A modest sized group of young coeds were haphazardly harmonizing over acoustic covers of Sugar Ray and The Beatles.

And it sounded pretty good, felt almost cinematic. They were silhouettes up against the sunset, mountains and the water. But the first solo made me remember that I was walking to the bathroom.

Golden Gardens is the oceanic park that comes complete with a boat loading station and seafood joint with espresso.


fig 1.

A public beach in Seattle that isn't made of stairs that lead into the water! I'm not really sure where it is, only because I didn't drive and Eric turned around too many times to recover my internal sense of North. Which is pretty good usually. It's the East and West that screw me up.

It was packed with people, the smell of cedar chips, much greenery, and train noises. All I knew was that there was going to be a BBQ, and I don't say "no" to potlucks. We carpooled and so I met a girl who goes to Cornish, and was really fun to talk to about films and art and bullshit like that. Together we all went the airport to pick up a Swedish guy who's staying in Seattle for a couple days. After I shook hands with the first couple people I gathered that it was a Couch Surfing party- explains why everyone had name tags with their homeland on it. They're all really out going and nice, and vegan. After feeding and drinking we migrated to the sand, and watched a lot of marshmallows fall in the fire. When it was dark some of us walked down the beach where the tide gets close to the tracks and saw the warnings in memory of those who had died on them. "Please stay off the tracks, and stay alive." Somewhat the plot of a late eighties, early nineties coming of age drama.

I guess I’m going home before they’re sending anyone out to videotape candidates for the LA shoot. So Chad will probably do it somewhere in mid August. I confront him at his exhibition on his birthday,

“You’re a bastard.” He explains he needs the money, so I tell Clara to go ahead and give him his present. She reaches in her large bag for a bottle of red wine, on sale. "I didn't know what kind you'd like." Which was true, I don't know really anything about wine. Or Chad. Maybe I should study Three Sheet's rip off, Uncorked with TV's Billy Merritt.

“I enjoy your complicated weave.”

The room is filled with pieces of aspen trees jetting out of the wall and floor, branches woven together with fibers of different weight. They form snowflake patterns some the size of your head. Some the size of a quarter. I like his artist statement. And that there are no price tags next to the work.

"Oh, yeah, you publish a quarterly zine by the same name."

The other night I stumbled accross a screening at the Northwest Film Forum, showcasing an anthology of Barbara Ireland films 1980-2007, including her six-year hiatus. She's a little redheaded thing, that doesn't look as old as she should. In her left arm she cradles a bouquet, smiling and hugging, reminding everyone about the wine and eats. At this point I've never heard of this woman, or her work, but for some reason don't mind paying the ten dollars to support this celebration of what I already assume is an accomplished, delightful person. Someone talks about her films, alludes towards a poster on the wall with an illustration of a couple in a boat sailing a calm sea, written in French. Apparently there's going to be a premiere of something new too.

When I head in the theatre, pushing passed the black velvet curtains and line for the Brie, I'm greeted by years of independent filmmakers, musicians, talent briefly associated with Barbara. A man and woman standing near the front say they worked in a lot of her early stuff. We talk about the few in the room that actually support themselves off the revenue earned from their art, or their craft. And everyone gets around mentioning the day job. Even when you directly address it.

As people take their seats, I finally give in and grab some warm cheese and gourmet crackers. But I bit into what I thought was poppy seed, and what was actually pepper, or peppercorn. Breathing the strong spice and my mouth now very dry, only see bubbly spritzers, champagne, white and red wines. I race around the building, no sight of a drinking fountain, a trashcan, a bathroom sink. The architecture of the building allows you to complete a full circle, finishing where I began, at the front of the theatre. I use the back of my hand to pat the small beads of sweat at my forehead. I steady myself on the catering table, and finally admit out loud that I need a drink. "I'm opening some Chardonnay," I look up to a medium sized man, looking very clean in an all black suit. He has his hair slicked back and looks sort of familiar.

"Sure." He replaced my empty cup with a full one. The lights are flickering and we're two of three left at the front. I rush off to take my seat. Eric asks me if I knew the man. I said no I was only thirsty, and began a really too long recollection of the events that led up to that moment.

"You just got served by El Vez."

I had a vague understanding of who he was talking about. "Oh, he's worked with Barbara?" The small host interrupted with a list of sponsors and a brief bio of Ireland. The projector fires on and an hour and a half of Dead Kennedy's, Gold diapered men, Super 8 film and a genuine apprehension for dialogue passes rather quickly. The Q&A was casual, the audience made up of old friends and collaborators. The whole thing felt like more of a reunion, than some formal recognition of works past. Overall it was very enjoyable. Other than the time they all started up with the conversation about that Doughnut Riot of '83, most of which I lost before it started.


fig 1. Taylor

The reception was a hit. Only the good people stayed. The rest had rudely, and loudly exited during the credit sequence. Only other self-righteous filmmakers will feel what I failed to italicize in that last sentence.

I envy their wrinkles, the many stories, their passion to stay committed to the work. In twenty years I want that. Except with a white sheet on the side of my house and a bowl of Doritos.

I keep wanting to say, "Cha Cha Cha's."

In the last two weeks there's been a flood of wild game. Their eager faces spin me, vacillating between rivalrous fervor and social anxiousness. Sort of the same apprehension I gave Randall in Linguistics 214, when he asked if I too was applying to the production program. Standing in line waiting to use the microwave in the break room, I'm staring at my competition. Who might also be my good friends. Something I assumed I could make in addition to a weekly paycheck, at the part-time job I've yet to bag.


fig 1. The Stranger

For a small company, Screaming Flea is supporting so many of us. But how much could free labor really cost? Naturally the work slowed. I thought I could at least rely on my priority to Test Drive, but availability trumps all. Peter slipped in and Lelia handed off my established contact with Bremerton Raceway. Looks like this won't be easy as I thought. Lisa told me about a shoot happening locally, and I made sure to bump into the right people and transcribe more episodes. All of us were gunning for a week on Sell This House, which is hands down no-contest to the office.

And I made it on set. Along with Lacee and Peter, but you know what? Doesn't faze me. The first couple days were too crowded, I felt more often than I really needed to prove my relevance. Who doesn't love the guy that brings you lunch? Tanya Memme, when she asked for an artichoke, not artichoke dip. I lost all eye contact after lunch for that one.

Tuesday night, Lacee called hollering about Drum and Bass Night at the War Room-- an amiable invitation stunted by its presentation. I tell her, "I just need a beer." This is before I realize there's not going to be a band. My head ached all the next day, but I guess I'll try anything once.

Wed and Thursday I carpool with Chad, the show's in-house designer's assistant, and so far he's the closest thing to home I've met so far. At night I go out with him and his friends, see some more of Seattle life, and am lost in all its eternal youth and glamour. These people work 6 days a month, get paid to take road trips and photographs. They run independent galleries and throw parties and wear wings while dancing in front of tranny fantasy metal bands. The most I seem to muster is a hearty laugh. Or praise. And a few bucks for tip. Oh, and a first, introductions that include the "Grand Canyon State." Big hit here. I mean, it is the 8th Wonder of the World.

Early morning after, I got picked up by Lee, Sell This House, she needed a small crew for the show's open. Being that we're featuring local houses, we need some local gimmicks. Which was perfect because I haven't been the tourist I should be so new to the city. I got on top of the Space Needle for free. And when I say "on top," I'm talking the highest most horizontal point of the structure.


fig 2. Diagram

The part outside of the observation. The point that previously required a harness even if you only wanted to breathe the air at that height. I'm holding a bounce, evenly lighting Memme's face as she struggles to spit out a tongue-twisting teaser for the episode's upcoming events. "I'm sorry guys, this take will be it!" Take your time, I'm enjoying the wind in my hair. I'll probably never be here again. A particularly ornery gust blows, she wavers, grabbing for the railing that looks held in place solely by duct tape. She nails the line, and we all walk delicately down an 89-degree angle. Carrying light kit, tripod and monitor.

Later, riding back from Renton we talked about motorcycles and played with the voice of the GPS. We most liked the British cigar-swilling Gentleman, a real upper-cruster. Leaning back with the window down, pointing out at the sun set mingling with the overcast sky, I just sigh with disbelief. The Flea, as it stands, has the least stress among any job or set I have ever been on. I always leave it well. This morning Lee came in the office and said she bought me, I'd be moving my desk. Helping more directly with their show and getting my hands into some writing. I was more than happy to package music cue sheets and final scripts, thinking about leaving this summer with my name in some credits. Who knew it would be reality TV?

The one where I go to the gala.

Around 11am I get an invite from Couchsurfing Eric, to hit up one of the last screenings at the Seattle International Film Festival. He picks me up and we get there late, but the tickets are complimentary after he thinly pretenses about being staff. Volunteer driver.

With many European films, there was some suicide attempt and nudity. Appropriate the film's title, Nu means both "now" and "naked" in French and Dutch. Afterwards an audience member, with much class, approached the director/actor, "I just saw you naked." But that's when I broke out my Dogma Rules film kid comment. At least it wasn't mis en scene. And the old man who was gushing in the back, is now picking up on the filmmaker with promises of investor's money.

I guess Eric was supposed to pick these guys up at the airport last week. So we make use of our titles, and I sit in the back with the guy who would win Best New Director and ask if he's just traveling with Nu filmmaker, as he's holding his award. They offer us to come to the final party of the festival and exchange numbers after we drop them at the hotel. Later that night we show up and I get psyched out by the first door as it was too easy to get in. Just carded us. But then when we run into Matt, star of Nu who is an architect (that doesn't just play one on the screen), and he sends us to green door. But they want a matching green wristband.

We get up to the red carpet and the ecentric couch surfer explains who we're with, our names, and I’m standing back knowing that we may full well be turned away. A woman in a lanyard brushes passed my velvet blazer, "Are you just waiting to get in?"

"Yes."

"Are you with him (Eric)?"

"Yes." She pushes the two out of the way at the podium who are making this entry hard on Eric, and casually tells them, "They have wristbands." But they're orange. "They're fine."

I fall into free drinks and fine pork slices. We find the auteur and hang out for a while and people take our pictures, and once again we talk in a mixture of Dutch and English about how he was naked in the movie. And then transition to the body paint at the Fremont Parade that happened Saturday. Or maybe that's where we started. I don’t know.

We head upstairs to visit the other Eric, best-new-director-Eric. Passing wine, and private screening rooms, and then finding the patio. He’s with Mathew and Mathew’s with his date, a judge from the festival. They say, funny for me to arrive, because they had just got done talking about the name "Hank." A Dutch name. But then I say I’m actually German and Norwegian, and we all practice my last name adding way more syllables than there should ever be. I meet some ladies from Pacific Place. And I get them to convince me that the winters aren’t that bad and that moving here would be a good idea. And then convince the actor Mathew that "book" is the trendy term for "cool" nowadays. He had been saying "phat," as that's the latest in Holland.

A hipster staff member, the same one who comp'd my ticket steals the best new director and they flirt on the edge of the roof. The lights all come on and the booze all gone, and the coat check is packed. I catch myself in the reflection of the elevator doors. We then join Mitzy and hipster and director and Mathew out down the block to the underground, invite only, after party. The first point at which I pay all night, but at least there's a band and unlimited drink. I was apprehensive because at first you couldn't even tell that there was spill over of filmmakers and all the people that thrive on being around them, with their staff passes and noses north.

"Is this a Boys and Girls club?" I’m drunk. The bald guy humors me, "Actually a lot of people have been asking if this is a school or something."

There’s a pillow room, pasta salad, and, you say, "Some one's actually complaining about free Pabst? If I had change I’d tip you." The dance floor was slow and I was the second out there and that hipster staff girl who gave me my comp ticket had lost her director and so I danced along side her but she left as soon as she came. I have a gin and tonic because it's closer, and then suddenly there's bowls of popcorn everywhere. I find Mathew and his date and Mitzy and they are all having a lot of fun. We dance, after I splash my new beer here and there, I dance more. I go to the bathroom what feels like a hundred times, and the line's ridiculous so I talk more with Mathew’s date and find out that she actually is an U of A alum. And she keeps saying, “Remember to tell Michael Mulcahy that I said hi." So then I repeat her name every time, as to remind myself and almost for the reassurance from her that I’m right. Leah Guerra.

I cut out because I had work in the morning, fought a huge smile the whole walk home up hill. It just reminded me of how much I'm going to miss this last year.

I don't know why I thought I was above posting this.

fig 1. View from my living room.

So as it turns out, the Earth: not flat.

Monday morning was the first day it had rained since I arrived in Seattle. I thought, it's about time. I've always loved the rain. And stairs. Two things you don't have in Arizona. Although, this is also why I don't own an umbrella. Or the seasoned cardio vascular system bred to climb the many hills that make up Downtown.

I was selective when passing out my super minimalist, home made business cards during my tour (guided by Lisa, VP) around the office. Going out of my way, when delivering them to each new hand, to call them "my contact information" rather than "my card." That was a courtesy more for my own dignity, than their stomach.

I meet Colleen Office Manager, and Trent. Business manager. "Hank's from the University of Arizona. So if you need him for anything." Trent has just come in, takes off his coat, taps the space bar on his keyboard. Trent's eye contact is lazy and he files his hands through papers on his desk as Lisa explains that, surprisingly, most interns seem to never seek him out during their time at Screaming Flea. "It was nice to meet you." The cubicle adjacent houses a delightful, but diluted version of Molly Shannon.

"This is Jodi, she heads our development team." I love your work. And not just Superstar. I mean, I have the VHS. Anyway,

"Hank," shakes hand, "Let me give you my contact."

Down the hall, "We need an door access card." Kelly works at writing an episode of Three Sheets, the company's most popular show. It follows this joe around the world to find the best drink specific to its region, a sort of alcoholic cultural bonanza.


fig 1. Zane

"Everyone in the office has a 'thing,'" Lisa explains, "Kelly has a snack each day that matches the color of his shirt." Um, Paul's one of the editors they keep in a small room with that grey egg crate bed-padding on the walls. He's one of the few I feel like I'd be friends with outside of work. There's the cinematographers, producers and interns past.

Right after I get my computer and password, and fancy telephone Lelia comes in worried someone else had found me for a task. We sit down and turns out she wants me to help out with some research for pre-production of a new series by the name of Test Drive. "It's got to have the same feel as Three Sheets, are you familiar?" Just watching the opening I felt like I had been a dedicated fan the span of the life of the show. It's for the iN Demand network MOJO, similar to cable's Spike- targeting affluent men 25-50. And you guessed it: Cars. My job today is to hunt down DB Drag National races in the North West over July and August, and talk to the Wayne Harris, president of the organization. What? They don't race, as much as they just pop open the back and see who's got the loudest stereo.

When updating George and Lelia the next day about what I had found, another producer came up and mistook me for Test Drive's host. No he's the intern.


fig 2.

"Well I’ll shake your hand anyway." Nice gesture. Later that afternoon I over hear her complaining that she’s got pink eye. I’m growing anxious, she shook my hand, knowing she had pink eye. But hey, it’s viral not bacterial. What?

Patrick is my Tuesday/Thursday fellow intern, desk neighbor. He takes the bus up from Tacoma, works four hours, and then convinces one of his local friends to pick him up. He spends a lot of time on Facebook and high-fiving writers of Gardening by the Yard. When he talks I fall into one of those Trent habits. Just repeating every last couple words he says, while writing an email or looking up phone numbers.

He'll say, "Yeah, I take the bus all the way from Tacoma. It sucks."

"That does suck." Now I don't really think it's that bad, especially because at one point I was going to ride the bus. And now apparently neither does he.

Defensively, "Well, it's not that awful."

Trent habits are getting me in trouble.

Later in the week I couldn't avoid the more traditional intern assignments. Transcribing hidden camera testimonials for Sell This House, and logging location and appearance releases for Tool Belt Diva. It gives me chance to move around. I like the room with Lee in it. She's the producer for STH and she's funny. She also suggested me a paying gig when I mentioned I'd be needing a part-time job. And it was good intentions, but after seeing a couple episodes of Doggy Day Care, I won’t be calling The Dog Lounge in inquiry of an application.

The bad news is the pool's closed for chemical treatment. The good news is that they have a jacuzzi.

I spent two and a half days traveling up the West coast. Sounds more glamorous before you take all the highways that avoid every major city and end up seeing and extension of Arizona for over 700 miles. But we made good time. I realized that Arby's should just stick to roast beef sandwiches, and that all that suburban sprawl really does bring heart ache (even twenty five years later). I moved in and celebrated over a few Fat Tires with my dad the night before he left for Pheonix. I'm sure I'll appriciate it when I want to flee to Vancouver, but this car now, just seems so rediculous.

I'm eager to meet the people of the city.

We're downtown.

fig 1. Studio

Me and my friend Clara, way back from Centennial High, are rooming together in a studio right in the middle of everything. My dad's driving up with me at the end of May, and then I'll need to drop by a couple coffee shops. And maybe buy a couple more sweaters.

Currently I'm looking for a place to live, and the first promising lead is an expired ad on craigslist.


fig 1.

Apparently I'm working in an area of exclusive industry. So I'll have to get used to not being only a couple blocks away from everything I need.

I found a Yes.

Many applications, many locations, but always going back and hoping that I'd hear from -

Seattle.


fig 1. http://sfpseattle.com/