It should come as no surprise that Nikki canceled her "Hot Meal/Cold Read" session for that February, rather than allow me to come in and run roughshod over her poor aspiring acting students. She has since stopped the project altogether, but I don't think I can take the blame for that. This was from Saturday, February 09, 2008
I went to Thursday night's mixer at Ruta Maya with the sole intent of talking AJ out of his nutty bid to reboot the Short Ends Project. I left vaguely excited about the prospect, due mainly to his enthusiasm. I still don't think it has a shade of a chance of working, but if AJ's doing it, I'm in.
It's not that I don't think San Antonio needs a film collective. I do. In fact, I think it needs a more challenging one than we had, which is what I was trying to pitch AJ. My complaint about SEP was -- well, my list of grievances about that mess was longer than your inseam, but one of my primary grinds was that it gave filmmakers too much time. Three months, for the quality that was coming out, might as well have been three years, or three days. The average short for SEP was being shot in a weekend, with preproduction that could be kindly described as "lackadaisical," and even less effort spent in post. It could easily have been the work of a week, and more often than not probably was.
My campaign at the time was that we should have a monthly challenge, with a broader set of guidelines -- forget drawing a genre and a few descriptive words from a hat, instead make it a generic that fit the whole group and see what different ways we interpret it. Just say, for instance, music video, and come back in a month with something to screen. Don't worry that you don't own the music, just make it fast and have fun with it and let's all try to impress one another. The management of Short Ends dreamed of selling DVDs and marketing a television series (as pipe dreams go, the pipiest), and so thwarted my goals at every turn -- and hey, it's their game, why should they not thwart? -- but now that AJ holds the reins, I figured I'd give it another try.
No dice. He wants a six-month turnaround, with the expectation that the quality would improve with the added time. I'd predict instead that it'll just result in a five-month lollygag and a few weeks of frenzied shooting and cutting, but again, it's AJ's game. We'll see what happens.
While there, I got to see some of my favorite people. Carlos (who took my camera for his new thing), Chadd, Lee, Dar, Andy (on whose shit-list I believe I still reside). Nikki led us in a rousing chorus of the not-in-public-domain Birthday song (hope the Ruta Maya people weren't being visited by RIAA representatives that night), and much wise was cracked over Erik's birthday. Just a number, baby. You're still hepper than all of us. Then she asked me to do her a favor. Now, like most of you, I owe Nikki more than I can pay. And yet, it is a reflection of my callous bastardry that I asked what she wanted before I said yes. I'm going to do whatever she wants, why bother asking? (See aforementioned cold-hearted bastardry.)
I needn't have fretted. She wants me to lead one of her "Hot Meal/Cold Read" sessions, wherein local actors meet local filmmakers, at which time we give them hints about how to impress us in auditions. She's lining me up for February. Of 2009, that is. She's that sold out in advance, if you can believe it. Wow. Primadonna has it going on, as the young people say.
And so, I've been thinking of what I might say to actors about auditioning, and about their careers in general, on levels local or larger. And I'm brought back to a conversation I had a month earlier, at the last of AJ's mixers, coincidentally. Or maybe not, what do I know?
I was talking with photographer Christopher Viltz about certain local actors. (I should present forewarning here -- Christopher is himself a local actor, and I of course make movies locally, and therefore names will remain unspoken to protect him and me from getting our asses kicked by the fine and talented local actors we were discussing, at least one of whom was present while we were talking and was in fact part of the conversation.) Christopher, you'll note, has a rather unusual last name. I asked him if he, like so many of his fellows, had considered a stage name. No way, he said. His name is distinctive and draws attention. His talent does a lot, of course, to keep him out there. But the name doesn't hurt.
There seems to be a rash of local actors lately who are changing their names. Let me say this to you, local actors -- if you present yourself to me pretending your last name is "Marie," or something else that's clearly a middle name, I'm going to think you're an ass -- or at the very least, tiresome. I have to spend weeks or months or more working with you on a project. I want to know who you are. I want to respect you. If you've changed your name from Archibald Leach or Norma Jean Baker or Marion Morrison, I've got no time for you. The era of Hollywood glamour is gone. The world can accept something a little spicier than the traditional Anglo-Saxony. If Leelee Sobieski can make a very comfortable living with her name, what's your major malfunction, Mabel? Tony Curtis by any other name is… more interesting. Hey, I'm the last person to declare you can't change your name. Just make it more interesting, not less.
There's too much of that in this world, this blandification. Where are the accents, the buck teeth, the small boobs, the unwaxed hoohahs? I live and grew up in Texas, and still I don't know anyone with a Texas accent. I'm not talking about club feet or vestigial tails or even mustaches on women. If this minor change will make you feel better or improve your life, knock yourself out. But there's really no reason to snag yourself a tailbone tattoo. You're guaranteed to be embarrassed about it within two years, and it's not going to make you stand out in a crowd. It's going to make you look just like any other want-wit trendhopper at Polly Esther's. And the same goes for renaming yourself Trent Hudson or Holly Claire.
Jeez, I hope there's no Trent Hudsons or Holly Claires in town… I should check the databases of local talent agencies before I post this…
Friday, November 13, 2009
Break Out the Banjoes!
This originally was posted with a video taken by Venus Prado's phone, which showed my giant voodoo doll being obscenely attacked by her and Carlos' daughter Rockie with foot-long stick-pins. Sorry that can't be reproduced here. I think Venus has taken it down. Too bad, it was exquisite in its perversity. Also missing is my video for the piece "72," although I left the comments (and for that matter, the dead link). John Mason of Micro-phobic earned my personal humiliation for how his music was mistreated. Posted Monday, January 28, 2008
It's time for the Chez Bernard Breakdown!
Last summer, I was invited to the San Antonio Creative Capital workshop. Creative Capital is a New York City-based nonprofit that (among other things) teaches local artists how to make the next step, how to stop being a local sensation and start becoming a national one. And make money doing it, a necessity only the most snobbish and/or naive would debate.
While the business tips were helpful, the two things I most gained were a dramatic increase in confidence (I'd never really thought of myself as an artist of any seriousness) and contacts. The people there were artists, every one of them. They didn't just call themselves artists, as many people will, or talk about it. They did it. Do it. Here in San Antonio. And a great many of them in all the places you're supposed to do it -- shows in New York or London or Cannes, grants and fellowships worldwide. But I (and I dare presume, you) never heard about most of them, because I had my filmmaker blinders on, and not my artist, uh, whatever the opposite of blinders might be.
And they liked what I do. It never would've occurred to them to suggest that my fight scenes weren't realistic enough, or that my greenscreen skills could be improved by this or that, or any of the other things I hear from film people, all of whom would make Hollywood-level product. The artists got it. And one, during a break in the workshop, sat on a selection committee for the new Chez Bernard endowment from the Artist Foundation, and nominated me as an emerging media artist.
Flash forward a few months (you can take the artist out of the film world, but you can't take the film world out of the artist), I was awarded the endowment to put on an "intimate, single-artist exhibition." First thing I was asked was which theater I wanted to rent out for the screening. I instead decided to make it an actual art show, in a gallery space, with people mulling about sipping white wine and saying "hmm." I've been involved in enough of these things to know I didn't want people sitting in seats and having to pay attention to some narrative I'd unspool before them. I wanted a "real" art show, and I wanted a party.
But before it could start, we had to get everything ready. With the guidance of Emily Morrison of ArtPace (and the Artist Foundation) and the technical wizardry of video artist Jason Jay Stevens, the Cadillac Lofts downtown were procured. I was mostly busy working on some new pieces to debut there, but much of the week before was spent vacuuming and taping over picture windows and teetering on ladders to hang platforms for projectors and a screen from the ceiling of the space. The acoustics in there were horrid, we could scarcely hear one another from across the room, but my primary concern was that the audio from the two main projects would clash and leave all the patrons of the arts with migraine headaches bleeding out their earholes.
I needn't have worried about that at all, as the night of the show would reveal that the audio was all but entirely drowned out by the bodies in the room. The industrial space looked groovy, but was no Sydney Opera Hall, sound-wise.
And then there was the issue of synching the audio for the three-screen environmental piece in the corner (step into the middle and see three screens that all relate to one another). I was there until almost opening trying to get it to work, and never did make it. I left it to ArtPace's sound guru, who managed to be gone by the time I got back. Doubtless aware of my notorious wrath. It was completely out of synch, never any relation between sound and image for the remainder of the night.
But as my father-in-law likes to say, if we had any idea how little people think about us, we'd curl up into fetal balls and eat our stomachs. (Well, perhaps I've exaggerated my father-in-law's axiom...) Truth is, no one really cared about the audio. They enjoyed the images, and the conversation, and now and then would buttonhole me to say "um, I'm sure I'm the only one who doesn't get it, but..." No, I'd assure them, if they could hear the audio (music by Micro-phobic), it'd make perfect sense, and explain it the best I could.
Here, see for yourself. It makes sense. Maybe not perfect sense, but, you know, sense.
And here's the video environment piece. It's no longer in three chunks to be viewed all at once, of course, as that'd be difficult to do on YouTube. But I kind of approximated that. Kinda.
Please subscribe to my YouTube Channel, if you're of a mind. I'm planning to do a lot more art stuff in the future, including a few more of those playground "musical" pieces.
The biggest success of the night was the sculptural piece. Portrait of the Artist as a Voodoo Doll. A life-sized effigy of myself, constructed of burlap and raffia by my pal Michelle LaHomme from my designs. Michelle is a genius. She's done costumes for a few different of my projects, and she manages to be not only a sorceress with a sewing machine, but a creative force on her own. I've never given her a sketch or concept that she hasn't improved upon considerably, and this doll is no exception. We also created some six-inch-long pins so everyone could jab me (with positive intent, naturally). I stepped over to it a few times during the evening to pull pins out, give other folks a chance to have fun. I'd received some very, uh, creative piercings. I think they liked that one.
It's time for the Chez Bernard Breakdown!
Last summer, I was invited to the San Antonio Creative Capital workshop. Creative Capital is a New York City-based nonprofit that (among other things) teaches local artists how to make the next step, how to stop being a local sensation and start becoming a national one. And make money doing it, a necessity only the most snobbish and/or naive would debate.
While the business tips were helpful, the two things I most gained were a dramatic increase in confidence (I'd never really thought of myself as an artist of any seriousness) and contacts. The people there were artists, every one of them. They didn't just call themselves artists, as many people will, or talk about it. They did it. Do it. Here in San Antonio. And a great many of them in all the places you're supposed to do it -- shows in New York or London or Cannes, grants and fellowships worldwide. But I (and I dare presume, you) never heard about most of them, because I had my filmmaker blinders on, and not my artist, uh, whatever the opposite of blinders might be.
And they liked what I do. It never would've occurred to them to suggest that my fight scenes weren't realistic enough, or that my greenscreen skills could be improved by this or that, or any of the other things I hear from film people, all of whom would make Hollywood-level product. The artists got it. And one, during a break in the workshop, sat on a selection committee for the new Chez Bernard endowment from the Artist Foundation, and nominated me as an emerging media artist.
Flash forward a few months (you can take the artist out of the film world, but you can't take the film world out of the artist), I was awarded the endowment to put on an "intimate, single-artist exhibition." First thing I was asked was which theater I wanted to rent out for the screening. I instead decided to make it an actual art show, in a gallery space, with people mulling about sipping white wine and saying "hmm." I've been involved in enough of these things to know I didn't want people sitting in seats and having to pay attention to some narrative I'd unspool before them. I wanted a "real" art show, and I wanted a party.
But before it could start, we had to get everything ready. With the guidance of Emily Morrison of ArtPace (and the Artist Foundation) and the technical wizardry of video artist Jason Jay Stevens, the Cadillac Lofts downtown were procured. I was mostly busy working on some new pieces to debut there, but much of the week before was spent vacuuming and taping over picture windows and teetering on ladders to hang platforms for projectors and a screen from the ceiling of the space. The acoustics in there were horrid, we could scarcely hear one another from across the room, but my primary concern was that the audio from the two main projects would clash and leave all the patrons of the arts with migraine headaches bleeding out their earholes.
I needn't have worried about that at all, as the night of the show would reveal that the audio was all but entirely drowned out by the bodies in the room. The industrial space looked groovy, but was no Sydney Opera Hall, sound-wise.
And then there was the issue of synching the audio for the three-screen environmental piece in the corner (step into the middle and see three screens that all relate to one another). I was there until almost opening trying to get it to work, and never did make it. I left it to ArtPace's sound guru, who managed to be gone by the time I got back. Doubtless aware of my notorious wrath. It was completely out of synch, never any relation between sound and image for the remainder of the night.
But as my father-in-law likes to say, if we had any idea how little people think about us, we'd curl up into fetal balls and eat our stomachs. (Well, perhaps I've exaggerated my father-in-law's axiom...) Truth is, no one really cared about the audio. They enjoyed the images, and the conversation, and now and then would buttonhole me to say "um, I'm sure I'm the only one who doesn't get it, but..." No, I'd assure them, if they could hear the audio (music by Micro-phobic), it'd make perfect sense, and explain it the best I could.
Here, see for yourself. It makes sense. Maybe not perfect sense, but, you know, sense.
And here's the video environment piece. It's no longer in three chunks to be viewed all at once, of course, as that'd be difficult to do on YouTube. But I kind of approximated that. Kinda.
Please subscribe to my YouTube Channel, if you're of a mind. I'm planning to do a lot more art stuff in the future, including a few more of those playground "musical" pieces.
The biggest success of the night was the sculptural piece. Portrait of the Artist as a Voodoo Doll. A life-sized effigy of myself, constructed of burlap and raffia by my pal Michelle LaHomme from my designs. Michelle is a genius. She's done costumes for a few different of my projects, and she manages to be not only a sorceress with a sewing machine, but a creative force on her own. I've never given her a sketch or concept that she hasn't improved upon considerably, and this doll is no exception. We also created some six-inch-long pins so everyone could jab me (with positive intent, naturally). I stepped over to it a few times during the evening to pull pins out, give other folks a chance to have fun. I'd received some very, uh, creative piercings. I think they liked that one.
What I Been Doin’
Here's one about the art show the Artist Foundation paid for. I expect they're sorry now that they did it. I turned out to be something less than the artist they'd expected. But it was a fun time, and some people got paid. I was not one of them. Originally posted Friday, January 25, 2008
My time of late has been devoted exclusively to my art exhibition. I'm a filmmaker, which as most of you are aware is a discipline that does not usually have much to do with art. But I impressed some people with my images and got a grant from the Artist Foundation, so I've been working at art. I've got a few new pieces, a little of the old stuff, and some surprises. It's going to be great.
They made a nice invitation and sent it to all the big wigs in the arts community. I don't know who all is coming, but I know I'm going to be very excited to be among them. I hope you will be there, too.
Saturday night, tomorrow, Cadillac Lofts at the corner of Dallas and Lexington. It's downtown San Antonio, behind the hospital. Come by at 8 for the afterparty.
**********************************
Here's a thing I did recently. Call it a preview, for you, my blog-related friends. I figured my reel needed some toonage. My first attempt at animation. I'm kinda teaching myself. I had fun.
My time of late has been devoted exclusively to my art exhibition. I'm a filmmaker, which as most of you are aware is a discipline that does not usually have much to do with art. But I impressed some people with my images and got a grant from the Artist Foundation, so I've been working at art. I've got a few new pieces, a little of the old stuff, and some surprises. It's going to be great.
They made a nice invitation and sent it to all the big wigs in the arts community. I don't know who all is coming, but I know I'm going to be very excited to be among them. I hope you will be there, too.
Saturday night, tomorrow, Cadillac Lofts at the corner of Dallas and Lexington. It's downtown San Antonio, behind the hospital. Come by at 8 for the afterparty.
**********************************
Here's a thing I did recently. Call it a preview, for you, my blog-related friends. I figured my reel needed some toonage. My first attempt at animation. I'm kinda teaching myself. I had fun.
Church and Olives
I hear there's another Methane Sisters show coming. I'll go see it. Otherwise, I extend my apologies to the San Antonio theater community. Postdated to Monday, January 07, 2008
Why don't I like live theater? I have a dread of it. The parents of the boy's best friend run a prestigious theater company in town, probably the most highly-acclaimed, and I can't attend even one of their shows, because I know it'll be agony for me. It has seriously injured our friendship.
And like previous prejudices against Brussels sprouts and organized sports, I know I might try it and discover that I'd been a fool to stay away so long, it's wonderful! Then again, I still don't like olives or church, and no amount of "c'mon, maybe this time it won't be horrible" is going to change that.
Of course, live theater isn't like those things. It's different each time. But so is film, and I can endure hours and hours of bad movies (and god knows, have). Maybe it's because I feel an obligation to performers when they are there in front of me. I've sat through many a movie I'd just as soon have walked out on because the filmmaker was in attendance.
The Jump-Start Performance Party was Saturday night, with loads of events on one stage, one after the other, and I was sure that there'd have to be at least an average that made me glad I'd come. But the first half of the evening reminded me all too clearly of why I don't hit local theater more often. Lots of "gosh, we should be on Broadway!" showtuney stuff, tepid torch songs and dancing girls, the sort of routines where you're expected to applaud just because they're attempting it. (There wasn't a kick-line, but why are we supposed to applaud kick-lines? I've never seen one screwed up, can't be that complicated...) There'd be a gem here and there to remind you that not everyone is trying to be someone they aren't (Shimi flying over the stage on her silken scarves, an experimental film piece with puppets and hotdogs, a fun little Mexican song played on what I'd have sworn was a six-string ukele, but that couldn't be, could it?), but far too little in between to keep my interest.
But in the middle of Act II, things started to loosen up. A comedy troupe called La Collectiva, which I totally expected to stink (having been conditioned from earlier in the night to cringe for the worst when a woman appears in male drag), but they made me laugh. Big belly laughs, in fact, which hurt my cold-riddled lungs and probably caused concern in those around me. A few musical acts that I found very entertaining. An exerpt from the Vagina Monologues by my pal Mellissa Marlowe that had me giggling and speculating about bringing an all-male version here -- come on, you telling me Roy Thomas couldn't do a rant about tampons and vaginal speculums that'd have you in tears?
And then they wrapped up the second act with Urban-15, the local dance troupe-cum-drum corps that ended with much of the audience invited up to dance and giving me reason to fear for the structural integrity of the stage. It was the first time I'd seen my lovely (and newly engaged) costume-maven Michelle LaHomme perform, and I was fortunately far enough back that she couldn't see me to drag me up there. She did spy Erik and Alston up front and pulled them into the melee. I feared that'd be the last I saw of Alston -- I knew Erik could escape, just tuck his glasses away, lower his big head and charge if it got right down to it, but she's a slight little number, easily trampled. George Cisneros running the band and his wife Catherine leading the dancers, and I can't imagine what an effort that must've been with all that confusion going on, but it was tight. There was an elderly fellow down the row from me (well, from where I stood, it was standing room only in there), and he was whaling away at imaginary drums to the beat. Air-drumming in his seventies. That's how much fun it was.
And then Act III arrived. I'd almost forgotten by then that the main reason I'd come was because the Methane Sisters would be running the third act. And they were everything promised. Outrageous, offensive, decadent. Maybe not who you'd want managing your investment portfolio, but everything I look for in an M.C. They kept it fun even when the acts weren't the best. Although some of them were the best -- Comedia A Go Go did a fantastic sketch which took them so long to set up, I won't bother trying here. Suffice to say, it's the sort of thing you could only experience live, go see their show. I was a little upset that my friend Rodney Garza's "Pazchuco" character came a few minutes before I got in (I stopped to pick up a twelve-pack of Shiner for Annelle, whose Methane Sisters show starting this weekend needs donations of beer for them to sell), so I was pleased to see him in the third act as part of the "Peace Posse." A phone call took me away from the next introduction, and that's a damned shame because I walked back in on a great monologue about backpacking into a revolution that I'd really like to hear more of. Guess I need to start paying attention to the Jump-Start website.
I was about to slip out the backdoor (which is what backdoors are for, aren't they? No one steps boldly through a backdoor) when the fire-eaters started. Seems like tempting fate to be in a crowded theater when open flames are factored into the equation, there's a reason they used to make the curtains out of asbestos. But then I saw the fire-eaters. They were dressed up in their beaded and bow-tied finest, and all of them were middle-aged or older, one old woman had to be in her eighties. You don't see Margaret Dumont picking flaming embers from her dentures everyday. And all of it, for reasons I couldn't fathom, to the tune of "There's Got To Be A Morning After" by Maureen McGovern. Then, as they wrapped the number, a film began to show. The climactic scene in "The Poseidon Adventure," George Kennedy and Leslie Nielsen and Shelley Winters looking concerned as the floor begins to tilt, and soon they're all screaming and flying spectacularly through glass and being crushed by pianos, and the fire-eaters (having by now thankfully extinguished all their snacks) all flew across the stage as if in the movie. (There'd been an "ocean cruise" theme to the night's festivities.) And then I remembered that "There's Got To Be A Morning After" was the Oscar-winning theme to "The Poseidon Adventure." And I laughed.
The Methane Sisters show starts this weekend. Go see it. You need to.
Why don't I like live theater? I have a dread of it. The parents of the boy's best friend run a prestigious theater company in town, probably the most highly-acclaimed, and I can't attend even one of their shows, because I know it'll be agony for me. It has seriously injured our friendship.
And like previous prejudices against Brussels sprouts and organized sports, I know I might try it and discover that I'd been a fool to stay away so long, it's wonderful! Then again, I still don't like olives or church, and no amount of "c'mon, maybe this time it won't be horrible" is going to change that.
Of course, live theater isn't like those things. It's different each time. But so is film, and I can endure hours and hours of bad movies (and god knows, have). Maybe it's because I feel an obligation to performers when they are there in front of me. I've sat through many a movie I'd just as soon have walked out on because the filmmaker was in attendance.
The Jump-Start Performance Party was Saturday night, with loads of events on one stage, one after the other, and I was sure that there'd have to be at least an average that made me glad I'd come. But the first half of the evening reminded me all too clearly of why I don't hit local theater more often. Lots of "gosh, we should be on Broadway!" showtuney stuff, tepid torch songs and dancing girls, the sort of routines where you're expected to applaud just because they're attempting it. (There wasn't a kick-line, but why are we supposed to applaud kick-lines? I've never seen one screwed up, can't be that complicated...) There'd be a gem here and there to remind you that not everyone is trying to be someone they aren't (Shimi flying over the stage on her silken scarves, an experimental film piece with puppets and hotdogs, a fun little Mexican song played on what I'd have sworn was a six-string ukele, but that couldn't be, could it?), but far too little in between to keep my interest.
But in the middle of Act II, things started to loosen up. A comedy troupe called La Collectiva, which I totally expected to stink (having been conditioned from earlier in the night to cringe for the worst when a woman appears in male drag), but they made me laugh. Big belly laughs, in fact, which hurt my cold-riddled lungs and probably caused concern in those around me. A few musical acts that I found very entertaining. An exerpt from the Vagina Monologues by my pal Mellissa Marlowe that had me giggling and speculating about bringing an all-male version here -- come on, you telling me Roy Thomas couldn't do a rant about tampons and vaginal speculums that'd have you in tears?
And then they wrapped up the second act with Urban-15, the local dance troupe-cum-drum corps that ended with much of the audience invited up to dance and giving me reason to fear for the structural integrity of the stage. It was the first time I'd seen my lovely (and newly engaged) costume-maven Michelle LaHomme perform, and I was fortunately far enough back that she couldn't see me to drag me up there. She did spy Erik and Alston up front and pulled them into the melee. I feared that'd be the last I saw of Alston -- I knew Erik could escape, just tuck his glasses away, lower his big head and charge if it got right down to it, but she's a slight little number, easily trampled. George Cisneros running the band and his wife Catherine leading the dancers, and I can't imagine what an effort that must've been with all that confusion going on, but it was tight. There was an elderly fellow down the row from me (well, from where I stood, it was standing room only in there), and he was whaling away at imaginary drums to the beat. Air-drumming in his seventies. That's how much fun it was.
And then Act III arrived. I'd almost forgotten by then that the main reason I'd come was because the Methane Sisters would be running the third act. And they were everything promised. Outrageous, offensive, decadent. Maybe not who you'd want managing your investment portfolio, but everything I look for in an M.C. They kept it fun even when the acts weren't the best. Although some of them were the best -- Comedia A Go Go did a fantastic sketch which took them so long to set up, I won't bother trying here. Suffice to say, it's the sort of thing you could only experience live, go see their show. I was a little upset that my friend Rodney Garza's "Pazchuco" character came a few minutes before I got in (I stopped to pick up a twelve-pack of Shiner for Annelle, whose Methane Sisters show starting this weekend needs donations of beer for them to sell), so I was pleased to see him in the third act as part of the "Peace Posse." A phone call took me away from the next introduction, and that's a damned shame because I walked back in on a great monologue about backpacking into a revolution that I'd really like to hear more of. Guess I need to start paying attention to the Jump-Start website.
I was about to slip out the backdoor (which is what backdoors are for, aren't they? No one steps boldly through a backdoor) when the fire-eaters started. Seems like tempting fate to be in a crowded theater when open flames are factored into the equation, there's a reason they used to make the curtains out of asbestos. But then I saw the fire-eaters. They were dressed up in their beaded and bow-tied finest, and all of them were middle-aged or older, one old woman had to be in her eighties. You don't see Margaret Dumont picking flaming embers from her dentures everyday. And all of it, for reasons I couldn't fathom, to the tune of "There's Got To Be A Morning After" by Maureen McGovern. Then, as they wrapped the number, a film began to show. The climactic scene in "The Poseidon Adventure," George Kennedy and Leslie Nielsen and Shelley Winters looking concerned as the floor begins to tilt, and soon they're all screaming and flying spectacularly through glass and being crushed by pianos, and the fire-eaters (having by now thankfully extinguished all their snacks) all flew across the stage as if in the movie. (There'd been an "ocean cruise" theme to the night's festivities.) And then I remembered that "There's Got To Be A Morning After" was the Oscar-winning theme to "The Poseidon Adventure." And I laughed.
The Methane Sisters show starts this weekend. Go see it. You need to.
It’s Another Tequila Christmas...
Last year, we got smart. Bought a bunch of Heifer International vouchers, donated a goat or a bee hive or something in the names of loved ones. It's a much better gift than whatever I might've come up with. I expect we'll be doing it again this year. Not that we can afford much. From Wednesday, December 19, 2007
I used to sing. Not at opera-rank, but not simply for the shower, either. My high school choir went all over (and even out of) the state for performances, and we competed at a pretty lofty level. Madrigals, canons, airs, rounds, you name it, as long as it was archaic and fit only for old ladies to hear, we did it. I even did some choir-for-hire work at churches (my church choir leader rented a few of us out, not sure what he made off of it).
Christmas, of course, was the big season. And carols were the currency, in intricate four-part harmony and the original Latin. I can't hear the music this time of year without hearing my parts in my head. Which, naturally, were never the melody (I was a baritone, ocassional tenor when needed). So I can't sing along, or I'll be singing part of a harmony no one else hears, and it comes across as just out of tune. (Which may not be far off, it's been a number of years since I practiced. And by "a number of years" I mean before many of my friends today were alive.)
But that's not why I've never liked Christmas. Oh, sure, the commercialism and the pageantry and the hypocrisy, all that, same reason you hate Christmas, even those who love it. But it's also a yearly reminder of failure to me. It tells me, every December, what a bastard I am. There's not a commercial goes by that doesn't remind me that my wife will hate me forever if I don't buy her jewelry, or a car. Or, for that matter, remind my wife that if her husband really loved her, he'd buy her these things. (Who the hell buys cars for Christmas? To whom are they advertising, seriously? I'm reminded of that SNL bit about commercials for big red bows...)
Added to which, I'm almost always broke -- outside of Hollywood, there's really not much money in movie-making, and I get fewer jobs than some. My reaction has largely been to ignore not only the ads, but also the whole act of gift-giving, getting by with the most deliberately meager tokens of affection that I can. It's the thought that counts, you say? Well, that doesn't really mean that just thinking of buying a gift counts. I've gone whole years doing nothing but bake; or, one memorable year, create liqueurs. I can still taste that tequila-cinnamon schnapps. Hell, I can still see the stain on the rug...
I've been tempted, in years past, to give "limited edition" printings of my art work to close relatives. But the truth is, they all hate my work, or at best tolerate it, and I really couldn't bear to see that same polite smile (or worse, feined enthusiastic appreciation) applied to a DVD, manuscript, or canvas of my toil, the way it is to a pair of argyle socks with jingle bells sewn on.
And this is the first of the nightmare years for the boy, I fear. In years past, all he cared about was trains, but this year, he's pointing at the TV every break saying "I want, I want!" Still, when we took him to see Santa last night, he was so excited that all he could say when addressing the big man himself was "could you bring me a train?" It's a universal, isn't it? When startled into it, we always revert to the basic needs. Food, shelter, steam-powered locomotives.
Then he leaned back in, even as I was leading him away, Ralphie-and-his-BB-gun-like, to say, "can you make it a Polar Express?" Shit, that thing costs north of $200 at the train store...
But this year, while I'm not rich, I actually made a few bucks. So I'm putting some effort into the gift-giving. Still not spending over-much (sure as hell not buying him that particular train-set, not this late in the game), but I'm putting thought into the gifts, and finding what will I hope delight or pester (when appropriate). Everyone but my sister taken care of. My sister is always tough. She has no quirks, no vices, no sense of humor to speak of, and she's got the sort of mannered, genteel, Martha Stewart tastes that are far out of the range of either my wallet or stomach. May have to fall back again on the bath beads. Or come up with something I want her to take interest in -- a particular performer's music, say, or a coupon for tattoos and kickboxing lessons.
As for me... I could use an HD camera, if you're still looking for something to put in my stocking. Otherwise, world peace will do. And good booze.
I used to sing. Not at opera-rank, but not simply for the shower, either. My high school choir went all over (and even out of) the state for performances, and we competed at a pretty lofty level. Madrigals, canons, airs, rounds, you name it, as long as it was archaic and fit only for old ladies to hear, we did it. I even did some choir-for-hire work at churches (my church choir leader rented a few of us out, not sure what he made off of it).
Christmas, of course, was the big season. And carols were the currency, in intricate four-part harmony and the original Latin. I can't hear the music this time of year without hearing my parts in my head. Which, naturally, were never the melody (I was a baritone, ocassional tenor when needed). So I can't sing along, or I'll be singing part of a harmony no one else hears, and it comes across as just out of tune. (Which may not be far off, it's been a number of years since I practiced. And by "a number of years" I mean before many of my friends today were alive.)
But that's not why I've never liked Christmas. Oh, sure, the commercialism and the pageantry and the hypocrisy, all that, same reason you hate Christmas, even those who love it. But it's also a yearly reminder of failure to me. It tells me, every December, what a bastard I am. There's not a commercial goes by that doesn't remind me that my wife will hate me forever if I don't buy her jewelry, or a car. Or, for that matter, remind my wife that if her husband really loved her, he'd buy her these things. (Who the hell buys cars for Christmas? To whom are they advertising, seriously? I'm reminded of that SNL bit about commercials for big red bows...)
Added to which, I'm almost always broke -- outside of Hollywood, there's really not much money in movie-making, and I get fewer jobs than some. My reaction has largely been to ignore not only the ads, but also the whole act of gift-giving, getting by with the most deliberately meager tokens of affection that I can. It's the thought that counts, you say? Well, that doesn't really mean that just thinking of buying a gift counts. I've gone whole years doing nothing but bake; or, one memorable year, create liqueurs. I can still taste that tequila-cinnamon schnapps. Hell, I can still see the stain on the rug...
I've been tempted, in years past, to give "limited edition" printings of my art work to close relatives. But the truth is, they all hate my work, or at best tolerate it, and I really couldn't bear to see that same polite smile (or worse, feined enthusiastic appreciation) applied to a DVD, manuscript, or canvas of my toil, the way it is to a pair of argyle socks with jingle bells sewn on.
And this is the first of the nightmare years for the boy, I fear. In years past, all he cared about was trains, but this year, he's pointing at the TV every break saying "I want, I want!" Still, when we took him to see Santa last night, he was so excited that all he could say when addressing the big man himself was "could you bring me a train?" It's a universal, isn't it? When startled into it, we always revert to the basic needs. Food, shelter, steam-powered locomotives.
Then he leaned back in, even as I was leading him away, Ralphie-and-his-BB-gun-like, to say, "can you make it a Polar Express?" Shit, that thing costs north of $200 at the train store...
But this year, while I'm not rich, I actually made a few bucks. So I'm putting some effort into the gift-giving. Still not spending over-much (sure as hell not buying him that particular train-set, not this late in the game), but I'm putting thought into the gifts, and finding what will I hope delight or pester (when appropriate). Everyone but my sister taken care of. My sister is always tough. She has no quirks, no vices, no sense of humor to speak of, and she's got the sort of mannered, genteel, Martha Stewart tastes that are far out of the range of either my wallet or stomach. May have to fall back again on the bath beads. Or come up with something I want her to take interest in -- a particular performer's music, say, or a coupon for tattoos and kickboxing lessons.
As for me... I could use an HD camera, if you're still looking for something to put in my stocking. Otherwise, world peace will do. And good booze.
float like a social butterfly/sting like a sewing bee
This was originally filled with links to every named person's MySpace page. And I'm assuming that, by the time you are reading this (I flatter myself that anyone is reading this) MySpace will be dead and gone. So I won't bother connecting them here. From Pearl Harbor Day a few years ago. Not what I will call a Post That Will Live In Infamy. Friday, December 07, 2007
Been June since I posted about something that wasn't bragging about how fascinating and successful is my life. I'll see if I can make it through this without tooting my own horn.
I spend a lot of time whining about the local "film community" and how little support you can find among us. But in truth, I do a lot of that whining on my wide ass at home rather than out where it means something. So I've made an effort of late to get out there and support the very people and events I complain that others do not. I'll run a few down for you, brief-like, and in no particular order.
The Exodus Experience -- the Rialto Theater is in my neighborhood, so I felt I'd be an ass if I missed this screening of Ya'ke Smith's collected shorts. But in truth, I was really dreading it -- Ya'ke is, well, earnest. Great smile, but he tends not to use it. And while that's a fine characteristic in, say, a loan officer, it can really be a hindrance in an artist. Think of your favorite movies, even if you love drama -- there's a sense of humor there. A playfulness, even if there are no "jokes," there's a looseness that tempers the seriousness. Art has to be fun, and I'd found precious little of that in what I'd seen of Ya'ke's work. But what I discovered in seeing a bunch of them together was that the looseness I was looking for was in the execution, not in the script or performances. "Hope's War," in particular, had a narrative style that made me not only envious, but larcenous (I'll be stealing a device he used there). Hung out in the lobby before and spent time with Brant, who is just the best guy in the world, and Drew (who's not bad himself).
24 Hour Comics Day -- My main man Fan Fave Freddy organized this thing, and his super-talented-and-totally-too-good-for him girlfriend Alex was going to be there, so I elbowed my way in. Everybody gathers together on the top floor of the downtown library (La Enchilada Grande) and draws a funnybook in the course of the day. No one was there for 24 hours, of course, and I don't believe anyone finished a complete story, although some did multiple pages. I met some really fun people, videotaped a bit, and even drew. I don't know that I'd call it "art," but it might end up as sort of a storyboard for an animated short. Those of you who've been clamoring for a "Frog Police" movie, your wait may soon be over. (And if you don't know what I'm talking about, watch my rad-bad-and-dangerous-to-know award-winning trailer for the 2007 Austin film Festival.) (Damn, didn't take me long to break my "non-tooting" pledge, did it?)
Exquisite Corpse -- I've made a committment to myself to get more involved in the local arts community. Since I've got that exhibition coming up in a month or two (and oh, man, am I ever not ready), I've met a lot of local artists, and they are just so much fun and so supportive, I can't tell you. Filmmakers have a tendency to spend their time talking about either focal lengths and lighting, or Hollywood movies that are art in the same way that the Vienna sausage relates to filet mignon. So I wasn't going to miss Jason Jay's exhibition of the results of his Dada parlor game. Explaining it would take forever, so just Wiki it and trust that the stuff they had at 118 Gallery was hella kicky. I brought the boy along, and he loved it. But he's more Dada than anyone I know. We went next door after and saw Peter Zubiate's studio. He's the husband of my friend Katie whom you should be so groovy as (but are not).
SA48HR -- Or whatever it was called, the latest 48 hour competition put on by Film San Antonio (which is the local film commission, Drew and Janet). Screening was a couple days ago, shooting was last weekend. I promised myself (and Lisa) that I wouldn't do one. I love this stuff, but the truth is, I already know how to make a crappy short in two days. Not that it's not a challenge, getting it right is always tough, but it's just not novel enough to me to make it worth it, and I refuse to make any more of what Erik calls "deliberately bad" movies. And that's pretty much what you have to do with these -- make a movie in 48 hours that conforms to some abstract constraints put on it by a disinterested third party, and the easiest way out is to point out the flaws. And some this year did so elegantly (the Lone Bannana crew get my "best use of required character award"). A few, as ever, had more style than I'd expected, one or two were downright audacious, but one, by a group I'd never heard of, Parker Creek Productions, did it the smart way -- shoot without a script, then do it all in voiceover after the fact. They got a little lucky (film noir was their category) and they didn't have to work too hard on the VO (most of it was cadged from popular songs). But mostly they worked smarter, not harder, and that's why I expect them to win it all. Although they might've been screwed had judging been live at the screening -- never have I seen a production so skewered by audience reaction. The crowd was slapping knees and roaring at every lyric they recognized, you could barely hear what was going on. Come on, people, you need to get over nostalgia! Recognizing a Bee-Gees lyric isn't funny! These lines were supporting the story, and you only wanted to giggle at some half-remembered AM radio nugget. This is why I needlepoint samplers with my favorite quote on it: "Nostalgia is porn for old people." (Mr. Bartlett, I do believe I coined that myself, please attribute properly.)
Amberjack Manor -- But wait, you say, what of the 48hr short to which you contributed, Mistah Pete? Yes, I know I swore I wouldn't do one, but that doesn't mean I couldn't help out a friend. Dar talked me into acting in "Amberjack Manor," a short Andy signed on to direct. I hesitate to say the part was written for me, but I shudder to think how they'd have filled the part had I not agreed to do it. Erik says I took it because I like to play the fop and/or dandy (I prefer the word "toff," but point made), but the fact is, I was born to be Nigel Amberjack; to the manor born, if you will. (He was written as "Lord Amberjack," but I scrapped the accent in rehearsals, so I think he's just Nigel now.) I got to work with Lanni again, and we do get silly together. Everyone else was fun to work with, too, but I've gotten too link-happy with this already.
Film Commission Animation Panel -- okay, so they can't all be great, right? This was a disaster, but not for the reasons uber-hostess Nikki and the Film Commission feared. There were some technical problems, but they were nothing. Seriously, if that had been what was wrong, no one would've even noticed. No, the problem was that the panel was dominated by people who are not animators. At least, not in any sense that is useful for me, or any other local filmmaker that I know of. These were eggheads who had access to (and knew how to use, perhaps at the expense of any artistic ability) mega-computers and programs that are not available to schmoes like us. Konise from NESA and Russ from Harlandale have very talented students (I've seen animated shorts from each school), and the stop-motion work shown by Angela of the Prime Eights was warm and charming, but they were all trampled by the drone of techno-geeks. I left that panel knowing less about animation than when I arrived.
Filmmaker Mixer at Ruta Maya -- Last night. A.J. has taken the bull by the horns and organized a monthly meeting. Pretty paltry turn out, but it's quality, not quantity, that counts, and this was a good bunch to talk with. Laura was there, I met Jose, and Matthew, who is a party where'er he goeth. Music started toward the end, and we all high-tailed it (seriously, shouldn't an accoustic guitar be quiet? Is that just me?), but a few of us stayed in the parking lot and chatted. I pestered A.J. (as I always do) to let me be a fly on the wall of his next shoot. He gets such incredible footage, and performances, I'd really like to see how he does it.
Tonight's Sam's birthday party, I'm going to try and make it there. And the Urban 15 laser show goes on this weekend, I'll take the boy for a gander at the pretty pictures. And the Film Commission mixer Tuesday. So, yeah. You know where to find me. Hope to see you there.
Been June since I posted about something that wasn't bragging about how fascinating and successful is my life. I'll see if I can make it through this without tooting my own horn.
I spend a lot of time whining about the local "film community" and how little support you can find among us. But in truth, I do a lot of that whining on my wide ass at home rather than out where it means something. So I've made an effort of late to get out there and support the very people and events I complain that others do not. I'll run a few down for you, brief-like, and in no particular order.
The Exodus Experience -- the Rialto Theater is in my neighborhood, so I felt I'd be an ass if I missed this screening of Ya'ke Smith's collected shorts. But in truth, I was really dreading it -- Ya'ke is, well, earnest. Great smile, but he tends not to use it. And while that's a fine characteristic in, say, a loan officer, it can really be a hindrance in an artist. Think of your favorite movies, even if you love drama -- there's a sense of humor there. A playfulness, even if there are no "jokes," there's a looseness that tempers the seriousness. Art has to be fun, and I'd found precious little of that in what I'd seen of Ya'ke's work. But what I discovered in seeing a bunch of them together was that the looseness I was looking for was in the execution, not in the script or performances. "Hope's War," in particular, had a narrative style that made me not only envious, but larcenous (I'll be stealing a device he used there). Hung out in the lobby before and spent time with Brant, who is just the best guy in the world, and Drew (who's not bad himself).
24 Hour Comics Day -- My main man Fan Fave Freddy organized this thing, and his super-talented-and-totally-too-good-for him girlfriend Alex was going to be there, so I elbowed my way in. Everybody gathers together on the top floor of the downtown library (La Enchilada Grande) and draws a funnybook in the course of the day. No one was there for 24 hours, of course, and I don't believe anyone finished a complete story, although some did multiple pages. I met some really fun people, videotaped a bit, and even drew. I don't know that I'd call it "art," but it might end up as sort of a storyboard for an animated short. Those of you who've been clamoring for a "Frog Police" movie, your wait may soon be over. (And if you don't know what I'm talking about, watch my rad-bad-and-dangerous-to-know award-winning trailer for the 2007 Austin film Festival.) (Damn, didn't take me long to break my "non-tooting" pledge, did it?)
Exquisite Corpse -- I've made a committment to myself to get more involved in the local arts community. Since I've got that exhibition coming up in a month or two (and oh, man, am I ever not ready), I've met a lot of local artists, and they are just so much fun and so supportive, I can't tell you. Filmmakers have a tendency to spend their time talking about either focal lengths and lighting, or Hollywood movies that are art in the same way that the Vienna sausage relates to filet mignon. So I wasn't going to miss Jason Jay's exhibition of the results of his Dada parlor game. Explaining it would take forever, so just Wiki it and trust that the stuff they had at 118 Gallery was hella kicky. I brought the boy along, and he loved it. But he's more Dada than anyone I know. We went next door after and saw Peter Zubiate's studio. He's the husband of my friend Katie whom you should be so groovy as (but are not).
SA48HR -- Or whatever it was called, the latest 48 hour competition put on by Film San Antonio (which is the local film commission, Drew and Janet). Screening was a couple days ago, shooting was last weekend. I promised myself (and Lisa) that I wouldn't do one. I love this stuff, but the truth is, I already know how to make a crappy short in two days. Not that it's not a challenge, getting it right is always tough, but it's just not novel enough to me to make it worth it, and I refuse to make any more of what Erik calls "deliberately bad" movies. And that's pretty much what you have to do with these -- make a movie in 48 hours that conforms to some abstract constraints put on it by a disinterested third party, and the easiest way out is to point out the flaws. And some this year did so elegantly (the Lone Bannana crew get my "best use of required character award"). A few, as ever, had more style than I'd expected, one or two were downright audacious, but one, by a group I'd never heard of, Parker Creek Productions, did it the smart way -- shoot without a script, then do it all in voiceover after the fact. They got a little lucky (film noir was their category) and they didn't have to work too hard on the VO (most of it was cadged from popular songs). But mostly they worked smarter, not harder, and that's why I expect them to win it all. Although they might've been screwed had judging been live at the screening -- never have I seen a production so skewered by audience reaction. The crowd was slapping knees and roaring at every lyric they recognized, you could barely hear what was going on. Come on, people, you need to get over nostalgia! Recognizing a Bee-Gees lyric isn't funny! These lines were supporting the story, and you only wanted to giggle at some half-remembered AM radio nugget. This is why I needlepoint samplers with my favorite quote on it: "Nostalgia is porn for old people." (Mr. Bartlett, I do believe I coined that myself, please attribute properly.)
Amberjack Manor -- But wait, you say, what of the 48hr short to which you contributed, Mistah Pete? Yes, I know I swore I wouldn't do one, but that doesn't mean I couldn't help out a friend. Dar talked me into acting in "Amberjack Manor," a short Andy signed on to direct. I hesitate to say the part was written for me, but I shudder to think how they'd have filled the part had I not agreed to do it. Erik says I took it because I like to play the fop and/or dandy (I prefer the word "toff," but point made), but the fact is, I was born to be Nigel Amberjack; to the manor born, if you will. (He was written as "Lord Amberjack," but I scrapped the accent in rehearsals, so I think he's just Nigel now.) I got to work with Lanni again, and we do get silly together. Everyone else was fun to work with, too, but I've gotten too link-happy with this already.
Film Commission Animation Panel -- okay, so they can't all be great, right? This was a disaster, but not for the reasons uber-hostess Nikki and the Film Commission feared. There were some technical problems, but they were nothing. Seriously, if that had been what was wrong, no one would've even noticed. No, the problem was that the panel was dominated by people who are not animators. At least, not in any sense that is useful for me, or any other local filmmaker that I know of. These were eggheads who had access to (and knew how to use, perhaps at the expense of any artistic ability) mega-computers and programs that are not available to schmoes like us. Konise from NESA and Russ from Harlandale have very talented students (I've seen animated shorts from each school), and the stop-motion work shown by Angela of the Prime Eights was warm and charming, but they were all trampled by the drone of techno-geeks. I left that panel knowing less about animation than when I arrived.
Filmmaker Mixer at Ruta Maya -- Last night. A.J. has taken the bull by the horns and organized a monthly meeting. Pretty paltry turn out, but it's quality, not quantity, that counts, and this was a good bunch to talk with. Laura was there, I met Jose, and Matthew, who is a party where'er he goeth. Music started toward the end, and we all high-tailed it (seriously, shouldn't an accoustic guitar be quiet? Is that just me?), but a few of us stayed in the parking lot and chatted. I pestered A.J. (as I always do) to let me be a fly on the wall of his next shoot. He gets such incredible footage, and performances, I'd really like to see how he does it.
Tonight's Sam's birthday party, I'm going to try and make it there. And the Urban 15 laser show goes on this weekend, I'll take the boy for a gander at the pretty pictures. And the Film Commission mixer Tuesday. So, yeah. You know where to find me. Hope to see you there.
Updating the resume to include the phrase "Internationally Acclaimed"
Just checked the link in this blog. The Costa Rica International Film Festival (formerly Montezuma International Film Festival) is going on right now. That makes me feel a little weird. It's happening without me. That's not right. And yet, I can't ask them to stop for me. What I can do is submit something for next year. I have to go back. Damn, it was great there. If I go again, I may not come back. This was from Saturday, November 10, 2007
Back from Costa Rica, and the Montezuma International Film Festival.
Had a great time. We jumped off a waterfall and swam in jungle pools. We hiked barefoot up rivers to more waterfalls. We saw monkeys and exotic birds and plants and a sea turtle with a shell the size of a bathtub. Lots of time on sand spent looking at big waves. And we ate and drank. Plenty.
Here's some pictures.
This is the Uraca. Kind of like a blue jay, but with a rockabilly hairdoo. Can you see it? The tuft stands up a good three inches. These guys were all over our breakfast place, and not shy.
Also at our breakfast joint. He's enjoying a banana, just like in the cartoons.
These little red squirrels rule the coastline.
A wiser man than I might've reconsidered climbing up to this waterfall after reading this sign. If you understand Spanish, please do not tell me what "varias personas han muerto aqui" means.
But that man would've missed this. Lisa's there to the right. She would later dive right in with her clothes on. Or maybe already has, judging from the "wet rat" quality of her hair.
Stream under a different waterfall, when she'd thought to bring along her swimsuit.
Me, too.
This is what the beaches were like. Rocky, but spectacular.
This guy was growing outside our room. Pretty. We live in a semi-tropical locale, why don't we have these? Lisa recognized plenty of plants that we do have at home, only they're extra-super-jumbo in Costa Rica.
Zip-line through the canopy of the rainforest. Kiss my ass, Sting.
But this is what it was really all about.
Oh, yeah, there was a film festival going on, too, wasn't there? This is me and Crystal Liu. We won the short film awards. She got "comedy short," I got "science fiction." Which is pretty damn civil of them, I think, because if we'd both been competing in comedy, she'd have kicked my butt all over the place. Crystal's funny and talented and cute as a speckled puppy. And apparently asleep under the spell of my charm.
Here we are accepting our awards, with festival director Eric Panter. I'm not sure what happened to them shortly after this shot. Er, I mean, photograph.
I could show you plenty more: about our journey there (fraught with peril and death) and our journey home (peril, no death); some of the people we met; the meals we ate (fresh seafood aplenty, and while the beer there wasn't great, we did find this Swiss brew that was made from hemp and had a faint aftertaste of bongwater, but was otherwise excellent -- I need hardly add, it is not sold in the states). But you can come over and catch the slideshow. I can't imagine you've made it this far in the narrative anyway...
Back from Costa Rica, and the Montezuma International Film Festival.
Had a great time. We jumped off a waterfall and swam in jungle pools. We hiked barefoot up rivers to more waterfalls. We saw monkeys and exotic birds and plants and a sea turtle with a shell the size of a bathtub. Lots of time on sand spent looking at big waves. And we ate and drank. Plenty.
Here's some pictures.
This is the Uraca. Kind of like a blue jay, but with a rockabilly hairdoo. Can you see it? The tuft stands up a good three inches. These guys were all over our breakfast place, and not shy.
Also at our breakfast joint. He's enjoying a banana, just like in the cartoons.
These little red squirrels rule the coastline.
A wiser man than I might've reconsidered climbing up to this waterfall after reading this sign. If you understand Spanish, please do not tell me what "varias personas han muerto aqui" means.
But that man would've missed this. Lisa's there to the right. She would later dive right in with her clothes on. Or maybe already has, judging from the "wet rat" quality of her hair.
Stream under a different waterfall, when she'd thought to bring along her swimsuit.
Me, too.
This is what the beaches were like. Rocky, but spectacular.
This guy was growing outside our room. Pretty. We live in a semi-tropical locale, why don't we have these? Lisa recognized plenty of plants that we do have at home, only they're extra-super-jumbo in Costa Rica.
Zip-line through the canopy of the rainforest. Kiss my ass, Sting.
But this is what it was really all about.
Oh, yeah, there was a film festival going on, too, wasn't there? This is me and Crystal Liu. We won the short film awards. She got "comedy short," I got "science fiction." Which is pretty damn civil of them, I think, because if we'd both been competing in comedy, she'd have kicked my butt all over the place. Crystal's funny and talented and cute as a speckled puppy. And apparently asleep under the spell of my charm.
Here we are accepting our awards, with festival director Eric Panter. I'm not sure what happened to them shortly after this shot. Er, I mean, photograph.
I could show you plenty more: about our journey there (fraught with peril and death) and our journey home (peril, no death); some of the people we met; the meals we ate (fresh seafood aplenty, and while the beer there wasn't great, we did find this Swiss brew that was made from hemp and had a faint aftertaste of bongwater, but was otherwise excellent -- I need hardly add, it is not sold in the states). But you can come over and catch the slideshow. I can't imagine you've made it this far in the narrative anyway...
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