Count Orlok Wears a Funny Hat

Damn, it’s freezing. The Oracle of the iPhone tells me it’s currently 57 degrees. And that’s too cold for me. It doesn’t help that’s it’s been coming down with rain most all today. I’m doing my best being proactive. I’ve turned the oven up to broil with the door open. And I’ve lit a full metric chingos of votive candles to give the illusion of heat.

I guess it’s been something of a productive day. This morning I met up with Ramon and Deborah at our favorite taqueria on Fredericksburg Road. The three of us hadn’t gotten together in more than two months. We caught up on one another’s projects. We shared crucial chisme from the art world. And we talked about our future ideas and potential collaborations. Just like old times.

Next, I headed to C4 to do some work. Well, not real work. I set my computer up at my desk and decided to write a short story. This was “Final Monday,” which means that the monthly free writer group would be meeting tonight at Gemini Ink, San Antonio’s premier literary organization, conveniently located about a block away from my office at C4. The problem was, I hadn’t managed to motivate myself over the weekend to write something new. That HAD been the plan. But it fizzled. So, I hunkered down this afternoon, and in about three hours came up with a concept and hammered out a little 1,200 word short story.

Here it is:

http://erikbosse.wordpress.com/2009/10/26/little-altars-out-the-passenger-window/

It was originally titled “Ghost Tracks,” but I realized, as I was posting it to my blog, that that was kinda lame. “Little Altars Out the Passenger Window,” seemed a bit more poetic. It’s loosely based on my work making a little video altar of roadside memorials last year titled “In Memoria / Wind.” I’d link to online video, but it looks like I never posted the piece. Anyway, I was shooting a little shrine beside the railroad tracks near Brackenridge High School when a woman, driving by, stopped to talk to me. The shrine was for her sister, who died on those tracks. I decided to move the action to the Ghost Tracks to open up the metaphor a bit. Maybe this story is worth some further polish.

When I read my piece at Gemini Ink, I found myself hitting that wall that always seems to be there. When I finish reading, there’s a bit of lingering silence, followed by generic comments (some which are even occasionally helpful). But no real statements to make me think I’m going down the right path. Sometimes I wonder how useful this process is. The truth is, I keep doing it because it forces me to produce. Also, there are often writers who read wonderful stuff. Actually, tonight was a good session. Enough people showed so that we were broken into two groups. All of the four other writers in my group delivered very strong work…and I’d like to think that my work was up to their caliber. I’m glad I was able to add my voice to a night of solid, impressive prose work.

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While I was printing up copies of my story at C4, Drew Mayer-Oakes dropped by. He said that the San Antonio Film Commission had been approached by someone who wanted to know if there was any office space in town to rent for post production work. I knew Drew had visited C4 before, but things at C4 are always in flux. I showed him the current configuration of the space and encouraged him to talk to Todd or at least send film editors in the direction of C4. Even if things seem, at first glance, not to be a good fit, I would like people to know that C4 Workspace is mutable, malleable, and as accommodating as a community space can be.

One of the things Drew said as I was showing him around was: “Back when I freelanced, I would have loved a place like this.” Something like that. And, truly, that’s why I’m renting space at C4. It’s a great place for freelancers, free-agents, and creative types who can work out of an office that fits in a rucksack.

Check it out, man:

http://www.c4workspace.com/

Speaking of Drew and the San Antonio Film Commission, I hope to see a packed room at the downtown library for the October Film Forum. It’s tomorrow (Tuesday) night. It’s free and the topic is screenwriting. Drop by at 6:30 to network. The program officially begins at 7pm.

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We just had a nice weekend for film events in this portion of Texas. The Austin Film Festival as well as the Sequin Film Festival. Both are excellent. But, as I was broke, I couldn’t even justify the gas to either event. Instead, Saturday, I rode my bike downtown for an al fresco screening of Murnau’s silent classic, “Nosferatu.” It was put on by Rick and Angela of Slab Cinema fame. Other than their Thursday night screenings in HemisFair Park, they have also been working with Marisela Barrera and the Main Plaza Conservancy to present the CineMundo monthly series of foreign films at Main Plaza. The music which accompanied Saturday’s screening was provided by Mombassa Code, and they gave us a free-jazzy score with occasional sound effects. The weather played in our favor. Cool, but not yet too chilly. A few mosquitoes, but that only added to the blood-sucking theme. In fact, there was a line I don’t recall from previous viewings. Hutter, our protagonist, wakes up after his first night at Count Orlok’s castle and he writes a letter to his wife back home. “I awoke this morning to two mosquito bites on my neck, strangely very close together.” Ha! How naive!

It seems late in the season, but I swear I saw two bats flit by overhead. How fitting.

“Trick or Tweet,” the 2007 48 Hour Film Project short from the iChingao! team screened before “Nosferatu.” Director Jessica Torres was in the audience with her parents. Pocha and Payan were also there. A nice cheap night in downtown San Antonio, surrounded by wonderful people.

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For those who’ve seen my short film, “Operation Hitman,” you’ve seen part of my neighborhood. The two houses shown in the opening scene belong to my next-door neighbors and the family who live across the street from them. Not only are they all excellent people and perfect neighbors, but they also kick ass during Halloween, often working with similar themes.

I woke up Sunday morning (well, maybe it was the afternoon), and as I was filling my coffee press pot with boiling water I glanced out my kitchen window. An enormous tipi had been constructed in front of the house where I’d shot “Operation Hitman.” Well, I had to take a picture. Sure, I could have shot it through my window or off my porch, but I needed to do something else. So, I put on a pair of pants, grabbed my camera, and walked outside. As I approached, Jerry greeted me. “How’s it going Erik!”

I lined up my camera for a good shot and replied in a loud voice:

“It looks like someone  tipi’ed your house last night.”

Yes, my stupid and inane pun went over well. I don’t often let fly with puns, maybe because my father used them so often. But I do like a good pun. I might not laugh, but I’ll almost always smile.

I understand that Dina and Bradley, across the steeet from Jerry, will be working on a cowboy motief. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Little Altars Out the Passenger Window

[A 1,200 word short story I wrote this afternoon (Monday, Oct. 26, 2009) between 12:30 and 3:30. A first draft, to be sure. I'll call it my 2009 Halloween story, though it's not so scary as it is sad.]

Little Altars Out the Passenger Window
by Erik Bosse

There’s a lonely stretch of road on the south side of San Antonio between the old Spanish Missions of San Juan and Espada. It’s a mile-long straight shot running parallel to the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks. Many people in town are familiar with this region, as the southern reach of the road crosses the notorious “Ghost Tracks,” a railroad crossing purportedly haunted by the children who died when their school bus was struck by a train. The problem is, no one seems to be able to track down any newspaper report of this event. I ride this road maybe three times a week on my bicycle, and from my experience, if there are ghosts haunting this area, most likely it would be from the carcasses of the family pets dumped out here. It’s no doubt easier than digging a hole. Every few days I encounter a new box or trash bag surrounded by a cloud of flies and stench. There are also live pets abandoned here–I see them eyeing me hopefully as they cringe at the fence-lines of the surrounding farms. There are also three roadside altars along the road: markers where some drunken or dozing driver lost control of his car and perished unseen and alone.

I had wrangled a photography show at an Alamo Street gallery for Día de los Muertos, which was just a week away. The plan was to shoot a dozen of the more interesting roadside altars around town, but I hadn’t yet done a single photo.

I decided to begin with one of the alters about half a mile from the “Ghost Tracks,” as it was the only one of the three on that road which showed any signs of upkeep. It was early afternoon when I pulled off the road in my truck. There was still a chill in the air and the trees clustered across the road from me were still dripping from the heavy rains that morning. I grabbed my tripod and camera and walked up to the large live oak tree. There were four tall votive candles at the base of the tree each with about an inch of rain water in the glass holders. Further up the tree trunk a heavy iron grill that looked like it belonged to a backyard barbeque had been hung with huge nails driven into the tree. Attached to the bars of the grill were all manner of sentimental objects: a little weathered and sodden teddy bear, white silk flowers, plastic beaded necklaces, some cards with pictures of saints, a tiny gift shop acoustic guitar, and a rosary with pink beads and a silver-painted crucifix.

The clouds, which had been running low and fast on my drive out, were breaking up and the sun began throwing some pleasing shadows. I set up the shot with the grill in the foreground–I was zoomed in as tight as my lens would allow, so that the train, when it finally made its appearance, would be massive and imposing in the background. A slow shutter would leave it’s motion smeared like a river surging by.

Now it was just a matter of waiting. I was toying with the idea of reframing the shot to include a crude carving on the tree which read “Yolanda 4 Ever,” but I wasn’t sure if it was part of the altar. At the sound of a car approaching, I turned around. It was an old green El Camino. I watched as it slowed and rolled to a stop in the grass between me and my truck. Conjunto music with a heavy base line and a strident accordion came from the open windows. A young woman sat in the driver’s seat watching me from behind sunglasses. Beside her sat an old man in a baseball cap reading a newspaper. The twisted front bumper was held fast with a large link chain and bailing wire.

The music stopped abruptly and the woman cut off the engine, which dieseled onerously with a low throaty cough before finally dying. That’s when I heard the long, wavering train whistle. I looked back toward the tree, and the train track beyond. I could see the bright headlight from the train–it had just turned that little bend near the cemetery across from Mission San Juan. It was coming in fairly fast, and I tried to ignore the woman as she climbed out of the car and began walking toward me. I needed to get this shot, because who knew when another train would come along. I could see, from my peripheral vision, that she had come to a stop about fifteen feet from me. She took off her glasses and crossed her arms.

The train was about to enter the frame–the rumbling of steel wheels along iron rails and the whistle screaming all came crashing into me like physical thing. That’s when I squeezed off a shot. I took another three exposures with slightly different settings and placements. Then I put on the lens cap, like a diner placing his napkin on the table, to indicate he was done with his meal. I turned to the woman with what I hoped was a pleasant and cordial smile.

As we stood there, facing one another with the train lumbering by, she pointed with her folded sunglasses at the tree.

“You’re not messing with that, are you?” she shouted over the noise. I didn’t make out the words at first.

“What? Oh, no,” I said slowly and loudly. “I’m just taking pictures.”

She furrowed her brows. At that point the final train car sped past, snatching with it all the thunder and high-pitched metallic squealing.

“It’s for a photography show.” I added. “At an art gallery.”

“Oh,” she said, with an understanding dip of her head, as if art explained everything. “It’s just that if my mother saw anyone messing with this, she’d be sick. This is for my sister, Yoli.”

She walked to the tree and fussed with the silk flowers by reshaping the petals with the wire inside the fabric.

“You should come back out with your camera next week. Me, my mother, and my nieces, we’ll redo it. We freshen it up every few months.” She was wearing an orange t-shirt, faded jeans, and flip-flop sandals. Her hair was held back with what looked like a strip torn off a dish towel. She looked like she was about twenty.

“She was in a car accident?” I asked.

“What?” She turned around and was looking down at my camera.

“Your sister.”

“Oh.” She slipped her sunglasses into the front pocket of her jeans. “It was up there,” she said, pointing to the rise of the train tracks. “She was walking along the tracks with her boyfriend. They were drunk. Someone said they saw them pushing each other when the train was coming up. You know, pretending. Kids do stupid stuff. Sergio, her boyfriend, well his parents sent him to live with his grandparents in Laredo. It was an accident, everyone knows that, but, you know, the kids at school and everything.”

She bent down to empty the water from the candle holders and stood up with a sigh. “Come on back next week, it’ll be pretty.” She smiled at me and nodded and walked back to her car.

“Hey,” I said. “When did this happen?”

She turned. “On her birthday,” she said. “On Yoli’s birthday.” And I watched her get in the truck with the old man and drive off.

Slyly Prospecting My Unguarded, Ample Flesh

It’s been a strange week with freaky weather. Tuesday I holed up, watching a bunch of Gloria Swanson silent films via the Netflix “view now” option. Man, she was a real master of low-key nuance. She could convey a whole series of internal events with just a couple of movements of her eyes. Interesting that such a sensitive and natural actor would enjoy working with such a stodgy director like DeMille who was a “big picture” man, figuratively a well as literally. I understand many actors hated him because he never gave them direction. But maybe Swanson enjoyed the freedom to insert her own interpretations. Clearly she was a strong personality, making intelligent decisions concerning her career even while in her teens. I get a sense she never put up with anyone’s bullshit, yet no one ever seemed to have called her an asshole.

Wednesday was more productive. I managed to wash a load of laundry and get it up on the line and back down during a sporadic break in the rain clouds. I also managed to sneak in a fifteen mile bike ride deep into the south side without encountering rain. But after that early afternoon period, all bets were off. It came down heavy now and again while I was at my desk at C4 sending out pleading requests for Luminaria film submissions, and also revamping my website. The skies, however, decided to smile on me as I drove to URBAN-15 for a Luminaria steering committee meeting. But once I made a break for the door–just as the meeting was nearing a close–the rains were hammering down. I was already running ten minutes late for a meeting with ST Shimi at Joe Blues over at Blue Star. As I scrambled through the URBAN-15 parking lot towards my truck I was pulling my jacket over my head to keep the soaking to a minimum. And that’s when my bike bag holding my laptop slipped off my shoulder. Shit. I picked it off the ground and ran to my truck. What should have been a four minute drive to Blue Star took quite bit longer. The rains had my visibility down to maybe fifty feet. The other cars on the road were crawling. By the time I hit the Blue Star complex the rain had stopped. But, dammit, the water, in the parking lot, was about ankle deep. I slogged quickly and made it to Joe Blues no worse off than any other submerged rodent. Perhaps I should have asked if they had some cocoa, but I’d recalled Russ raving about what a wonderful dirty martini they make. I got one of those. And Russ was quite correct. It warmed me up much better and much quicker than hot chocolate.

My plan is to do a short experimental film with ST Shimi hooping (dancing with a hula hoop) on the limestone blocks of the low-water crossing between the Blue Star Arts Complex and my neighborhood of Baja King William. Shimi seems down with it. And I hope Siggi Ragnar is still interested in bringing his expertise, aesthetic, and aerial camera into the mix. This project will serve several purposes. The two most important purposes to me will be: a.) a stand-alone experimental film, and, b.) a polished work-sample to accompany my future proposals for “River Quartet,” a larger project, for which I hope to find funding.

It was great spending some time talking with Shimi. Even though I’ve never really spent any time conversing with her, I have seen many of her dance and acting performances, as well as her work hosting the W-I-P, and other events at the Jump-Start Performance Company. Also, she’s a “friend” on Facebook, and we all have had those moments when we feel we know someone quite well who we have never spoken to. That Shimi’s smart and funny was no surprise; but I learned that she, like myself, has very clear opinions about much of the San Antonio arts and cultural scene based on her personal experience. She’s very plugged in. Anyway, I’m looking forward to working with her on this film, and I hope it leads to further projects, as I have always loved collaborating with massively intelligent and creative people.

Other than this river project, I also have, in the works, in the hopper, my Luminaria proposal. “The Confrontation Box.” I was playing with this idea last year, but I was overwhelmed by the paucity of my technical skills. I needed to hard-wire a proximity sensor to trigger a randomized digital video player which would play off a computer or DVR onto a monitor or a digital projector. However, I’ve scrapped some of the tech bullshit. The plan previous called for the audience (one at a time) to stick his or her head into this box and activate a TV screen of close-up video footage of an actor laying down some shit on you; in essence, confronting you with his or her ideas…perhaps concerning your shortcomings. Very intimate. You pull your head out–the sensor programs a reset. When the next person sticks in his or her head, a randomly selected clip begins the confrontations afresh and anew. So, this year, I’m making it damn simple. I’ve got a box. And in this box is a monitor, a DVD player, and speakers. You stick you head in. The video is on a loop. Twelve actors confronting you with six different scenarios–demanding, bitching, confronting, whatever–and the whole piece lasts maybe three or four minutes. The audience (taken one at a time) can peek in for this intimate experience for seconds or minutes. Leave when you’ve had enough abuse. And, even if you are enjoying the experience (you insignificant worm), please don’t stay beyond a single three minute loop. There are others waiting their turn. Or so I shall hope.

So, in the next week or two I will be contacting a dozen actors who I know can do an effortless job playing mean. I can only hope that Evie A. Armstrong is available. That woman can play a harridan and still have you fall in love with her. And, well, I know of others. You know, some of the quiet, closet bitches…and of course those who are more overt. This city’s acting community is fill of you guys and gals. Yeah, you’ll be hearing from me.

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It’s Friday night. The rains have given rise to hordes of mosquitoes. Some have managed to sneak into my house. And just when I gave a little yelp of satisfaction from having slain one of the little blood-suckers, I spied another in my peripheral vision as she slyly prospects her way towards some nether region of my ample, unguarded flesh. This is driving me nuts. I have neither bee-keeper suit nor can of Deep Woods Off. Dammit! These domestic mosquitoes have succeeded in chasing me out of the house…maybe this is a good thing; otherwise, I would have pissed the day away watching silent era adaptations of Jules Verne’s adventures on Netflix online.

But I got out there and took in a bike ride to Espada and back, dodging the thick mud-slicks which had flowed across the bike path from the recent monsoons. It was in the upper sixties, and that’s pretty damn chilly for me. I had a strong wind at my back for the ride out. That means the northern cold front is still pushing into town. I took a break behind Mission San Juan and walked along the levee. About a dozen snowy egrets were ambling about in the flood plain, poking about for things to eat. There were also three huge blue herons down there who were being more vocal and playful than I tend to expect from the species. They’d occasionally take wing (alone, or in groups of two or three) and make a large circle and land back at the shoreline, crying out with their nasal coughs. Quite a sight.

Back home, after a shower, I remembered what had chased me out earlier. Fucking mosquitos! I grabbed a coffee can full of coins that sits on my kitchen counter. I bid adieu to my mosquitos and headed to the HEB on Nogalitos, because I was pretty sure I’d seen a Coin Star machine near their self-serve pastry racks. I’d finally used up all my loose cash generated from the Fort Worth book show, and I was kind of afraid to look at my bank balance. And so I plundered my piggy bank. Not bad–my Café Bustelo can had been stuffed with over 47 dollars in change.

Now that I was flush, I made a pit stop at my neighborhood Pik Nik and order some 75 cent tacos. I went home and had my late lunch while answering a couple of lingering emails and making a phone call concerning a potential paying video gig (the only hint of such work in over a month).

It was getting dark and beginning to cool off, but the mosquitoes were not yet affected (below a certain temperature mosquitoes don’t feed, but that magic threshold hadn’t yet materialized). I got in my truck and drove to the Dollar General Store. I needed a couple of 9 volt batteries. I hate 9 volts. They are inexplicable expensive. And, even though I know they make rechargeable 9 volts (and I believe my little battery charger can accommodate them), I have never seen them for sale. (True, I could order online, but when I have the money, this never occurs to me.) The only reason I use 9 volts is because of my pair of wireless lavalieres. If I’m using both, that’s four batteries in all. Each lav has a transmitter and a receiver. I’m playing around with only one this weekend, so I’ll be okay with two batteries. When I walked into the Dollar Store I was all turned around. They’d rearranged the shop. The place was now stuffed. The aisles are too damn tight. And not just for fat bastards like me. I doubt the place could pass an inspection. Surely these new tightened aisles can’t be ADA compliant. But on a high-note, there’s a new young employee, and she has the coolest sea turtle tattoo on her upper arm.

Now I’m back home and the mosquitoes have bedded down for the night. All I have to do is make sure not to turn on the heat tonight.

Oh, right, I don’t have heat.

Damn. I’d better figure this out before I get too deep into November. Winter’s coming.

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In 2007 I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It’s a silly grassroots approach to writing advocacy. The premise is that during November wanna-be writers can commit to hammering out 50,000 words. Yes, this is short for a novel, but it’s also a doable goal for people with honest bill-paying day jobs. Now, I have to display some serious chagrin in the admission that I was unable to make the 50,000 work goal two years ago. I had a nice novel concept. And I hope to finish it–maybe I’ll get back to it next year. I sort of stalled in my daily word count in the second week and wasn’t able to catch up…I think I managed about 28,000 words. And even though the manuscript shows promise, I haven’t added to in since.

I didn’t doing anything for 2008. I was too depressed watching a dear friend of mine fighting for his life, and this sort of creative stunt nonsense seemed beyond puerile.

This year, however, puerile doesn’t seem like such a dirty word.

I’m taking the NaNoWriMo challenge.

My project will be “Presumably the Remnant of an Ancient Infection,” a collection of interconnected short pieces which build to a cohesive whole.

I’ve been working, in a half-ass manner, for maybe six years on this project. I’ve placed over a dozen short pieces on my blog/website. And I’ve generated quite a few other unfinished works attached to this project. Added to that, my stalled 2007 NaNoWriMo project, “The Cucuy Club,” is part of that same universe.

My plan for November is to walk away from these hundred or more pages already written about this realm and start from scratch. Strap in and hammer out at least 50,000 words from this quasi-autobiographical surreal magical realistic slipstream universe. I mean, why not? It’s the San Antonio I live in every day of my life as it is. If I start fresh, there will be (I’m hoping) a tighter integrity of voice and narrative focus throughout the whole.

So, here’s hoping I don’t crap out (like 2007). I plan to be posting some highlights. And if any of you who’ve stumbled on my blog are planning to do NaNoWriMo this year, drop me a line.

Strawberry Smoothy (With a Pickled Jalapeño on Top)

Well, things are looking up. It looks like Ashley Lindstrom is back writing at the SA Current. Things had gotten pretty grim recently. The only reason I continued to look at our “alternative” paper is because of Greg Harman. I suspect that Ashley’s just picking some work for hire, but I have to admit a weakness for her writing. This isn’t the admission of a guilty pleasure, because I do admire her work. But the thing is, she’s ginning out the chick non-lit with no apologies. Bitching and biting, yeah, this comes out around the edges; yet the words still flow all sparkly and sweet like champagne poured over a strawberry smoothy.

Who else could reference a blow job in a review of the San Antonio Classic Theater’s presentation of Oliver Goldsmith’s “She Stoops to Conquer” and still float off into the pillowy clouds as inoffensive as a commercial for bathroom tissues? Well, I suspect I could, but, naw, it’d come out downright creepy. My challenge to Ms. Lindstrom is for her to find a way to slip the term “rim job” into a review of the up-coming production by the Magik Children’s Theatre of “If Your Give a Moose a Muffin.”

Let’s look at Ashley’s review of Mary Harder’s transvestite vampire film, “Donato, King of the Vampire Drags.” The title of the review? “There Won’t Be Blood.” Check it out:

http://www.sacurrent.com/film/review.asp?rid=13997

It’s a nice piece of writing. And contrary to one’s first impression, this is not a bad review. Well, not completely. I hazard that Mary can find some pull-quotes from the piece. Ashley remains buoyant and playful throughout this piece. I can only hope that someone like Ashley is around when my underground feature film, “The Halitosis Chauffeur’s Impacted Molar Is Removed,” gets a broader release.

Welcome back, Ashley! You’ve been missed.

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Friday night I headed over to the Radius Center for an inaugural mixer of a new San Antonio group, SAFAM (which stands for, I believe, the San Antonio Film and Arts Movement).

The folks running this are great. They are young and ingenuous idealists. As a local filmmaker in his forties said, “Oh, they’re so cute.”

The turnout was impressive. This may have had more to do with Veronica Hernandez, president of the local chapter of NALIP (SAFAM and NALIP both share offices at the Radius Center). That and the promise of free beer. When I first heard of SAFAM (via video clips on Facebook), I was dismissive. They placed Film in their name, but none of the members were known to me or any of the people in the local industry I’ve spoken with. But by the time their first event happened, they were surrounded with film folk. I suspect Veronica pushed this upon them. These wide-eyed youngsters who seem to have more of a business and music industry background, suddenly found themselves cheek to jowl with other local film organizations (who are actually doing what SAFAM claims they want to do): NALIP, TXMPA, CineVeliz, and San Antonio Filmworks Institute.

It looks like all sorts of shit’s going on in this city as far as film and video is concerned. And now we have another organization. But they, SAFAM, claim they are going to raise us all out of the muck. Who knows, maybe they will.

After the initial meet-and-great and networking period, we were all requested to move to the larger space to hear the SAFAM folks pitch their dream.

One of my favorite lines went something like this: “Most of you don’t know who we are. But that’s because we’re only 63 days old [or whatever length of time their organization has been around].”

“What the fuck,” I muttered sotto voce to a fellow filmmaker standing beside me who I’ve known for over five years. “We don’t know you guys because we have never fucking seen you before.” I mean this literally. The images of your faces have never passed through the lenses of our eyeballs and registered in our brains. The filmmakers and the artists in this city have no idea who you guys are. No fucking clue.

Later, as the SAFAM crowd suggested that everyone interested in buying a two dollar red rubber wristband should do so (so that we will be able to recognize one another if we cross paths in, say, Wal-Mart)–and hurry up, because all people with red SAFAM wristbands should stand under their SAFAM banner and point up with whichever arm sported the band. This was a clever marketing photo op. But all I could do was lean over to Joel Settles or was it Victor Payan, and ponder if “this is the way the Brownshirts started out?”

Keep an eye out for future SAFAM event. I suspect they will continue with the free beer motif (the sure-fire way to generate attendance in San Antonio). Also, if future SAFAM events attract the same caliber of cool people as last weekend, you can be sure to engage in interesting and productive conversations.

I know of several projects which were launched Saturday night, if for no other reason than it was a neutral context where film people could congregate and remind themselves that, “hey, I like a lot of these people, and I want to work with some of them.” Personally, I pulled a couple of people into a project I want to shoot in early November. So, thank you SAFAM. And who nows, I may well become a staunch supporter in the near future. But that bracelet idea, it’s creepy as fuck.

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Saturday night was the second and final night of the Renaissance Guild’s ActOne Series. This is their Vol. XIV of this program where original one act scripts are submitted from all over the world. Those which are selected are directed and acted by local talent, primarily those with a history of working with the Renaissance Guild, “San Antonio’s Premiere Black Theatre Company,” one of my favorite community groups. The ActOne Series happens two times a year, so I guess this means they’ve been doing this for seven years. The company itself is moving into its tenth year. I happened to find a seat next to Lee Hurtado and Nikki Young. Nikki’s been involved with the Renaissance Guild since the very early days, and she told me that the very first ActOne performance was staged at the Continental Cafe, and not at its current location, but across the street. The Renaissance Guild’s founders, Latrelle Bright, Danielle King and Paul Riddle, Jr., should be proud to have created such a strong and long-lived company and community. The audiences just seem to keep growing.

For maybe three or four years the RG made their home at Jump-Start Performance Company. This was certainly convenient to me, as it’s within walking distance. But their new home, at the Little Carver Civic Center (just behind the “big” Carver) is a very nice space. And I certainly can’t complain because it’s just a few minutes away by car.

There were eight plays. I knew four of the directors. They were all actors I had either worked with or whose performances I had enjoyed on many occasions.

My two favorite pieces were in the second half. “Finger Food” closed the night. It was a playful farce of a fork and a spoon forlornly waiting at a buffet restaurant, hoping to be chosen, yet seemingly antiquated in a world of finger foods.

The other standout piece was “Stuffed,” directed by Hector Machado. Hector’s a very talented actor, and I’ve had the great privilege of sharing a set with him. He’s also moved into writing and directing. He helped guide his two powerful actors to deliver some wonderful work in “Stuffed.” Charles Riley is amazing. Krystal as the spunky, bratty bitch of a child is a joy to watch. You don’t even mind when it becomes clear that she is doomed. I mean, really, you don’t take your mama’s beloved cat who you inadvertently killed to neighborhood taxidermist (a paroled psycho killer living in his mother’s garage) because “it’d be better to giver her a stuffed cat than no cat at all,” and not expect some black comedic karmic slap-down. Hector did a smart job giving this piece some heavy emotional weight.

The rest of the pieces ranged from good to dreadful (well, I think there were only two which were truly godawful).

I think what bothered me the most was that some of the pieces were just simply poorly written. I don’t know the size of the original pool of submitted work, but I’ll give the RG the benefit of the doubt and assume that what we saw was indeed the best of the submission pile. I hope they get better submitted work in the years to come.

However, each play had at least one or two strong elements, be it script, director, or acting. And we, the audience, are constantly reminded that many of these actors have never been on stage before. Some of the directors and writers are first-timers. Don’t forget that this is community theater. And maybe I’ll stop carping and bitching and go ahead and submit a one-act play to the next series.

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My little success Monday was to get my grant proposal into the Artist Foundation of San Antonio. Hey, look at me, I got it in nine and a half hours before the online deadline! So I treated myself to a late lunch at Tito’s with some cheese enchiladas. (Man, their prices keep going up and up–it might be time to walk away, even though the food’s so tasty….)

I’m confidant that my proposal is pretty strong. But all I need is someone like, I dunno, Mark Wally and Angela Guerra (AKA the Prime Eights) submitting a proposal and beating me…because, well, you know, they’re better filmmakers.

Whatever. It’s all out on the wind. Time to turn my attention elsewhere.

Exotic Harvest of Pancreatic Hormones

Last Saturday was a great day for art in San Antonio. There were two events in my part of town that caught me unawares. The first was the King William Garage Sale. (True, of little art-importance.) This is a neighborhood-wide opportunity for folks around here to tote their crap out onto the lawns and porches and flog it to the masses. I was wondering what all the racket was that woke me up at the ungodly hour of nine am. I peeked out the window and saw a yard sale across the street at Chip and Becky’s place. But it wasn’t until I was checking up on my Twitter feeds that I saw that Todd O’Neil was busy over at C4, opened for a half day to get some soundproofing done and also to provide something of an open house for the swarms of bargain-hunting pedestrians out for the King William garage sale. I guess I should read those neighborhood newsletters instead of just using them to wrap my coffee grounds.

Another event was Chalk It Up, an annual art show put on by ArtPace where artists create work on downtown sidewalks in chalk. I always miss this. I suppose I could have headed out when I learned about it, but I didn’t have it in me. How did I learn about it? Twitter. So all you Twitter haters, my recommendation is to choose who you follow. Sam Lerma clued me in about Chalk It Up whilst he was out shooting video for whatever TV station he works for. (Does anyone even own a TV anymore?) In another plug for Social Media, I was able to see a few images from Chalk It Up via the Facebook page of my neighbor, Marlys Dietrick. She’s a kick-ass artist who took part for the first time this year in Chalk It Up. Cool stuff.

My initial goal for the day was to head out to the Alamo Drafthouse for the matinee screenings of the SAL Film Festival. After pausing in the drive-through at Eddie’s Taco House, I drove out to the Alamo Drafthouse. I’m glad to see that Liz Burt is still managing the place. Every event I’ve been to while she’s headed the place has run smoothly and all the employees seem enthusiastic to be working there. Liz greeted me and mentioned that she hadn’t seen me in quite a while. She’s right. They need to move that theater closer to downtown, closer to the pulse of San Antonio art and culture. And am I crazy in thinking that those “W” logos all over the place are new. Yes, I know the theater is in the Westlake Shopping Center. But those capital dubyas are clearly the George W. Bush font. This, of course, reinforces my paranoid suspicion that the sweet juicy pulp of urban San Antonio is surrounded by a desiccated rind populated by soulless reactionaries, who may well be shape-shifting reptiles from Epsilon Eridani IV here to harvest our pancreatic hormones … but, again, that’s just speculation.

My favorite piece from SAL was “Journey of the Opportunist” by Angela Guerra and Mark Walley (AKA, the Prime Eights). It’s a beautiful and moving work of art. It has retro sensibilities right out of the early seventies, yet the work is still fresh and contemporary. It’s a wonderful achievement.

Other stand-outs were, of course, Sam Lerma’s perfect “Trash Day,” and AJ Garces’ lush “Death Rattle.” My only complaint with “Death Rattle” is that the script needed to have been seriously work-shopped. There are a couple of lines from the young protagonist that ring false. Those I suppose I could have lived with, but it’s the voice-over narration which is most problematic. And if AJ wants to put some more work into the piece, I’d suggest he get an older actor to provide this important information. This device worked wonderfully in the film adaption of Jean Shepherd’s “A Christmas Story,” where the author, himself, narrates the point of view of little Ralphie Parker from years in the future. All that aside, AJ has created, with “Death Rattle,” the strongest work to have come out of San Antonio from a filmmaker who makes this city his home. Well, in my opinion. But it’s the one that really counts, right?

Here’s a picture of filmamker AJ Garces (top prize winner of SAL) with Dar and Andy Miller, of the SAL Film Festival.

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Hey, speaking of local film-making, I just found this ad on Craig’s List under the San Antonio tv/video/radio jobs section:

“I need a producer for a documentary that was shot 12 years ago. I basically followed two homeless vets around Austin for a year while in film school there. Here are the requirements—-I need a REAL producer…that means you have the $$$ to have the post-production done (with the music of my choice) and the distribution. This is a rewarding opportunity I guarantee you. If anything comes out of this…I promise you will reap the benefits. San Antonio Hacks, rich kids whose mommy and daddy bought them video equipment, and 21 year olds who think they know it all because they’ve seen Pulp Fiction 100 times need NOT apply. This is a serious project about a serious subject matter. Also….it would help if you are politically conservative because I usually don’t get along with lefties. If interested…let me know.”

I’d planned on writing something snide and snarky about Alfonso Emiliano and his recent histrionics, but the above is much sweeter clover for me to roll around in.

I do believe I know this gent above who is seeking a producer. His name is James, as I recall. Nice enough fellow, for a rightie. Some years back he spoke to me about this project. Seems he made a huge mistake. He cut his short documentary to the music of a Merle Haggard song, and those bastards at the record company wanted thousands, maybe tens of thousands of dollars to give him rights. All I can say is, dude, 12 years later and you can’t cut your original footage to different music? Wow! Here’s my recommendation, in three words: Create New Work!

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After SAL I drove home and caught up on some work. As 6pm approached, I headed to the west-side, to the Guadalupe Avenida. La Gloria had finally arrived.

El Noche de la Gloria, the brain child of CALO (headed by Gabriel Velasquez) was created to be something of the west-side’s answer to Luminaria.

La Gloria, year one, kicked ass! I dearly hope this becomes an established annual event.

It was a west-side arts block party, and the most fun I’ve had in months!

It was quite an event.

Drumming and dancing by URBAN-15.

There was the Pop Yo Trunk area where artists could display and sell their stuff out of the backs of lowriders, SUVs, and even a couple of ice cream trucks.

Pop Yo Trunk, that’s where you could hang out with Monessa Esquivel and Annele Spector. They were handing out postcards for an upcoming Methane Sisters show, June 2010. I’m marking my calendar. (I like Monessa’s PoP Yo Trunk shirt–the cutest grease monkey on Guadalupe Street.)

There was an insanly popular fashion show.

Celebrities of tomorrow.

Celebrity vinyl venders

Performance art.

Music, poetry, and on and on.

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Tuesday night I walked over to the Blue Star Contemporary Arts Center to attend The Colloquium. This was the third iteration of the artist forum presented by Leslie Raymond and Jason Stevens (the couple who are also known as Potter-Belmar Labs). The idea is to invite a brace of artists–each speaks (with visual presentation) for 13 minutes. At the end, there is a seven minute session for audience Q&A. It struck me as similar to the TED Talks.

For this, Colloquium III, we had Marilyn Lanfear, Rex Hausmann, Stuart Allen, Franklin Bryson Brooks & Sarah Jones, and Beto Gonzalez. It was a wonderful series of presentations. I only knew two of the presenting artists (Marilyn and Rex), but the entirety of the work was so diverse and the artists all so genuine and articulate that I was happy to have the opportunity to learn about new artist whose works I will gladly follow.

I hope Leslie and Jason keep this program going. It’s a wonderful environment to get to know local artists.

Hell, it made me aware of Stuart Allen. He’s way cool. And if you love or hate or are indifferent to internet porn, then each and every one of you need to be check out: http://pixlporn.com/index.html

And for those who roll their eyes at work so conceptually fomented (meaning pixlporn), check out the quasi folk art of Marilyn Lanfear. I think she’s a fucking genius. http://marilynlanfear.com/