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?