Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Ministerio Publico

I just had a pretty amazing experience this last weekend (that lasted until Monday morning), and I started writing it all down last night. I didn't finish. It was almost 5 am. I'm going to go ahead and publish what I have now, although this should be considered a very early draft subject to drastic change. I just wanted to get the details and impressions down on paper while they were still fresh. I'm publishing because this is just too good to hold onto, to wait for the opportunity to polish.

What follows is a true story. The one liberty I've taken was to ascribe to myself the notion of putting a certain sequence in my "highlight reel". This notion didn't occur to me until the writing of it.

The bench bolted to the back of the police pickup truck faced backwards, so as it pulled away from Mariana and my dogs, I had a good view of them getting smaller, until we topped the rise before Mega and they disappeared. I was worried about the dogs, but mostly, starting at the moment they had put the cuffs on me, I felt relief. Vast relief. It was finally over.

I generally try to avoid drama when I break up with a gal. But then I'd never had one physically attack me on the highway just outside of San Miguel de Allende because she loved me so much.

I'm not sure how far to flash back at this point in the narrative. Do I go back our first meeting? To the day I decided we should move in together because I wanted to marry her and have children? The first fight, where she started going crazy and I, going crazy myself, slapped her? The fights after that where I didn't hit back.

Maybe you get the picture. There's so many details that need to be filled in and explained and maybe excused.

Meanwhile, the police truck turned right at the glorieta by Mega and went up the hill to the Ministerio Publico, the HQ of the Policia Municipo. It was late afternoon, the sun was gorgeously peeking out behind glories of clouds, San Miguel was spread out before me in all it's quaint beauty. The thinnest slice of moon, like a white line against the sky, hovered over the west. Everything was heartbreakingly vivid. It was a perfect day. I was scared, who wouldn't be if they were heading towards a Mexican jail, but at the same everything felt right.

I was worried about the dogs, but there was nothing to be done. Hopefully Mariana had understood that she was to take them to Gia, and hopefully Gia would come pay my fine and bail me out. But the important thing was that she take the dogs to Gia for safekeeping. Hopefully she understood this, but it wasn't until the cops were cuffing me and putting me in the truck that she realized what was going on. She had been writing her side of the story on her notepad for one of the cops. He read it and said something to the others and that's when they had me go back into the cuffing stance: legs spread far apart, arms spread to the corners of the truck bed, then one arm back, snap, then the other, snap. She started to panic, crying and reaching for me, so I told her, "Esta bien, esta OK, tranquilo (It's OK, be cool)." I told her, "Traiga los perros a Gia (take the dogs to Gia)" and "Diga a Ella que pasò (tell her what happened)."


I turned to my side so she could see my hands and signed G-i-a, and then she and Iggy Pup and Angie were moving away from me and getting smaller. She was crying. Objectively, seeing a beautiful young woman crying because you are going away is, well, it's a literary or cinematic moment. Aside from all the emotions attendant on *this* particular situation, the aesthetics were impeccable. This is going on my reel, I thought, after we went over the hill.

Some of you clever readers are now expecting the first flashback. Mariana and I met at a Boda, a Mexican wedding. She was at a table in the corner with a family (whom I first thought was her family, but was the family she was renting a room from, the family of Balbi, a friend of Mariana's mother), and I was at the next table, sitting with Carmelo, Cecelia, and their kids (Joselina, Aron, Maggie, Armando, and Juan Carmen, respectively). It was Celia's sister's wedding, and it was Celia who had invited me.

The wedding was in a rental hall, what the Mexicans call a salòn. There was a DJ who played execrable Mexican pop music at volumes to make your ears bleed.

The old woman whom I first took to be Mariana's grandmother was seated in the far corner. The tales were crowded closely together, so, when she needed to get up during the course of festivities, as she did several times, it was necessary for both Mariana and I to stand and move our chairs. This is how I got my first look at her and how we managed our first smile.

I knew few people at the wedding. Carmelo's brother Demetrio was there with his family. There were others I recognized from Rancho Viejo, our village, but no one that I knew well. There were plenty of pretty girls, but I had no idea who was single, and worried about talking up the wrong girl, because later, when everyone was liquored up, things could get ugly.

(There's a saying in Los Angeles ((or at least parts of L.A.)) that goes, It's not a real part until someone gets shot, or It's not a real party until the police arrive. I've come to believe that this saying has its roots in Mexican Weddings. The first wedding I went to down here, the boda my friend Feliciano threw for his youngest son, I was babysat by his nephews, who had me leave at 11 because the fighting was due to start soon, as if it was a scheduled event. Indeed, when I took my leave of Felix, he was calmly talking to young man that was barely sober enough to stand, but apparently eager to avenge some insult. Seeing me, he gently pushed the young man's chest so that he was leaning against the wall, at which point the young man apparently fell asleep.)

Back at the table, I noticed that the beautiful young woman (Mariana) and the grandmother had a clever system for communicating amongst the noise, that is, they had a notepad and pen. Throwing caution to the winds and also noticing that grandma and young lass had been alone while their family circulated, I tapped her shoulder, motioned for the pad, and wrote: Quiero conocerte. Me llamo Marcos (I want to meet you. My name is Marcos). Hers was Mariana, and she was pleased to meet me, mucho gusto, etc., and we were off and writing.

At a certain point, I wrote, "Esta tanto ruidoso aqui. Vamos afuera donde podemos hablar (It's quite loud here, let's go outside where we can talk). Classic, right? So, we went outside, where I would attempt my spoken Spanish on her.

The first thing she wrote on the notepad was, Soy sorda (I'm deaf).

I'll have it check with an authority (Sid Field, are you reading this?), but I think this meets the definition, at least loosely, of a "cute-meet". So, 47 year old boy meets 21 year old girl, who happens to be deaf. We talked, that is, wrote notes back and forth, until her "uncle" came to tell her it was time to leave. We made a lunch date for the following day.

* * * * *

The cops had left me to my own thoughts for most of the ride, but as we past the Tianguis and neared the Ministerio Publico, they began to question me. Had I been drinking? Taking drugs? Coca? I went into my spiel of being 19 years sober, un alcoholico anonimo, and they accepted this. We went inside and they asked for my complete name and age. They searched me (as they had done earlier on the highway, but put my belongings into a plastic bag instead of giving them back. They took my shoelaces and belt, my straw hat and glasses, my wallet. They did an inventory of my backpack, and noted down my iPad. There was brief excitement when they came across a prescription bottle of Lamictil, and one of the officers left with it to identify it on the computer. Another officer, who had been on the ride, began a halfhearted interrogation, asking me if I was sweating because of the heat . . . Or because of the drugs. DUNDUNDUN! I told him neither, that I was very nervous because I had never ever been arrested before. The other cop came back with the meds and said they were for epilepsy. Did I have epilepsy? This concerned them. No, it was for "bipolaridad".

I was allowed one call. If someone could come and pay the 340 peso fine (about $25) I could go home. If not, I would be their guest for the next 36 hours. I haven't carried or used my cell phone in 4 or 5 months. I never call anyone, using mostly email to make arrangements. However, no email in jail. I was hoping that Mariana had made it to Gia's house by this time and that Gia was home.

They led me into the cells. There were two cells on the west side and two on the east. They were about 5 meters by 5 meters and 5 meters high. There was a walkway that surrounded a shallow rectangular basin with a big drain in the center, with the cell doors opening onto the walkway. Above was another level of cells, and above that a sodium light, a thin row of panes of glass, then the roof. Only one of the cells had lights.

I was led to one of the dimly lit cells where a man was asleep on a blanket on the floor. The cell was painted grey up to a certain level, then white. The floors were painted a reddish brown. The whole place smelled of urine. In the corner, shielded by a concrete privacy wall, was a hole to piss in. If you needed to crap, you had to call a guard, who would let you go upstairs to the one cell with a working toilet bowl, which was apparently reserved for that purpose.

I sat down by the door and looked at the other cells thru the batsman then at my sleeping companion. So far, so good. It was quiet. A few men in the cell next to mine spoke quietly. My cell mate sat up and greeted me. I greeted him back, wondering for a brief moment if I should fight him, to prove myself. My next thought was, Get the fuck out! I smiled at him, he smiled back.

"What are you in for?" he asked.

"My ex girlfriend hit me, the police came, and I was arrested. You know."

He smiled sadly, so I asked him what he was in for.

"Nada."

"Nada? O es mejor a decir nada? (Nothing? Or it's better to say nothing?)"

He smiled again and nodded. "Con permiso," he said and settled back to sleep.

I leaned back against the wall and breathed. I could relax. I was safe. I wondered where he had gotten the blanket. An hour later, a guard came and asked us our names and checked them off her list. After another hour, another guard came and told my cell mate to get up, they were letting him out.

"Grab the blanket," the guard ordered him, but as he was exiting I asked if I could have it. Before the guard spoke one way or the other the man tossed it over to me. They left. I was pleased. Now I had something to sit on or lay on if I chose to sleep, if I felt safe enough to sleep, which I did not.

I sat in a semi lotus with my elbows wedged into the insides of my knees, my face leaning on my open hands. I dozed without really sleeping, but was comfortable and relaxed. I was aware of the sounds around me. It probably looks strange, but it's a comfortable position, and I could look up from my hands or even spring up to standing if the situation required.

If Mariana had gone to Gia's house and Gia was home, Gia would have come by now, I thought. If Gia isn't here, then where are the dogs? Well, there's nothing to be done but wait, so worrying will be nonproductive, I thought.

So I tried to think about Mariana and I tried to build up some anger, but produced very little. She's crazy, I thought, crazier than I had even imagined, but what's the point in getting angry at it. The thing to do is to stay the hell away from that sort of crazy, and, now, there is no excuse not to.

We had met earlier that day and gone for a walk. She wanted to be affectionate and I had to remind her more than once that we were friends now, and that friends didn't hug and kiss, at least not after the initial greeting, and not in the way she wanted to. This was a conversation we had been having over the course of our past few meetings, after breaking up and not seeing each other for a month. I wanted to be kind and I wanted to be a friend, but I was not going to go to bed with her. That would lead back to our dysfunctional relationship. A month ago, she had punched me in the face when I wouldn't let her come up the stairs. I had to physically carry her out the door, then struggle with her to get back my key. Apparently she thought I had a woman upstairs. She spent a half hour ringing the buzzer and pounding on the heavy wooden door in a fury. I was sure she was going to break the lock, so I went up to the roof and tossed water on her until she went away. That had been the final straw.

A month had gone by, and she sent me a very apologetic email, saying she hoped we could still be friends. So we met and went for a nice walk with the dogs. They had missed her and she had missed them, and it was a really nice walk. She wanted to meet again the next day or the day after, but I put her off a few days more, to a Wednesday. She came over, and as I was putting on my shoes, she wrote, "Quiero sexo contigo (I want sex with you)." I told her very firmly no, and explained why not.

We had been down this road before, when I had kicked her out of our apartment and back to Balbi's house, and then, as soon as I could, moved to a different neighborhood. She had tracked me down, we decided to be friends, but I was weak. I let her talk me into a friends with benefits arrangement that soon devolved into fights and sex, i.e., our status quo.

So, no sexo (no sex). No somos novios (we're not boyfriend and girlfriend), somos amigos (we're friends). Amigos no tienen sexo (friends don't have sex). Somos amigos (we're friends). She wanted to hold hands as we walked, but the hand holding became arm holding became walking entwined became enough of that.

I didn't think it a good idea to meet for a while after that, but she was leaving to go to Leòn on Sunday, so, could we please go for a walk on Saturday? It was the last day of her vacation. Well, OK, but remember, somos amigos!

So, we went for a walk to the Unidad Desportiva, the athletic fields, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

* * * * *

As previously described, my face was cradled by my palms and my elbows were resting in the crooks of my knees. I was bent over. I was smiling, thinking of young cowboys in Cormac McCarthy novels stuck in Mexican prisons. This was nothing like that, of course, but does anyone really want that sort of verisimilitude? Not me! No, a Mexican drunk tank is preferable. In fact, I think, I'm pretty lucky to be here, and not, say, somewhere like L.A. County Jail, which is far scary to me, not least because I've never been inside it.

Probably most people don't think it strange that they've never been arrested and put in jail, but I've been around social milieux where it's the norm, i.e., Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and of course the social groups that led me to them. But, no, up to this point I could always say, no sir, I've never been arrested, never been to jail, guess I'm just lucky.

I felt my smile pressed into my palms. If you've ever been to AA meetings, or enough if them, you'll hear the common story of having the spiritual awakening while incarcerated. Many drunks get on their knees and beg for divine assistance at this low point in their lives (sometimes repeatedly), and the tale usually goes that their prayers are answered, that they are struck sober, that they are relieved of the craving for alcohol (or other drug, depending on the program).

Me? I guess I was also having a spiritual experience, but mine was because I was feeling so grateful to be sitting in a drunk tank stone cold sober. I wasn't feeling superior, just happy, that foolish sort of happiness that seems to be for no reason. Perhaps it comes when one has no immediate control of one's situation and has no choice but to accept it, and then nothing bad happens. It's such a relief to not be in charge. The feeling was sort of like when you're coming on to acid, sailing that first peak as it goes up, trusting (because what else are you going to do?), sort of like that, but without all the extravagant, exhilarating insanity. Just a happy calm.

The guards brought this kid in, probably late teens, but he had a fine campesino mustache for his age. Stinking of pulque and beer. He seemed scared.

"What are you in for?" he asked me.

I decided to keep my answer simple and just say, "a woman. You?"

"Cerveza?"

After a while he laid down next to me. He cried a little bit, I didn't say anything. When his whimpers died down and I thought he was asleep, I threw the blanket over him, but a little while later a trusty comes by with an armful of blankets and I snag two. Later that night, we get two more men, one about my age wearing good steel toed caterpillar workboots, and the other an old man with a lot of Indian blood in him who speaks with a high birdlike voice. He also has a lot of blood on him, covering his shirt, but it's dried, and other than being drunk, seems no worse for wear. They sit on the other side of the cell. When the young man awakes, he goes over and sits on their side. He and the old man recognize each other. They're from neighboring villages out towards Queretaro.

My feeling of relaxation hasn't lessened with these new arrivals. In fact it's increased. I lay down on one blanket, pull the other over me, and finally fall asleep.

I awaken to a tap on my foot. It's the guy with the workboots. "Tienes sed? (Thirsty?) He has canella tea in a yellow plastic carafe and a plastic cup that a trusty brought. "Esta hervido? (Is it boiled?)" I ask. Sí.

Muy bien. I had wondered what I was going to do about water for thirty six hours. This solved that worry. The other prisoners call out to the trusty or a guard when they are thirsty and are allowed to drink from the tap. Being from further north, and having had the painful experience once before, I don't think this would be a good idea for me. Not in jail. Not where you have to first get a guards attention, then his permission to run up a ramp to the only cell with a working toilet. I'm not even sure there's toilet paper up there. We finish the tea. I'm pretty sure the other men have allowed me an extra cup and I'm grateful.

The old man and the kid talk softly for a bit. They speak Nahuatl, which I don't understand. I go back to sleep, but I awaken to the smell of beans. The trusty has brought a big plastic wash tub of beans and rice and a plate piled high with tortillas. There are big chunks of chiles in the rice. We take turns using the tortillas to grab rice and beans, making tacos. There's a nice strip of chile in mine, and it tastes so good after 20 hours of no food. The next taco has no chile, but the one after that has a chunk with lots of seeds, which causes a pleasant pain on my tongue and my eyes to moisten. Life is good. If only I had a cigarette!

Instead, I close my eyes and don't think about the unopened pack of Faros in my backpack in the office on the other side of several sets of bars. Rather, I imagine opening a red can of Bali shag, taking a pinch of tobacco, and rolling a smoke. I lick the edge of the paper and finish the roll and look at my perfect cigarette. I really can roll like that, or at least I could when I rolled my own. I light up and inhale that glorious smoke. I fall asleep, dreaming of my cigarette.

 

Friday, July 20, 2012

John Scalzi's Redshirts

 

Summary: Redshirts begins as a funny action packed story, but develops into deeper territory. Recommended for everyone, not just scifi fans.

There can be no argument that John Scalzi is a clever writer. His latest book, already number x on the NYT Best Seller List, is a fast paced action satire sure to please most fans of the scifi genre. However, Scalzi is more than just a clever writer, and Redshirts reveals his ability to write emotionally moving prose.

Scalzi worked on the TV series Stargate: Universe, and this background shows in the structure of the main story. It conforms to the three act structure of the Hollywood screenplay (see Sid Field's Screenplay, the Bible of screenwriting). This is not a bad thing, when used by someone who writes well. And Scalzi certainly does that. If nothing else, Redshirts is a rousing yarn (but so much more, I will argue).

I had encountered criticism of Scalzi that he is weak on character development in favor of the plot. Not having read his earlier novels, I was curious if this was the case for Redshirts. I think the criticism is true to a certain extent, however, it seems to me that this is not a defect; it is actually integral to the plot! I think the careful reader will find clues that this is intentional. Example: there is no description of the actual uniforms of the Starship Intrepid's crew. This can hardly be an oversight, given the name of the novel. Let me be clear on this. There is character development, there are character arcs, they just aren't fully formed or are superficial.

Scalzi turns all the criticism on its head after the resolution of the main story. Diverging from the three act formula, the author has added three Codas, and this is where he demonstrates his ability to pluck at the reader's heartstrings and where he goes beyond being a competent and clever writer. The codas are vignettes of a few of the minor characters, told in the first, second, and third person narrative voices, respectively. Even a hard headed critical reader such as myself will find their eyes tearing up, such is Scalzi's skill in fleshing out these characters and making the reader care about them. So much for the aforementioned criticism!

 

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Auto auto erotica

This posting has nothing to do with cars. Instead your faithful correspondent will goes into many digressions before getting to the embarrassing personal revelations. Also, a rant.

 

As some of you know, I'm writing my first novel. I started writing with an issue I wanted to explore: in general terms, relations between men and women, their emotional relations and psychic* transactions. I also had a starting image. The night before, as I was falling asleep, I had a brief vision of a man rummaging around someone else's darkened room. I tried see what the man looked like, but his face was indistinct and blurry. There was one distinctive thing about him and that was his antler. Not a rack, but a single very long antler coming from the side of his head. There were several very short points emerging from the antlers length like flower buds. 

The man with the antler was looking for something. I asked him what he was looking for, and he apparently had no idea. The vision faded, not quite making it to dream status. I awakened slightly, then drifted off, finally, into full slumber.

 

So, that's what I started writing, not knowing what it had to do with the issues I wanted to explore. As I wrote this first scene, other ideas more in line with those issues started to take form. Characters I wanted to write we're introduced to my mind. I took notes, and following Hemingway's advice, I left it for the next day, knowing that that was what I was going to write next. And so on.

 

A minor character turned out to be a playwright. I started writing about his world, a tangent to the main plot, getting into issues of creativity and originality. I introduced a rival, who appears in the form of fictional interviews in The Paris Review. This rival's method is what we call the Mash Up, taking material from two sources and mashing them together. It's a genre of music, but I had also seen it done with film when the production of Apocalypse Oz was shot on a soundstage I was managing. In the novel, I'm actually using the title and concept as the rival playwrights first work, with the original writer/director's permission.

 

I had (or felt I had) to come up with some other examples of the rivals work, so they could be discussed in the interview. I hit upon a mash up of the Sound of Music and Cabaret, which sets out to answer the question, "What if the Von Trapp family had failed to escape and been caught by the Nazis? What if the Von Trapp children were forced to seek refuge in the decadent world of Cabaret?"

 

As the rival playwright and the interviewer began discussing specific scenes in the play, scenes of degradation, drug abuse, suicide, incest, teen prostitution (you know, the usual), I felt the urge to write these scenes. I made notes as I wrote the interview for the future scenes I was going to write.

 

Then I wrote one. It is the scene in The Sound of Cabaret, possibly familiar to some of you (if you live in my fictional world) where Cliff has hired Liesl and Louisa to perform for him and with him. By this point in the story, Liesl has experience as a prostitute, but Louisa is still a virgin. In the part were they are to perform for Cliff, Liesl must seduce her sister. She tells Louisa to think of boys she has kissed, then leans into her and they start . . . .

 

It is hot stuff, or at least I think so. As I was writing, I became so turned on that I had to take little breaks from the writing to fully imagine the scene, and, well, jerk off. I have pretty high standards for written porn (less so for the visual forms, but still I have some standards, I hope), and I think the scene is pretty good. It compares very well with most of the schlock in Amazon's erotic section of the Kindle Store. (Rant: Seriously, some of that stuff appears to be written by people who never graduated the sixth grade. One wonders who in their families has to turn the computer on for them, the intelligence level is so low and the writing so lacking. I find myself losing the mood and my erection whenever there are inexplicable shifts from present to past tense and back within a single sex scene, or when a writer uses words that exceed their vocabulary. Please, terrible porn writer, buy a dictionary AND USE IT!)

 

I doubt that I'm objective about my own work, so maybe mine own isn't much better. It's quite possible that my entire novel thus far is crap. I don't know, I only know I need to write it.

 

I really don't know if I will keep this scene (or others I've planned) in the novel. I wonder, without thinking about it too much, if they will survive the second draft. I think, maybe, I could publish them separately in Amazon's erotica section. I do need the money, after all! Why let the writing go to waste?

 

The playwright tangent has found its way back to the main story, thankfully, so that will probably survive (though who knows?). The writer (not the rival) turns out to be an important supporting player after all.

 

I think its also a good thing that I am not self-censoring as I write this first draft. The writing is really flowing, the whole is taking shape. I've got a very good idea of where it ends, where I want the characters to go. I'm writing four hours everyday, producing on average 6.18 pages a day. I spend time after that, making notes, recording ideas, going to Internet cafes to do research. It feels good and I feel confident for a change. It's like a full time job, but a good one, the type where you wake up and can't wait to get to work. Even better than that, because I've never had a job were I could take masturbation breaks.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Is It Science Fiction?

 

I'm not sure what sci fi is these days. I've always loved PKD, who used science fiction settings, but wrote about what was concerning him in the present. It's the main reason why his work hold up, year after year. A Scanner Darkly was set in 90s California, which was in the future when it was written. Twenty years after the time of its setting, the novel still seems true, the humor and tragedy of the story have lost nothing.

My story is set in the 2050s. There are hovercars but no cellphones. Theater has enjoyed a resurgence because Hollywood, along with the rest of Southern California, was destroyed in the long predicted big one. But the thing I am really writing about has nothing to do with technology, even if I use futuristic technology to throw it into relief. I'm writing about people, like you and me, and how they interact.

I'm hoping it will be an entertaining story, as well. There's a villain and a good guy.

Ultimately, it probably doesn't matter what I label it. Either people will read it or they won't. If they do read it, they'll come up with their own conclusions. Why did I choose a future setting? I think because I needed some distance from the subject matter. I needed to destroy Hollywood because it feels too close; it still has tendrils in me. I couldn't write about L.A. (except in the past tense) because I miss it and don't want to indulge in potentially fatal homesickness.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Lens Flare

Andy Ink taco (actually his name is Ihnatko, but I thought that was an amusing autocorrect typo) just tweeted about lens flare in a Lara Croft video game ( twitter.com/ihnatko/status/209698436038131713 )

Lens flare is a (usually) unwanted artifact caused by a strong light hitting the front element of a lens. The initial vector of the light doesn't have to be pointed at the film, i.e., the light source is not visible in the scene. The light hits the front element, bends and reflects and does some "optical shit"' that I learned about in high school physics and now can't remember. The point is, that it's basically noise, and detracts from the goal of creating "suspension of disbelief", making people forget theyre sitting in a movie theater watching a movie.

I believe the "meaning" of lens flare in games is to provide the illusion that the game is a movie, since movie level realism is a goal of many video games.

Lens Flare has been used as a Style in movies, as well, but I've always considered it to be crappy and trite. Let me explain why. In the late sixties and the seventies, a new crop of movie makers emerged that were outside the studio system. Since they were "emerging", they were forced to work with small budgets and on locations.

Being future greats, they worked with these limitations, harnessing them to make their movies more realistic. Thus you get the gritty realism of Mean Streets. When an artist is forced to work with difficult limitations, they turn those limitations into virtues when they can. Other times they make trade offs. An example would be lens flare. It's harder to control outside of the studio, while on location. Imagine you have a crucial shot with lens flare. You have to decide if you can live with it, or if it's worth reshooting, possibly pushing other shots back, or losing them entirely, how long you have the location for, how long it will cost to rent it another night, whether it's even possible to rent it another night. There's risk involved every step of the way, especially when you want to do something "extra", even if it means taking ten minutes to make adjustments, then reshooting the scene two or three times more. So: important scene with lens flare, but the flare is off in the corner, yes, we'll live with it, chicken at 8:00, moving on people, next set up.

I think it should be noted that (AFAIK) flares of the lens variety were not considered to be a style by directors like Scorcese or Coppola. As proof, I would argue that this shoddiness disappears for the most part when they began working with bigger budgets. It drops from their stylistic language, because it never was an intended part of that language.

Great directors spur imitation. It was the imitators that made lens flare into a style (to the degree that they used it intentionally, and not just because they were dealing with the same limitations as Scorcese). Rote imitation, the result of lack of skill or understanding.

I also found it interesting when lens flares showed up in AfterEffects. There is a "legitimate" use for it: matching a shot that has lens flare. Since lens flares can be generally fixed in post, this legit use is rare, but it exists. Still, as a grip, a guy who has spent many hours chasing a steadicam, holding an 18" x 24" solid flag (still shooters call them gobos, I think) above the lens to shield the front element, while keeping the flag out of the shot, and then seeing folks intentionally adding lens flares, well, it's quite amusing.

I'm not saying that there is NEVER a reason to intentionally use lens flare. I'm just saying that those times are rare, and you should avoid it, if possible. But that's just me.

 

Monday, May 28, 2012

Room for Rent in San Miguel de Allende, $175

10 ft. X 20 ft.* Unfurnished, built in cabinets, large window (46" x 84") with beautiful view. Share kitchen, bathroom, living room and roof. Walking distance to Centro, near shops, parks, and bus stop. I have two dogs. (Total size is 10 x 20" but room connects with my bedroom, so there needs to be access through the room. See photos.) 1/2 utilities.

The neighborhood is primarily Mexican, so basic Spanish is a plus. This would also be the ideal home environment if you were going to attend one of the language schools in the area, but wanted more freedom coming and going than you would in a homestay situation.

 

Write me: marcosmalo then the squiggly a sign then gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

FLASHBACK: Leather Hyman

I spent part of yesterday listening to Leather Hyman's debut album, Host Body. I think it's held up quite well over time, both musically and lyrically. They were a fairly tight unit in the 90s indy/alt scene in L.A., and it's too bad they didn't receive the recognition they deserved. The production by Russian stadium rocker Val Gaina is fairly light and poppy in places, which I think contrasts nicely with the usually darker lyrics. I am given to understand that the group wasn't entirely happy with the pop direction, and self-produced their next two albums, Sunshine and Other Forms of Radiation and Dance Class Revolution, with the help of Steve Gregoropoulos of W.A.C.O.

The album starts off with Million Dollar world, which, while being alright, isn't one of their stronger songs. Next up is Away, which combines spacey guitar and viola with an elfin voice provided by Heather Lockie. There's some nice rhythm, including some driving drum sections by John whatsisname.

Frank follows, starting softly then building in intensity and interspersed with some sweet minor key guitar riffs from Lyman Chafee that vaguely reminds me of The second part of Clapton's Layla. It is a song of disillusioned innocence. There's strength in it, too, demonstrated by the lyrics: Poison generally makes you stronger/ either that or puts you down/ nothing's worth putting me down.

Track 4 is pussy, a light meditation on pets, meat, the cycle of life, and oral sex. Both the viola laden music and lyrics are great fun, especially Lyman's solo bits.

Girlfriend, track 5, is grungy and sensuous, tasty. Again, lyrics are striking and humorous: You won't leave when I ask/ do you understand English?/ I want to go to sleep for instance/ maybe I'm not articulating/ soon im going to kill you/ (scream of rage and frustration).

Next up is Trunk, a parable of female empowerment told from the male point of view. Sample lyrics: Do you remember when you had no legs?/ I liked you better then/ you lay on my back and I carried your weight/ I liked you better then/ but now you've got your own pair of legs/ supple and rippled and stronger than steel/ they carry you everywhere you want to go/ I liked you better then. I sort of recall at the time that the ironic nature of the song escaped a few people, and it had to be explained to them.

The following song, Steve McQueen is perhaps the most fun on the entire album. It is a celebration of the many roles played by Steve McQueen and the actor's overall bitchin' nature (remember when "bitchin'" was a common adjective?). Also, the organ is totally bitchin'. As far as I am concerned, there is no greater memorial to Steve McQueen.

Great, track 8, is OK. It's got nice bits, some nice bass lines from Pablo Garcia, but it just doesn't hold my attention like most of the other material on Host Body.

The wah wah magic of Rake also features some great background electronic effects from Garcia. (Garcia plays a more supporting role through much of this album, but his talent would really come to the fore in the next one, Sunshine and Other Forms of Radiation.) If I recall correctly, the song was inspired by a documentary on a young woman who had her back covered with a tattoo of angle wings. Either that, or I saw the documentary at roughly the same time. Regardless, the song and the doc are intertwined in my mind.

Imagine if the members of the VU went to Occidental College. That's the song Rake. It's beautiful. There's an undertone of C/W, but a New Yorky rendition, like The Stones playing Girl with Faraway Eyes rather than anything by The Eagles. "You kept me warm and dry." and "You were laughing with desperate joy."

The frenetic pace of Ritalin perfectly captures . . . taking Ritalin. What did you think I was going to say? For those too young to remember, or not born yet: Kids, we used to take a lot of drugs. Some of us more than others, and someone of us ended up in rehab, where we learned we were powerless over drugs, etc., and we wore turnips in our belts. Ritalin was a common study aid in school. So I don't know if you can relate to this song. Well maybe to the lyric, "I hope I die when I get old." That's pretty much timeless.

I mentioned The Velvet Underground a moment ago, and it wasn't by accident. Ritalin is followed by a very nice cover of All Tomorrow's Parties. It's a spacey and haunting rendition revealing the band's love of VU. Definitely worth a listen.

Last but not least is the title track, Host Body. The song is based on the aphid scene in Philip K. Dick's Scanner Darkly, but takes a slightly different tack, celebrating the symbiotic nature of our bodily environment. A heavy driving guitar and driving drumbeat underlie the partnership between paramecium and man. A spry coda recounts how "life begins again" after aphids have burrowed deep, layed eggs inside of us, hatched, and have begun to eat.

If you've read this far, thanks for participating in my nostalgia. I went to college with the members of Leather Hyman that perform on this album,and was good friends with Lyman and Heather. Pablo was not only a good friend, but a roommate for a period. I miss Leather Hyman and I miss my friends.

 

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Monterrey: Mountains and Federales

First, the Mountains. The city of Monterrey, Nuevo Laredo is surrounded by very impressive mountains that loom over the highway that goes around the town. Some of these mountains are part of Parque Nacional Cumbres de Monterrey. I don't think the photo does just of the looming nature, but take my word for it, these things tower over you as you drive past.

A little after Monterrey, we passed a convoy of Federal Police trucks. Those are automatic weapons they are sporting, some variation of M4. As we passed, I noticed that they had very active eyes, scanning every other vehicle on the highway that came near, not taking anything for granted. Recall that the border area is basically a war zone. Most of Mexico is pretty safe, as safe as the U.S., anyway, but I and my travel companions choose not to linger here. We're just passing through as quickly as possible.

Right this moment we are in Laredo, i.e., the U.S. side of the border. Hopefully, each of us will have completed his or her business today, and well head south for an overnight in Saltillo this afternoon. Then San Miguel de Allende and home.

I had a reverse culture shock moment this morning when I noticed there was no wastebasket next to the toilet and I could flush the toilet paper. Mexican plumping is medieval, but you get used to not flushing TP. Sorry, no pics for this one. Maybe I'll devote a blog posts to this topic some time in the future.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Laredo, Mañana

I'm heading to Laredo tomorrow, with Robert H. and some others. We'll be staying at La Quinta Inn, near the freeway. Things to do: pick up care package from Dad at the USPO, General Delivery; renew visa; look for used DVDs of The Sound of Music and Cabaret for research for the novel. Don't ask! :D

Mariana is going to dog sit for me. I walked all over town today, looking for an open locksmith or hardware store (that's ferretería and cerrajería respectively). But it's Sunday. There was one ferretería open, but they didn't make keys. Bottom line is that I'll have to leave my only set with her. ¡Hijale!

Friday, May 18, 2012

Evening on Calle Cinco de Mayo

It had just grown dark and folks were saying buena noches instead of buenas tardes. Iggy, Angie, and I were coming from the little park of unknown name, where they had been playing with Timòn and I had been tutoring Timòn's owner in English.

There was a truck with a loudspeaker parked ahead of us, blaring music, but I wasn't really paying attention. It's election season in Mexico, and I hear or see trucks with loudspeakers at least five times a day. There was a trailer attached to the rear of the truck with signs on its frame, but it was too dark to read and I wasn't really paying attention. Suddenly Angie was acting spooky. She didn't want to walk past the truck, and I told her to "come on!" sternly. She bolted past and up the sidewalk about a block.

Iggy began barking in the direction of the trailer and I a large shape lunging at us at the same time I saw the bars and mesh holding it back. For a moment I thought it was a huge dog, a mastiff or something, then I saw it was a tiger! Iggy continued barking at it like the bravo he is. Angie wouldn't come any nearer. Both dogs moved into the middle of the street, to have a clear view in case there were any loose tigers about. I had to shepherd them back to the sidewalk before they were run over.

A few blocks later and we were home. I fed the dogs, then cooked and ate a light super. I hadn't written anything that morning because I had taken Mariana to DIF (Mexican social services) so she could get a disability card. She had shown up an hour late, then the address she had was wrong, but we found it eventually. It was afternoon by the time we were done, but Mariana hadn't brought any of her documents, so we will have to go back.

Anyway, back to that evening. Tigers. Home. Feeding of animals and myself. I was tired. I thought about writing, but decided against it because it stimulate me too much to go to sleep at a reasonable hour. I read for a while, set the alarm for early (so I could get a good start on writing in the morning). I turned off the light and went immediately to sleep. I think it was around 11.

At exactly 11:30 I was jolted awake by very loud clanging, very different from the school bells or the church bells. Looking out the window I saw two men prying open a metal cover in the middle of the cobblestone street just in front of the house, directly in front of my bedroom window, in fact. They peered into the hole with flashlights, then closed it and walked around the corner where they had some sort of encampment under the trees across the street.

I retrieved my field glasses and spied on them from the side window, hiding behind the curtain. The source of light in their camp was a gas torch with the oxygen turned down or off. The flame was long and yellow and flickered in the night air. One man was sitting on the curb, the other was in the street facing them. I couldn't make out their faces clearly. They were talking softly.

I went up on the roof and spied on them. I realized I was presenting my profile against the night sky, so I moved to where my back was against the wall of the rooftop laundry enclosure. I couldn't tell if they were up to no good or if they were supposed to be there. Behind them, in their "camp", lit by the torch, I could see tool boxes and shovels and other implements. Finally a truck pulled up. On the side ofthe truck was the logo for SAPASMA, the state water utility. So they were kosher. That was a relief. There was a conference with the driver, then the men piled their tools into the back of the truck. They got in and the truck drove off.

I went back to sleep.

An hour later, I was woken by the sound of a shovel scraping on the stones of the street! Ay vey! Oy caramba! It wasn't loud, they were trying to work quietly, but it was loud enough. They finished shortly before 2. I reset my alarm and went back to sleep.

I woke up 10 minutes before the alarm went off, but was still groggy an hour later, even after my coffee. I sat down in my camp chair, lit a cigarette, then wrote the scene where Bob offers Antler Man a job. It was about a thousand words, which seems to be my typical daily productivity since I began writing this novel. I thought about Billy Jack's play and wrote a page worth of notes on the play and an interview of him for the Paris Review. Not bad for a morning's work. I don't feel sheepish telling people I am a writer now.

I'm looking for a patron or patrons. If you want to help out a writer working on his first novel, drop me an email at marcosmalo c/o gmail.com. (replace the c/o with the "at" symbol) I'll send you the story so far. Fifty or a hundred bucks each month would make a huge difference. I'm hoping to have completed a first draft in about ten weeks. At that point I'll start looking for an agent or publisher, so if anyone has any contacts in the publishing biz, or is in the biz, let me know!

 

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Hiking near the Jardín Botánico

Almost too tired to blog right now. Went on a terrific hike from my house in Colonia Allende to Charco del Ingenario, then down towards Presa de Obraje. We descended a cliff and boulder hopped down the arroyo where there were many pools. Here are the dogs enjoying one of them.

We emerged from the arroyo on the other end of town and walked home after a visit to Starbucks. My legs feel like rubber right now. Ok, now I'm too tired.


 

Friday, May 4, 2012

Searching for Tools

The stationary store (papelería) below my flat (departamento) has moved, so I don't have Internet. I'm going to need to call the cable company to get it installed, another large expense. Meanwhile, there is an Internet cafe down the street that is open late. I was there until almost midnight last night, struggling with, first, the Posterous blogging app and site, and then Blogsy (a blogging app) and Blogger. Blogsy is pretty cool, but a little complicated. It features drag and drop for fotos and can interface with many different online services.

 

Maybe Blogsy will work with Tumblr. I finally got sick of the Tumblr app, which is designed for the iPhone and is a pain to use on the iPad. It's not just the crudeness of an app rescaled to work on a larger screen, it's that phone sized apps just don't work as well on the bigger screen. It's a design problem, but not so much in the aesthetic sense (although scaled graphics do look kind of ugly), but in functionality. For example, the software keyboard is very limited for the smaller screen of a phone. It's probably functional and useful for thumb typing, but regular touch typing really sucks. Another example is that it doesn't have a landscape orientation.

 

Anyway, the Tumblr app sucks on the iPad. Just take my word for it.

 

The problem I had with the Posterous app was that while it does (sort of) work offline, it does this badly. I wrote a post offline that I was going to post later. When I was finished, I received repeated messages that the app was unable to connect. I wasn't even sure if it had saved the post. When I did finally get online, it got stuck trying to post for 20 minutes. There was a progress bar that showed "31%". That's when I started looking for another app. When I came back to the Posterous app, it had finally posted, but the headline was screwed up. (I'm not even sure if this was my error or the app's error.) The app wouldn't let me correct this. I would have to create an entirely new post and cut and paste from the old post. On top of this, I couldn't copy the text of the older post! Oh, and it's an iPhone app with the same limitations re: screen orientation and shitty keyboard. So, screw the Posterous app.

 

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Parks near my house.

I live close to the corner of Cinco de Mayo and Manantial. There are two parks nearby that I like to take the dogs. I don't know the name of the closer one, but it's between Guadiana and Potranca, about a block West of Salida a Celaya.

 

The other park is Parque Benito Juarez, which is the main park here in SMA. It's between my house and El Centro, about two thirds of the way there. A bigger park, but not much bigger. Still, there are fountains and trees and it's very nice to walk or sit. Iggy and Angie really like the fountains, especially on days when it's hot.
Maybe I'll go more in depth on the parks in the future. I'm trying out a new app/platform combo.
 

 

 

New Blog (Take 2)

You'd think I was used to it by now. Starting over. Letting intentions fall by the wayside, then picking them up again. Thinking that a new tool or a new site or new circumstances might help, but knowing better.It's hard to start over, especially if I've let time pass. It's like that pile of dishes over there in the sink. I think about doing them, but then the thought of actually doing then becomes mentally painful. So I don't think about it much or put it off until some unspecified later.I'm 18 years clean and sober. I don't generally advertise this, but when people find out they sometimes congratulate me. They say I must have a lot of will power. On the contrary, it took a lot of won't power, which I seem to have in spades. Writing or doing dishes seems to take will power, of which I have little, apparently.But I need to write. It's not that I should, it's that I need to. There is so much in here, more than 40 years worth, that needs to be out there. I'm not bursting with it, but it needs to flow out. It feels more like the water inside a water heater, the scale and mineral deposits building up inside, forming a crust. I feel crusty.So, I will not despise this opportunity to write. I will take it and use it to the best of my ability for as long as . . . as long as I can, be that a day, a week, a month, a year.As painful as sitting down to write can be, I almost always feel better when I get up from it. Right now I feel six paragraphs better.(Originally posted on my Posterous blog two days ago, before I decided that despite Posterous being minimalist and simple and all that, it sucks and its iPad app sucks. Maybe I'm not doing it right.)