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Oh, that Friday the 13th. It is a pistol.

At least thus far it’s been a gently mocking pistol. I’m already late, when my wife asks me how she does something on the Blackberry. Different model than I’m used to, different interface. I am rendered later. Not a big deal, it’s my short day, rendered shorter by some extra time put in yesterday.

Arrive at college. Second Summer session is over, parking lot is a vast emptiness. I head toward my favorite space. When, amazingly, a van is there. It stops. The driver ponders the situation. He shifts into reverse. He stops. In a parking lot which currently holds only one parked car, he is apparently spoiled for choice, and cannot decide. Never mind. My second favorite spot is wide open, and I slip into it. I look around. The indecisive van has apparently decided to head for more crowded climes, where the choices are much more limited.

I pick up my travel mug. I always bring a large mug of coffee from home, where I know it will be made to my taste, and not dependent on the whims of the faculty at large. The mug has become unaccountably slippery, and my floorboard is now the proud owner of half a cup of coffee, and I face short rations this morning.

Opening my email, I find a letter from a lady I interviewed about a local mental health initiative last Spring. I say “interviewed” but in this case it means she read from index cards, defying any of my attempts to just get her to talk into the camera. The final story is a triumph of stock photos and CG text, because I couldn’t dwell on her dead-eyed reading.

Well, she’s giving a talk at some gathering, and needs some changes in “the CD I developed for them”.  Currently working on the wording of the reply which explains the difference between news stories and informational programs developed by PR firms. I will try to avoid pointing out that the latter pays much more than the former, and therefore clients, as opposed to interviewees, get to ask for changes.

No, wait, I’ll just pass that off to my boss. That’s why she gets the big bucks.

Rodney Dangerfield used to have a bit in his stand-up: “This morning, I grabbed my briefcase, and the handle came off in my hand. I went to my front door, and the doorknob came off in my hand. I tell ya, I’m afraid to go to the bathroom!”

I have a haircut scheduled this afternoon. This oughtta be good.

August 13, 2010
Categories: Life's Rich Pageant . . Author: drfreex . Comments: Leave a comment

Yesterday, while not a terrible day, seemed determined to find out how many of my buttons it could push.

As my morning was winding down, I received a text message from my wife. Since that day a couple of months ago when I received a text that simply said “Come take me to the ER”, I’ve tended to have palpitations everytime I hear the Jetson’s doorbell, which is the signal for a wifely text. Yesterday’s text was only slightly different – this time, her sugars had crashed, she was unable to drive, and I needed to come pick her up and bring her home to rest.

So I leave work a little early and help her to the car, joking that a) when she stumbles, she must have a teenage urge to pull me down and make out, and b) it’s pretty sad when you’re relying on a cripple for support. We pick up lunch and head home. She has some cheese and an apple turnover, trying to get her sugars up, and finally goes to sleep.

I attempt to follow suit, as it is siesta time – see earlier post – and the doorbell rings after a meager five minutes of sleep.

I have gone on at length about how I am going to, in a fit of rage, some day pull down the doorbell and reduce it to its component atoms with a ballpeen hammer. Instead I limped downstairs, since my son had already answered the door, there was no possibility of pretending no one was home. Besides, I didn’t want them ringing the doorbell again and disturbing my wife.

It was not missionaries, but my other least favorite visitor, a teenage waif selling overpriced services/magazine subscriptions door to door. First of all, given that I have difficulties sleeping, if you wake me up, it is best for your well-being if someone is dead, injured, or the house is on fire. None of these were the case. I told her she had awakened me. She seemed surprised, as apparently fat men wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers were apparently de rigeur in her world. No, I’m sorry, I am currently underemployed and not able to afford your wares, even if I were interested. I am going back to bed now, goodbye. No, it would not help if you spoke to the lady of the house, goodbye. No, you coming by later to speak to her would not help, did I mention goodbye? At this point she attempted to  bully her way into the house and I flipped on the Full Asshole Mode and finally got rid of her.

I feel terrible after switching on Full Asshole Mode, but the last time I attempted to gently inform a similar door to door type of the uselessness of continuing his spiel, he stood in my front yard and screamed curses at me for being such a selfish bastard. I complimented him on his sales technique and closed the door.

I get angry at myself for employing Full Asshole Mode, and I get angry at the person for making me employ Full Asshole Mode. I want a moat, but the damned Home Owners Association said no, and incidentally, you need a new mailbox and to paint your house.

Later – after managing a bit of fitful, rage-filled sleep, I drove my wife back to her school, where she had a Board meeting to attend. I got some groceries, including  much-needed Pug Dog Chow, and it was on the way home that the day received its coda: waiting at a red light a bird swooped in low over the line of waiting cars, and landed on my car’s antenna, which is one of those that extends on an angle above the driver’s side window. Well, that’s unusual, but sorta cool, I thought. And then the bird poop started running down my window.

The only proper response was laughter. Anything else would have been ridiculous or pathetic. So I laughed, and decided that maybe it was time to finally wash the car.

August 12, 2010
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First bad sign: when you get up on the day of an outdoor shoot, and the first thing you see on Twitter is a Heat Advisory.

I had been asked by an old friend to run a camera on his latest industrial video project: a sort of Amazing Race clone, where the teams were made of summer interns at a local engineering firm. I was one of four cameraman, the oldest, with the most experience – feeling, I suppose, that I could at least be counted on to get establishing shots at the various locations.

Each cameraman was assigned to ride with a specific team. Of course, yours truly found himself with a team of enthusiastic go-getters more than half his age. Who took the “race” part seriously, were determined to win, and literally ran everywhere.

Good God.

There were four objectives. I managed to keep up with them on the first two, but they literally left me in the dust in downtown Houston, between the Metro rail and Minute Maid Park. I watched (and taped) the rapidly receding backs, and sadly decided there was just no way I could do this. Hell, when I was their age, before the auto wreck and sundry other accidents that hobbled me, I couldn’t have done that.

I finally caught up with them at the end – gladly accepting a ride from one of the officials. The organizers themselves were almost caught flat-footed several times, as they arrived mere minutes before the first crew – mine, usually – made the scene. They hadn’t expected anyone to actually run.

Also had to personally intervene in the final judgement. My team was going to get penalized for losing me, and I pointed out that I had told them, “Do not wait for me. You are not going to lose this because you got saddled with an old fart for a cameraman.” And they didn’t. In Batman terms, they were good soldiers.

So, in lieu of actually getting footage of the events, I got interviews with each of the team members about what happened, of course ending with the question, “So… tell the people at home why there’s no footage of you being awesome at the last challenges?

I’m in serious pain today. Likely will be tomorrow. But at least one of the things I can say is: I have been on the playing field at Reliant Stadium. That was pretty cool.

And next time I’m telling my friend he had better be budgeting for a Segway.

August 5, 2010
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Busy week. I wish weeks would run, oh, Monday – Saturday or something. Of course, the week starting on Monday, or even Sunday, is just a convenient organization construct foisted on us by any number of forces that need that sort of order for reasons both nefarious and beneficent. When you work in entertainment, that sort of thing goes out the window, and probably bounces a couple of times.

Last week, the week my wife was out of town at an education conference, was fairly placid – there were plenty of errands to be run, but I managed to spread them out over the week. The real work week began Saturday, with The Show, then Sunday with the impromptu class reunion, then Monday a private show for Dow Chemical. In one of those odd puzzles that defy logic, the show Saturday was thirty-some-odd people jammed in a small room, last night was half that in a larger room. Both enjoyed the show immensely, so no harm, no foul.

Today: Staff meeting, low impact.  Tomorrow: I run camera for a friend, you folks will likely not hear from me.  It’s some sort of Amazing Race-type thing, so I may die unceremoniously in the taping. Thursday: Team building! By which I mean we go to lunch and then a movie together. It’s a hard damn life, I tell you.

Well, mixed up in there I’m also generating story leads for the Fall and trying not to perish in the stinking heat. That makes for a full day.

(Image once again from Savage Chickens. They funny. Go read.)

August 3, 2010
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I suppose I’m less interesting when I have nothing to complain about. Who wants to hear about things going well? It’s banks closings, massive ecological disasters, and unfunded and unsuccessful wars that get the page hits.

Sorry.

Well, this does start with a sadness: Art, one of my oldest friends – we were one of five sharing a legendary house in college days – had to come into town from LA because his mother, after a long, long struggle with Alzheimers, had a stroke that ended the struggle altogether. In town for only a short time, another of the housemates, Scott, through Herculean effort managed to get everybody from that era at the Sam Houston Drama Department – who was within driving distance – to gather Sunday afternoon for an impromptu support group and general gabfest.  By sheer coincidence, the fifth member of the household, who has also spent the last ten some-odd years in LA, was in town on business, and the fifth member made the three-hour trip from Nacogdoches.

To say that we were all older would be disingenuous. I left the womb of college to take the world of theater by storm nearly 30 years ago. Some of us hadn’t changed that much, some of us had. All were recognizable, all were healthy. The men, when they had hair, wore gray. The women did not, and I was informed by one of them that there was a reason for that.

Some of the folks I had lost touch with years before; some I had never been that close to, anyway. Most of them I had re-established contact with via Facebook (yes, I am one of the old farts that drove out the kids). Some I had lost touch with in spite of living in the same city. Most of us wondered why we didn’t do this more often, why it takes some tragedy to get us to come together.

The sad thing is, we always say that. Every time. Then we go off, get involved in our personal morasses, and never really consider it until somebody dies again.

Bob, the second guy from LA, had to leave early for a wedding. Luckily, he, Scott and I had lunch Friday and did our catching up then. Art, sadly had to leave not long after, to pick up his brother at the airport, before I got to play catch-up with him. That left the rest of us, a number that dwindled through the evening, as those that had driven from distant lands had to once more hit the road.

Steve, a friend for even longer than Art, and I had a quiet moment to engage in one of the conversations we had so often, about metaphysics and history, that was cut short too soon; I was reminded of my years-long crush on Diane; and I was reminded that Porter, the guy who drove all the way from Nacogdoches, is one of the few people that make me laugh loud and long and unashamedly.

As I said, I left college in ’81. Never got that degree, which is something that makes me sad. Too many youthful screw-ups, too many dreams, it was just easier to sever the ties and start over. I’ve started over several times since then. A few summers back, I visited the old digs, the college, the bars, the party house, and I was overcome by an unfathomable longing. I spent months examining that longing. Was it for simpler times, although while living through them, they seemed unbearably complex? Did I miss the dreams that seemed so in reach at the time? Did I miss the certainty of my own unflappable rightness, the obviousness of my genius?

I finally decided that my sadness was due to that lack of closure, of finishing out the program, of getting that all-important piece of paper which would have made certain aspects of my life easier. I just felt that it was a waste of all that time, all those years, all that youth.

But yesterday put paid to all that. I made those friends in those years, and I would not trade anything for those friends and the love felt for them and from them. My nose is rubbed daily in what seems to be the inherent stupidity and brute insensitivity of mankind. Every now and then I need – really, honestly, need – that reminder that there are, indeed, good people in the world, and I know a lot of them.

August 2, 2010
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Yeah, it does. But then it has helped me spend it in a much smarter manner.

Chris Sims (@theisb) once tweeted he was “buying the hell out of this”, and the link took me to the woot! shirt of the day, which was an intensely clever Shakespeare design. I, too, bought the hell out of that. Twice, as I wasn’t so stupid as to not buy one for my wife. At the time, it was only $10. It’s $15 now, which is still cheap for such a cool shirt.

Then Web comic luminary Bully the Little Stuffed Bull (@bully_thelsb) starts working me.  First announcing that Barnes & Noble dot com is selling the two volume MAD’s Maddest Artist Don Martin, formerly $150, for a mere $20. I had always looked at that beast with desire in my eyes and lust in my heart. Even with shipping… and I have handled granite counter tops that are lighter… it was still like 1/6th the original cost. That’s an 80% discount. I think.

Then the pernicious little plush toy sends out a link proclaiming that the very same Barnes & Noble site is selling Criterion DVDs for half-price. This would have been the ruin of a lesser man. And it almost was, for me.

Well, not ruin, but drama is coin of the realm for me, doncha know.

I’m definitely on a budget these days, but I had a bit that could go for such a worthy cause. The Criterion discs are the whole reason the digital format was created, and anytime I can glom on to one for twenty bucks or less is a micro-Golden Age for me. I limited myself to three, one being a stripped-down Art House Essential disc, which was already reasonably priced, but suddenly became downright cheap (and how I had gone my life without owning a copy of Cocteau’s Beauty & the Beast is beyond me).

All well and good. Until I was going over my online bank account and noticed I had gotten charged for the discs twice, kinda negating the half-priciness of the whole thing. I immediately shot off an e-mail to their customer service department (the 800 number is a masterpiece of robot uncaringness) and this morning the offending charge was erased. Customer service is not just a legend, and B&N has insured they will continue to get my money, the clever fellows.

So. Almost-ruin. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m ranking that under first world problems.

That Criterion sale is still ongoing, should you be interested, and not afraid of ruin.

July 29, 2010
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Never, ever examine the workings of the Universe. In other words,  I woke up this morning long before my alarm clock rang. Or beeped. Or did anything like that. In spite of some difficulty getting to sleep last night. Who knew that a post-9PM Grande Vanilla Latte would be a bad idea?

Why, you might ask, would you do such a thing when you cut out all caffeine in your life so you could still have your morning coffee? Well, there were extenuating circumstances. I had already had two beers, and didn’t need another one.

I journeyed into Houston from my suburban stronghold to attend a meeting of SWAMP, which stands for the SouthWest Alternate Media Project, a filmmaker’s support group. I know they were instrumental in getting Belezaire the Cajun made, and had a hand in lots of local indie films. They’ve been around at least as long as I have, so they’re doing something right. And the latest thing they did right was bringing my friend Chris Holland in to speak last night.

Chris has been in the trenches working for film festivals the last five years, noticed he was answering the same questions over and over again, and did the logical thing and wrote a book, Film Festival Secrets. He distilled salient points into a ten-step presentation, said a lot of things that the budding filmmakers needed to hear, and had a very strong turn-out. Eventually we managed to get away from the attendees to get a drink and play catch-up (and for me to go awww at pictures of his newborn baby girl). The meeting had taken place in a bar in Montrose, and I had quickly determined that they had Guinness and had availed myself of that during the meet-and-greet and presentation.

Chris mentioned there was another bar a block over that might be quieter for our conversation, but I had lived in the Montrose and knew that bar a little more, um, interesting than we might have cared for. Went to where a nice coffeehouse had been next to the art house theater, found that it had gone the way of most of the things of my youth (how disturbing that I now consider my 30s my “youth”), and settled on a Starbucks, allowing us to suck down their free wi-fi with our coffees.

My shoulder starting acting sometime during all that – why, I’m not sure (though it probably contributed to my poor sleep). In a fantasy world, it was because Chris and I indulged ins some crime fighting. In reality, it’s because I’m an old fart who had to be wrestled out of his reading chair to join society.

Still up: taking The Boy to see Predators. Oooh, that will end well.

July 28, 2010
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The laptop now plays Half-Life. Peace reigns throughout the universe. The Boy even got up with me at 7AM to resume playing the game.

That was an absolute lie. The snooze button got a workout this morning. I wish I knew what was different of late; usually I hit the sack at 1AM, when I am too tired to do anything but sleep (yes, this is necessary – otherwise, I don’t sleep), then my traitorous brain awakens me at 6AM or even earlier. Lately, I’ve been sleeping until my alarm. I’m grateful, but I’d love to know what is making my nighttime different.

Possibly it’s due to the prospect of the feast/famine dichotomy finally turning the corner into Feast territory. People are nibbling at the outreaches of my availability, intimating they are getting ducks in rows for future productions. Whip those ducks into shape, say I, Daddy needs a new pair of glasses.

But the part about The Boy not sleeping in until Noon? That was The Truth.

Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to go work magic on some emcee speeches I promised to write for a church function. That would be the one where I was waiting for more information to be given, and I now realize this info is not coming. Or if it does, it won’t be what I need. Why, for instance, I was given the recipes for the desserts that will be served is quite, quite beyond me. This is to be an evening of jazz music, not a cooking show.

I’m not even sure why they need anyone to write emcee speeches. They are not that difficult. “Good evening, Here’s the band. Bid at the silent auction. Give us money. Don’t drink and drive. Thank you.”

I will just, as ever, throw up my hands, exclaim, “Civilians!” under my breath, and get on with it.

(The image is from Savage Chickens. They funny. Go read.)

July 27, 2010
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Well, to get the obvious Monty Python reference out of the way, I’m not quite dead yet.

Two days of shooting video outside in the July heat was brutal. Spending those two days standing was less that salubrious, bum leg wise, and two days later I’m still using my cane.

I was at the Fort Bend Museum in Richmond, the county seat, covering their Summer hands-on history classes. School-age kids learning how things were done in the pre-Civil War days, when the white man started moving into Texas. The disjoint was often amusing, as when on the “Chore Day” section of the workshop, kids were washing clothes with scrub boards and a hand-driven wringer, then hanging the laundry on a clothesline. One stated simply that he would “hire a girl” to do this.

The lesson from the prior day Frontier Survival, hadn’t sunk in, ie, there is no girl to hire. You are miles away from anyone else, and it is on you to do this, and do it right. Carrying water from the well didn’t go over well, either. Half of it was spilled, necessitating more trips. Starting a fire with flint and steel was equally mystifying.  “Why don’t you just use matches? My father would use lighter fluid.”

Well, hopefully the kids learned something that can be put to good use, later in life. Like when the dryer breaks down, or something. Or to keep an eye on the kid who kept asking during Chore Day when they were going to slaughter an animal.

Me, I learned to schedule inside stories in the Summer.

Speaking of history: I had heard an interview with Daniel Okent on NPR about his book, Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, and immediately put a request for it into my local library. Picked it up Wednesday (part of an epic 10 books my library had processed for me- damn, my library rocks) and am thoroughly enjoying it. This is the kind of history book I love, examining the inter-connectedness of events that at first glance would seen unconnected, but which give rise to unexpected developments and consequences.  James Burke’s appropriately-named Connections first turned me on to this view of history, and it changed the way I looked at events forever. Here, have a taste:

The series seems to have a strong presence on YouTube, and definitely deserves to be checked out. (well, actually no it doesn’t, and appears to be scrubbed out completely)

No show for me this weekend; the loss of revenue hurts, but my body will appreciate the chance to heal. Have a good one, folks.

July 16, 2010
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