“What? I thought it was eighty-something.”

“Not anymore.”

Okay …. I dug out another quarter and ran four quarters into the coin contraption. The driver handed me a transfer and he pulled away from the curb.

Perplexed, I took a seat in the back. I didn’t ask for a transfer. Maybe they’re forcing everyone to take a 15 cent transfer, even if they don’t need it. I’ll have to look into this. I knew I’d not be able to use a transfer. The buses wouldn’t be running when I got out of the theater.

But I’m glad I didn’t drive — the bus took me to one block from the Aztec Theater. There are at least four old theaters in downtown San Antonio that have been renovated or are in the process of such: the Majestic, the Empire, the Alameda, and the Aztec (I’ve also heard of the Texas Theater, but I don’t know if the building is still in existence). The Aztec opened for business last year. It’s incredible. I had my camera with me, but I only took one picture. The chandelier. I had hoped to meet some people I knew, and photograph them with the place as a backdrop, but I never got around to it.

I’d bought my ticket online (this seemed to confuse the volunteers working the box office), but I made it inside. Because the bus was so dependable, I found myself twenty minutes early. The screenings are broken into blocks. There was an afternoon block still screening. So I had to wait for them to exit. I was there to see the second block, 7 to 11.

This gave me ample opportunity to tour the huge lobby, complete with an encircling mezzanine. I over-heard one of the guys who works for the Aztec gushingly tell an impressed cute girl that: “We opened last year. Yeah, this is all renovated from the original look of the place which was built back in the ’40s. It’s all authentic Aztec, Mayan, and Toltec.”

I smiled to myself, glad I hadn’t been drinking a refreshing beverage at the moment he said that. However, I distinctly felt the subterranean tremors of thousands of Mesoamerican archeologists spinning wildly in their graves (wrap ’em in wire and place supermagnets around their corpses, we may indeed solve our energy needs). Calling the decor of the Aztec authentic anything is to grossly diminish the wonderful corny fantasy of the whole place. You gotta check it out.

Before the doors opened for the 7 p.m. screenings, I saw Brant Bumpers. He is one of the reasons I decided that if I only attended one block of screenings for the festivals, it’d be the one that featured his work. He was with his mother. She excitedly told me that Brant has just posted a music video on YouTube for the band Type O Negative. I tracked it down today. Not bad. I’m not a fan of the band. I find their music flat and samey. It’s a sort of dark metal with enough of a punk underbelly to keep it from being too tiresome. Anyway, I’m not sure what Brant did on the video, but he’s playing Rasputin (which, for anyone who’s seen Brant, is an obvious casting choice — he agreed with me when I told him that he as the Mad Monk was just a matter of time).

The evening started off with “Broken.” I’d seen this (or part of it) before. The Seguin Film Fest? I don’t care for it. It’s pretty slick and well-produced. Good acting. But it’s a pompous, formulaic action piece. The surprise ending is far from original. I hope the folks involved in this production are able to use it as a launchpad to go on to making large budget Hollywood action films. They have oodles of talent. Just very little inspiration.

“Ghosts of New York” screened next. I loved the concept from the start. Yuppies who have freshly moved to New York City are haunted by the ghost of GG Allin (punk’s great self-destructive shock-rocker). It’s a very fun short. The filmmaker had traveled to San Antonio. She surprised me when, in response to a question as to what sort of camera she used, answered, “An Arri BL.” I had assumed she shot the piece on digital video. It sure didn’t look like film. The problem was that the piece was flatly lit. Oh, well, it was a student film.

“Teen Queen” was a great music video of the band Triple Creme. A busy rock-and-roll-high-school kind of thing with gender ambiguity and a killer art department.

“Cheap Date” was a short film with puppets masturbating. Need I say more? I loved it.

“Boxcar Satan’s: No One At the Wheel.” This was a block of, I believe, three music video’s of the sadly defunct band, Boxcar Satan. (They were somewhat psychobilly in the Birthday Party or Beasts of Bourbon kind of sound.) It was nice to see them on such a large screen. I love Brant’s editing. Especially “Pig in a Dress.” He answered a few questions. Apparently the El Montan Motor Hotel is film-friendly. “They never ask questions. Never!” A great endorsement.

“Pillow Girl” was an 8 minute series of cheesecake covers of dime novels and pulp magazines depicting disheveled women as seductresses or victims. The images dissolved one to the next, but the point at with the pictures would morph was always the women’s faces. Because the music that accompanied the film possessed something of a dark trance-like quality, I assumed that this was a film deriding the commodification of women. If so, the point seemed to be lost on a lesbian couple I saw get up and walk out. But maybe it was my interpretation that was wrong. But I really like the film. I’m a sucker for those sorts of book covers.

“Zombie Love.” This is when the night took a grim turn for me. I’m looking at the festival’s website, and I’ve having a hard time believing that this film was only 37 minutes. I could have sworn it was an hour. First off, it’s a zombie film. I’m fucking sick of this glut of zombification! The second strike it had was that it’s a musical. My violent disdain for musicals is second only to my unbounded contempt for sports. And I’m beginning to find camp fairly tiresome. “Zombie Love.” Hmm? “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” it ain’t. But it was shot and lit well; the editing and audio, spot on. Great acting. Praises et cetera. But what a tedious little waste of time.

Followed by a much longer tedious waste of time. “Love Hollywood Style.” Four vaguely interconnected shorts about, um, love? This is far from “underground.” It’s packed with Hollywood stalwarts. Faye Dunaway, Andy Dick, Stephen Tobolowsky, Robert Picardo, and Coolio (as, no surprise here, himself). The writing struck me as what would happen is Bruce Wagner were given a prefrontal lobotomy and the resulting screenplay were then turned over to one of the Hallmark Card stringers for re-writes.

I have to come clean here. I was so put off by the tripe of “Zombie Love” and “Love Hollywood Style,” that I made good my escape before the final film screened. It was Ya’Ke Smith’s excellent short, “The Second Coming.” But in my defense, I’d already seen it twice. Also, I really didn’t want to see another film — good or bad — because there was a speaker in the theater that was poorly connected and spiting static throughout the whole damn night. And if the Aztec didn’t have someone on staff for a major film festival who could fix that intolerable audio issue, I can’t imagine anyone feeling good about forking over the shitload of $$$$ that the venue charges.

But the place looks great ….

I don’t know if the drought is continuing in Asheville, but here in San Antonio, it’s like living in a terrarium … with intermittent thunderstorms. It’s about time to run another load of laundry, and I blanch at the thought of the squadrons of mosquitoes at their ready the next time I sashay out to the laundry line clutching my bag of clothespins.

This morning I was setting up for a photo shoot on the second floor performance space at Urban-15. Catherine didn’t care for the photos I had taken previously for the Josiah film festival. And I guess I wasn’t too thrilled with them either.

So at ten a.m. I laid out the props and planned out the two shots I wanted. Russ showed up with an Omni Pro light kit. By that time, I was pouring with sweat. Damn weather! I turned on a fan, but it wasn’t helping. As Russ set up the lights, Hector wandered in. He’s like the building manager, you know, the guy with the tool-belt … the man who knows more than he’ll admit about what goes on. “You guys want the AC on?” In lieu of a verbal response I just began closing the windows. He fired the cool on high. And by that I mean, low. Bliss.

Amanda showed up. She was our model. She helped with the lights and I went down to the courtyard and grabbed a ladder. I knew I needed to get up high for the shot.

With all this production of three lights, a ladder, a beautiful girl, and ninety-something DVDs spread out on the floor, there I was clutching my little point-and-shoot Nikon Coolpix. Perhaps I’ve come down a few pegs from my teens and twenties when I’d prowl about with my Nikon FE SLR; but this is the 21 century, and if you can’t use a 150 buck digital camera to generate photos for the antiquated print media (as well as, well, blogs), than you have no business around any flavor of camera, whether it be humble, or highfaluting. But try explaining that to someone who sees you unpacking a 1200 dollar light kit followed by a $150 camera. “Soooo, that’s what you’re using? Huh.”

Russ also had brought along his new point-and-shoot pocket camera. One of those incredibly slim-lined Canon Elphs. That son of a bitch went from being envious of my little camera, to becoming one who is envied by his cooler little camera.  Damn.

The shoot went well. It’s always a joy to work with Amanda.

As we were packing up, Catherine flounced into the room wearing this puffy white costume with a tight white cap — it made me think of Busby Berkeley productions. The room we were shooting in was where the Urban-15 dance troupe practiced (and occasionally performed) — therefore several of the walls were covered with mirrors. Catherine approached one of those walls and began dancing, watching her reflection.

“Nice, um, costume,” I suggested.

“I’m dancing the solstice,” she said, watching herself with a critical eye.

“Oh. And, um, is that today?”

She shot me a glance over her shoulder with just enough pity for it to convey that I was a silly boy.

As she moved slowly, dancing with her reflection, she explained that her husband (George) had been something of a collaborator on an art project which had been installed some years ago atop the parking garage at the San Antonio airport. I gathered there are, like, stain-glass panels that only come to life during the solstice.

“Like Stonehenge?” I hazarded.

“Six minutes after one o’clock this afternoon — that’s the solstice. We always dance there for the summer solstice.” She stopped dancing, and turned to the windows on the far side of the room. “But I’m afraid it might rain.”

“Yeah,” I said, collapsing a light stand. “The clouds would mess up the sun.”

“What? No, the rain. We’d get all wet.” She puffed out her skirts. And giving one last look at the mirror — approval — she headed downstairs.

Me and Russ exchanged glances. The unspoken thought was: we both have cameras, yet neither of us took a photo of a beautiful woman in a bizarre costume dancing with herself in a mirror. If I were indeed a man of honor, I would tear up my Nikon Voyeur Membership Card. But, I hardly need to point out that men with such credentials are rarely honorable.

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I’m still in the preliminary stage of viewing the DVDs of the Josiah student film fest. I’ve watched just over forty of them. They run the gamut of painful to excellent. Like, of course, any film festival. It’s the excellent that intrigues me. There are some really strong pieces here. Quite a few, actually. It’s going to be a good three nights of screening.

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For those interested, I have created a MySpace page for the Josiah Youth Media Festival. It can be found at:

http://www.myspace.com/jymf

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Tomorrow night I’ll be at the San Antonio Underground Film Festival. Adam Rocha has taken his festival to a whole new level. Three days, two venues, loads of great films!

I wish I had the cash and the time to see it all. But I think I’ll go to the “Program II” (7 – 11) Friday night at the Aztec. They will be screening the entirety of Brant Bumpers music videos for the band Boxcar Satan. I own the DVD.  Brant is one of my favorite directors. Do yourself a favor. Show up to see these great works. Also, in this block of film/video is Ya’Ke Smith’s award winning short, “The Second Coming.” The San Antonio Current put him on the cover last week. As well they should. His work needs to be seen.

Great job, Adam! If I knew the festival was going to be so swanky, I’d have budgeted a full pass. Hell, I might have even cleaned up an edit of one of my shorts and submitted it — crossed my fingers with hopes of inclusion.

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If you’re not hanging out at the San Antonio Underground Film Festival this Sunday, 5 – 7:30 p.m., join me at La Luna.

Here’s my MySpace bulletin pitch:

Best Poetry in Town — This Sunday

Come join me this Sunday afternoon for some of the best poetry in San Antonio.

It’s at the ultra-cool jazz club, La Luna (on San Pedro, near Camera Exchange).

Only a $5 donation — and that’d be cheap if only Jesse Cardona was reading (and he fucking rocks). But there are nine kick-ass poets. Be there or be square. Are you square? I didn’t think so.

Friday night I attended a poetry reading at the Bihl Haus.

Deborah is the artistic advisor there and she curates most of the shows, so I try to attend as often as my schedule will allow. Friday was to celebrate the memory of poet Trinidad Sanchez, Jr. There were over 15 poets slated to read. For most, this would be a red flag. Beware — poetry! But some of the people slated were writers whose works I’ve enjoyed in the past. Unfortunately Naomi Shihab Nye was unable to make it. I like her work, but have never had the good fortune to hear her read. She and Sandra Cisneros are this town’s literary rock stars (I guess I could mention John Phillip Santos, but I’m never sure if he still lives here …). Jesse Cardona continues to amaze me. Why he’s not a household name, is beyond me. Oh, right. He’s a poet. Ramon Vasquez read a poem I’d heard him deliver at his mother’s retirement party a couple months back. It’s very moving and was well received. Xavier Garza, whose playful and iconic Lucha Libre paintings are currently on the walls of the Bihl Haus, stepped up to the microphone. He, like most all of the participants, had known Trinidad. Xavier, besides being an artist, is also a story-teller and collector of folklore. He treated us to one of the Cucuys he had heard from his father while growing up in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas. A Cucuy is like a Mexican boogyman, and, as a story-telling form, Cucuys are kind of like urban legends. He launched into a tale of a gigantic ghost owl with glowing red eyes who torments a hapless borracho, a poor old sot who is just trying to get home after the bars closed.

If all these folks who read are, to some degree at least, the creative off-spring of Trinidad Sanchez, Jr. (most were effusive naming him as their mentor), then he made quite an impact well beyond the body of his published works. I realized, during the intermission, that of all the group poetry readings I’ve attended (from invitation-only to open-mike), this was the first time I was quite happy I’d decided to sit on the front row. [For those not habituates of these sorts of events, you always sit in the back near the door so that when you have to make an exit — if only for your own mental well-being — your frantic egress will not be so disruptive.] But it was a great evening with no need to flee.

Perhaps things went so well because Ramon Vasquez y Sanchez (the Man, the Myth, the Legend) suited up in his Coahuiltecan garb and blessed the event and the building Indian-style with the smoke from burning sage.

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Pete’s spent the weekend at the Creative Capital workshop. It’s purpose is to help artists navigate the choppy waters of business. A good idea, as arty people seem to lack that money gene. Hell, I failed to apply because when I heard about it I only had three days to meet the deadline. As I had several projects in the works, I knew I didn’t have time to chase down all the paperwork and letters of recommendation and et al of which they were asking for. I found myself whining about this to TJ Gonzales. He just shrugged and told me I should always have that stuff on hand. He is, of course, correct.

So, I’ll have to corner Pete in the days ahead and glean some of what he learned.

The other day he called to see if I had some project descriptions and budgets we’d generated some time back for a production. This is stuff he thought might help in his Creative Capital work. The stuff was on my old computer, and I printed it up for him. While he had me on the phone, he asked if I’d seen the latest issue of the Current (San Antonio’s free weekly entertainment tabloid). Nope, I said. He suggested I check it out.

I didn’t have any reason to head out and find one, so I checked online.

The cover story was film-related. I clicked on the photo. The title of the lead piece was: Inside the San Antonio Film District.

Jesus. Now I know why Dora Pena was asking me what I knew about the San Antonio Film District. She had been contacted by Current writer Ashley Lindstrom.

I read the article. For the most part, it’s well-written. It shows that Mark Sullivan’s operation, the San Antonio Film District, is currently a nonfunctional production facility. There are descriptions of crumbling infrastructure within the huge warehouse space, not to mention businesses which Sullivan claims to have working relationships with, yet they’ve never heard of him. All this should make one suspicious. So, why end the piece with a pie-in-the-sky quote from Sullivan: “…the San Antonio Film District is a movie-making machine”???

The San Antonio Film District is nothing of the sort.

And here is one of the problems in this city. If the film and video production people in San Antonio are disinclined to go on record without being so damn polite, this city will continue to fail in its struggle to bring in out-of-town productions. I wonder how many production companies have turned tail and fled after encountering the likes of Mark Sullivan and his San Antonio Film District, or Al Frakes and his San Antonio Film Council? These gentlemen might mean well (and I truly believe that they do); but, please, create the reality before sending out the press releases. Make no mistake, guys, we all share the shame you generate.

I’ve been to the San Antonio Film District space (AKA, Sake Studios). Not as a filmmaker, but as an audience member to see a film that the San Antonio Green Party was screening there. I tried to visit the studios over three years ago when I moved here. Me and Pete met Mark Sullivan and his (then) partner Robbie at a NALIP video slam at the Wiggle Room. They invited us to come and visit. We were given a phone number, which they never answered, nor did they returned our calls.

Over the years I have pieced together the manner in which the San Antonio Film District operates from talking to half a dozen local filmmakers who (like us all, it seems) are too circumspect to go on record with their perplexing experiences with Mr. Sullivan over there in that huge warehouse. I’ve created what I feel is a good model by reading between the lines. True, my opinions are based primarily on gossip, and I’m not going to share them here. But when I finally gained entrance to the facilities to see the Green Party’s screening of Greenwald’s Iraq for Sale, I was saddened by the waste of possibilities. It seems that Mark Sullivan is holding onto a dream which died half a decade ago. The warehouse is huge, true, but the reception area is unmanned, the sound stages are mostly outsourced as storage facilities, many breaker boxes seemed dead (Green Party volunteers used flashlights to help us find the screening room), and the screening room itself, though functional, was spare as a maquiladora dormitory.

What struck me the most is that the author of this article missed out on the real story. Over the years I have been fascinated by the snippets I’ve heard of the District, and it seemed to me to be a great story of high hucksterism and missed opportunities; but instead, Ashley Lindstrom gave us a near puff piece, when what we needed was to be entertained with a clever hatchet job. Where was the bit where our intrepid reported asks: “This facility is extraordinary — but where do you keep that machine?” “What?” “You know. That machine that squeezes the oil out of the snakes.”

Oh, I forgot. That machine is called the Press Release.

Tonight (Friday), I stopped at the HEB near my house (HEB is the supermarket chain which has a near monopoly on this city — it’s rather freaky). In the check-out line this energetic young man with a buzz cut asked: “Didn’t you used to live across the street from me?” He had this sort of generic latino frat boy look, and I didn’t recognize him. Besides, other than the weeks (or was it months) I mooched off Pete and Lisa’s good nature, I’ve only had one address in San Antonio. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You still live there. The white pickup truck. I live in the green house next to Jerry. My name’s Ross.” I gave him mine. We shook. I realized that I hardly ever saw him except at night, and then just as a shadowy form unloading his SUV, or, perhaps, having a cold one on his wide front porch.

Ross asked what was it about all those movies I was always making on the street. I knew what he was thinking by his unabashed leer, but rather than let him assume I was the porno king of E. Guenther, I set him straight. Well, I tried. It’s hard to explain to people why you make short films, especially where money is rarely involved. I then mentioned Robin’s film which had been partially shot on my block. I explained that it was a project hopeful of distribution. It was beginning to make more sense to him.

I explained that two friends would be making films on the street this summer. AJ Garces has some scene for a project planned for my block. And I discovered Wednesday that Dora Pena’s feature, the Dream Healer, is quite probably going to be principally shot on my block.

When I asked if Ross would be willing for someone to use his house, he just grinned. “Fuck yeah! You only live once.” Perhaps he was back to thinking about porn. But, still, he seems a good connection.

Back on Wednesday I dropped by the G2E offices (home of media wizs Robb Garcia and his brother Ron Garcia). Dora Pena had a desk there which she was using to bring her feature into the production phase (in just a few weeks they’ll be shooting) — Los Bros Garcia will be integral collaborators. Anyway, I dropped by because Dora, in here capacity as NALIP-SA’s Chief Financial Officer (meaning, she lugs around the checkbook), was the one who would be reimbursing me for the Meet-the-Maker event I helped coordinated a couple weeks back. I handed over the receipts, and she wrote a check.

We chatted about various things, mostly film related.

Then I mentioned something about how I hated to get emails about productions with no names attached, just a phone number.

“If I get something forwarded to me from someone else in the film community with, you know, we need this piece of equipment or these types of actors or whatever, and the only info is a phone number, I’m not going to forward it.”

Dora waited, patiently, understanding I was still in mid-rant.

“For all I know,” I continued, “it could be some project being run by one of our local film assholes. And I don’t want to put myself in the position of sending someone I know towards one of those situations.”

Dora nodded.

“Let me give you an example.” I leaned back in my chair. “Maybe two days ago, I got a call from my landlady. Seems someone wants to shoot on my block. In my house — well, me three-plex. I told her to get a name. Not some vague production company, but the name of the director or the producer. I cautioned her that she didn’t want to get stuck with some irresponsible jerk bringing a nightmare down on her property.”

Dora folded her feet up into her swivelly office chair.

“So, um, where do you live?” she asked.

“King William. I’m across the street from Sandra Cisneros.”

She laughed.

“It was us! We want to shoot in that two-story house on the corner. But we also want to be able to shoot the exteriors of some other houses — with actors on the porches and things like that.”

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In some nearby parallel universe, I would have, at that point, removed a plastic-tipped White Owl cigar from it’s cocoon of cellophane, lit an Ohio Blue-Tip off the stubble on the hard line of my jaw, and I would have fixed her with the cold blast of my gaze.

“Listen lady, ain’t nothing film-related goes on in my neighborhood without my approval. I recall when Joe Dante was sniffing around town for his bio pic, Whitley Strieber, the Teen Years. He’d been in some sort of negotiations with neighbors two doors down because they have this kick-ass tree house. When I got wind, I raised hell, I did! Told that Hollywood hack I was the dealmaker on the 700 block of East Guenther — the goddamn dealmaker! He played me some chin music about a brace of studio lawyers kept on short leashes and just waiting to lunge on small fry like me. Little did he know, I’m pretty tight with the infamous El Picante. Rumor has it, this pinche badass keeps on retainer a squad of Samurai werewolves headquarters in the Rio Grande Valley.”

“Wow! So, what happened?”

“When’s the last time you heard of Joe Dante?”

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The Josiah Youth Media Festival is moving along. Urban-15 has just installed their new nine foot movie screen. It has a little motor that makes it retract back into the ceiling. Very useful, because George and Cat want to make the space useful for all sorts of events.

I dropped by Urban-15 last night. I had been busy that day with Russ and Christy working on Melancholy (the movie) [and I want to hear that read as a terse voice-over: “put aside all sharp objects, and lock up your meds, because after the coming attractions, we will be viewing” — deep reverb — “Melancholy, the Movie!”]. George left a message on my voice mail that he’d be at the studio late watching the basketball game.

So, after Christy dropped me off at home sometime after ten, I got in my truck and drove to the old church where Urban-15 has its headquarters to be brought up to speed on the JYMF. I rang the bell. George answered it. We went downstairs.

There were two woman I didn’t know sitting with Catherine in front of a back-projected large screen — a gigantic TV experience. They were cheering the Spurs, probably drinking, and helping themselves to loads of chips and dips.

I talked some with George and Catherine, but they seemed fairly involved with the TV action. I should point out that I am, in the words of John Waters, “A sports bigot.” I stood behind the women watching what I guess was a really close score with 7.5 seconds to go. Fifteen minutes later there was still 7 seconds to go. There was talk about piling into someone’s truck and cruising downtown with a bullhorn and a box of firecrackers. It sounded kind of fun. But I was exhausted after a long day of shooting and, really, it was just some silly game ….

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Thursday. Another exhausting day shooting Melancholy.

We started off in Seguin. Russ knew he could cajole his friends Brooks and Barb to let us use their property. Russ already had his little hand-made boat, Ponga, stored there on the shore of the Guadalupe.

We were still doing the Eve and Despair sequences. Christy still wore the dark wig. And we were still working with Andrew. Also, we still had Martin to help us. At one point, Russ mused that it would be helpful to have someone out on the river other than our two actors — to wrangle the boat. Martin pointed to a little plastic kayak. “I can work one of those,” he said with authority. And so he could. He was a great help.

The scenes of Russ’ homebuilt boat drifting slowly across the fame with Eve and Despair facing each other and running through a sequence of ritualistic movements involving a length of red cloth was truly beautiful. The warm tones of the wooden boat contrasted cleanly against the green waters of the Guadalupe River.

After the Seguin scene we headed back to Canyon Lake.

We were only able to shoot a very short scene with Christy and Andrew in a tree before a line of dark clouds came fast across the lake towards us. We arranged a couple more quick set-ups and called “cut.” We scurried about breaking down the equipment and moving everything up a steep, rough trail.

The skies didn’t look that they were going to settle down, so we called it a day and grabbed dinner at an Italian place near the lake.

Monday I headed out to New Braunfels with Christy to work on her short film, Melancholy. The back seat of her car was crammed with a large cooler, Andrew (who was to play the part of Despair), and his friend Martin. Neither Christy nor myself are much in the way of morning people. But Martin crackled with high-energy and kept a running commentary from the backseat. He mentioned later that he had been up all night, so I assume he was in the giddy sleep deprivation mode.

We stopped by Russ’ place. He had all the equipment loaded up in his truck. So, after I finished off Russ’ pot of coffee, and Christy changed in the bathroom, we were ready to head out. Christy’s wig was in better form, and looked much more natural on her than the previous day.

At Comal Park, on the shores of Canyon Lake, we were waved in by a fellow manning the security kiosk. Christy had arranged permission for us to shoot through the very helpful Army Corps of Engineers.

We lugged everything down to the shore near the dead trees Christy wanted in the shots.

It was one hot and humid day. And both me and Russ were damn glad Martin showed up. He remained in great spirits no matter what grunt work fell his way.

Christy and Andrew looked great in their costumes. Like samurai warriors seen through the lens of the old Buck Rogers comic strips.

They started out in one of the dead trees. After some striking set-ups, we moved the equipment down to a rock ledge at the water line. Christy and Andrew were rehearsing their moves — a sort of balletic martial arts faux fight — and me and Russ were looking for a nice wide shot. I suggested that we place the crane off center on a rise looking down on them, and slowly track the action with a lateral movement. Russ had another idea. He placed the crane dead center on the rise and lifted straight up. It turned out to be an amazing over-head shot. There was a long strip of read cloth (used throughout the piece), and it was snaking across the limestone ledge. The sun was directly overhead, so everything was in sharp contrast. This also caused Russ to whimper in frustration because the camera kept casting a shadow into his perfect shot. But we tinkered with the crane and camera placement until we were ready to go.

We broke for lunch. Martin, it seems, took advantage of his insomnia the previous night to cut up all the carrots and celery for our veggie dip. Culinary school paid off.

And then we caravanned to the stretch of mud flats where Despair (Andrew) was to drown Eve (Christy). I had on a pair of water sport moccasins someone had given me years ago. Russ had a similar kind of water boots. I offered Andrew an old ratty pair of sandals I had also brought along. As his feet are much smaller, they tended to shift around a bit on him. Martin had finally crashed, so, we cracked the windows a bit, and left him snoozing with his feet up on the cooler.

The shallow water nearest the shore was rather hot. But as we slogged out to a nice stand of drowned trees, it cooled off. There were regions of deep mud, quite a bit of rocks, and a few submerged logs. We moved slow and finally decided on the perfect place to drown our Eve.

As Russ pointed out, the nice thing about shooting in a nasty, inhospitable location, is that you move fast so you can get the hell out. I’m convinced we got some great footage. But after Christy inhaled a bit of brackish lake water, and after she stabbed her hand on something sharp, we decided it was time to head back to the cars.

Russ invited Christy and Andrew to avail themselves of the showers at his Yacht club, and we called it a day.

I try and not take for granted the beautiful neighborhood I live in. Actually, so much of this city has, hidden throughout it, exquisite marvels, some of which come up on you quite unexpectedly (like the Kiddy Park on Broadway, the cock-eyed Liberty Bar (San Antonio’s version of the leaning tower in Pisa), the old city cemeteries on E. Commerce, and the breathtaking Olmos Dam). I was reminded of the beauties of San Antonio while watching some of the student films submitted to this youth film fest I’m helping to run. The works submitted by the kids at the after school arts center, Say Si, are mostly top notch. But what they most had going for them were the locations. Most were shot around the Say Si classrooms, in this wonderful, older neighborhood. When you shoot in King William and downtown San Antonio, you’ve given yourself an aesthetic edge that the kids on the north side just can’t match.

Of the twelve short films I’ve shot during the four years I’ve lived here, ten were shot, at least partially, in my neighborhood. A few, exclusively. And I know that the admittedly amateurish work I do (okay, occasionally amateurish) has been solidly mitigated by beautiful locations (not to mention beautiful actors and actresses).

It’s always nice when large Hollywood productions come here to take advantage of the local color. In fact the recent passing of House Bill 374 (a film appropriation measure) provides incentives for large productions to work in the state. Personally, I’m not terribly moved. I’m more interested in Texan filmmakers working their way up in a grassroots manner.

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Russ came by Saturday morning at 9:45. He had switched Saturday and Sunday. This weekend we visited the dance rehearsals Christy is having for the film project we’re helping her produce. Saturday — 6 p.m.; Sunday — 10 a.m.

Well, as I had no other plans for the day, I hopped in Russ’ truck, and he took me to look at the house he is renting. Finally he found a place in San Antonio. It’s in Terrell Hills. He can’t move in until the end of the month. But it’s a nice bungalow. I got a sense he was slipping into the funk of renter’s remorse. I tried to convince him that it’s a nice neighborhood.

“You’re halfway between Pete and Nikki. They’re good people who wouldn’t consider missing your housewarming barbecue.”

He’s still grumbling a bit.

We headed back to my neighborhood to find a good cup of coffee. I suggested we try the Southtown Cafe. It’s close to me, yet I’ve never been there. I felt I should support it. But when we arrived, it was closed. Seemed strange. Saturday. 11:30 am. Oh, well. Forgetting the coffee angle, and thinking more along the lines of lunch, Russ asked if La Tuna would be open. Well … it should be. Right? I mean, Saturday lunch is a big deal. But I’ve found La Tuna closed more often than open. (I’ve brought this up to my next-door neighbor’s, co-owners of the place — they seem perplexed and say they’re always open.) Well, the fact is, La Tuna ain’t open for Saturday lunch.

So we went to Cascabels. They have kick ass cafe de olla. And the food is very good.

Afterwards, we wandered the riverwalk downtown. It’s still monstrously hot and humid. But I had fun sitting at the outdoor theater in La Villita and watching the people. It’s high tourist season — the tour boats passed down on the river about once every four minutes. And they were packed. We stayed awhile, but I never saw Bob or Cara, the two tour boat pilots I know. They’re probably working the second shifts.

Eventually we headed over to Woodlawn Lake to watch Christy rehearse with Kristen. They were on a grassy area on the south-east shore.

Me and Russ watched them go through the choreography. It will start out on the ground, and end up in a tree.

I’d watched Christy work with Kristen a couple of weeks back during the auditions. And now I understand why she chose the woman. Kristen is very focuses and talented. She’s long-limbed but still very graceful. They work well together.

For those who’ve never visited Woodlawn Lake, you’re missing a wonderful area in San Antonio. The whole park has a very WPA look to it. A great utilization of a public space. And the people of the neighborhood use this park. People walk, jog, skate, cycle, fish, picnic, and all that stuff. I was a bit taken aback that so few people paused to watch the action — I mean two beautiful women in skin-tight outfits were working through a dance routine. Maybe they were scared off by the two middle-aged men with digital cameras circling around these women, crouching down, leaning in, and generally appearing (to the uninitiated) as grade-A perverts — but, I hasten to add, our resumes are posted on-line; I mean, goddammit, we’re artists!

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Sunday, we returned to Woodlawn Lake to watch Christy rehearse with Andrew. Christy was wearing a wig that her character will have on for the sequences she will perform with Andrew. She insisted that the wig would look much better for Monday’s shoot after it received some TLC from a brush and some styling compounds.

I certainly hoped so, because Sunday morning, that wig just wasn’t doing the girl any justice. It wasn’t quite the Joan Jett look I was hoping for.

(Actually, I’m posting this Monday night. We’ve already shot our first day of the piece. I’ll add some pictures soon. But the wig-work turned out just fine.)