Again, I wonder if I should be editing this stuff. Some of this is just boring, some of it is too specifically related to the time period to mean anything. It went up Friday, January 05, 2007
Inspired by Erik, I'm doing a digest blog. Pretty much just catching up. I know you've been wondering what's up with me, so... here.
Deadline for the Rollergirls video this month. I'm putting it together. It's going to kick ass. You should all order one. Maybe I'll get them to put a pre-order form on the site, give you a chance.
Just back from Reno, spent the week between Christmas and New Year's with the inlaws, including Lisa's brother and family -- three kids (well, two and a baby), wife, dog. Good folks. But their boy is slightly older than ours, and not an appreciated influence. Lots of fighting, in a fraternal way, meaning that while they like each other a lot, they hate each other, too. He'd go into fits of rage, lots of rudeness we're having to clean up now that we're home. We got in a little later than we'd planned, our flight delayed. Touched down on the runway at midnight, New Year's Eve. We saw fireworks going off from above. Not as cool as you might think. They look so huge from below, but very tiny from above. The boy had finally passed out, after a week of chocolate and cousins. We looked at him, so peaceful, and I remarked that he's a great kid, and I'm so glad we don't have more than one. Lisa said she hoped nothing happened to her brother and sister-in-law. Seemed like a nonsequitor to me, but I said yeah, that'd be horrible, and she gave it a moment for the realization to hit. Oh, crap. Are we signed up to take those kids if their parents were gone? She nodded. I'm going to require those two to take separate cars and planes from this point out.
I skiied in Reno. Or, as the knowledgable say (in Goofy cartoons and probably nowhere else), "shiied." As my expectations were dependent entirely upon James Bond movies, I'll admit they were not met. But it was fun. When it wasn't miserable. I'm still suffering. I entered into the exercise with a dread fear of being rent groin to sternum, and so tended to keep my knees together. That was not the right thing to do. One has to spread one's legs quite a bit to stop (until one learns the right way to do it). Feel the wind on your crotch. And so I was battling my preservation instinct all the way down the mountain. Twice. (And, really, shouldn't ones "preservation instinct" be left in the lodge next to the shoes and wallet before one embarks on throwing oneself down a snowy mountainside?) My technique for stopping tended to be "agony of defeat" pinwheeling falls, snow and skis and poles flying everywhere. My left groin still reminds me, a week later, that I need to get limber. Who's for Hot Body Yoga?
Ate very well in Reno, though. We went to an Indian restaurant, first time in way too long. I get Thai now and then, but when you really want the curry experience, you gots to go Indian. And this place was incredible. Seriously, I filled myself nigh unto bursting and was tempted to find a feather and go back. I know, Freddy and Shari, I know, but you need to give it another chance.
My other significant 2006 deadline, the soccer video, is also coming to an end. The Air Force colonel who contracted me to do this has gotten orders for Honduras, so we need to get it done. Only, he's the talent, and he's the one who's been dragging. Now we have only a few days left, and the weather hasn't beem favorable. In fact, we tried shooting the other day, two days before Christmas. He's out there in his soccer shorts, trying to speak his lines, frozen rain coming down sideways. I finally had to call it, not out of any concern for his well-being (indeed, although I rather like the guy, I was enjoying his predicament), but because I could see his breath. Maybe it's getting done this weekend.
My script for Short Ends was greeted by producer Matthew Jasso with nothing less than rapture. He called it the first script for one of these things that he thought in advance might make a good movie. It is a reflection of his respect for it that he omitted the phrase "except for mine." It's not an omission he makes often. I like the script. Wes (the first-time director) and I met this week, he had some good suggestions, I rewrote, and it came out a lot creepier. I hope it comes out well. There's a meeting on Sunday for anyone who wants to work on a movie. Ruta Maya, downtown, 3pm. I'll be there, if I'm not shooting soccer video.
Is it me, or has Sam Lerma departed MySpace for parts unknown? The weight of newborn responsibility might've caught up with him. I hope instead that he's given up the time-drain that is MySpace so that he can devote more of his life to making movies. We'll miss you.
But as that left a hole in my Top Eight, I decided to shuffle. See if you can figure out my theme for this week.
I've also added a new song, Henry Mancini's theme for "Experiment in Terror." Mancini is one of the few film-scorers who I'll listen to without the picture. That's not just because he scored so many awful films (seriously, did we think Blake Edwards was good for so long because of the music?) but because Hank was a serious jazz man. I just ordered the first season of "Peter Gunn" on DVD because of the music.
Been reading the collected Joe Kubert Tarzan. It's amazing story-telling. Beautiful, detailed art, sometimes goes pages without dialogue. It reads like "Prince Valiant" without the grandmother smel
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Happy Christmas (War is Over)
Christmas is a holiday. This was posted Monday, December 18, 2006
So, it's December 2006, and nobody but Stephen Colbert and Laura Evans are bitching about a "War on Christmas." Which means it's officially over. A moment of silence for all those brave Christian soldiers who gave their all for the cause. Wal-Mart is like a charnel house, it's all over but the mopping.
What worries me now is that, in fact, they aren't pretending there's a threat to the official US government religion. If they aren't using that to distract us from the fact that we're killing Middle-Easterns by the thousands (and losing our own troops by the hundreds, at least), then exactly what surprise are they going to spring on us this year? Two years ago, it was "look, there's Saddam in a spider-hole!" Last year it was "chain stores and the Democrats hate you!" (Which, in fact, is the truth, but it doesn't have anything to do with religion.) This year? I like to hope that the mid-term elections made them decide to give it up. But it doesn't really seem likely, does it?
I'm not a fan of this time of year. It's not the weather -- unlike most Texans, I like winter, I spent two years in Kansas, and while there's no end of reasons to hate Kansas, the winter's not one for me. Hip-deep snow drifts are my idea of fun. And besides, it's not like it's winter here anyway, calendar be damned. Might as well be Easter, for all the chill in the air now.
No, I'm afraid it's the obvious. I really dislike these holidays. (And yes, Laura, there are more than one.) The lunatic materialism. The lunatic crowds. The lunatic family.
Mostly the family. My mother was sort of obsessive about Christmas when I was a child. Everything had to be just perfect. When I was living with them, the dread began in early November. I never even got to enjoy a Thanksgiving for the anticipation of what was coming at the end of the meal. The house would have to be transformed, and dramatically so. When my parents moved to a new house (after I'd packed out to college), Mom had to have the one with the enormous picture window that opened on a room with cranberry-red walls and ceiling and white trim. She even paid extra to make the previous owners leave their furniture -- all white, naturally. She packs that window with all the tinsel and garlands and trees (that's right, plural) that will fit. (Little wonder they're burgled every few years, the insurance company probably has a folder with my parents' number prepared by every December 10.) A friend's wife once walked in and rudely blurted to my mother the phrase we'd all thought but avoided saying: "it looks like Santa Claus threw up in here!"
Mom's lightened up a bit in recent years, thanks in large part to her discovery of certain prescription chemicals that will take the edge off. (Which she doesn't know I know about, and would deny vociferously if I brought it up anywhere she could hear it, so I don't.) And I've tried to ease up a bit myself -- I can't say I love the decorations, but I tend to keep my trap shut about it. But like all families, we've all been put into certain categories and are stuck with them until we die, and mine is "the guy who wants to destroy Christmas for us all!" My siblings are wary around me, always ready for me to say something that'll light a fuse. And so I can't be comfortable with them. Or Christmas.
Now that I have a child who's old enough to dig it, I'm doing the Christmas thing. I have a tree, as always -- Lisa's understanding, but she's insisted on a tree every year, and she's kind enough not to make me work too hard on it. And there'll be gifts under it come Christmas morning (the boy wants a new bicycle). We went to the school Christmas play the other night (the reason I missed the SA film mixer). I'm enjoying his reaction to all of this (except when he sees a toy commercial on TV). I watched the Pee-Wee Christmas Special the other night (Grace Jones singing "the Little Drummer Boy"!). I'm being good. I know Santa's watching.
But I'll be glad when it's over.
So, it's December 2006, and nobody but Stephen Colbert and Laura Evans are bitching about a "War on Christmas." Which means it's officially over. A moment of silence for all those brave Christian soldiers who gave their all for the cause. Wal-Mart is like a charnel house, it's all over but the mopping.
What worries me now is that, in fact, they aren't pretending there's a threat to the official US government religion. If they aren't using that to distract us from the fact that we're killing Middle-Easterns by the thousands (and losing our own troops by the hundreds, at least), then exactly what surprise are they going to spring on us this year? Two years ago, it was "look, there's Saddam in a spider-hole!" Last year it was "chain stores and the Democrats hate you!" (Which, in fact, is the truth, but it doesn't have anything to do with religion.) This year? I like to hope that the mid-term elections made them decide to give it up. But it doesn't really seem likely, does it?
I'm not a fan of this time of year. It's not the weather -- unlike most Texans, I like winter, I spent two years in Kansas, and while there's no end of reasons to hate Kansas, the winter's not one for me. Hip-deep snow drifts are my idea of fun. And besides, it's not like it's winter here anyway, calendar be damned. Might as well be Easter, for all the chill in the air now.
No, I'm afraid it's the obvious. I really dislike these holidays. (And yes, Laura, there are more than one.) The lunatic materialism. The lunatic crowds. The lunatic family.
Mostly the family. My mother was sort of obsessive about Christmas when I was a child. Everything had to be just perfect. When I was living with them, the dread began in early November. I never even got to enjoy a Thanksgiving for the anticipation of what was coming at the end of the meal. The house would have to be transformed, and dramatically so. When my parents moved to a new house (after I'd packed out to college), Mom had to have the one with the enormous picture window that opened on a room with cranberry-red walls and ceiling and white trim. She even paid extra to make the previous owners leave their furniture -- all white, naturally. She packs that window with all the tinsel and garlands and trees (that's right, plural) that will fit. (Little wonder they're burgled every few years, the insurance company probably has a folder with my parents' number prepared by every December 10.) A friend's wife once walked in and rudely blurted to my mother the phrase we'd all thought but avoided saying: "it looks like Santa Claus threw up in here!"
Mom's lightened up a bit in recent years, thanks in large part to her discovery of certain prescription chemicals that will take the edge off. (Which she doesn't know I know about, and would deny vociferously if I brought it up anywhere she could hear it, so I don't.) And I've tried to ease up a bit myself -- I can't say I love the decorations, but I tend to keep my trap shut about it. But like all families, we've all been put into certain categories and are stuck with them until we die, and mine is "the guy who wants to destroy Christmas for us all!" My siblings are wary around me, always ready for me to say something that'll light a fuse. And so I can't be comfortable with them. Or Christmas.
Now that I have a child who's old enough to dig it, I'm doing the Christmas thing. I have a tree, as always -- Lisa's understanding, but she's insisted on a tree every year, and she's kind enough not to make me work too hard on it. And there'll be gifts under it come Christmas morning (the boy wants a new bicycle). We went to the school Christmas play the other night (the reason I missed the SA film mixer). I'm enjoying his reaction to all of this (except when he sees a toy commercial on TV). I watched the Pee-Wee Christmas Special the other night (Grace Jones singing "the Little Drummer Boy"!). I'm being good. I know Santa's watching.
But I'll be glad when it's over.
Hef and the Boy Scout
I like this story. Nostalgia, to quote myself, is porn for old people, and maybe I'm getting old, but damn it, I like this story. A little tone-poem of an era. I'm tempted to turn it into a short film. Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Been a lot of album rock on the radio lately. The boy wants music when we drive, and the funk station talks all the time, and the college stations aren't dependable, and well, I don't have to tell you that radio sucks anyway, right? But if the CDs come out, the boy demands one of "his" discs, all of which make me want to steer into an embankment.
So it's all the best of the 70s. And the worst. For every Stones or Bowie or Queen song I don't mind hearing over and over, and for every now-and-then like Heart or Fleetwood Mac or Led Zepplin, and for every one-off "oh, I love this song" like Golden Earring's "Radar Love" or T-Rex's "20th Century Boy," there's a hell of a lot of Doors and Johnny Cougar and Bruce Springsteen.
What really jumps out, though, is when they play a Steely Dan song. Horns, organs, Motown backup singers, themes of middle-aged ennui, what the hell was this band doing playing in the era of big guitars and earnest working men wailing about cars and girls?
Listening to the few 'Dan songs they'll play booted a childhood memory onto a front-burner of my cerebellum.
Must've been 1977 or so, that's when the album came out. Would've put me at 12 or 13, prime time for li'l Pete's sexual awakening. I was a Boy Scout, which probably doesn't surprise you. I was going door-to-door, trying to sell something for some damned reason, I forget what. Anyway, there I was, in my little uniform, thumb on a doorbell, all prepared to launch into my spiel.
And the door opens, and there he is. Tall, tanned, glint-eyed, just a touch of gray at the sleek temples. Black turtleneck, at least in my memory, with a herringbone sports jacket, and was there a pipe clutched between his ivories? Maybe. No probably not, because I'm sure I do recall a martini glass in hand. His home, what I could see of it, was the bachelor pad to launch a thousand panties. Probably there was a Nagel print, although I wouldn't have known the artist at the time. I got the hint, maybe it was a scent, of some pneumatic sexpot just out of eyeshot, curled purring on a leather settee, a Manhattan beading sweat on the kidney-shaped coffee table, coasters and tastefully provocative photobooks arranged just so. And Steely Dan's "Aja" was playing on the hi-fi, speakers hidden inside professionally-tended houseplants.
And I saw this, and I heard this, and I smelled this, and I thought... this is what I want to be.
He didn't buy whatever I was selling. I doubt I even managed to stammer out my pitch. But I sure as hell bought what he was selling. And I bet the woman did, too, whoever, wherever she was.
Damn. I gotta pull out my copy of "Aja."
Been a lot of album rock on the radio lately. The boy wants music when we drive, and the funk station talks all the time, and the college stations aren't dependable, and well, I don't have to tell you that radio sucks anyway, right? But if the CDs come out, the boy demands one of "his" discs, all of which make me want to steer into an embankment.
So it's all the best of the 70s. And the worst. For every Stones or Bowie or Queen song I don't mind hearing over and over, and for every now-and-then like Heart or Fleetwood Mac or Led Zepplin, and for every one-off "oh, I love this song" like Golden Earring's "Radar Love" or T-Rex's "20th Century Boy," there's a hell of a lot of Doors and Johnny Cougar and Bruce Springsteen.
What really jumps out, though, is when they play a Steely Dan song. Horns, organs, Motown backup singers, themes of middle-aged ennui, what the hell was this band doing playing in the era of big guitars and earnest working men wailing about cars and girls?
Listening to the few 'Dan songs they'll play booted a childhood memory onto a front-burner of my cerebellum.
Must've been 1977 or so, that's when the album came out. Would've put me at 12 or 13, prime time for li'l Pete's sexual awakening. I was a Boy Scout, which probably doesn't surprise you. I was going door-to-door, trying to sell something for some damned reason, I forget what. Anyway, there I was, in my little uniform, thumb on a doorbell, all prepared to launch into my spiel.
And the door opens, and there he is. Tall, tanned, glint-eyed, just a touch of gray at the sleek temples. Black turtleneck, at least in my memory, with a herringbone sports jacket, and was there a pipe clutched between his ivories? Maybe. No probably not, because I'm sure I do recall a martini glass in hand. His home, what I could see of it, was the bachelor pad to launch a thousand panties. Probably there was a Nagel print, although I wouldn't have known the artist at the time. I got the hint, maybe it was a scent, of some pneumatic sexpot just out of eyeshot, curled purring on a leather settee, a Manhattan beading sweat on the kidney-shaped coffee table, coasters and tastefully provocative photobooks arranged just so. And Steely Dan's "Aja" was playing on the hi-fi, speakers hidden inside professionally-tended houseplants.
And I saw this, and I heard this, and I smelled this, and I thought... this is what I want to be.
He didn't buy whatever I was selling. I doubt I even managed to stammer out my pitch. But I sure as hell bought what he was selling. And I bet the woman did, too, whoever, wherever she was.
Damn. I gotta pull out my copy of "Aja."
Today's the last day!
There was an election day just a couple weeks ago. I didn't bother. Not even sure what was being decided. Wish I'd gone to the horse races instead. I hear Kinky's running as a Dem next time. Maybe he'll get elected. That'd be fun. Posted Friday, November 03, 2006
That's right, this is the last 50 cent Friday out at Retama Park! Last chance to watch them ponies run and gorge on hotdogs and beer for two-bits!
Yeah, all right, it's your last day to vote early. Do it today, or you'll have to wait in line with the chumps on Tuesday.
I'm a little surprised at how terrified everyone who claims a party affiliation is about Kinky Friedman. Republicans I know think he's going to split the conservative vote. Democrats fear he's taking votes away from their (invisible) candidate. Libertarians... well, Libertarians aren't scared of anything, they already know better than to think that they can get elected.
But the thing about Kinky, he's got a shot at it. The Democratic candidate for governor, Bell (what's his first name? Chris? Art? Archie and the Drells?), he might as well not even be running. He's got a very serious chance of coming in fourth. (But he'll beat the Libertarian, you can take comfort in that). Good Hair and Gramma Straylander, they've got Baja Oklahoma tied up. That leaves the real Texans, those of us south of Waco, with only one vote -- the first independent candidate since Sam Houston who has a real shot at being the Governor of Texas, my man Kinky Friedman.
You say his politics bother you? Well, clearly you're looking too closely. The man has no politics. He wants to put more guardsmen on the border to keep out Mexicans? Okay. My solution for the "problem" of illegal immigration would be to decriminalize it, just let anyone who wants to be an American be an American, that's what it's supposed to be all about. But I'm not going to vote against a candidate for that stance -- it's no different than anyone else's on the ballot. (Except the lackwits who want to put up a wall, but really, why even talk about them?) He wants to bring casino gambling here, to help pay for schools. Because, hey, it worked so well with the lottery, right? Idiocy.
But he has a health-care initiative, he wants to stop the teach-to-the-test ridiculousness, he wants to pay teachers, he wants to legalize smoking (of all sorts), he has a plan for developing renewable energy and ending redistricting. He's for equal rights, he takes care of animals. He has a sense of humor.
Look, you know, I know, everyone knows it, Rick Perry's getting re-elected. We'd all like to see something else happen, even Republicans, but he's coming back. He has good hair, and he has the endorsement of no less than Chuck Norris. And being Dubya's hand-picked successor might be a negative anywhere else, but inexplicably, it means something here.
So make your vote count. Vote for someone instead of against someone.
Anyone who wants to hit the track tonight, give me a call! Let's go watch the horsies run! Fifty cents!
That's right, this is the last 50 cent Friday out at Retama Park! Last chance to watch them ponies run and gorge on hotdogs and beer for two-bits!
Yeah, all right, it's your last day to vote early. Do it today, or you'll have to wait in line with the chumps on Tuesday.
I'm a little surprised at how terrified everyone who claims a party affiliation is about Kinky Friedman. Republicans I know think he's going to split the conservative vote. Democrats fear he's taking votes away from their (invisible) candidate. Libertarians... well, Libertarians aren't scared of anything, they already know better than to think that they can get elected.
But the thing about Kinky, he's got a shot at it. The Democratic candidate for governor, Bell (what's his first name? Chris? Art? Archie and the Drells?), he might as well not even be running. He's got a very serious chance of coming in fourth. (But he'll beat the Libertarian, you can take comfort in that). Good Hair and Gramma Straylander, they've got Baja Oklahoma tied up. That leaves the real Texans, those of us south of Waco, with only one vote -- the first independent candidate since Sam Houston who has a real shot at being the Governor of Texas, my man Kinky Friedman.
You say his politics bother you? Well, clearly you're looking too closely. The man has no politics. He wants to put more guardsmen on the border to keep out Mexicans? Okay. My solution for the "problem" of illegal immigration would be to decriminalize it, just let anyone who wants to be an American be an American, that's what it's supposed to be all about. But I'm not going to vote against a candidate for that stance -- it's no different than anyone else's on the ballot. (Except the lackwits who want to put up a wall, but really, why even talk about them?) He wants to bring casino gambling here, to help pay for schools. Because, hey, it worked so well with the lottery, right? Idiocy.
But he has a health-care initiative, he wants to stop the teach-to-the-test ridiculousness, he wants to pay teachers, he wants to legalize smoking (of all sorts), he has a plan for developing renewable energy and ending redistricting. He's for equal rights, he takes care of animals. He has a sense of humor.
Look, you know, I know, everyone knows it, Rick Perry's getting re-elected. We'd all like to see something else happen, even Republicans, but he's coming back. He has good hair, and he has the endorsement of no less than Chuck Norris. And being Dubya's hand-picked successor might be a negative anywhere else, but inexplicably, it means something here.
So make your vote count. Vote for someone instead of against someone.
Anyone who wants to hit the track tonight, give me a call! Let's go watch the horsies run! Fifty cents!
The Secret Life of Penguins
I don't tend bar these days. Not saying I won't go back to it, but presently, I don't have the time. I can always use the money. Monday, October 30, 2006
At some point in the life of every young man born since, say, 1959, he will be required to wear a tuxedo. And on this ocassion, each and every gentleman of that and succeeding generations will steal a solitary moment in front of a mirror to say:
"Bond. James Bond."
That young man's days pass, and he'll have to put on a tuxedo again. And this time, if sufficient years have elapsed, he'll say:
"Christ. You look like a waiter."
I have, in recent days, been required to wear a tuxedo on a semi-regular basis. I like to call myself a filmmaker, and on my tax return I list my occupation as free-lance video professional. But video jobs have been few and far between of late (last one was early last week, out at Valero, a half-day conference, and that was the first new one in awhile that paid anything), so I've taken up some part time work with a temp agency for the food service industry.
Not your hair-net and double-knit variety food service, no fry-o-laters or happy meals for me, I'm not that desperate. But this is not a major step up from there -- they supply staff for banquets and private parties. At first, I told them they could put me down for serving food as well as tending bar, but I've since limited myself to the only-slightly-less-soul-sucking bar work. It at least pays better, and is easier. And is less humiliating.
But just as I don't generally wear my glasses in public, I've been reluctant to tell others about this work. I'd rather you all believe I'm a prosperous and hard-working filmmaker. If I'm not available for your shoot or screening or shindig, it's because I'm busy meeting with Clooney and Soderbergh about that script of mine they're interested in, not because I'm slinging hash at an overdressed barbecue.
It couldn't be hidden forever, though, could it?
Because they know me to be a sophisticate with sparkling repartee, the company likes to send me to arty parties where the fartsy set admire one another. I can talk that game. And at last Friday's opening at Galleria Ortiz, my cover was blown. Two of the professors from Northwest Vista College, once my colleagues, showed up. I probably could've kept my mouth shut and they'd never have quite remembered the name of that handsome fellow in the monkey suit cracking the caps off the Coronitas. But I said howdy, and we chatted. It wasn't as horrible as I'd feared, being discovered. They kind of assumed that I was volunteering my time for a friend, I gather. I didn't disabuse them of that notion, but neither did I encourage it. A blue collar hero in a tuxedo, that's me.
The night after, I was at the Daughters of the Texas Revolution dinner, slinging Chardonnay for the chi-chi. The tipping was easy; I do well with prosperous souses. I played one fellow in a tux and matching Stetson for about half a bottle of Dewar's White Label. It got where I was turning down his money after awhile, he was tipping so egregiously.
But when Randy Beemer showed, local TV personality, I bit my tongue. I think he might've recognized me, I'm not quite sure. He had that look, but maybe he has that for everyone, mirroring the faces of those he meets ("wait, don't I know you...?"). I didn't remind him that I was his producer on a local PBS show that wasn't. There's a limit to the humiliation I'll accept.
Beemer's not a great tipper, by the way.
At some point in the life of every young man born since, say, 1959, he will be required to wear a tuxedo. And on this ocassion, each and every gentleman of that and succeeding generations will steal a solitary moment in front of a mirror to say:
"Bond. James Bond."
That young man's days pass, and he'll have to put on a tuxedo again. And this time, if sufficient years have elapsed, he'll say:
"Christ. You look like a waiter."
I have, in recent days, been required to wear a tuxedo on a semi-regular basis. I like to call myself a filmmaker, and on my tax return I list my occupation as free-lance video professional. But video jobs have been few and far between of late (last one was early last week, out at Valero, a half-day conference, and that was the first new one in awhile that paid anything), so I've taken up some part time work with a temp agency for the food service industry.
Not your hair-net and double-knit variety food service, no fry-o-laters or happy meals for me, I'm not that desperate. But this is not a major step up from there -- they supply staff for banquets and private parties. At first, I told them they could put me down for serving food as well as tending bar, but I've since limited myself to the only-slightly-less-soul-sucking bar work. It at least pays better, and is easier. And is less humiliating.
But just as I don't generally wear my glasses in public, I've been reluctant to tell others about this work. I'd rather you all believe I'm a prosperous and hard-working filmmaker. If I'm not available for your shoot or screening or shindig, it's because I'm busy meeting with Clooney and Soderbergh about that script of mine they're interested in, not because I'm slinging hash at an overdressed barbecue.
It couldn't be hidden forever, though, could it?
Because they know me to be a sophisticate with sparkling repartee, the company likes to send me to arty parties where the fartsy set admire one another. I can talk that game. And at last Friday's opening at Galleria Ortiz, my cover was blown. Two of the professors from Northwest Vista College, once my colleagues, showed up. I probably could've kept my mouth shut and they'd never have quite remembered the name of that handsome fellow in the monkey suit cracking the caps off the Coronitas. But I said howdy, and we chatted. It wasn't as horrible as I'd feared, being discovered. They kind of assumed that I was volunteering my time for a friend, I gather. I didn't disabuse them of that notion, but neither did I encourage it. A blue collar hero in a tuxedo, that's me.
The night after, I was at the Daughters of the Texas Revolution dinner, slinging Chardonnay for the chi-chi. The tipping was easy; I do well with prosperous souses. I played one fellow in a tux and matching Stetson for about half a bottle of Dewar's White Label. It got where I was turning down his money after awhile, he was tipping so egregiously.
But when Randy Beemer showed, local TV personality, I bit my tongue. I think he might've recognized me, I'm not quite sure. He had that look, but maybe he has that for everyone, mirroring the faces of those he meets ("wait, don't I know you...?"). I didn't remind him that I was his producer on a local PBS show that wasn't. There's a limit to the humiliation I'll accept.
Beemer's not a great tipper, by the way.
Man-Boy Love (not like that)
A blog about how much I love my son. If anything, I love him even more now. Plus a great story (if I do say so myself) about taking him to playgrounds. From Wednesday, October 25, 2006
The boy and I are at the park the other day. A mother is pushing her kid on the swing next to ours, and she can't get her other kid to heel. He's on the other end of the playground and making tracks for the sandpit. But the little brother won't get off the swing.
"I'll keep him going," I tell her, and she thanks me and charges off in her high-heels after the brother. (High-heels on a cedar-chip playground, here's your first clue where this is going...) Easy enough for me to keep two swings going, and I do. Until the little brother starts blubbering for Mommy, now hobbling into the sandpit and grabbing a kid by the ear. Her own kid, I'm guessing.
My boy swings on, happily trying to touch treetop with his toes, so I attend to the crying kid. Soon the mother comes back, and expresses some delight that her child is crying for her. "It's the first time he's ever been worried for me!" (Early indicator of Munchausen-by-proxy? I make a note to consult psychiatric journals when I get home.) Big brother tags along behind her and she makes him sit on one of the tarry railroad ties surrounding us. He's about eight, I guess. I guess because I have no idea how old kids are, unless they're four-and-a-half, like mine, or under. That's the only frame of reference I have, how they measure up to my kid. (Few make the grade, I needn't mention.)
"You could've gotten lost out there!' she shrills at him.
"Aw, Ma, I was alright..." (That's right, he talked like one of the Dead End Kids, all the kids talk like that these days, and carry slingshots and live frogs in the back pockets of their overalls.)
"Someone could've taken you away!"
"Nobody's gonna grab me here."
"Shows what you know! This is just the sort of place where men come to take little boys!"
This from the woman who left me pushing her three-year-old on a swing. I'll confess, it was very tough for me not to point at my kid and interject into their conversation, "it's true, where do you think I got this one?" The boy would've backed me up on it, he's got a nicely absurd sense of humor for his age.
Overreacting? Sure. There were other parents there at the sandpit, they'd certainly have noticed a strange man approaching. God help me if I walked up without the boy, I'd have been stoned. Already I get suspicious glares, simply for being male. And, well, kind of creepy-looking, I guess.
But what bugs me about the current culture of paranoia parenting is that there's an element of truth to it. Yeah, there are bad people around. But are there more now than there were when I was a kid? I suspect not.
My boy has never met a stranger. He walks up to people and tells them his full name, including middle and last, my name (legal, nick-, and what he calls me -- Daddy), and I'm getting a little reluctant to teach him our address lest he invite someone over to play with his dogs. (Vicious maneaters, to a one, stay away.) Within about fifteen minutes of meeting a pretty girl or woman, he tells her that he loves her. He gives out hugs and kisses like a Hollywood celeb, only he means them.
Should I teach him to be wary? His teacher (a very stern woman) says she doesn't want him hugging her anymore, it puts her "in an awkward position." What, she's Mary Kay Letourneau? He's four, he loves! But maybe she's right. Maybe it'd be wise to teach him to be a little more restrained.
I don't want him to lose his trust. He is the most unrestrained person I know. He is id incarnate. His laugh brightens any day.
I think he knows better than to walk off with anyone but me. I guess we have to talk about that. Damn.
The boy and I are at the park the other day. A mother is pushing her kid on the swing next to ours, and she can't get her other kid to heel. He's on the other end of the playground and making tracks for the sandpit. But the little brother won't get off the swing.
"I'll keep him going," I tell her, and she thanks me and charges off in her high-heels after the brother. (High-heels on a cedar-chip playground, here's your first clue where this is going...) Easy enough for me to keep two swings going, and I do. Until the little brother starts blubbering for Mommy, now hobbling into the sandpit and grabbing a kid by the ear. Her own kid, I'm guessing.
My boy swings on, happily trying to touch treetop with his toes, so I attend to the crying kid. Soon the mother comes back, and expresses some delight that her child is crying for her. "It's the first time he's ever been worried for me!" (Early indicator of Munchausen-by-proxy? I make a note to consult psychiatric journals when I get home.) Big brother tags along behind her and she makes him sit on one of the tarry railroad ties surrounding us. He's about eight, I guess. I guess because I have no idea how old kids are, unless they're four-and-a-half, like mine, or under. That's the only frame of reference I have, how they measure up to my kid. (Few make the grade, I needn't mention.)
"You could've gotten lost out there!' she shrills at him.
"Aw, Ma, I was alright..." (That's right, he talked like one of the Dead End Kids, all the kids talk like that these days, and carry slingshots and live frogs in the back pockets of their overalls.)
"Someone could've taken you away!"
"Nobody's gonna grab me here."
"Shows what you know! This is just the sort of place where men come to take little boys!"
This from the woman who left me pushing her three-year-old on a swing. I'll confess, it was very tough for me not to point at my kid and interject into their conversation, "it's true, where do you think I got this one?" The boy would've backed me up on it, he's got a nicely absurd sense of humor for his age.
Overreacting? Sure. There were other parents there at the sandpit, they'd certainly have noticed a strange man approaching. God help me if I walked up without the boy, I'd have been stoned. Already I get suspicious glares, simply for being male. And, well, kind of creepy-looking, I guess.
But what bugs me about the current culture of paranoia parenting is that there's an element of truth to it. Yeah, there are bad people around. But are there more now than there were when I was a kid? I suspect not.
My boy has never met a stranger. He walks up to people and tells them his full name, including middle and last, my name (legal, nick-, and what he calls me -- Daddy), and I'm getting a little reluctant to teach him our address lest he invite someone over to play with his dogs. (Vicious maneaters, to a one, stay away.) Within about fifteen minutes of meeting a pretty girl or woman, he tells her that he loves her. He gives out hugs and kisses like a Hollywood celeb, only he means them.
Should I teach him to be wary? His teacher (a very stern woman) says she doesn't want him hugging her anymore, it puts her "in an awkward position." What, she's Mary Kay Letourneau? He's four, he loves! But maybe she's right. Maybe it'd be wise to teach him to be a little more restrained.
I don't want him to lose his trust. He is the most unrestrained person I know. He is id incarnate. His laugh brightens any day.
I think he knows better than to walk off with anyone but me. I guess we have to talk about that. Damn.
Attach electrodes here, please...
I should probably start skipping some of these old blogs. Do you really need to know about film festivals I didn't attend? I include this only because of the comments about the Cameo and Rocky Horror and especially Roy Thomas, whom I saw again not long ago stealing the show "The Brain That Wouldn't Die." I need to work with him again. First posted Friday, October 13, 2006
Damn. How blase am I about the film festivals where my "Mars Needs Bibles" is playing?
Too freaking blase, that's how. Somebody give me a jolt.
I just found out that it's showing tomorrow (Saturday) at Reel Pride Michigan in Detroit. The midnight show, before the crowd-pleaser "Creatures From the Pink Lagoon." I'm going to call it the prestigious midnight slot, because I want to believe that it's prestigious. The two together are definitely midnight movie material. We should tour, show it at all the places they need to rest their copy of Rocky Horror. (The movie, not the play, which never gets old and is running at the Cameo even now, go see it, Roy Thomas plays Dr. Frank, and he's probably the funniest, sexiest, most entertaining actor they could have gotten for the part. I really look forward to seeing it, if there is ever again some weekend when I don't have to work.)
They told me about the Detroit screening some time ago... well, not that long ago, but awhile back, long enough that I thought it was just happening sometime in the future. Long enough ago that the middle of October was a hell of a long time away.
No longer the case.
Check out www.reelpridemichigan.com for location. I'd love to hear back from anyone who sees it there. Or anywhere. It's coming up in other places too, probably...
Damn. How blase am I about the film festivals where my "Mars Needs Bibles" is playing?
Too freaking blase, that's how. Somebody give me a jolt.
I just found out that it's showing tomorrow (Saturday) at Reel Pride Michigan in Detroit. The midnight show, before the crowd-pleaser "Creatures From the Pink Lagoon." I'm going to call it the prestigious midnight slot, because I want to believe that it's prestigious. The two together are definitely midnight movie material. We should tour, show it at all the places they need to rest their copy of Rocky Horror. (The movie, not the play, which never gets old and is running at the Cameo even now, go see it, Roy Thomas plays Dr. Frank, and he's probably the funniest, sexiest, most entertaining actor they could have gotten for the part. I really look forward to seeing it, if there is ever again some weekend when I don't have to work.)
They told me about the Detroit screening some time ago... well, not that long ago, but awhile back, long enough that I thought it was just happening sometime in the future. Long enough ago that the middle of October was a hell of a long time away.
No longer the case.
Check out www.reelpridemichigan.com for location. I'd love to hear back from anyone who sees it there. Or anywhere. It's coming up in other places too, probably...
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