Festival of Beautiful Mold

I spent more time staring at the cheese at the window display of the fromagerie at Rue Cler than at the paintings at the Grand Gallery of the Louvre. I have never seen such a festival of mold. It was beautiful. The way the light hit the rough textures and the varying shapes of cheese reminded me of Goya’s brushstrokes, which I experienced up close and personal just two days earlier. The smell inside the cheese shop was strangely reminiscent of the odor coming from the mummy at the Egyptian exhibit at the Denon wing of the Louvre. Actually, I didn't really see much of the mummy since it was so dark, but I knew it was there because I could smell it. You need humidity and darkness to preserve relics, and you also need them to grow mold worthy of Parisian taste buds.

At Rue Cler, I did not feel insecure, self-conscious and bitter as I always do when I go to the supermarket back home. Why should I? I am in a foreign city, thousands of miles away from California, and no one knows me here. I am not looking for the latest, not-from-the-frozen-section, new pathetic food, I may be able to concoct quickly and easily given my culinary limitations and disdain for food shopping. I will be merely perceived as a tourist beholding works of art and curiously taking in the culture around her; investigating the Parisian habit of living well. At least in Paris, I am not that pathetic woman who cannot cook and buys Lean Pockets only when they are six for ten bucks. No, this was not Albertson’s two-for-five bucks-take-your-pick from cheddar, Monterey, or pepper jack cheese. (Now that I think about it, I never saw an orange piece of cheese in Paris. Blue, yes.)

I was not feeling self-conscious, as I should have been. I was surrounded by Parisians carrying chic basket weave bags, making their way from store to store buying fresh produce, fresh bread, fresh meat, fresh fromage and the perfect wine to go with it. No, I was not self-conscious because days before I had decided to embrace my status as a tourist. I got tired of trying to read my guidebooks and maps without anyone noticing: by keeping them open inside my bag while trying to figure out where I was going or by hiding behind large structures and out of the way alleys to consult them in private. Being incognito was too stressful and so what! I am a tourist and I don’t know where the hell I am going and I need maps to find Shakespeare & Co., which happened to be just under my nose. Now, where was La Maison du Jambon? I proudly took out my guide book, took a sip from my cafe crème and consulted it without shame. According to Rick Steve’s book, right across from la pharmacie, two doors down from the beautiful, smelly mold.

Reverence

I step out of my apartment in San Diego and immediately feel my ass on fire. It is mid-January, but the sun is shining brighter and hotter than in any day in August. I get a strong urge to go back inside my cold apartment and try to recall what 30 degree weather felt like. In Paris.

The minute you step into Paris, you start to have strong feelings for it, and to take it personally. The Reverence for the city and for its abstractions disappears and turns into something else as the experience becomes more and more concrete and romantic notions slowly dissipate. I was there for the daily miracle that writers and artists long for and was expecting it to be even more special than the ones at home. Where else could you live more inside yourself than in Paris? Standing by the curb side, waiting for the shuttle that would take me there, I watched my breath hit the cold air. I waited and waited and I did not mind because I was also on the look out for the daily miracle that would enable me to tell what was inside me. I had to be patient. Could it come at Charles De Gaulle airport or did I have to wait until I was finally in Paris? I took out my micro-cassette dictator and held it close to my mouth. I started to speak, but the thoughts were not worth recording. Not yet.

The shuttles came and went, picking up their respective passengers outside Exit 8 of the terminal. I had been very fortunate and did not get airsick, but now I had to endure the shuttle ride from Roissy and to fight my natural inclination for carsickness. We passed an area that closely resembled Orange County and then what I could only guess were the Projects. The Projects are the Projects wherever you go: dilapidated, dirty buildings with clothes hanging off the window sills. I was not worried. I was very aware that this area was not Paris and it had nothing to do with Paris and that I would be in Paris soon enough. However, I was not prepared for the glaring and critical eye of Paris. I knew quite well that I had set myself up.

Prima donnas at the queue.

I enter the Continental terminal at George Bush International Airport in Houston, struggling with my four pieces of luggage weighting over ninety pounds. Words cannot describe the horror. People everywhere! I cannot get past the crowds and I can hardly see the ticket counters. Where the fuck do I go? I calm myself down thinking there is no way I have to stand in line, since it is the airline's fault I missed my connection to San Diego last night. No way I am standing in line. Making my way through a crowd of Mexican travelers with boxes masquerading for luggage, I approach a ticket agent. "Where do I go and do I have to stand in line?" She points to the other side, where I came from, and nods. "Really, but let me explain--" She nods and points, interrupting me. She doesn't know shit. I am sure I don't have to stand in line. It is Continental's fault I am stuck in Dubya's Daddy's Airport of all places! I tell my story to another agent who is trying to direct human traffic and she tells me to go to the side where I came from. The International counter? I just came from Amsterdam, not going back, although I really want to. She indicates she is sure that is where I am supposed to stand in line. Stand in line?

I take my place in line wondering why I am standing in line. After twenty minutes I spot the Domestic E-ticket counter across the cluster of Texan travelers. Let's see...I am going to San Diego, which means it is a domestic flight, and I don't have a paper ticket, which means I must be an E-ticket. Feeling glad that I took a logics class in college, I rush to get out of line. I knock down the queue dividers as I trip over a Mexican lady's cardboard box makeshift luggage. I don't look back and I push my way through the crowd. This is no time for good manners. I find the end of the line at the urging of another Continental employee. I ask her if I really have to stand in line, especially since I just stood in line for twenty minutes in the wrong line because of another Continental's employee's fault and am I going to miss my flight?!!! She looks at me dismissively and I can read her mind: HONEY, JUST BE GLAD WE PUT YOU UP AT THE SHERATON AND GAVE YOU A TEN DOLLAR MEAL VOUCHER. NOW GET IN THE GODDAMN LINE. Oh, yes, thanks ma'am and the Sheraton has real hair dryers, unlike those contraptions in European hotels. Fine, I'll get in line.

The wait wasn't that bad and I get to the front within fifteen minutes. I am five minutes from a clean getaway back to Southern California, when I spot a Mexican family of four standing to my right. Great, they cut in and there is nothing I can do about it since I am not the belligerent type. Really, I am not. The ticket agent, MY ticket agent, starts to help them first. I stand there patiently, smiling, waiting my turn. I notice the father is holding a stack of papers and I sneak a peak. At the top of the front page it reads: "Make a Wish Foundation." I continue snooping and read: "Miguel's Wish Participants." I immediately search for Miguel. He is standing next to his mother, holding his little sister's hand. He is about ten, thin, big eyes, wearing glasses and a beanie. He looks at me shyly. I can tell there is no hair below the beanie. The ticket agent is having trouble finding the little girl's reservation and I translate, since the father can hardly speak English. They must have it, it is in the paperwork he handed to her, he indicates. While the ticket agent looks for the reservation, the father asks me if I am also going to Orlando. No, I'm just stuck in Houston, poor me. The ticket agent finally finds the reservation. What a relief! They misspelled Emily's name. Since this is going to take a while, another ticket agent helps me and I finally get my boarding pass. Before I leave, I wish them a fun trip. Say hi to Mickey for me!

I head for the security line. This line, I am sure I have to stand in. I am about to break down. I make every effort not to. I am ashamed of myself. Of having felt so distraught and unfortunate over nothing. Swallowing my emotion, I put all my crap on the X-ray machine. I take off my boots and watch them roll away as I walk through the metal detector. No beep and I am almost home free.

When I arrive at the gate, I am informed there are no more seats on this flight, but that they will ask for volunteers to give up their seats. Well, at least I don't have to stand in line to board the plane. I find a seat at the gate and make myself comfortable. I know I will get home. I think about the hamburger I ate last night at the hotel, compliments of Continental Airlines. And about the bed at the Sheraton, which was the most comfortable bed I slept in the whole trip. I am lucky.

The Goal

I just returned from Paris and Amsterdam full of ideas and inspiration. I will shoot my first feature this year. There is no doubt about it. It is not about how much money you have, if you even have a budget or what will happen after the film is finished. It is about the process. It is about the work. The work must be done.

"Happiness... it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. "--Vincent Van Gogh

Penguins Take Over Paris

I finally had a dream that I made it to Paris. I get to my hotel, which was actually a motel, and it was shit. There was an infestation of penguins, all sizes, all around the block and it smelled! I get to the room and it was dirty and there was pita bread all over the place. I told the cab driver not to leave me there and I kept saying to the hotel manager that I was not staying there. I also told him that I was not going to be able to sleep with all the penguin noise. He kept saying that I would get used to the penguins and that they would clean the room really fast and not to worry. So then they pull out a man on a gurney. He looked like a huge boil or creature. Apparently, he had died in the room several days ago. Then the manager comes out and feeds the penguins the pita bread. The cab driver kept on examining the dead man trying to figure out what he died from. It was disgusting. Then I woke up and boy was I happy! But, the point is, the plane didn't crash, as it had for the last twenty years in my dreams.

I looked up the meaning of the dream:

"Seeing a penguin in your dream means that your problems are not as serious as you may think. It serves as a reminder for you to keep you cool and remain level-headed. Alternatively, a penguin seen in your dream suggests that you are being weighed down by your emotions or by a negative situation. You need to find some balance and inner harmony."

I really hate these useless and boring interpretations.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

I guess some people are praying for me. Most likely praying for me to stop sending them my political opinions, take a chill pill and relax. Keep praying, because I won't stop and I can't relax. I won't stop because I cannot forget that at the end of Ionesco's "Rhinoceros" the central character, Berenger, who initially resists, eventually succumbs to the metamorphosis himself. Is it possible to resist the urge to conform? To eventually become part of Conspiracy of Complicity?

Are we living in a godless universe where human existence has no meaning or purpose so therefore all communication breaks down? The line between the absurd and reality is fading fast.

What is wrong with the United States of America? The Cult of the Quiet is too absorbed in day-to-day bullshit. It loves its cable and internet and cell phones; it may be employed and it might have a nice meal and get laid once in a while. The Cult of the Quiet doesn't care. The Cult of the Quiet has what it needs so it doesn't mind that the president is an idiot who neglects the unemployed, the troops in harm's way, the starving, the sick, the cold, the bleeding. That makes America simple-minded and selfish. That makes America amoral and retarded. Rhinoceri. Look in the mirror, very closely, and see if you have horns too.


What do we care about?
We are jaded.
Let's not waste time voting next time.
The world ridicules us.
Irresponsible.
Sinners.
Dummies.
Do rhinoceri have epitaphs?

Rhinoceri don't think about their mortality. They think about SUVs, Scott Peterson and presidential blow jobs.

In the end, will there be any human beings left to graze and breathe and crap and decompose with the rhinoceri?

Poly Esther finally finished.

I test the mix by listening with earphones and at the Digital Pickles' screen. It needs some minor adjustments, but it is good to go and ready to give to Neil for the premiere at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art in La Jolla.

Mix, with full foley done!

After a hellish two weeks of car problems, I go to TJ to finish the mix. Edgar, Aaron and I re-mix the whole film. We wonder what the hell we were thinking when we did the first mix. We finish it at 1:30 a.m. Thanks guys!

FINALLY FOLEY

Saw Maid in Manhattan (why, why, why do movies like that get made and why did I watch it???), Super Size Me (been craving spinach ever since), Carandiru (I could almost smell the blood), Russian Ark (how do you say wow in Russian?) and All About Eve (perfect screenplay) this weekend. I wonder what is the point of making films. What is the point of watching a film if you don't learn something about the world and yourself at the end?

Cady comes over with the foley on aiff format. He's my hero. I will finish the film this weekend.

Down in the Dumps

May 24, 2004

No car, bad mood. My cousin informs me that the original owner of the car is in jail for seven years, therefore he cannot sign over the car to me. But it will be taken care of.

May 25 I am such a loser.

Still no car, still in a bad mood. I must be really unhappy, since I got motivated to start a new feature length script. I write 18 pages.

May 26

Still no car, but there is hope I will be able to get it out tomorrow. I sign a bunch of stuff from the DMV that my cousin brings to me. Maybe I should have read it before I signed it. Cady came over to pick up the foley CDs to give to his friend who has a ProTools set up.

The System Pimped me Back

On my way to the "cipher" shoot, my car gets impounded. I am left on the side of the road with all the film equipment, including the camera and film we need for the shoot. Rewind to one hour earlier. I decide to wear my PIMP THE SYSTEM T-shirt. Rewind to August 2003: my tags expire and I do not renew because I don't feel like it. Fast forward to this morning: I drive to 7-11 to get some caffeine, and as always, there is a cop parked there. I go in anyway, testing fate, and I really need a Red Bull. The cop catches up to me before getting on the freeway.

WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

Laura and I had lunch at Mona Lisa and she gave me a copy of Pro Tools "Juanito" burned for her. She also told me she was just awarded a grant from the Mexican government, State of Baja. I am so happy for her. It is very prestigious and this is great news. So I go home and try to install juanito's Pro-Tools and I fail miserably. Either it is not working or I don't know what the hell I am doing. I am inclined to believe the latter.

I meet Aaron Soto at the Media Arts Center for the screening of our films (Poly Esther and 33 1/3). The audience is mostly white and filmmakers. The first frame comes up, and everyone laughs at the Chia Pet. That did not happen at the Cinemainc screening. As the film progresses, the audience reacts differently than the Mexican audience, except for the rotten chicken sequence. Disgusting, smelly chicken is universal and Chia Pets are not, I guess. This screening leads me to believe that my people don't get my film. This bothers me because I don't want to make culture specific films. Who are my people anyway? Oh, and Aaron tells me I intimidated the Mexican audience. That I should smile more. I am going to have to take an acting class and put vaseline on my teeth. I scare people. That's just great. After the screening, a few actors and filmmakers approach me and give me their headshots and contact information and congratulate me. A transsexual (I can only assume it is a transexual and not just a transvestive because he/she is serious about passing as a woman) talks to me, but I don't remember what he/she said to me, since it is hard talking to a man trying to pass as a woman. It is for me at least. Very distracting.

HANGOVER

I have a mini-hangover from those two bass ales I drank last night. That's pathetic. It means my alcohol tolerance is almost nil because I am not going out or doing anything "fun." I email the cast crew asking for their bios. I hope some of them respond.

ONE MORE REASON NOT TO MOVE TO LA

Giancarlo’s friend emails me back telling me he no longer has Pro-Tools. Should I swallow my pride and see if the foley artist can do something? I still have some hope I will be able to do this on my own. I search the internet for free webpage design classes. How hard can it be? Sleeping is for people with lives, not filmmakers.

I get drunk with one and a half Bass Ales while listening to Jeff Buckley and working on the press kit. Somehow I find out that it is illegal to lick toads in Los Angeles. One more reason not to move to L.A.

THE FINAL CONFLICT AND THE PEOPLE’S ELBOW

I am seriously considering studying Karl Rove's spin tactics and applying them to film marketing. Evil bastard. I think he might be Damien from the Omen III. They get away with everything.

Laura changed her production company name from Morgana to Suawaka Films. It means "shooting star" in yaqui, our indigenous ancerstors from the Sonora desert. I am very proud of my yaqui heritage, but I must say Suawaka sounds too much like Chewbaca. She says she doesn't care because she likes that "hairy dude." Okay, if that is what she wants I am changing it, but I am sure there are many cool sounding yaqui words she can use that don't sound like a Star Wars character. I go to Digital Pickles to re-do the credits in light of this name change and because Torrence screwed up the credits. I have a few other minor changes. He says I am beyond super-anal, I say no, I have my reasons and they are very specific. It takes us FOREVER to finish, not because I am anal, but because he takes forever! I even had time to watch The Rock on RAW. He was the surprise guest. I also learned what to “rock bottom” is and how to use the “people’s elbow.” That has been the highlight of my week so far.

PRO TOOLS ANYONE?

May 12, 2004

Neil informs me that alt.pictureshows will be at the La Jolla museum. Giancarlo emails me with a potential Pro Tools contact.

May 14, 2004

It has been two weeks since the Cinemainc. screening, and I still have not found a way to get the full foley. The guy Chris F. recommended has not called me back.

SERGIO LEONE AND DADDY’S HOME COOKING

I spend the whole day at my parents’ house recovering, eating and watching Once Upon a Time in the West. I show my parents my film. They don’t seem to get it or like it that much. They do get a kick out of my brother being in the credits though.

SHOW TIME AT CINEMAINC

We finish the mix at 7:00 a.m. Aaron wants me to go to a television interview at 8:30 a.m. to talk about our films and the screening tonight. No way. My cousin has to go to school and I have to go home and get some sleep before I have to come back to TJ for the screening. The line at the border is about an hour. I hate this!

I am not able to sleep. I go to my sister’s apartment and I show her the film. She seems surprised, like she doesn’t believe I made that film. She asks me if I told the Truckees what to do. I say no I told them to do whatever they wanted. So how come they knew what you like, she asks. What a goofball.

I take a shower and I still can’t sleep. I am dying. I don’t know how I am going to get through the evening. Cady picks me up and I get a Red Bull at the 7-11. It makes me feel a little better, but now I am tired and wired at the same time. When we get to the CECUT, Dulce is already there with her friend. We are early, so we chat for a bit.

The first screening is about half full. Peat and his wife Christina arrive just as the credits to our film are rolling. Cady and I crack up. The next screening is full. I run into Karla outside and I am totally surprised she is there. She is one of the credits Torrence messed up. I explain what happened and she is a sweetheart about it. Okay, so half the cast is here: Dulce, Karla and Carlos. I notice there is a lot of laughs during the boutique sequence. It’s not that funny. I find out later that it was Karla's entourage laughing at her.

Christina, Peat, Cady, Dulce and her two friends and I go looking for food after the screening. I feel a tremendous amount of responsibility, since they are visitors in my country and I must feed them good food. The thing is, I don’t know TJ that well and we don’t have a car because we all walked across the border. Peat looks like he is about to faint with hunger and he wants tacos. So we go to La Plaza del Zapato and the place is an unbearable zoo. A waiter hustles us into his empty Mexican food restaurant. The place is not too bad, but the music is extremely loud. We move to a quieter table and we are informed there is no menu. No menu? We can order anything we want? How about Peking duck? I don’t have a good feeling about this, so I get up and say “everyone get up and let’s go.” I can conclude they don’t think I am serious from their expressions and reluctance to get up from their seats. Peat looks annoyed. The waiter cannot believe it. Finally everyone gets up and we leave. I know where we can go. I put everyone, seven adults, in a cab and we head to La Cantina de los Remedios fka Guadalajara Grill. Peat is not happy. I start to suspect he’s the difficult Truckee. When we get there, we have bribe the host to get us a table asap. Mexican ASAP turns out to be over half an hour. I am convinced my entourage thinks I am a bad hostess and that Mexico sucks! We finally get some food and beer. Food average, beer good. Time to go back to The Evil Empire.

PROFESSIONALS USE PRO-TOOLS

My cousin Gaby drives me to TJ and drives me around. We cannot find Edgar’s house. I have been there several times before, but we just keep going in circles. I am really carsick and I can’t take it any more. I call him from a pay phone and we meet him at a nearby spot. We have to go to Aaron’s house to get him and the computer. I know I am not getting any sleep tonight. I just hope the mix is acceptable for tomorrow’s screening. After a lot of talking and wasting time, we get down to do the mix at about 9 p.m. I don’t drink Coke because it is an evil company, but I have to this time if I am going to stay awake. We are unable to incorporate the full foley as it was meant to because Aaron doesn’t have a Pro Tools set-up and, the foley artist, being a professional, sent me everything in Pro Tools. He assumed the mixer would have Pro Tools. I didn’t tell him otherwise because I didn’t want him to think we were not professional. We have to identify foley sounds one by one and incorporte what we can in bits and pieces. My cousin falls asleep on Edgar’s bed.

Oh shit...I notice the credits are wrong. I am missing three actors. Torrence is going to get it.

NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING A PERFECTIONIST

Torrence tells me I am super-anal about credits. I make him show me every single font he has. We finish at 3:00 a.m. The film is now 17:30 minutes.