Walkin’ The Dog

“If you don’t how to do it, I’ll show you how to walk the dog.” So sang Rufus Thomas on his iconic 1963 hit. Our little Shih Tzu Penny has never heard of Mr. Thomas, or at least, has never mentioned him. But she does know how she prefers to be walked every morning. And where. Once around the China Basin Building, down 3rd to King and into the Starbucks, where she is received like royalty, with compliments, pets and usually, treats. If the baristas are efficient, she waits calmly. But if there’s a backup, like many Starbucks customers, Penny can get a little impatient, tugging on the leash and eager to get on with her morning. Once outside, however, she’s forgotten everything and reverts to scrutinizing each and every hydrant, lamp post, news rack and crack in the sidewalk. It is truly a dog’s life.

Rounding Up

What a day. My good friend Dr. Brant and I didn’t really sail all that far; from the slip in Point Richmond to inside Raccoon Strait and back. But it was everything a day on the Bay is supposed to be: exhilarating, demanding of a bit of skill and even somewhat athletic. At about 20 knots, the wind was plentiful. And with just two of us on the Michelle today, it was important to find a place on the high side and stay there, even though she sails quite well even when knocked over.

All sailboats are prone to what is called rounding up. You could think of it as a safety feature; the tendency to turn into the wind when the breeze picks up. Weather helm is another way to phrase the phenomenon. But while Dr. Brant’s venerable 35-year-old Folkboat doesn’t exactly sail itself, she does allow the sailor to sail. Which means that although means one has to adjust constantly to changes in conditions, the boat doesn’t turn around and look at you when a gust carrying an additional 10 knots shows up. And so, sail we did. Lee rail buried, hiked out to weather, slicing through the chop, spray flying everywhere. Dr. Brant turns 80 next month, and I’m all of 65. You’re only as old as you feel.

What’s A Fogey To Do?

Mitzi and I attended the last-ever Video Arts Holiday Party the other evening. It was a sad occasion, in that the much-venerated institution in San Francisco video circles will be closing at the end of the year. As we walked in, I looked around and tossed off a bon mot about the seeming preponderance of gray hair. My lovely wife responded quickly, “Checked a mirror lately?” Ouch, and point taken. Later, when I caught up with Kim Salyer, the long-time head of VA, he seemed resigned to “losing the brand” but upbeat about the future. And one has to admire that. It’s no secret that the business of video is changing rapidly and those who can’t or won’t adapt are being left behind. It reminds me of the warning most of us heard coming up, “This is a young man’s game.” (Of course, we soon discovered it was a young woman’s game as well, and that became a goodly part of its appeal.) As I see it, the larger point is this: The changes we’re seeing are not due to the enabling power of do-it-yourself technology, the democratization of communications or the lowering of standards to the YouTube level. Instead, it’s simply the natural order of life. The old is replaced with the new. It’s always been that way, and always will. For those of us in the Boomer generation, that’s an uncomfortable fact. We’ve been accustomed to having it our way for 65 years and now it seems the world no longer needs us. And the truth be told, in most cases, it doesn’t. But that’s not a death sentence. Because what the world does need now, more than ever, is the power of expression. Of ideas. Of stories. Of whatever’s on your mind. Okay, so we’re no longer shooting $200,000 videos with grip trucks lining the streets, fully-staffed departments and other quaint artifacts of days gone by. I say, get over it. Run over to Best Buy and pick up one of those little cameras you’ve always made fun of, and learn how to use it. Sit down with iMovie and cut the footage on your own. Pick up a guitar and strum something into your laptop, then make a title in Photoshop and surprise yourself. In short, turn the New Paradigm on its ear. And make your movie.

Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It, In Danville

As any working musician will tell you, a dancing crowd is a good crowd. There’s something about seeing a gyrating human in front of the stage that gives the members of any bar band a boost. But what causes an otherwise sane person to jump up and shake a groove thing, in front of God, one’s fellow townspeople and the bartender? Certain songs just seem to possess that quality. This evening Mitzi and I drove out to Danville to catch our friend Rich Flynn and his trio at a small joint called The Vine. All three of them can play and sing and it was quite entertaining. But the crowd sat on its hands. Until, that is, Rich played the opening sequence to “Sweet Home Alabama.” Duh-duh, da-dah, da-duh-duh, da-da. And so on, we all know the riff. Suddenly the small dance floor was flooded. One little miss in a short print dress seemed to think that deep knee bends was the way to go. Another preferred the “hands in the air, like you just don’t care” motif. Over in the corner, a young fellow appeared to be doing the Twist, which earned him points for originality, if nothing else. By the time the band swung into “With You or Without You,” I was ready to bust a move my own self, and in fact, probably should have. Instead, we made a quick exit and on the way home contented ourselves with cranking the radio, drumming on the steering wheel and playing air guitar. Jiggy’s where you find it, I suppose.

Down By The River

No, I did not shoot my baby, even though that’s one of my favorite Neil Young songs. Instead, I walked my dog and enjoyed being home, after two weeks away. The trees had changed color in that time, and the sun is even lower in the sky, creating an effect that filmmakers know as golden hour, except that in winter it lasts nearly all day long. Surrounding oneself with beauty is not a prerequisite for happiness, but it helps.

Talkin’ The Talk in Zurich

One of the most compelling aspects of this country is the confluence of language. As I sit in the lounge awaiting my flight, a gentleman next to me is operating various devices, one of which is a cell phone. He’s made several calls and in so doing, has been able to switch between French, German, Italian and English seamlessly. And a couple more I couldn’t identify. It’s no secret that Americans struggle with this. As the old saw has it: Most people in the world speak two or three languages, but Americans speak one, badly. But is that capability, or lack of, charming? Is the Brooklyn accent I hear from across the room appealing? The Texas drawl from the guy complaining about the coffee? Not really, and especially not in this setting. I chastised a good friend earlier today for his “thimble-sized world view,” but in retrospect, I was wrong to do so. One of the lessons of travel is that ultimately, people are just people. As in all other facets of life, balance rules the day. And if our countrymen and women occasionally sound like uneducated boobs, so be it. We’re good – so to speak – because we have other reasons to be proud of who we are.

Farewell to India

As I’ve become fond of saying, the challenges of India for most Westerners, myself included, are myriad. And they go well beyond the usual travel differences in money, language and culture. As such, the inevitable frustrations that crop up when the lines of communication break down are maddening. But all that said, I’ve never been anywhere like this place, and I’ve had the good fortune to visit something like 40 countries in my lifetime. For me, the people of India transcend all the issues, all the petty annoyances. They are the most generous, open-hearted and welcoming people I’ve ever encountered, in all my travels. And so, I’ll be back. Sooner than later, if I can manage to raise the funding for my film that shoots here. My flight leaves tonight and I’ll be home tomorrow, God and Swiss Air willing. As is always the case after a long trip, it will feel good to reacquaint myself with my family and friends, and pick up the strands of my life. But it will be awhile before I get India out of my heart. If, indeed, I ever do.

Wong Kar Wai

The man is quite simply one of the best filmmakers we have today. “In the Mood for Love,” “Chungking Express,” “My Blueberry Nights;” the list goes on. He’s shooting a commercial for my friend Feroze in Jodhpur this week, so I hopped a flight in hopes of meeting the man. Wasn’t sure what to expect; I’d heard about the penchant for sunglasses and privacy, I didn’t know if he would suffer an American commercial director all that well. I needn’t have concerned myself. The man is gracious to a fault, and we spent several minutes chatting. I requested a snap with the two of us, he agreed and even asked his DoP to take the photo. Tonight I’ll climb aboard my flight back to States. I can do so with a feeling that my trip is complete.

Water

It’s the precious commodity most people in the West take for granted. The privations of life in the morning consist of nothing more a longer line than usual at Starbucks, a lost newspaper or an aggressive driver on the freeway. Elsewhere, life can be different, and often is. I woke up early following a rather fitful sleep, and after debating the matter for several minutes, decided to get up and start the day with a nice hot shower. Turned the knobs, and nothing happened. I gave it a few moments, completed the rest of my ablutions and tried again. Nothing. And so strode stinking into town for a coffee, wearing yesterday’s socks. When I came back, the house man was watering the plants with the garden hose. I asked him if, indeed, the water had returned. He replied with one of those Mumbai head shakes that means yes. Minutes later, as I sat down at my laptop to begin work, he brought me a cold bottle of water. He smiled and yes, the irony was unmistakable.

Thirsty Boots

“Take off your thirsty boots, and stay for a while.” In the late 60s, a folk singer named Eric Andersen grabbed the spotlight for a moment with songs extolling the vagabond  lifestyle. For a college student (of sorts) stuck in Brunswick, Maine, the imagery of life on the road was thrilling, and I vowed to seek it out one day. Some 42 years later, I still find myself fascinated with what comes next; just up that way, around the next corner and through the alley. And so it goes. Onward, ever onward.