Numerous Cats Productions has four moving parts. Me, of course. Chris, the web developer, internet guru and father of arguably the most adorable 2-year-old alive. Dom, who runs a record label, sells tickets and redefines the hustle everyday of his life. And Lamont, who is currently chasing his own vision of the American dream.
That does not count Leslye, who shoots, edits, designs, codes, produces, directs, writes and performs minor miracles when called upon.
Of our five, I was the only one who traveled to attend Black Soil. It doesn’t matter why. It only matters that it is. Or was.
And that I was the lone hand, voice, set of feet and eyes available to street team for the okaymentary.
Which is how I occupied the last four days of my time in the Netherlands.
A Pre-Screening Party at Jimmy Wu’s. IDFA. The Flying Pig Hostels. Black Soil, itself. And every nook and cranny of a 25-round-mile-radius of Amsterdam proper. Or not so proper. As it were.
I wandered. Purposely. Accidentally. Endlessly. (Seriously. You should see the callouses on my feet.)
In those wanderings, I...well...I wish I could tell you that I was inspired. But inspiration is not the byproduct of the street teaming process. No matter where it takes place. It is exhausting. And, in the best of times, it is hopeful.
Hopeful that the people whose hands you shook were genuinely interested in your project and will remember when it is that you want them to attend your screening. Hopeful that none of the flyers you placed so thoughtfully and artfully will be carelessly discarded. Hopeful that you'll get a 10% return on all of the work you put in.
Fast forward to 7 pm on Sunday, Dec. 2. An hour before the Amsterdam screening of the okaymentary.
The venue hosting the Amsterdam installation of Black Soil was dope. Similar to the one in Rotterdam as Bitterzoet served multiple purposes. Theatre plus cafe plus bar. The gorgeous soda bottle of a Dutch-Israeli bartender who worked in the café arrived early. Her sunny brown eyes and extra large dimples sharply contrasted the dark, cold, rainy outside where most of my last desperate afternoon had taken place. Hope hung on. For just a few minutes longer.
Minutes before the screening, though, practicality entered the building.
The Bitterzoet Theatre contained about 150 seats. It was about a third full. I would have preferred that it be about a third empty. I made a quick visit to the bartender to keep my spirits up. And the screening commenced.
The post-show Q&A—as is becoming customary—featured an intriguing array of inquiries and comments about the internet and its cultural impact. We may not have made a widely seen (yet) or easy to sell film, but our story certainly is a thought-provoking one.
If only my credit card company accepted thoughts as payment.
Clinging to the last bits of hope, I asked the bartender to help me out with that.
By pouring several Jamesons, of course.
How else did you expect this story to end?
Showing posts with label On The Road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On The Road. Show all posts
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
"Dude, We Have a Problem."
After my walking-talking meeting with the BFI cat, I saw London with new eyes. Gone was the wonder of walking through the world's largest (and dirtiest) outdoor museum. In came the feeling that it was just another place on earth for me to be. Doing whatever it is that I do. Clearly a different place than others I have lived in or visited. But nothing that was fundamentally larger than me.
That, of course, is when the mouth of the city gaped open and took a big, humbling bite out of me. In the form of one gawdawful day.
These days happen when you travel for long periods of time. They're unavoidable. How you deal with them proves your road mettle. Without doubt. One way or the other.
This kind of day pokes you in the eye, kicks you in the balls, then hovers over you--deciding whether to add a third, fourth or more kind of pain--while you writhe about. These days happen when you're away from home for more than just a week at the beach or a 3-day conference in Atlanta. They’re completely pitiless. And nothing makes you more sick. Not so much for home. But for something that feels comfortable. Knowable. Familiar.
Something that doesn’t involve dragging 70 lbs of clothes, flyers and equipment all over London.
My cell phone gets no service in Europe. I do not wear a watch. Which means that keeping time had been a daily challenge. A confusing one at that as I’d been in two different European time zones.
If there had been time to do some serious watch shopping, I may have avoided that gawdawful day in London. Alas, the watches I’d seen were either expensive arm jewelery or didn’t meet my immediate needs. Or both. Consequently, I had to be creative about how to trigger the end of each night’s sleep.
Which places us on the morning of Wed the 28th. The homie Adam--who graciously provided shelter in his brand new, yet to be furnished apartment in Hackney--and I both made mistakes in the way we set alarms on Tues night. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but I do know that...well, let me just tell you.
A knock on my door woke me up and one sentence set the tone for the day.
“Dude, we have a problem.”
He informed me that it was 8:30 am. My flight departed at 9:40. That’s not much time to travel halfway across London and check in to Gatwick, but I crammed all of my things into my bags anyway and gave it a go.
We had no car. A taxi was not an option. Nor was a double-decker. Best bet was the Tube.
Sardines are the obvious metaphor that might describe the scene on the Underground during rush hour. That’s really not the whole story, though. And it’s not all the way accurate either.
An assembly line of human goings supplies densely packed train cars that depart every two minutes with a steady stream of passengers. You fight your way up, down and around the station. Fight your way onto the train. Fight your way off. Passively, of course. And without much sound. There are no loud conversations among the British. There is no echo of trains moving elsewhere on the subway system, either. There is just you—plus whatever crap you carry—quietly struggling to squeeze into half as much space as you really need. Oh, and 15 jillion other people trying to do the same thing at the same time. With 15 jillion more people coming right behind you.
We transferred trains once. Then again. Time quickly slipped away from me. We both realized there was no way I was going to board Easy Jet Flight 0942.
Bummer. With a capital B. For real. ‘Cause I was supposed to return to Amsterdam to do a radio interview that afternoon to promote my movie.
After we extracted ourselves from the moving metal amoeba, we found an internet connection. I checked flights. Called Philip and Sasha from Black Soil to see what my options were for arriving in time to do the interview. There was no flight available that would get me back to Amsterdam to do it.
*SIGH*
Missed flight. Missed interview. Several new bruises from wrestling a me and a half through the Tube during rush. Oh...and I think the dollar lost 5 more cents to the pound while I endured all of that. Putting my money halfway to worthless.
Suddenly, London didn’t seem like just another place on earth for me to be. It felt like someplace I had to escape before the bank notified me that all of my accounts had been overdrawn. And I still had 70 lbs of my crap to lug around. Somewhere, a voice inside of me couldn’t figure out whether to whine or scream my disgust.
I logged onto the internet and checked all the choices for planes, trains and automobiles and found one semi-affordable option: book a new flight on Thurs. It cost me two pairs of sneakers and a couple CDs. Or a third of one month’s rent.
Adam, kind soul that he is, bought breakfast for both of us. A proper English breakfast with sausage, eggs, beans, toast, tea, tomatoes and mushrooms.
Since I was stuck in London for another day, Adam and I figured we’d try to make the best of it. He had only moved back to the country two weeks earlier and was still setting himself up. He had an apartment. Was still looking for a job. Had just opened a bank account. And still needed to buy a cell phone.
It seemed like a simple enough chore.
We hit up the cell phone store. Adam copped a mobile. We found a Starbucks and he got online to launch the service for his new phone. The sun even made an appearance. Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all.
An hour and a half later, the battery on my laptop died. With him still stuck on step 26 of the 4,968-step process.
We found another Starbucks that had an electrical outlet. I had to ask a couple of blokes in business suits to give up their table so we could plug into the only one in the store. Adam got back online to resume the process. He got bumped off. Back online again. Bumped off again. Back online. Advanced to step 37. Bumped off. Back on. Was told to go back to step one.
When he finally made it to step 40, he was told that his mailing address was not being recognized and that he’d have to contact the Royal Post to get it verified. At no point was he invited to contact a live person. ‘Cause, um, there are no live people left working for his new cell phone provider, O2.
Obviously, this was not my battle. But when you watch someone struggle to restrain themselves from throwing a tantrum in a coffee shop, your energy can’t help but sour. Just a little bit. And that’s not a good thing. ‘Specially not when the day has already shit on you in about 8 different ways.
Mid-afternoon had crept upon us. We’d already drug all of my stuff through the morning rush hour on the tube. And were about to get stuck dragging it through the evening rush, too.
So...we jumped back on the train. Rather, we elbowed our way back through the Underground. Again, it was the best of a bad lot of travel options.
We arrived back at Adam’s place and made one more feeble attempt to salvage the day. Adam went to the Royal Post. And I tried to do laundry.
Seemed like two easy enough chores.
The apartment was fitted with a single machine which washed and dried. I fumbled through the instruction booklet, dumped some detergent into the receptacle and hit start on a very small load of jeans and boxers. Half hour later, the buzzer rang. I fumbled again through the instruction booklet, pressed a couple buttons and left the machine alone to do some drying.
Adam returned from the Post with bad news. He was going to have to wait 2-3 business days to have his address verified before his phone service could be activated.
More than an hour had passed since I started the dryer cycle so I figured I’d check my jeans and boxers. Surprisingly, they were very hot and very damp.
After an hour?
Perhaps I’d pressed the wrong combination of buttons. Or maybe I was proving Adam’s theory that I was mildly retarded. He had yet to learn how to properly use the machine, so he was little help. I re-read the instructions. Pressed some buttons. And we went out to get some dinner.
We wandered around. Heads down. Bellies growling. Every menu seemingly more expensive than the last. Finally, we saw a pizza place. Grabbed a table. Ordered a couple of drinks. And sighed a bit when the pretty Italian waitress returned with pints and pizza.
The day was pretty much over. There was only night to survive. And since Elie Wiesel was no where to be found, we chose the next best--and presumably cheapest—-entertainment option appropriate for such a day. We bought tickets for Rescue Dawn. A movie about prisoners of war trying to survive a Vietnamese concentration camp.
Given the day I’d endured, I found it to be a very cheerful film. Someone somewhere had it much worse off than me. And no matter how exhausted, frustrated or broke I was, my situation could have been much, much, much worse.
When we got back to the apartment, I optimistically checked the dryer.
Still damp.
*SIGH*
Such is life.
In London.
On the road.
That, of course, is when the mouth of the city gaped open and took a big, humbling bite out of me. In the form of one gawdawful day.
These days happen when you travel for long periods of time. They're unavoidable. How you deal with them proves your road mettle. Without doubt. One way or the other.
This kind of day pokes you in the eye, kicks you in the balls, then hovers over you--deciding whether to add a third, fourth or more kind of pain--while you writhe about. These days happen when you're away from home for more than just a week at the beach or a 3-day conference in Atlanta. They’re completely pitiless. And nothing makes you more sick. Not so much for home. But for something that feels comfortable. Knowable. Familiar.
Something that doesn’t involve dragging 70 lbs of clothes, flyers and equipment all over London.
My cell phone gets no service in Europe. I do not wear a watch. Which means that keeping time had been a daily challenge. A confusing one at that as I’d been in two different European time zones.
If there had been time to do some serious watch shopping, I may have avoided that gawdawful day in London. Alas, the watches I’d seen were either expensive arm jewelery or didn’t meet my immediate needs. Or both. Consequently, I had to be creative about how to trigger the end of each night’s sleep.
Which places us on the morning of Wed the 28th. The homie Adam--who graciously provided shelter in his brand new, yet to be furnished apartment in Hackney--and I both made mistakes in the way we set alarms on Tues night. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but I do know that...well, let me just tell you.
A knock on my door woke me up and one sentence set the tone for the day.
“Dude, we have a problem.”
He informed me that it was 8:30 am. My flight departed at 9:40. That’s not much time to travel halfway across London and check in to Gatwick, but I crammed all of my things into my bags anyway and gave it a go.
We had no car. A taxi was not an option. Nor was a double-decker. Best bet was the Tube.
Sardines are the obvious metaphor that might describe the scene on the Underground during rush hour. That’s really not the whole story, though. And it’s not all the way accurate either.
An assembly line of human goings supplies densely packed train cars that depart every two minutes with a steady stream of passengers. You fight your way up, down and around the station. Fight your way onto the train. Fight your way off. Passively, of course. And without much sound. There are no loud conversations among the British. There is no echo of trains moving elsewhere on the subway system, either. There is just you—plus whatever crap you carry—quietly struggling to squeeze into half as much space as you really need. Oh, and 15 jillion other people trying to do the same thing at the same time. With 15 jillion more people coming right behind you.
We transferred trains once. Then again. Time quickly slipped away from me. We both realized there was no way I was going to board Easy Jet Flight 0942.
Bummer. With a capital B. For real. ‘Cause I was supposed to return to Amsterdam to do a radio interview that afternoon to promote my movie.
After we extracted ourselves from the moving metal amoeba, we found an internet connection. I checked flights. Called Philip and Sasha from Black Soil to see what my options were for arriving in time to do the interview. There was no flight available that would get me back to Amsterdam to do it.
*SIGH*
Missed flight. Missed interview. Several new bruises from wrestling a me and a half through the Tube during rush. Oh...and I think the dollar lost 5 more cents to the pound while I endured all of that. Putting my money halfway to worthless.
Suddenly, London didn’t seem like just another place on earth for me to be. It felt like someplace I had to escape before the bank notified me that all of my accounts had been overdrawn. And I still had 70 lbs of my crap to lug around. Somewhere, a voice inside of me couldn’t figure out whether to whine or scream my disgust.
I logged onto the internet and checked all the choices for planes, trains and automobiles and found one semi-affordable option: book a new flight on Thurs. It cost me two pairs of sneakers and a couple CDs. Or a third of one month’s rent.
Adam, kind soul that he is, bought breakfast for both of us. A proper English breakfast with sausage, eggs, beans, toast, tea, tomatoes and mushrooms.
Since I was stuck in London for another day, Adam and I figured we’d try to make the best of it. He had only moved back to the country two weeks earlier and was still setting himself up. He had an apartment. Was still looking for a job. Had just opened a bank account. And still needed to buy a cell phone.
It seemed like a simple enough chore.
We hit up the cell phone store. Adam copped a mobile. We found a Starbucks and he got online to launch the service for his new phone. The sun even made an appearance. Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all.
An hour and a half later, the battery on my laptop died. With him still stuck on step 26 of the 4,968-step process.
We found another Starbucks that had an electrical outlet. I had to ask a couple of blokes in business suits to give up their table so we could plug into the only one in the store. Adam got back online to resume the process. He got bumped off. Back online again. Bumped off again. Back online. Advanced to step 37. Bumped off. Back on. Was told to go back to step one.
When he finally made it to step 40, he was told that his mailing address was not being recognized and that he’d have to contact the Royal Post to get it verified. At no point was he invited to contact a live person. ‘Cause, um, there are no live people left working for his new cell phone provider, O2.
Obviously, this was not my battle. But when you watch someone struggle to restrain themselves from throwing a tantrum in a coffee shop, your energy can’t help but sour. Just a little bit. And that’s not a good thing. ‘Specially not when the day has already shit on you in about 8 different ways.
Mid-afternoon had crept upon us. We’d already drug all of my stuff through the morning rush hour on the tube. And were about to get stuck dragging it through the evening rush, too.
So...we jumped back on the train. Rather, we elbowed our way back through the Underground. Again, it was the best of a bad lot of travel options.
We arrived back at Adam’s place and made one more feeble attempt to salvage the day. Adam went to the Royal Post. And I tried to do laundry.
Seemed like two easy enough chores.
The apartment was fitted with a single machine which washed and dried. I fumbled through the instruction booklet, dumped some detergent into the receptacle and hit start on a very small load of jeans and boxers. Half hour later, the buzzer rang. I fumbled again through the instruction booklet, pressed a couple buttons and left the machine alone to do some drying.
Adam returned from the Post with bad news. He was going to have to wait 2-3 business days to have his address verified before his phone service could be activated.
More than an hour had passed since I started the dryer cycle so I figured I’d check my jeans and boxers. Surprisingly, they were very hot and very damp.
After an hour?
Perhaps I’d pressed the wrong combination of buttons. Or maybe I was proving Adam’s theory that I was mildly retarded. He had yet to learn how to properly use the machine, so he was little help. I re-read the instructions. Pressed some buttons. And we went out to get some dinner.
We wandered around. Heads down. Bellies growling. Every menu seemingly more expensive than the last. Finally, we saw a pizza place. Grabbed a table. Ordered a couple of drinks. And sighed a bit when the pretty Italian waitress returned with pints and pizza.
The day was pretty much over. There was only night to survive. And since Elie Wiesel was no where to be found, we chose the next best--and presumably cheapest—-entertainment option appropriate for such a day. We bought tickets for Rescue Dawn. A movie about prisoners of war trying to survive a Vietnamese concentration camp.
Given the day I’d endured, I found it to be a very cheerful film. Someone somewhere had it much worse off than me. And no matter how exhausted, frustrated or broke I was, my situation could have been much, much, much worse.
When we got back to the apartment, I optimistically checked the dryer.
Still damp.
*SIGH*
Such is life.
In London.
On the road.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
H-U-S-T-L-E-R, Hustler
Before I ever booked a Trans-Atlantic flight, I targeted Giles Peterson as someone I needed to track down whilst on the other side of the pond. I put out a bunch of feelers to my circle and came up empty. Didn't seem like a problem, though. At this point in life, I've heard "No" so many times that "Yes" is a three-letter surprise to me.
Giles, as you may know, is a massive British DJ who has a show on BBC radio. Giles is also a long-time supporter of the Roots. The Roots are an integral part of my flick. A friend of the Roots should also be a friend of mine I figured. Hence, the ?uest to link up with Giles.
The new homies from the fest gave me two handfuls of leads who might be able to get me to him. I arrived in England late on Mon and figured I'd have Tues to make chase.
When I woke up on Tues, it occurred to me that I might actually be on a fool's mission. I mean, I could have handed Giles a DVD, but--whether he liked it or not--what exactly was he gonna do with it?
The new homie Kevin had put me onto this cat from the British Film Institute (BFI). I thought he'd be a most appropriate--and logical--target, so I rang him. He was on the grind himself but agreed to link up near a tube stop to do a little hand-off.
I met him. Handed him a DVD, flyer and business card. We were headed in the same direction, so we walked and talked for about 7 minutes total. He said he'd been hearing about the okaymentary and that he'd be interested in screening it at the BFI. I'd hardly call this an official meeting. Nor a firm commitment. Yet, it seemed as if this is the way things really get done in the entertainment industry.
Find someone to vouch for you. Make a call. Shake a hand. Fill that hand with something. Keep it moving. Cross your fingers.
Sometimes there's an office involved. Sometimes it happens in the street. As long as it happens.
And, when it does, I presume that I'll be able to make a new friend called Giles.
Giles, as you may know, is a massive British DJ who has a show on BBC radio. Giles is also a long-time supporter of the Roots. The Roots are an integral part of my flick. A friend of the Roots should also be a friend of mine I figured. Hence, the ?uest to link up with Giles.
The new homies from the fest gave me two handfuls of leads who might be able to get me to him. I arrived in England late on Mon and figured I'd have Tues to make chase.
When I woke up on Tues, it occurred to me that I might actually be on a fool's mission. I mean, I could have handed Giles a DVD, but--whether he liked it or not--what exactly was he gonna do with it?
The new homie Kevin had put me onto this cat from the British Film Institute (BFI). I thought he'd be a most appropriate--and logical--target, so I rang him. He was on the grind himself but agreed to link up near a tube stop to do a little hand-off.
I met him. Handed him a DVD, flyer and business card. We were headed in the same direction, so we walked and talked for about 7 minutes total. He said he'd been hearing about the okaymentary and that he'd be interested in screening it at the BFI. I'd hardly call this an official meeting. Nor a firm commitment. Yet, it seemed as if this is the way things really get done in the entertainment industry.
Find someone to vouch for you. Make a call. Shake a hand. Fill that hand with something. Keep it moving. Cross your fingers.
Sometimes there's an office involved. Sometimes it happens in the street. As long as it happens.
And, when it does, I presume that I'll be able to make a new friend called Giles.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Bucked Naked
Businesstime commenced in Rotterdam the day after Thanksgiving. A city of about 600k people located an hour away--by train--from Amsterdam.
Black Soil had promised a hotel room for the weekend at the five-star Westin downtown. Philip, one of the fest's two lead organizers--greeted me and promptly whisked me off to do a radio interview. The host of the show was very professional. Explained that the interview would be conducted mostly in Dutch and that Philip could translate for me. I nodded and cleared my throat just as the red "On-Air" light came alive.
I don't speak Dutch. So I have no idea what questions she initially floated out into the ether. Or how Philip responded. Suddenly, she made eye contact with me and started asking basic questions about the subject of my film and how it was made. In English, thankfully. I blathered on--as I usually do--struggling to spit out soundbytes laced minimally with American colloquialisms. No translation seemed to be necessary. She and Phillip then resumed their Dutch exchange. The red light died for a moment. And we all exhaled, reclining into the backs of our chairs.
The Dutch, by and large, speak both Dutch and English. The latter with a marvelous depth and nuance. Apart from the accent, communicating with them is extremely easy.
The Red Light (LINK IS NWS.) came alive again. More Dutch. Interrupted by my own crude English. Dutch again. Then a softball question about my first impressions of Rotterdam. I remarked that I really admired the graffiti art which decorated the otherwise unused canvases along the trainline. The host grimaced and started taking the piss outta me. We all had a good laugh. Philip and I made the last plugs for the fest and my screening. Said goodbye and set out for next.
Next included meeting Sasha from Black soil and the crew from South Coast—another film screening at the fest. It tells the story of the hip hop scene in Brighton, England. Next also included linking up with Kevin from Freestyle. The definitive emcee movie. And next included watching an 8-hour loop of hip hop films.
(BTW...Kevin and I had the most interesting introduction of ever. Each of us—lying in our own double bed—woke to a ringing phone and the faces of people we only previously knew via email. Each with a hangover and jetlag. Instant comrades in art were we.)
In between, the group told a lot of stories, traded jokes, bonded over our artistic successes and failures. More tribe building than network building. But, as you’ll see tomorrow, the tribe yields similar benefits.
Eventually, we arrived at the moment when my movie screened. Just prior to the lights going down, I felt a great jolt of nervous energy. As if I was about to be completely disrobed for my new tribe to examine all of my bits.
And, really, I was. I own a copy of Freestyle. Which I dig immensely. South Coast—which screened before the okaymentary—is an especially dope, likable and well-made film. So, I found myself among peers—who had become friends—awed and a bit concerned that I would be unable to call myself a creative equal.
I think that’s called performance anxiety.
After the lights did go down, my film began rolling. The audience laughed where they were supposed to laugh. Remained tensely still during the dramatic moments. And all had positive things to say about the film. Rather, the story.
Where I had been concerned with the production value of the movie, the story became the thing the audience was most concerned with. After the last credit rolled, questions focused on the people who appeared onscreen and the experience of using the internet as a social tool—which has been by far the most common reaction to the movie. It seems to make people think about a behaviour that is second nature to them, yet is rarely contemplated at any length by those who engage in it most actively and most matter-of-factly.
My new tribe all slapped their congratulations on my back. We sat in a café and I picked brains for how to improve the film, what ways it could be promoted and the most sound methods of distribution.
Then there was a party. An after party. And an after after party.
I stayed fully clothed the whole time.
Pity.
Off to London for two days.
Black Soil had promised a hotel room for the weekend at the five-star Westin downtown. Philip, one of the fest's two lead organizers--greeted me and promptly whisked me off to do a radio interview. The host of the show was very professional. Explained that the interview would be conducted mostly in Dutch and that Philip could translate for me. I nodded and cleared my throat just as the red "On-Air" light came alive.
I don't speak Dutch. So I have no idea what questions she initially floated out into the ether. Or how Philip responded. Suddenly, she made eye contact with me and started asking basic questions about the subject of my film and how it was made. In English, thankfully. I blathered on--as I usually do--struggling to spit out soundbytes laced minimally with American colloquialisms. No translation seemed to be necessary. She and Phillip then resumed their Dutch exchange. The red light died for a moment. And we all exhaled, reclining into the backs of our chairs.
The Dutch, by and large, speak both Dutch and English. The latter with a marvelous depth and nuance. Apart from the accent, communicating with them is extremely easy.
The Red Light (LINK IS NWS.) came alive again. More Dutch. Interrupted by my own crude English. Dutch again. Then a softball question about my first impressions of Rotterdam. I remarked that I really admired the graffiti art which decorated the otherwise unused canvases along the trainline. The host grimaced and started taking the piss outta me. We all had a good laugh. Philip and I made the last plugs for the fest and my screening. Said goodbye and set out for next.
Next included meeting Sasha from Black soil and the crew from South Coast—another film screening at the fest. It tells the story of the hip hop scene in Brighton, England. Next also included linking up with Kevin from Freestyle. The definitive emcee movie. And next included watching an 8-hour loop of hip hop films.
(BTW...Kevin and I had the most interesting introduction of ever. Each of us—lying in our own double bed—woke to a ringing phone and the faces of people we only previously knew via email. Each with a hangover and jetlag. Instant comrades in art were we.)
In between, the group told a lot of stories, traded jokes, bonded over our artistic successes and failures. More tribe building than network building. But, as you’ll see tomorrow, the tribe yields similar benefits.
Eventually, we arrived at the moment when my movie screened. Just prior to the lights going down, I felt a great jolt of nervous energy. As if I was about to be completely disrobed for my new tribe to examine all of my bits.
And, really, I was. I own a copy of Freestyle. Which I dig immensely. South Coast—which screened before the okaymentary—is an especially dope, likable and well-made film. So, I found myself among peers—who had become friends—awed and a bit concerned that I would be unable to call myself a creative equal.
I think that’s called performance anxiety.
After the lights did go down, my film began rolling. The audience laughed where they were supposed to laugh. Remained tensely still during the dramatic moments. And all had positive things to say about the film. Rather, the story.
Where I had been concerned with the production value of the movie, the story became the thing the audience was most concerned with. After the last credit rolled, questions focused on the people who appeared onscreen and the experience of using the internet as a social tool—which has been by far the most common reaction to the movie. It seems to make people think about a behaviour that is second nature to them, yet is rarely contemplated at any length by those who engage in it most actively and most matter-of-factly.
My new tribe all slapped their congratulations on my back. We sat in a café and I picked brains for how to improve the film, what ways it could be promoted and the most sound methods of distribution.
Then there was a party. An after party. And an after after party.
I stayed fully clothed the whole time.
Pity.
Off to London for two days.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
They Eat Turkey, Don't They?
Late on the night before Thanksgiving, I found myself having a drink--just as any good young, patriotic American would be expected to do on one of the busiest party nights of the year.
Difference between me and everyone else: I tipped mine back on an airliner bound for Amsterdam.
For my first trip to Europe, I flew to the Netherlands to spend a week at the Black Soil International Film Festival trying to hustle this little movie I made. With the fest opening the day after Thanksgiving, I squished my favorite t-shirts and this indestructible laptop into a couple of bags, grabbed my passport and set out for the Old World--on Nov. 21.
On Nov. 22 (Happy birthday to Cyd!), I drug the wheels of my bag across some Dutch cobblestone and wobbled into the Flying Pig.
It's a hostel. Which means that there were all manner of fellow travelers lying about, having a sit and doing what wanderers do. All day and all night. Though no one stays on the premesis for very long. Hell, they are wanderers. And wanderers tend not to sit still.
Anyway, I checked in and saw three icons of the road:
1) A sign with a picture of a mushroom wearing a giant X and text reading: "You can smoke your weed or your hash here, but please do not bring any other drugs into this hostel."
2) The luggage room. Otherwise known as the repository of backpacks small and large. Filled with God knows what. From God may not even know where. 'Cause there simply isn't space for everyone to house their things in a hallway lined with 16 bunk beds.
3) A balding English fellow wearing a towel around his waist and a shiny coat of body hair that would make a German Shepherd blush with envy.
I chuckled at the first. Shook an amazed head at the second. And tried to gouge my eyes out from the third. Then I grabbed a nap. Linked up with D+E, the homies from NYC, and Dennis, the Netherlands' Finest, to tour the city. Tried to take it easy the first night. But it was Amsterdam, so easy is constructed a little differently than it is elsewhere.
For the record, I found that the people most likely to be excited about the legality of weed were the young American kids making their predictable pilgrimages. The Europeans and older folks I ran into were nonplussed about the fact that you could blaze a fatty in virtually every corner cafe in the city. The Dutch were completely ambivalent about it. Apathetic even. Same goes for the attitudes about the sex workers. Who, BTW, have forever changed the way I will hear that song, "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?" Lesson learned: if you legalize vice, then you diminish its power to tantalize and therefore decrease the threat of it destroying your society. Oh, and you also get to regulate and tax it if you like. That argument is a horse that met Ike Turner, for certain. But it does bear mentioning. Again.
Almost forgot...during the course of the day, I cobbled together some worthy holiday fare. Cereal and raisin toast for breakfast. Later, a delicious caramel milkshake. And then some Chinese food. Which is pretty close to the standard American feast enjoyed on the third Thursday in November. Right?
Difference between me and everyone else: I tipped mine back on an airliner bound for Amsterdam.
For my first trip to Europe, I flew to the Netherlands to spend a week at the Black Soil International Film Festival trying to hustle this little movie I made. With the fest opening the day after Thanksgiving, I squished my favorite t-shirts and this indestructible laptop into a couple of bags, grabbed my passport and set out for the Old World--on Nov. 21.
On Nov. 22 (Happy birthday to Cyd!), I drug the wheels of my bag across some Dutch cobblestone and wobbled into the Flying Pig.
It's a hostel. Which means that there were all manner of fellow travelers lying about, having a sit and doing what wanderers do. All day and all night. Though no one stays on the premesis for very long. Hell, they are wanderers. And wanderers tend not to sit still.
Anyway, I checked in and saw three icons of the road:
1) A sign with a picture of a mushroom wearing a giant X and text reading: "You can smoke your weed or your hash here, but please do not bring any other drugs into this hostel."
2) The luggage room. Otherwise known as the repository of backpacks small and large. Filled with God knows what. From God may not even know where. 'Cause there simply isn't space for everyone to house their things in a hallway lined with 16 bunk beds.
3) A balding English fellow wearing a towel around his waist and a shiny coat of body hair that would make a German Shepherd blush with envy.
I chuckled at the first. Shook an amazed head at the second. And tried to gouge my eyes out from the third. Then I grabbed a nap. Linked up with D+E, the homies from NYC, and Dennis, the Netherlands' Finest, to tour the city. Tried to take it easy the first night. But it was Amsterdam, so easy is constructed a little differently than it is elsewhere.
For the record, I found that the people most likely to be excited about the legality of weed were the young American kids making their predictable pilgrimages. The Europeans and older folks I ran into were nonplussed about the fact that you could blaze a fatty in virtually every corner cafe in the city. The Dutch were completely ambivalent about it. Apathetic even. Same goes for the attitudes about the sex workers. Who, BTW, have forever changed the way I will hear that song, "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?" Lesson learned: if you legalize vice, then you diminish its power to tantalize and therefore decrease the threat of it destroying your society. Oh, and you also get to regulate and tax it if you like. That argument is a horse that met Ike Turner, for certain. But it does bear mentioning. Again.
Almost forgot...during the course of the day, I cobbled together some worthy holiday fare. Cereal and raisin toast for breakfast. Later, a delicious caramel milkshake. And then some Chinese food. Which is pretty close to the standard American feast enjoyed on the third Thursday in November. Right?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
West Up: Act II: Highway 1
I lived in LA for five years. While I did, I traveled frequently to the Bay. Sometimes by plane. Sometimes by car. When by car, I always took the 5. Up. Then down. It's an efficient drive. Boring for the three hours that separate Bakersfield from the Pleasanton area. Generally unremarkable. Nothing, I suspected, like cruising along California's Highway 1.
So...you can guess where this story is going.
When I found out that my office would be closed for a couple days following the conclusion of the conference our whole staff was working in San Francisco during the third week of October, I immediately made plans to kick it in LA for the last week of the tenth month.
Since I didn't have any particular agenda or schedule, I figured I'd do what I never did while I had an 818 number for my landline: drive the coast.
Saturday, Oct. 20 was the glorious end of my conference. I celebrated pretty late that night. I remember some Jack Daniels Manhattans. A really pretty Thai girl. A bus where skinny people skated through the aisles handing out cans of Tecate. A statuesque Swedish chick. A handful of drink tickets that I showered on friends and strangers alike. Somewhere in there, I think I ate a whole pizza. Maybe.
Consequently, I was in fantastic shape the next morning when I showed up at the rental spot to scoop my cherry red '08 Grand Prix.
After I said peace to the homie Dom and the lady Mariam following a healthy breakfast surrounded by upright and fully clothed people, I jumped on the freeway and skated toward Highway 1. No traffic on a Sunday afternoon. Clear blue skies around me. Herbie Hancock in the CD player. And a rather mild headache to keep my company. I hit the 1 just shy of 4 pm.
Turns out that was less than a good look.
Highway 1 is not the 5. At all. It curves around on itself as if it wants to swallow its own tail. There are perilously low-lying stretches. And climbs along cliffs that don't know when to peak. Some places measure out at just barely two car widths. And it takes forever to drive it. Especially when you're hung over and extra-sleepy.
It also has some of the most spectacular scenery you'll ever see in your rear view mirror.
There's a place in Carmel where, if the sun hits it just right, the ocean reads denim. Like it's a big pile of blue jeans waiting to be folded. I've never seen anything like it.
I am not entirely sure how I survived the first six hours of the drive. I do know that Marlena Shaw will never sound so sweet again. And I know that I owe the homie Mike at least three beers for driving the last leg of the trip while I was knocked out in the passenger seat.
Mike and I had made arrangements earlier in the week for me to scoop him up near Cambria. Which is about four hours north of LA. And very close to the Hearst Castle.
He gave me directions which seemed easy enough to follow. In the sleepy darkness, though, I ended up getting lost. Fortunately, there was Highway 1, two different roads trailing off the 1 and the Pacific Ocean. Since I sorta knew better than to drive into the sea, I got unlost pretty quickly.
Just as soon as I did, I heard this strange pop while trying to turn onto the correct road. Stopped the car. Jumped out. A hissing sound from the right front of the car cracked the silence.
No sooner did "Sonofabitch" come off my lips than a random truck wearing a surfboard screeched up beside me.
"Are you a friend of Mike's?"
"Yeah. You got a flat?"
Shook my head yes. Watched the goateed stranger grab a flat tire repair kit from his car and go to work. Phone rang.
"Mike? What's up man? I got a flat, but your dude is johnnyonthespot gettin' it fixed."
"My dude?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, my friend Phil is supposed to be in LA right now."
*Pause*
"Let me call you back, Mike."
I asked the Samaritan surfer which Mike he knew. Turns out there are several people on earth who share that name. Thankfully, he had already fixed the tire on my rental when we figured out that we shared nothing in common but serendipity and facial hair.
I shook his hand firmly. Asked if I could make some gesture of gratitude. He smiled. Pointed me in the direction that I needed to travel. Climbed back into his truck. And disappeared.
I shook my head in disbelief and wondered if this little sidebar could get any stranger.
Mike was staying at a ranch house tucked behind an avocado grove on his friend's 400-acres of farm land. The one road that wound through it looked like someone was still trying to learn cursive. It was dark. Country dark. Where the only lights to guide me were the stars in the sky and my own headlights.
As I crawled along, I noticed some creatures standing in the road ahead of me. I slowed. Squinted my eyes. Double-taked at what appeared to be four striped, little horses. I stopped inches away from them. Headlights yelling on my behalf.
Those aren't striped, little horses. Those are f--kin' zebras!
Zebras, dude. Seriously.
It wasn't the hungover. It wasn't the fatigue. It wasn't any part of my mind playing tricks on me. There were f--kin' zebras in the middle of the road. In California.
I got out the car. They trotted away. Phone rang again.
"Mike, where in the hell are you staying, man?"
He laughed a big, knowing laugh.
30 minutes later, he was behind the wheel of the rental explaining that the there used to be a zoo on the Hearst Estate and that they had set a lot of the animals free some time ago to roam the ample farmland neighboring it.
I shook my head again in disbelief.
"Dude, zebras?"
"Yep. Zebras."
So...you can guess where this story is going.
When I found out that my office would be closed for a couple days following the conclusion of the conference our whole staff was working in San Francisco during the third week of October, I immediately made plans to kick it in LA for the last week of the tenth month.
Since I didn't have any particular agenda or schedule, I figured I'd do what I never did while I had an 818 number for my landline: drive the coast.
Saturday, Oct. 20 was the glorious end of my conference. I celebrated pretty late that night. I remember some Jack Daniels Manhattans. A really pretty Thai girl. A bus where skinny people skated through the aisles handing out cans of Tecate. A statuesque Swedish chick. A handful of drink tickets that I showered on friends and strangers alike. Somewhere in there, I think I ate a whole pizza. Maybe.
Consequently, I was in fantastic shape the next morning when I showed up at the rental spot to scoop my cherry red '08 Grand Prix.
After I said peace to the homie Dom and the lady Mariam following a healthy breakfast surrounded by upright and fully clothed people, I jumped on the freeway and skated toward Highway 1. No traffic on a Sunday afternoon. Clear blue skies around me. Herbie Hancock in the CD player. And a rather mild headache to keep my company. I hit the 1 just shy of 4 pm.
Turns out that was less than a good look.
Highway 1 is not the 5. At all. It curves around on itself as if it wants to swallow its own tail. There are perilously low-lying stretches. And climbs along cliffs that don't know when to peak. Some places measure out at just barely two car widths. And it takes forever to drive it. Especially when you're hung over and extra-sleepy.
It also has some of the most spectacular scenery you'll ever see in your rear view mirror.
There's a place in Carmel where, if the sun hits it just right, the ocean reads denim. Like it's a big pile of blue jeans waiting to be folded. I've never seen anything like it.
I am not entirely sure how I survived the first six hours of the drive. I do know that Marlena Shaw will never sound so sweet again. And I know that I owe the homie Mike at least three beers for driving the last leg of the trip while I was knocked out in the passenger seat.
Mike and I had made arrangements earlier in the week for me to scoop him up near Cambria. Which is about four hours north of LA. And very close to the Hearst Castle.
He gave me directions which seemed easy enough to follow. In the sleepy darkness, though, I ended up getting lost. Fortunately, there was Highway 1, two different roads trailing off the 1 and the Pacific Ocean. Since I sorta knew better than to drive into the sea, I got unlost pretty quickly.
Just as soon as I did, I heard this strange pop while trying to turn onto the correct road. Stopped the car. Jumped out. A hissing sound from the right front of the car cracked the silence.
No sooner did "Sonofabitch" come off my lips than a random truck wearing a surfboard screeched up beside me.
"Are you a friend of Mike's?"
"Yeah. You got a flat?"
Shook my head yes. Watched the goateed stranger grab a flat tire repair kit from his car and go to work. Phone rang.
"Mike? What's up man? I got a flat, but your dude is johnnyonthespot gettin' it fixed."
"My dude?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, my friend Phil is supposed to be in LA right now."
*Pause*
"Let me call you back, Mike."
I asked the Samaritan surfer which Mike he knew. Turns out there are several people on earth who share that name. Thankfully, he had already fixed the tire on my rental when we figured out that we shared nothing in common but serendipity and facial hair.
I shook his hand firmly. Asked if I could make some gesture of gratitude. He smiled. Pointed me in the direction that I needed to travel. Climbed back into his truck. And disappeared.
I shook my head in disbelief and wondered if this little sidebar could get any stranger.
Mike was staying at a ranch house tucked behind an avocado grove on his friend's 400-acres of farm land. The one road that wound through it looked like someone was still trying to learn cursive. It was dark. Country dark. Where the only lights to guide me were the stars in the sky and my own headlights.
As I crawled along, I noticed some creatures standing in the road ahead of me. I slowed. Squinted my eyes. Double-taked at what appeared to be four striped, little horses. I stopped inches away from them. Headlights yelling on my behalf.
Those aren't striped, little horses. Those are f--kin' zebras!
Zebras, dude. Seriously.
It wasn't the hungover. It wasn't the fatigue. It wasn't any part of my mind playing tricks on me. There were f--kin' zebras in the middle of the road. In California.
I got out the car. They trotted away. Phone rang again.
"Mike, where in the hell are you staying, man?"
He laughed a big, knowing laugh.
30 minutes later, he was behind the wheel of the rental explaining that the there used to be a zoo on the Hearst Estate and that they had set a lot of the animals free some time ago to roam the ample farmland neighboring it.
I shook my head again in disbelief.
"Dude, zebras?"
"Yep. Zebras."
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