Microsoft Home of the Future and more people with their Head in Bags

I was an AC for a Microsoft shoot today. I am not by training or temperament an A.C., Assistant Camera people are usually very cool and interesting people. I am slow and dim witted, but have through years of study and exposure picked up just the bare minimum of skills to help me assist those in need of assistance. Aside from the Chinese puzzle box of the Arri 19mm Matte box it was a fine shoot. We shot in the "House of the Future" : a self consciously high tech carnival exhibit located in the Microsoft executive meeting center (Building 33 on the MSFT campus, near where I attended keggers in high school when the campus was a barren vacant lot.) They have items so high tech, designed to make easy tasks easier for people who are lazy: a counter top that will read your prescription bottle for you and tell you how many to take- for $25,000.00 I can read the label myself. They have a $ 10,000.00 internet connected bulletin board that will tell you when you can save $1 on pizza. If you bought one pizza a day, it would pay for itself in 27 years.

Producers Kathy and Janet are not Somali housewives hiding in a two headed shador. They are honoring the tradition of head bagging with the 9" monitor in the sun, shielded by Warren, the human c-stand and his foam core.

I dislike "Live Events" because they fail often.

Looking like an idiot in front of 250 people always sucks. Let me say this: I really try to avoid doing audio for live events, anything with a PA system or Video Conference feed or phone patch hook ups. I have not had good luck and it really isn't something I am interested in, or good at. I did one today as a favor for both John and Rick. It was generally okay and when it is happening it isn't much of a chore. True to the Mayan predictions of audio apocalypse, at one point a wireless mic died on the CFO of the company who's quarterly meeting were filming for web cast. Jim began his performance art presenation of running up to the stage and fumbling with mics and batteries until once again happiness and balance was restored to planet webcast. At worst it was 60 seconds of panic and 60 seconds of repair. Life continued after. I hate that two minutes so much that I will turn down work to avoid it.

I drink too much coffee.

Chinese American Heritage Tour of the West 2010 (With opening act: Molly Hatchet!)

Seven days in the American West on a shoot for the US Forest Service and the Wing Luke Asian Museum with the irreplaceable Mr. John "Johnny the Boot" Pai. John and I drove a strange and miserable rental vehicle (a "Jeep Compass") a couple thousand miles through some amazing landscapes of desolation to archeological sites through-out Oregon,Idaho and Nevada, following a tour group. I learned a great deal and am amazed that most of what I learned never was brought up in any discussion of US History I have ever had in school. The Chinese were deeply involved in the settling of the West and the building of this country and the ignorance and fear and unfairness of the Exclusion Acts were sometimes overwhelming to hear about. The 19th century was hard on many people, there was no real middle class and so the fear of some one different, who might be paid less, would be understandable if you had nothing yourself and were afraid that some one might take what you little you did have, but in no way does it justify what happened. Being concerned about wages and telling some one that they can not have their family with them are two different things. Frankly what became apparent by the end of the trip was that the whole unfair nightmare was being replayed right now in Arizona.

There was a fairly moving emotional moment in Baker City OR, at the Chines cemetery where the members of the tour held a ceremony honoring the forgotten Chinese laborers buried there. Incense and, reincarnation and paper items meant to represent wealth in the afterlife were burned in a metal box so that the tinder dry hillside would not go up in flames. There was a stone burnt offerings hut there for just such a purpose. These are rare apparently.

John and I spent a lot of time talking in the rental car and had to share hotel rooms. We ate a lot of shit. The food was bad. Had salty Basque food in Boise.

Virginia City NV is Disneyland for bikers and tourists. We ate mediocre pizza in the Red Dog Saloon while a blues rock band, consisting of what looked like microsoft engineers played almost every classic rock song on my ipod. They were okay. I was dismayed at the number of anti-government signs throughout Nevada. One bed sheet was spray painted and hung on a barbed wire fence: "Obama: your cult of personality has failed!"


Like almost all shoots, this was an excellent field trip , though most of the sound is flawed by the wind, or the bus or passing semi-trucks. This was filled with a great deal of beauty, some true ugliness and the loneliness of the American highway. I did miss my family.

More Sleeping on the Job and in Parks

Work: I spent two days doing doctor profiles for a medical center website. Audio and set up are easy, but again the fight is to stay awake, the irony is that I fell asleep while they were interviewing doctors from the sleep clinic.

Fun: Ned, Tom and three of Ned's friends and I spent the night camping at a cabin at Camp Long. Ned and his posse were out until 1:30 in the woods, climbing rocks and hanging around at the camp fire. The photo shows the outcome of the intersection of fire, pop can, giant marshmallows and 13 year old's fascination with burning things. It is not some kind of odd crack pipe. Ned's band-aids prove he was having a good time. Of course the camera battery died so this is the only record of what was a pretty fun camp out.

G.E.T. and the Man With His Head in a TV Tent.

Yesterday was a commercial for the Washington State Guaranteed Education Tuition program. It was nice. Small children were involved. The entire day the camera was on a 20' jib arm so the DP Geoff spent most of his working hours with his head in a bag looking at the monitor. On an audio note, the generator ran all day on the sidewalk making a lovely ambient noise that resembled a muffled chainsaw. We did note a strange occurrence that every time a car passed the generator the noise lessened by probably 25%: a phasing was taking place on the bounce back from the passing car. When a car parked or stopped it would get louder, so it was a natural noise canceling device.

The Original Teenager Writ Large Upon the Side of the Cave

When it's warm enough, which in Seattle is precious and rare nowadays, I subject my kids to backyard drive-in theater. I run silent films with Keaton and Chaplin, old Bullwinkle and Tennessee Tuxedo episodes and the occasional feature length oddity or western. It is presented as films are meant to be seen: on a clattering old Junior High School projector on a sheet on the side of the house. I own a 16mm print of "Rebel Without a Cause", which I screened for my 13 year old son and two of his buddies on Saturday night. The film broke, we had one frame of film burn in that miserable way film prints bubble and disintegrate. There were mosquitoes and bad popcorn. We had a long intermission. But, through all that they saw James Dean emote in the way only he could. Cool in a way nobody else ever will be cool again. They saw Natalie Wood in her finest moment. They saw just how weird Sal Mineo was, forever to be known as "the guy who killed the puppies". They saw the great chicken run sequence. Nicholas Ray was an American genius and RWC though it looks tame now was pretty interesting for 1955. Generally the kids liked it and it was a great experience, though I'm sure they would have liked more guns and explosions.

(the photo has Ned and his friends reacting to the camera flash and not nausea induced by 1950's melodrama)

Even though the film was from a previous generation, as a young man I really identified with the James Dean character in RWC. I doubt my son feels the same way, it probably is to him more like a bizarre look into the world 55 years ago. As I get older, I now see myself in the Jim Backus character of the weak, idiot father, fumbling in an apron trying to answer the most basic questions without a straight answer for anything. I liked it better when I saw myself as the cool guy.

Ned and Tom with Fire Sticks

Nothing else need be said.

Children arc welding to celebrate the casting off the aristocracy.

Catharsis of the Gigantic Sergio Leone Wall Hanging

In direct response to the untimely death of my mechanical talisman, the L.C. Smith and Bros. typewriter, I have hung the magnum opus of my 1980's unemployment on our living room wall. Mrs. Sander has been gracious about it, probably because it now only ghettoizes one wall instead of three. Somewhat pompously entitled "Wreck of the Temple" it was always intended to hang together, but up until now never has. It's about 12 feet long and 4 feet high Sort of a cinema-scope triptych of motel rubble and Komar and Melamid inspired red drape. The first two were painted about 25 years ago and the third was painted about 15 years ago, in a much different style. I really like it together. It makes me want to paint more after I get a new Prozac prescription.

The Unlove of the Go-Kart

The most productive hours of the day were spent pursuing the dream of an electric go-kart. Scavenging the remains of the bike Tom refuses to learn to ride and the dessicated remains of a jogging stroller and splicing it, frankenstein like to the 2HP electric motor of a shopping cart mover proved too much for me, I have fallen back on the idea of motorizing the classic go-kart. When it is finished it will either move slowly, if at all or it will burn rubber and leave a trail of dead.

The sad part is that whatever I do will be instantly forgotten, with the next novelty. The kids seem only begrudgingly interested. I should probably stop trying to recreate my childhood desires and just go buy them a six pack of beer and some cigarettes and Playboys.

Retail Mathmatics for Footwear Producers and Narcoleptics

Six hours of a mathematician from New Jersey discussing retail sales management in a conference room for a major athletic footwear company. This is not hell or even a suburb of hell but it is a local call to hell. Mark was a nice mathematician mind you, and it is a really good shoe company (one of those companies that seem like a great place to work) but six hours of math being done on an old school over head projector makes me sleepy just blogging about it. Sleep was unavoidable, after all once his audio level was set, what was there for me to do? At least I could sit down: Ray and Dallen the camera guys stood for the whole shoot, fighting their way through near unconsciousness and coma while still attractively framing our New Jersey friend in a perfectly composed shot. It was rough to watch. The producer, Jai and I at least had chairs.

My algebra teacher in High School used an overhead projector and his was the first class after lunch. I was doomed for math; but the sweet forbidden algebra nap, drooling on the woodgrain formica desk top was beautiful. Today was a flashback to those carefree days flunking algebra in a dreamless haze.

The Absurdity Spread Thick Like Peanut Butter

I was paid to do audio for the mascot of the Seattle Storm's birthday party, followed by a day at a Storm game that we shot the "Pirate Booty" mascot to the exclusion of the events surrounding it. Why? Isn't there a better reason to have an Audio Human? The Pirate was quite honestly the saddest mascot I have ever seen, he was blind in the costume and shy with kids, as if you gave the most reclusive kid in class the worst halloween costume and told him to have fun under penalty of death. Audio sucked- I was a human camera mic. I would rather work hard and make things sound good rather than chase Steve the Pirate Booty Pirate. Storm won. Holland won. I bartered another piece of my soul by having a Dick's Deluxe and chocolate shake in despair afterward. Worked with nice people.

My typewriter is dead

1911 LC Smith Brothers Model 8: my miniature temple of ingenuity. The carriage seems now permanently frozen, waiting for a magical hand to release it and push it back. Perpetually in mid-sentence. An unfinished thought. It was one of my favorite material objects. So incredibly clever and complicated, a surviving testament to invention. It worked perfectly, or so I believed. It was a great comfort to me, this $15 garage sale purchase; it gave me hope, the way an ancient monastery, still carrying on in the decline of the civilization gives hope to the weak willed and faithless but secretly, lazily devout (like me). My typewriter made me feel great, knowing it could pound out a letter to the editor just as it did in 1911. Matthew 6:19 "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal."

It has succumbed. Probably the victim of my kids (who I love infinitely more than this stupid typewriter) who could not resist vigorously pounding on the keys. I can not blame them.

Yes, it could be fixed, I could spend more than the gross annual income of a family of six in Rwanda to fix a slowly decaying piece of technological history but I won't. I could spend many hours painstakingly attempting to fix it myself only to be disappointed that it really isn't so mystical at all, just a bunch or sprockets and springs and levers and gears and not a life force all to itself. Everything I own will one day be dirt. I will be dirt. Put not your faith in typewriters.