Ah, Twitter, that useless tool of the instantaneous transmission of ephemeral blather. This morning I noticed that Annele Spector had Tweeted about fitting herself with false eyelashes at the crack of dawn. I assumed she was planning to be in the King William Parade. I replied that I’d appreciate if she’d “blow me a kiss, shoot me the finger, or something” when she passed my house atop her float or pedaling a unicycle or whatever she might be doing.

Ask and you shall receive. I’ll have to check my video footage to see if I captured her mini performance of that kiss followed by a rude gesture as her float went by.

So, don’t be hating on Twitter. It can make wondrous things happen.

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The parade was a bit tepid this year. But it’s always a good time.

Afterwards I headed over to the King William Fair. It’s gotten so densely packed with people these last couple of years. And I really wish they’d kick out all those vendors selling those crafty items. You know, clocks made out of driftwood, old tarnished spoons fashioned into wind-chimes, lovingly crafted mesquite walking sticks that must weigh twenty pounds, etc. The food vendors don’t bother me at all. The odors of frying funnel cakes and sausage-on-a-stick help to cut the under-current of tens of thousand sweaty people (one, undeniably, being me).

The kids area was impressive. Just where does one rent a rock-climbing tower?

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Back home, my neighbor, Debby, invited me to hang out with her huge extended family who were crammed into our communal driveway. She made sure I loaded up a paper plate with all the fixin’s. (And do I really need that apostrophe? … I mean have you ever heard anyone say “fixings” when speaking of side dishes??)

And then as a nephew was pulling a TV outside so we could all watch the Spurs game, I conveniently recalled that URBAN-15 was setting up, over at the studio, for their annual panoramic photos of their drum and dance ensembles in the costumes they will be wearing for the Flambeaux Parade, later in evening — the event to close out Fiesta.

I grabbed my bike and rode over. The Goldbeck Company is the last word in panorama photography.

Check out E. O. Goldbeck’s Handbook of Texas article:

http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/GG/fgo49.html

Goldbeck sets up tiered risers. And it seemed that the larger group shots had already been done. But they were still shooting some of the smaller ensemble groups.

I took a few photos, chatted with some of the ensemble members, and then I decided to bike out to Mission Espada. I had no desire to go home and suffer through a loud beer-fueled driveway of Spurs fans yelling at a TV.

It was a Houston-humid day and maybe that was why I wasn’t too bothered by the strong head wind I was fighting for the ten miles out to Espada. As I was riding down that tree-covered lane beside the refinery, I slowed as three little girls began angling across the street in front of me. The youngest waved to me and pointed to the girl beside her. I slowed to take a closer look at the turtle she held that was the size of a dinner plate. I thought I should tell them to be careful. It looked like a snapping turtle. But they’d find out soon enough.

Out at the low water crossing near Mission Espada the huisache was in full bloom. I’m not sure if these are the same as the desert catclaw, which they resemble. But the huisache is much more fragrant. It smells like mountain laurel blossoms.

The ride back was more pleasant with the wind at my back. I decided to take a break at the park across the river from the ruins of the old Hot Wells resort. No doubt the Spurs were still playing. I flopped onto a shaded picnic bench and took a nap like a common vagrant … who happens to have a mountain bike and an iPhone (my credentials, I suppose, if some hotshot park police were to come up and hassle me: “go sleep it off at the public library, pops”).

Back home the game was ending. But the party was just getting into high gear. I pulled a comfy chair over to my computer, put on my headphones I use for editing video, and surfed over to hulu.com. I browsed through their movie listings and stumbled upon an excellent featurette by a young filmmaker. He’s in his mid-twenties. Cullen Hoback. The movie’s called Freedom State. Check it out:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/66783/freedom-state

It’s beautifully shot on digital. Kick-ass art design. Solid acting. However, if you find Wes Anderson manipulative and mawkish, you might not care for it. But I liked it. A wonderful little movie. Quirky, playful, and sweet.

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I’m heading off to Dallas for a couple of weeks tomorrow morning. I really should do some laundry. But it’s too late. I’m sure I can find something to wear for tomorrow. But I feel weird packing dirty clothes (true, I won’t be “packing” so much as stuffing into a plastic bag). Of course my sister, who I’ll be staying with, couldn’t care less, but it seems like really poor planning on my part. I’m losing my grip as an upstanding citizen. You know, like that guy sleeping it off in the comfy chair at the public library. And I really need to take a shower, ’cause I suspect that after this long and sweaty day, I’m smelling quite a bit like that hypothetical vagrant fellow.

(Friday)

My neighbors are out on their porches tonight in party mode. Tomorrow morning the King William Parade will pass down this street as it snakes through the neighborhood. So tonight’s when friends and relatives come to visit and sleep over (well, not here, but throughout the neighborhood). Wise move. The streets will be barricaded off in the early hours. Cops and parade officials will be walking the route alerting everyone to get their cars off the street and into the driveways. And then we will truly be in the block party phase with no easing up until after midnight Saturday.

The folks in the big house across the street are putting up ribbons on wooden stakes to keep people from bringing their folding chairs and grabbing some seats on that strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. How rude. That’s the antithesis of community spirit.

The neighbors next door are entertaining all the cousins on their porch. I decided to retreat from my porch after I realized that the Best Hits of Elvis Costello had begun to play again. I was never a huge Elvis fan (don’t care for either of them), but I did try and like Costello. The Buddy Holly with angst shtick appealed to my sense of the ironic. And, yes, he wrote some great songs. But now his stuff just seems so dated, like Ric Ocasek or Warren fucking Zevon.

The chief two religions in San Antonio are the Spurs and Fiesta. The former is one of our sports teams. The latter, some sort of drifting celebration whose sacraments are Shiner Bock and Sausage on a Stick. Oh, yeah. There’s also Catholicism, running a close third.

Early on during my tenure here in San Antonio I realized that this city marks its calendar with festivals and parades. We love to celebrate outside — in our backyards, on our porches, or in the streets. Celebrate what? It doesn’t matter. Fiesta. Luminaria. Dia de los Muertos. Final Four. César Chávez March. Jazz Fest. MLK March. Contemporary Art Month. First Friday (a monthly arts event). The Thanksgiving Day Parade along the San Antonio River. The pushcart races at Dignowity Park. And in the spring when the San Antonio River Authority drains that portion of the river which flows through downtown (the Riverwalk) we have our annual Mud Festival. We make a party out of anything, even mud. Even I had a hand in creating a parade. Deborah, Ramon, and I brought the Artista Parade to the Deco District. Well, Deborah did most of the work. Sadly, it never took. We thought it might become an annual event. It didn’t.

Let this be a lesson to those wanting to begin an annual event. Let’s say your passion is for Italian Mannerist painting. You’re just an average working Joe trying to bring attention to you pet organization, the Alamo City Pontormo Appreciation Society. The city agencies from whom you’re seeking funding just don’t seem interested. Try this: “Well, I’ll make this PowerPoint presentation quick and to the point. As you can see, the Pontormo Parade will terminate here, in front of the Alamo. With fireworks. Of course. The gordita stands will be stationed here and here. The region highlighted in yellow represents the bank of margarita machines. And Shiner Beer, our main sponsor, will be set up in front of the Menger Hotel.” The response might surprise you. “Crikey, but you make a good argument for a greater respect among the people of South Texas for Florentine pre-Baroque masters. Let’s put you down for four million. Good fireworks don’t come cheap.”

Who don’t love a parade?

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This afternoon I headed out to Northwest Vista, one of the campus in San Antonio’s Alamo Community College District. My plan was to drop some flyers and submissions forms for the Josiah Youth Media Festival at the media department. Northwest Vista is up in that blighted region of strip malls and cul-de-sacs. It sits in the shadow of Sea World. In short, not the sort of place I normally travel to. Hell, it’s a 20 minute drive out beyond Kelly Air Force Base and even Lackland Air Force Base.

But I forgot about Fiesta. It seems that the Friday before the end of Fiesta is a holiday for most people in San Antonio. The whole god damn campus was shut down. I couldn’t even get into any of the buildings to leave off my manila envelope. It was like some post-apocalyptic movie. A large campus with nothing but empty parking lots. All it needed was Chuck Heston machine-gunning zombies.

Here in San Antonio, Fiesta fucks up the social order worse than Christmas.

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George and Catherine’s son, Antonio Cisneros, is in town shooting a short film. He’s DP on this project. They’re using the Red. Here’s a quick shot of Antonio on set today.

They had a big-ass grip truck as well as a generator trailer from Raging Bull Grip and Lighting. It reminded me how much I love being on set. And how long it’s been since I’ve made a film or worked on someone else’s project.

Gotta get outta this slump.

I video-taped a dance performance several months back. I shot three performances of the same work from different angles. The client finally requested a chance to look at what I had. When we were working out the date to review the footage, I suggested today, Thursday. It would give me three days to clean my place up once I returned from the NALIP conference. You see, this apartment is in pretty bad shape. She agreed. But because I’m a notorious procrastinator, I put the house work off until last night and this morning. My office, the little breakfast nook off the kitchen, was a holy horror. My plan? Move my computer into the living room. Problem solved. Just clean up one room. It worked out fine. We reviewed the material and made a few decisions. And so now, Thursday night, I’m trying to figure out if I want to keep my computer here. I’ve set things up on my little TV table (the television has been moved to a closet, as I never use it). The table has shelves — my stereo is down there — so I can’t sit close. But it has possibilities. Maybe I’ll leave it here … besides, if I moved things back into the other room, I’d feel obligated to actually clean the place.

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There’s a filmmaker in Fort Worth whose blog I read. Recently he wrote about a friend who was working on a feature film shot in HD on a Canon camera. A camera, not a camcorder. A DSLR (that’s Digital Single Lens Reflex). The Canon 5d Mark II can shoot 12 minutes of HD video. And it’s already set up to take prime lenses. No need to invest in a bulky mini 35mm system. It reportedly works very well in low light conditions. About 2500 bucks — body only, no lens. The down-side? It shoots at a “frame” rate of 30 — 24 isn’t an option. Also, it can only shoot 12 minutes of high def video. But what does this mean? Can it be upgraded with a larger memory card? Or is this some sort of internal storage which needs to be dumped to a laptop once filled before production begins again? Not a deal breaker, that. It’s simply a work-flow concern. But I’d like to know more.

The footage I’ve seen is lovely.

Local filmmaker Jesus Sifuentes, mentioned something to me about either this camera or his interest in Nikon 35mm lenses. I can’t remember. From his blogs and his Tweets I gather he’s selling off his Panasonic HVX and is actively ordering lenses. Sounds like he’s moving to the Canon 5d Mark II. I need to call him up and get his take on shooting movies with a DSLR. I believe I also heard Dagoberto mention something about this camera quite some months back. This sounds reasonable. Dago always has his ear to the ground and knows the major trends within the film and video world before they hit the mainstream.

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I’ve lived a Fiesta-proof life these last four days I’ve been back in town. Fiesta is that weird two week-long city-wide generic booze-up. According to Wikipedia Fiesta has “origins dating to the late 1800s. The festival begun as a single event to honor the memory of the heroes of the battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto.” Heroes? Well, to each his or her own. But the thing I find hard to reconcile is the almost universal appeal of Fiesta to the local population. You can meet the most cynical San Antonio son of a bitch, and sure as shit he’ll get keyed up when you mention the impending Fiesta. “Oh, man, the Oyster Bake is gonna be killer this year. Have you got your tickets to NIOSA, ’cause mi abuela is selling them for her church.” (I have no fucking clue as to what Oyster Bake or NIOSA actually are — sure, they’re parties, but what’s their significance?) There’s a “Battle of the Flowers,” river parades, masked balls, and something called Cornyation, which may or may not be a gay event (or, perhaps, a straight-friendly faux drag booze-up your grandmother wants to go to). Because I don’t like crowds, I have sampled very few of the Fiesta events. I tried to check out the Flambeaux Parade last year. Rode my bike downtown to watch. But it was an insane crush of humanity. I fled. Last year I did take part in Incognito, a masquerade ball. It’s sponsored by URBAN-15, and I was there as a volunteer. But the two events I always partake of are the King William Parade and the King William Fair. The parade comes down my street. And the fair happens about five blocks away.

As I’ve said before, the King William Parade is the closest thing this city has to a gay pride parade. It’s heavily represented by the local arts organizations — no surprise that this group skews queer. It’s our freak parade. And I love it. It’s filled with my people, from my neighborhood and my community.

Sunday I have to head back to Dallas to lower myself back down into the salt mines of the auction house where I slave away as part of the Rare Book Industrial Complex. I do believe Eisenhower warned us, yeah? What can I say? It keeps the collection agencies off my back. And the work’s rather fun. But the biggest problem is that I’ll be out of town during the early voting period.

My goal is to get back to San Antonio for election day. It’s imperative that I cast my vote for mayor. Do I vote for Napoleon Madrid, or against him? Do I love him, or do I hate him? Is he a brilliant performance artist? Or a delusional simpleton? His claim of an IQ of 180 and his intention to bring “perpetual energies” to San Antonio has me on the fence.

I can see I have a lot of thinking to do. And, I need to make sure I’m back in town by the 9th. Actually, it’s most important for me to vote for the mayor ot San Antonio no matter who that candidate might be. As long as he or she isn’t Trish DeBerry. We need to stop thinking that voting for candidates with business back-grounds is a good idea. Government isn’t a business. It really isn’t. Reference the last eight years.

I spent four days in Newport Beach, California. No one should ever be forced to spend four days in Newport Beach. It was like living in La Cantera (for those not from San Antonio, think of your most tony shopping mall). I was there for the NALIP annual conference. This was their 10th anniversary. And as much as I might bitch about the aesthetic paucity of a four or five star resort hotel in the US, I did have a nice time. There were great people, some useful panels, and wonderful speakers.

The San Antonio contingency was impressive. We were about ten. Veronica, Dora, Manuel, Jaime, Patty, Yolanda, Joe, Raemelle, Francis, and myself. We should be able to claim Sandy. Though she’s from Dallas, she comes down to visit us every so often. Also, Drew and Janet from the film commission were there. Call it thirteen. Why not.

Thursday morning I made it to the airport two hours before my flight. Just like I was told. Now keep in mind, the last time I was on a plane was five years ago … and before that, maybe twenty years ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the concept of flight. But I dig traveling on the surface, and meeting the people who live there. Anyway, my trip almost turned to shit before I had really woken up. The woman working the check-in desk looked at the receipt I had printed up from the online purchase I had made.

“You’re already changed this flight from Friday to today?” she asked.

I looked closer. The paper said I was booked for an outbound Friday flight. God dammit! I hate buying stuff online!

Noticing my distress, the woman looked up with a smile. “We have one seat left. I can put you on board for only an additional 260 dollars.”

I had bought the round trip — San Antonio; Orange County; San Antonio — for about 260.

I mumbled “too rich for me,” and walked away. I guess I’d just have to leave on Friday.

On my way back to the parking-lot I made a phone call to another person going to the conference. I won’t give out a name because this person said, with true insider confidence: “Don’t leave. I might be able to work this out. Give me the confirmation number.” I was then instructed to return to the terminal and wait for further instructions.

Maybe ten minutes later my problems were no more. My angel had interceded. I was saved! Now all I had to do was empty my pockets, take off my shoes, walk through a metal detector, and say “thank you” to the geriatric uniformed guard keeping America’s sky’s safe from … whatever. But, dammit, I was IN!

Note to self: if you ever again travel by plane, lose fifty pounds.

When I checked into the Island Hotel in Newport Beach all I did was give them my credit card. A smiling young woman gave me my plastic keycard. I picked up my bags and headed to the elevator. Veronica, walking beside me, asked me about the rate. I confessed I never asked. I was working on the notion that I would be sharing a room with three others. This would take my nightly rate down to maybe a hundred dollars. And of the three nights, NALIP would pay for one night. I think Veronica said something like, “Dude, you should make sure.” She, of course, was right. But I never did.

When I got into my room, I saw one double bed and one rolling cot which had been installed near the windows and made up with sheets. There was a suitcase on the double bed. Fine. I placed my luggage on the cot. I wouldn’t have to worry about sharing with a stranger. But I was taken with this nagging notion that the room was set up for only three people. My understanding was that I would be sharing with three others. But, well, I decided to go with the flow. To be honest, I was probably going to pay that extra 260 at the airport if I hadn’t been rescued.

This roommate situation is one of the more amusing things about the conference. I stayed three nights in a hotel room with just this one other guy (there were no other roommates), and we never met. It’s true. If he walked up to me right now, I’d be clueless. Each night I went to bed around midnight. I kept to Texas time. Midnight was two in the morning. The roommate never came in earlier than two. I’m not a deep sleeper when I travel. So I was awake when he quietly (and drunkenly?) entered. Were he louder, I would have gotten up and talked with him. But he was tip-toeing as he used the bathroom, undressed (or not), and fell into bed. I was amazed in that he fell asleep and began snoring in under 20 seconds every night. And in the morning, I would get up with the sun.

Six am. That’s eight, Texas time. No problem. What I usually do. And so I was up, showered, dressed, and out of the room before the guy ever stopped his soft gentle snoring. Now, I’m sure he’s a great guy, and I’m sure we’d have got along famously, but, in a sense, I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate. And my hotel bill was exactly what I budgeted it to be.

(Because the bellboy slid a note under the door, I have to assume that my roommate was filmmaker Darryl Deloach of New Mexico. Sorry I missed meeting you, Darryl!)

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One of the great surprises of the conference was when I learned that Juan Gonzales, who participated in two of the panels, was actually THE Juan Gonzales, powerful journalist as well as the co-host of Democracy Now! I was too timid and star-struck to approach him. But he was great in the two panels.

Also, Ela Troyano was in attendance. She was on a panel about music rights. I met Ela last year during the Creative Capital workshop. I was impressed that she remembered me. She’s quite an accomplished filmmaker with a lot of helpful hints. And she’s also kinda cute.

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One of the nights at the conference several of us from San Antonio headed out to a restaurant in Laguna Beach. I suspect that there had already been some drinking. The taxi ride out was filled with rather salty talk — mainly from the women. Veronica was talking to the Armenian driver in Russian. Francis began talking about her love of the novel Moby Dick. At the point, it all fell into dick jokes … but strangely the two males (me and Joe) stayed silent. This helps to reinforce my notion that women are much more likely to sexualize their conversation than men.

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My initial plan was to have a few projects in stages well developed enough so that I would be conformable pitching them. I was supposed to have my script finished for my feature, “Tunnels Under the Tower;” my treatment for my TV show, “The Cucuy Club;” ditto on my treatment for my feature documentary, “The Jumanos People;” and a show bible for my playful and rather asinine reality TV show, “American Mayor.”

But I got sidetracked by other projects and did my best to network, collect business cards, and learn from the panels and workshops.

I was impressed by the high quality of some of the works samples these people were attaching to their pitches.

Maybe later I’ll give more of a run-down of the panelists and filmmakers I met. It was really an impressive group.

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The trip back to Texas was more grueling. Perhaps I’d gotten fatter. Other than the tight fit in the seats of Southwest Airlines, I found myself with five hours to kill at the John Wayne Airport. This after a twenty dollar limo ride from the hotel. Once inside the security region, I treated myself to a nine dollar sandwich, the cheapest I could find. Man, I guess I’m a bit out of touch with the real world. In defense of John Wayne Airport, they do have free WiFi and plenty of AC stations to plug in your laptops and phones free of charge.

Than, I found myself with a two-hour lay-over in Phoenix, a pathetic excuse for a city, thanks in large part to that asshole Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Phoenixites (or whatever you call yourselves), clean that shit up!

I made it to the San Antonio airport a little after one a.m.

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Monday was a scramble for support material for a project grant I was trying to push through the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs. It’s an experimental film tentatively entitled “River Quartet;” however, after I posted (via Twitter) this photo of one of my locations, Dago Patlan asked if the location was supposed to be an alien cemetery.

And, of course, he was on to something. Who wouldn’t fund a project with the name of “Alien Cemetery”? (Were Philip Jose Farmer still alive, I can imagine him writing an Allan Quaretmain pastiche adventure: “Exhuming the Alien Cemetery.”)

But I digress.

I was able to wrangle all my support material and deliver it to the City Clerk’s Office by the 4 p.m. deadline with about ten minutes to spare. I wasn’t the only one coming in just under the wire. I also saw Gabe Vasquez, Marisela Barrera, and Veronica Hernandez.

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As I was enjoying celebratory cheese enchiladas at Tito’s, Victor Payan called me up and suggested I should apply for a NALAC conference grant. He explained that NALIP-SA members were all NALAC members. The deadline was midnight. That midnight. So, I went home and pushed another application through. This one, conveniently on-line.

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Monday I also learned that the funding request to pay the conference registration fees for all San Antonio NALIP members attending the national event had gone through. Great news. One of my nights at the hotel had been comped. I’d received a travel stipend in the form of a check at the registration table (which paid almost all of my plane flight). And now I learned I’d get a check for the registration fee. Not bad.

I’ve just returned to San Antonio after two weeks in Dallas working for the rare book department of the auction house where my sister works.

I grew up in an antiquarian book shop and I have decades of experience estimating values on obscure titles. I’ve never had any trouble defending the prices I’ve come up with. Simple supply and demand … coupled with enough time to partner the right person with the right book, and, well, eventually, we’ll get the job done. However, with an auction, you lack that component of time. Auction houses have various ways to allow the public to preview the offered items. But there is always a deadline. When the final hammer falls, the item in question either sells or it doesn’t. (True, most auction houses have post-auction purchase opportunities for unsold items, but these are also time-based.) If the item sells, it’s likely to go very low, or very high. If only one person is bidding, it could go for well below the minimum estimate. If there are two or more bidders slugging it out, the item could go for an absurdly high amount. These extremes — whether embarrassingly paltry or irrationally overboard — find their way into published listings. These auction records (be they published as hard copies, e-books, or subscriber-only web-sites) don’t come cheap. This isn’t public information — it’s privileged and expensive. I’ve known many a rare book dealer who uses these auction listings to his and her advantage. Not to price a book, but to explain to the would-be seller that, “Sorry, sport, but it looks like your set of Chalmer’s British Essayists has never realized more than $400 at auction. I can give you a hundred and fifty for it.” He’s not lying. But the truth is, no savvy antiquarian book dealer is likely to sell that set for under $700. This is an example of an item that’s important, yet not terribly scarce. It will eventually sell in a rare book shop. However, truly scarce and desirable books can go for stupid amounts at auction. Especially if they’re unique. Original manuscripts. Or books inscribed from the author to another important person. Or, in the case of one item I cataloged the other day, the last book written by western artist Charles M. Russell with his own bookplate in it. It’s his own copy, dude! I estimated a price for the book at what I felt was rather low, hoping it will get a couple of serious collectors bidding it up. But really, who can tell? Maybe those two serious collectors will never hear about this auction.

What I can say is that I’ve seen some great books go damn cheap, (Sure, this is balanced out by the occasional crazy high prices.) Part of this is because of the shitty economy. But it’s also because auctions have always been places to pick up good deals on collectible books, especially if your tastes are a bit obscure.

Here’s an example. The other day I was cataloging a six volume set on military strategy. It’s in French, so it’s basically unreadable to me. But it’s crammed with wonderful folding engraved plates of battle scenes and depictions of siege engines. Cool stuff! I posted a photo of one of the plates on Twitter. My friend, Sandra, replied, asking how much the book costs. That’s a difficult question. Chevalier Folard’s Histoire de Polybe is a hell of a nifty item. I can’t recall what I estimated this at. Maybe eight to twelve hundred. And if that’s the case, with no reserve, the set will open at four hundred. But is that what it’s worth? You can probably pick up a nice set on the internet for three thousand. And if I had this set, I’d put two grand on it, and not blink. But in the auction world, it’s just not a rare set of books. Lost your chance to bid? Wait six months or a year, it’ll come back to an auction house. And so it has no real premium in the auction records. Maybe it is only worth four hundred dollars. Perhaps less….

The auction world is insane. I’m still trying to feel my way through this new realm. However, why some jackass would pay sixty thousand for a 1st edition of Harry fucking Potter simply grabs my stomach in all the wrong places. Sixty grand? WTF?!?! During these dark nights of the soul I hold the pillow tight with the thought that this likely is one of the signs of the coming apocalypse. We’re all going to burn for eternity … and we’ll deserve it. Fucking Harry Potter.

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As I was leaving Dallas this afternoon, I took the ramp onto the Stemmons Freeway. I politely allowed a big truck in front of me. You see, I had an ulterior motive. I thumbed through the virtual buttons on my iPhone until I had the camera setting open. Dammit, it was fate! The truck in front of me was operated by this Dallas demolition company which has my favorite slogan.

“We Could Wreck the World.”

It’s that snide use of “Could.” Where’s Homeland Security? Sounds like a threat to me.

My second favorite slogan of a Dallas business is a document storage / disposal company (and here I’m too lazy to Google the name) — they suggest that some things are “Better Shred Than Read.”

That about sums up the things I like about Dallas.

Well, wait. I do have family in Dallas. I do indeed like them.

And, sure, there are still some cool places to visit in Dallas. I was pleased to see that Antoine’s sandwich place on Harry Hines is still getting by. And, yes, Joe, the big yellow tables and the po’ boys are as they were back when. A lovely time capsule.

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Thursday morning I’m off to the airport. I’ll spend the weekend in LA, attending the annual NALIP conference. I only wish I were more prepared to pitch projects. I have several ideas to push, but I haven’t prepared the support material.

Speaking of projects:

While in Dallas I received a couple of phone calls advising that I submit a project proposal through the San Antonio Office of Cultural Affair’s website. I’d previously dismissed the proposal because it seemed I was ineligible. Not so, I learned.

And so, last Friday, I sacrificed five hours of good money at the auction house to hammer out an artistic film proposal. It was a messy rush, but I made the 4pm deadline. If the past is any indication of the future, this will be yet another grant that will slip through my fingers. Oh well … you gotta play to win. The truth is, I couldn’t have said no — I have a San Antonio nonprofit arts organization which will act as my fiscal sponsor. You can’t turn your nose up to partnership.

Creating the proposal took some time, sure, but the fact is I did indeed have a project in mind. It’ll run twenty to forty minutes. My current proposed budget is ten thousand. If the OCA approves the project, they will provide five thousand. Yep. Throw some money at me and I can make this happen.

Well, we’ll see.

Watch this space for mention of the experimental short film, “River Quartet.”

I blame those swine at HEB. When they shut down the HEB supermarket on S. Presa they effectually killed a neighborhood. Restaurants and retail establishments in that area have been going out of business recently. And, importantly, the guy who used to set up his taco truck next to the HEB parking-lot has stopped coming. I guess he just had no customers. This forced me to try another taco truck.

Ah, I can remember the carefree photo I shot last week of this quaint and crude signage while the nice fellow assembled my three tacos al pastor. I even sent a Twitter notice, letting my peeps know how I’m down with southside street eating.

Forty-eight hours later, I was, once again, able to face solid foods. If you find yourself in the vicinity of the fruteria on Roosevelt, a few blocks south of Mitchell, do not be tempted to pick up a tasty treat at the taco truck advertising, among other items, “brakfast tacos.” Do not let my warning keep you away the fruit and veggie shop. They have excellent produce. They also have their own taco truck on premises. This is not the one which poisoned me. What a frightful ordeal. It brought to mind that Monty Python sketch about an Australian wine show, where the expert praised one vintage which was “guaranteed to open the sluices at both ends.”

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I was still a bit shaky Saturday morning when I headed out to attend the César E. Chávez March for Justice. It began at the plaza adjacent to the Guadalupe Theater and wound it’s way through downtown to the Alamo.

It’s fairly straightforward to get to the Guadalupe by bus. The #68 stops at St. Mary’s near Durango. So I caught the Blue trolly, got a transfer, and took it down to St. Marys. Walked two blocks. As I was waiting on the 68, an SUV drove by and sounded the horn a couple times. It passed by too fast for me to see who was honking at me. Later, while I was on the bus, I noticed I had a text. It was from Drew. “Need a ride?” The Film Commission offices are near that bus stop, so I assume he was putting in some weekend hours. Don’t let no one tell you the San Antonio Film Commission ain’t out busting its ass.

There was a small crowd when I arrived at the Avenida Guadalupe. Various speeches from activists and politicians. I only recognized three people. They were all on stage. After some crowd-boostering chants and some music interludes, the people slowly started to move out to the street, lining up with their groups. I hung back sitting on a bench. That’s when I heard a familiar voice shout out: “E Boss!” It was Jessica Torres running my way. She climbed the rising tiered amphitheater rings until she was towering over me.

I asked her why she wasn’t lugging a camcorder around. She said that that was last night when she was videotaping the Lila Downs show. I asked here about some of the student video groups she works with — just catching up on gossip. There was one question that had been bugging me about one of the organizations, so I asked. She pulled back and gave me a look of pretend shock, as corny as though she were acting in a silent film. “Let’s just say, I know something you don’t know,” she finally said. “Fair enough,” I replied. “It’ll make its way out. Everything does, eventually, in this town.”

She went off to join her mom. I wandered around, checking out the politicians making the rounds, shaking hands, and trying their god damnedest to be noticed. And then I saw Veronica with her husband and daughters. And, of course, no cultural event would be of note without John Standford, octogenarian communist — you probably have seen him and his wife at art events passing out copies of “The People’s Weekly World.” His wife, Jo, has been having trouble getting around. So John was in attendance alone with his infectious smile and his hand-made anti-war sign.

I sent a couple Twitter updates during the four mile march. And I’m a bit surprised that no one whose twitter feed I subscribe to was in the march. True, this march isn’t as huge as San Antonio’s MLK march (the largest in the nation), but I’d guess we were about 700 strong.

Somewhere near the Alameda, we came abreast a couple dozen tough-looking vatos sitting astride their Harley’s parked in a neat angled row. They saluted us as we passed with raised fists and the deafening roar of their bikes being revved full throttle.

As we filed our way through the barricades into the area around the Alamo, I looked up to see Tonya Drake, Special Events Manager for Downtown Operations. If there’s one thing that San Antonio does well, it’s to run massive events all year round in the downtown area. And Tonya is in the thick of it all, making things run smoothly. She (and all of the downtown ops people) was invaluable during all the planning for Luminaria. Whilst we, the steering committee, were busy patting ourselves on our backs because what we were doing was huge — fucking HUGE, I tell you! — Tonya would be sitting quietly in the corner with a note book smiling indulgently and patiently. She facilitates at least a dozen events every year of the scale of Luminaria or bigger. The César Chávez march is an example. And when she reached out to shake my hand Saturday, she was as calm and in control as usual.

I walked over to the portable stage (I believe it’s called a showmobile). Jaime Martinez, the tireless activist and head of the César Chávez March for Justice was onstage adjusting the microphone. I could see, in the wings, Gabriel Vasquez, architect, DJ, and one of the most fearless and outspoken Chicano activists working to rouse the rabble in San Antonio.

I also saw my friend Gloria Vasquez talking to some people seating in folding chairs. She’s been working with Jaime on the march, so I didn’t want to keep her from the schedule of events. I just called out to her, said the day seemed a great success, and snapped this photo of her.

I stayed for a few songs and a few speeches. Henry Cisneros gave a very smart and rousing speech about the history of Chavez and why the man’s legacy was still important. But I was fairly beat. And around three I decided to head home.

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Sunday I headed out for a bike ride. It’s been a little chilly lately because of a recent cold front down from the north. But we’re back with strong gusts from Mexico, sure to warm us back up. That’s what I had to contend with on the outward leg. A strong head wind. It was also a Sunday, and the parks along the river were packed with families doing what families do. So, I was often down-shifting and riding around on the grass when I came up on sprawling barbecues, families fishing, kids walking frisky puppies on twenty foot leashes, and a couple of truly graceless skateboarders (kids, give it up, you’re like elephants lashed to grocery carts).

I took the low-water crossing at Espada dam, took the road behind the refinery, and then I was cruising along the field where Tom Otterness’ installation, “Making Hay,” has been drawing attention from the locals. I like the piece. Three sculptures surrounded by circular hay bales. The installation draws lots of local families. It has also attracted some vandalism. No real surprise. I have heard nothing which has led me to believe that this installation took into account the neighborhood. I suspect that there was a serious community outreach vacuum, and the local young people see this as nothing more than cultural colonialism. But as I like the piece, I hope there was a healthy budget for repairs. And also, because I love the movie “The Wicker Man” (you know, the original) and I love juvenile delinquents, I rather hope that when the neighborhood kids do the obvious (and, really, I’m not talking about human sacrifice) that someone is one hand to video the conflagration.

As I took a right to loop back around to the main trail, a familiar face flashed by. And he waved to me. I pulled over. It was Drew. Twice in two days. He was out with his wife and two daughters. They were all riding bikes and enjoying the beautiful day. The family had paused to enjoy the art installation. We chatted for a while, and then I waved my goodbyes and continued to Mission Espada.

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Tonight (Tuesday) I attended the Westside Arts Coalition’s mayoral forum at the downtown public library. Five of the nine candidates had responded to the request. Trish DeBerry-Mejia, Diane Cibrian, Julián Castro, Sheila McNeil, and Rhett R. Smith. For some reason, Sheila never showed.

I’m not sure if all the candidates had actually been contacted. Amongst the more fringe candidates, only Rhett had a seat at the table. Trish, Diane, and Julián have all served as city council members — so they have viability. And Trish, well, she has money, and that’s another form of viability.

The mayoral race is nonpartisan. But, man, all these four viable candidates who bothered to show up all sounded like Republicans to me. Nary a progressive nor a Green amongst them. This pissed me off. Sure, we had Rhett, with his quasi-Libertarian ramblings. But because he lacks even the most rudimentary communication skills, I was never clear on his positions. He seems rather intelligent. And philosophically I agree with his aggressive defense of civil and human rights. However, I gather he’s a staunch pro-lifer … yet it didn’t come up tonight.

The candidates had been given the questions in advance. A moderator asked the questions and the candidates were allowed to check their notes while make responses. Most of the questions involved the arts. There were about 120 people in the audience. And they did well holding their tongues. Sure there were the occasional catty hisses and low throaty groans when a candidate said something ill-received. I was rather surprised. Is this the best these folks can do who want our votes? I mean, dammit, you guys are supposed to be pandering to artists. How out of touch are you fuckers? Could it be true? Did none of these candidates understand that 70 percent of the people in the audience aren’t Democrats? We’re pretty much Socialists. Get with the program.

We were thirty minutes or more into the two hour forum. I had already taken a washed-out fuzzy photo and attached it to a Twitter comment. I confess I was getting rather bored. And then a dark hulking figure walked down the central aisle and I glanced up to see a portly man in a cheap suit standing facing the candidates.

I whipped out my iPhone and punched out a Twitter broadcast: “Fringe candidate Napoleon Madrid just showed up, yet he wasn’t on the list. Is there gonna be a rumble?”

One of the guys video-taping the event pointed to the sign-up table at the back of the room, and Napoleon lumbered back to talk to someone in charge.

The candidates continued, though a bit off-balance. Clearly they all knew who that large man was.

My assessment of the candidates:

Rhett is a nut. He may have been the only pro-civil rights candidate there, but his ability to verbalize his thoughts are abysmal. He had made some comment about secularism. And afterwards he came up to talk to Deborah, Rose, Dave, and myself. Dave asked him to explain his secular statement. “Are you advocating a theocracy?” Dave asked. The candidate replied no, quite the opposite. And when the four of us told him that we thought he was pushing religion, he seemed unfazed. Rose even said: “I think you need to explain yourself more clearly.” We were all nodding. But he wasn’t listening. I felt like grabbing him and shouting, “dammmit, we’ve 8 college degrees among us, we’re not idiots, and we don’t have a clue as to what you’re saying.” But we smiled and shrugged and let him go on his way.

Trish. Well, she was just going through the motions. She’s pro big business all the way. She’d just as soon turn the Alamo into a Hard Rock Cafe were the Daughters of the Republic of Texas not meaner and more inflexible and, yes, even whiter than she. She may well have been the only candidate in the room who truly did realize that most of us were a bit to the left of Daniel Berrigan. We were not her constituents. She wasn’t courting our votes. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about artists, and it showed.

Diane. She surprised me. I thought she’d have me gagging on her phoniness. But, as she was seated next to Trish, she came across, in comparison, as a genuine human being. But don’t get me wrong. She’s a phony. But she believes her rhetoric. There’s a sweet honesty about her. I think she has a good working idea as to how San Antonio politics work. But what a ghastly mayor she’d make.

Julián. The last time he ran I voted against him. I felt he was too interested in building ties between he city and big business. I don’t know if he’s changed, but the other two viable candidates seem even more horny to sell this city off to the highest bidder than Julián was last election. I don’t know if he’s taken on a spark or two of progressive ideals, or maybe it’s just that the other contenders are all such vile reactionaries, but I’m going to indorse Julián Castro for mayor of San Antonio. The sad fact is, I’m not so convinced that I’d put a sign in my yard.

We’ll see how he does as mayor. I’m convinced he’ll win. The northside affluent anglo vote will clearly be split between Trish and Diane. We’ll have Julián. And I would like to say that when the candidates were asked about the LGBT question, all of them were unanimous in their rush to decry intolerance. But only Julián had the guts (or political savvy) to use the words GAY and LESBIAN, and in a positive manner. And I was pretty sure he was making eye-contact with those well-known queer folks he recognized in the audience. He’s the only clear queer-friendly candidate. I guess that’s the most I can hope for in this year’s mayoral crop.

In closing, I’ll quote my FaceBook addendum to my Twitter (which is linked to FaceBook) … the Twitter comment which read “Fringe candidate Napoleon Madrid just showed up, yet he wasn’t on the list. Is there gonna be a rumble?”

I followed it up with: “No rumble, but he remained on a slow simmer. I got one of his tri-fold manifestos with densely-packed declarative sentences ripe with typos and inexplicably capitalized letters. I’ll say it again, Napoleon Madrid would be my man if only voting ironically weren’t oh so 20th century.”

Also, in the “better late than never” category, fringe candidate Lauro Bustamante also showed up. But, please, he’s about as exciting as a damp Saltine.