Wanna read a rant? Well, read on.

As you may or may not know, I live in Waco, Texas. I grew up here as a result of my family's move from Dallas so that my father could pursue his career goals through technical training. Although I have spent time away from Waco, I manage to wind up back here before long. Waco has much going for it. It also has some factors at work that serve a dual purpose: to promote Waco's growth by sucking out its life blood. During this fit, I'll briefly describe a few of the actions of Waco's largest employer: Baylor University. As Waco's largest employer, Baylor's governing body attempts to do what it can to enhance life in Waco for those who are willing to commit to Baylor's strict doctrines that include mandatory church attendance for faculty members. Iam not certain if he has abandoned his goal of requiring all faculty to be members of the unique Baylor Baptist Denomination, but for a while at least, that was a goal of Baylor's Chancellor. While Baylor University's presence in Waco may have been a mostly positive influence during Waco's infancy,in recent years BU's role in the life of Waco has grown to more closely resemble that of a parasite, like a tapeworm. You know how a tapeworm propsers: it channels the food that its host consumes to fortify itself,allowing just enough sustinence to pass on to the host's digestive system so that the host survives to give the tapeworm a cozy place to dwell. In most cases, BU's caustic influence results in a tolerable amount of discomfort for residents of Waco. Many here do not realize that the popular outlet mall that is located in Hillsboro, about thirty miles north of Waco on Interstate-35 wanted to locate in Waco. Who nixed that plan? Baylor. Why? Who knows? Having BU call so many shots for Waco is like a thirty year-old man having his octagenarian grandmother decide what's best for him. Now, I am not trying to slight grannies out there. Most are very sweet, but I would not want grandma deciding when and where I could spend my leisure time, or which movies I could watch, would you? If you don't think that it would be so bad, try watching a Lawrence Welk Show marathon sometime. The local PBS station, whose broadcast license is owned by BU, has just such a marathon at least once a year. I used to work for the local PBS affiliate. Back then, it was mostly a production facility for our mother station, KNCT-46. When the powers-that-were decided to shut down dear old KCTF-34 (now KWBU), our staff took immediate action to discover how to keep from "going dark". Necessity is the mother of strange bedfellows, and the only entity that our people could find with the will and the wherewithal to purchase the broadcast license (with a sticker price of about $100,000.00, plus a few fees sprinkled in for good measure) was BU. Initially, my fears were not confirmed by anything that BU did with a PBS station under its control. Now, you will say that KWBU's mission and operation are dictated by the [independent] governing board, but let's be real about it. KWBU is housed in the bowels of BU, and if you think for a moment that anything happens at KWBU without prior approval from BU, then you are a fool. When I worked for KCTF, our small, ill-equipped but highly motivated crew produced numerous community-oriented programs. We shot with busted cameras and VTRs that made more noise than they were designed to record. We shot programs in a studio that was smaller than most people's garages -- all in the name of fulfilling our mission to service the community that provided our membership base. One would think that with BU's support, we would see a proliferation of community-oriented programming from KWBU. Not so. KWBU's production staff are busy at work, alright. They produce material for BU's own internal consumption. This must change, and the PBS affiliate must be unfettered and allowed to service the PUBLIC. BU is a PRIVATE school. Who can't see what's wrong with a private institution having control over a public broadcasting facility? Let's imagine putting something that is normally public and putting it in the hands of a private interest. It is very likely that you operate a motor vehicle on public thoroughfares, like the roads and highways that get you to work and to the grocery. Let's say that tomorrow the public roads will become the property of a large, private interest. What if that private interest were you? If you owned the public roads, wouldn't you want to use them to service your own desires? You could do with them as you pleased. Feeling a little cash-strapped? Make a few more of the roads into toll roads. Heck, why not make them all toll roads? You could close the roads that went to places that didn't interest you. The road to the public library could be permanently under construction, and traffic detoured to the shopping center. To close this fit, Baylor has a tremendous responsibility. That responsibilty is no longer simply dictated by its Board of Regents. Now that they control a PBS station, they should be held accountable to the public in public television.

I'm not certain from where the motivation for this trip down memory lane stems, but it's been a boon to my posting, so here goes another fit:

Perhaps the Cox News Service and the Waco Trib recollection spurred this fit. I am reminded of my first job interview with the Waco Tribune Herald. I was about nineteen years old, and interviewing with the editorial office manager, a woman named Barbara something. If the Wicked Witch of the West had an identical twin, Barbara was a shoe-in for her. I was interviewing for an entry-level position with the newspaper. Allow me to attempt to convey the emotion that I was feeling at having landed a job interview with a newspaper. I was years (one or two) away from disillusionment with the whole truth-in-editorial-news-reporting deal, and was under the mistaken impression that a newspaper was some sort of hallowed ground of the written Word -- that I was sitting in one of the last bastions of grammatical sanctity. Boy, was I in for a shock! After my interview, during which I stopped just short of kissing the threshold to the newspaper, Barbara paused for a moment to tell me that I was "too honest" in my interview. I would soon learn, through the newspaper, how volatile and expendable honesty and truth are, and how either one can get in the way of what would otherwise be award-winning journalism. Of course, one might be led to wonder of what value news reporting is when it is told without truth or honesty. I didn't get the job. Barbara's letter arrived and my heart sank. Would I ever be worthy of employment by a Literary Institution like the Waco Tribune Herald? In retrospect, it is nothing short of laughable to think that I -- that anyone could aspire to work with the denizens of the inkwell that flows from Satan's own veins. A couple of years later, I landed a job in the Trib's advertising department. Because I shot with Nikon cameras, and was therefore compatible with the editorial photogs' lenses, I was allowed by the chief photog to shoot for the editorial department from time to time. For what I think may have been my very first editorial assignment for the Trib, I was sent to Oakwood Park to photograph the police officer who was hailed as Waco's "Cop of the Year" for the work that he had done to "clean up" the vicinity of Oakwood Park, which was formerly a hotbed of illicit activity by local at-risk youth. With my first editorial assignment staring me in the face, I wasn't about to take any chances. I loaded up on film stock of all types, carried all five of my Nikon bodies and all of my lenses. I may have even bummed one from the editorial department. The day was overcast. As I exited my car, I began to ponder the lighting situation. The reporter for the story, Mark England met me in the small parking lot adjacent to the park. It was late Autumn, and it was beginning to drizzle. I had to work fast. England pointed me toward a park bench where Sgt. Gary Green was standing with a group of young African-Americans, mostly guys. They appeared to be carrying on with a congenial aire. Mark looked me over and saw that I was all camera gear. "You're loaded for bear," he remarked. I told him that I was not about to blow this opportunity to shoot some local "art". "Art" is what newspaper editors call photos that illustrate their stories. As I approached the police sargeant, I drew the attention of one of the young black men who was hanging out with the cop. He was about 6'8" and about 280 lbs. The young man was so large that I think that his vocal cords were smothered by his sheer girth. He asked me something that I found to be unintelligible. Even when he repeated it, I still could not make out what he was asking of me. It sounded a bit like, "Areyafit'nfilm?" I turned to Mark, who offered up a translation. "Oh, uh, yes. I am here to take a picture of the sargeant over there," I said. The young, huge man's eyes widened, as if he had seen a ghost. He turned to his cohorts, who numbered just shy of a dozen, motioned to them and within seconds, they had scattered to the furthest corners of the park -- maybe even out of the county. Mark observed, "Wow, you sure can clear a room." The group had obviously scrambled away after getting the signal from my unintelligible friend to get out of camera shot. I thought little of it, being pressed for time, as the drizzle was rapidly becoming full-fledged rain. I made my photos, and the next day eagerly snatched up the first issue of the paper that I could find. Prominently plastered on the front page of the local section was my photo of a pensive police officer, sitting on his own at a concrete park bench in a park that was devoid of any other souls. I was pleased. But only until I read the lead-in for the Mark England story, which read something like, "The black youths that were gathered Oakwood Park scattered as Waco Police Sargeant Gary Green approached." He was there, and saw exactly what I saw. Why was it so important to manipulate the facts in this little local story? How often, do you suppose, was he led to do the same thing, thinking that it would pull in a reader? That being said, Mark England is an award-winning journalist for the Cox News Service. The awards are generally for deadline reporting, but I think that he should receive a second accolade for his creative and inspired work(s) of fiction.

This month's Waco Today, a sort of periodical supplement to the local Cox News Service-affiliated Waco Tribune-Herald contains a story about local businessman Randy Robert's fashionable Hummer H2. It's funny to me that the story refers to Mr. Roberts as a "former owner of Waco's RiverSquare Center", a fairly posh property for Waco, but somehow journalist Alan Hunt, who penned the story managed to leave out the fact that a significant amount of the cashflow that facilitated the development of that property coursed through the Showtime Club, a topless bar located in a fairly unfashionable area of Waco. To quote Randy's vanity license plate, "DUHH."

This is a note to say that Leon Quenneville did finally come through with payment for the services provided. Thanks, Leon.

Today, I was told, after a fashion that the way that I speak puts others on the defensive, and furthermore that my mode of discourse comes off as being adversarial. To that, I have to say that, if anyone is put off by the way that I speak, that he should not hesitate to go take a long run down a very short pier. I mean, really -- when have you ever been called in for a meeting with your manager to hear such a load? Listen, I am not a wealthy man. I have little in the way of material goods, but I am thankful and proud to have developed a relationship with the English language that affords me such a -- a compliment. That's what it is, after all. This reminds me of a time that I was referred to as a "temperamental artist." First off, I find the phrase to be redundant. Since when has a true artist been anything but temperamental? And, what artist could hope to find his passion, and tap into it without colliding with his own temperamentality? Puh-leeze. It's not my fault that I must deal with people who are, at best functional illiterates.

Note to self: today I was accused of sleeping on the job -- really -- SLEEPING. The accuser could not say WHEN this allegedly happened, so the point is less than moot. Furthermore, I was accused of mouthing off to a member of another department, when asked what I was doing in a particular location in the facility (something which did NOT happen). I might suggest that one of the individuals bringing these charges does, herself doze off at her desk from time to time. And so do others! I could go on, but I will curtail this tirade so that I can return to the pressing business of business. I also have some pressing to do.

Note this well: the world has but a single problem: people. I wish with all of my heart that this were not true. Ask yourself: When has the action of any person, or group of people actually done the world a deal of good? Think carefully. Be careful not to jump to the answer that any doctrine born of man has successfully promoted man's love for his fellow man, or that any leader has ever been effective at cleaning up mother Earth. But, please do ponder the question. I'd be interested to hear some answers.

Time for another short trip down memory lane...

It comes as a bit of a surprise to me that some people are intimidated by me, or rather, by certain things about me. I feel strongly that the cause of the intimidation is my vocabulary. I find this to be almost laughable, because I do not consider either my vocabulary or my treatment of the English language to be anything over which to be troubled. This is where I take a moment to attempt to explain why I have such an affinity for the language. It boils down to a simple thing: spite. Perhaps "spite" is too strong a word, but I am at a loss for a better definition (see?). When my parents were children, they were the subject of racial discrimination. Technically, it should probably be called "ethnic" discrimination, but most people call it racial and would be confused to hear it called what it might really be. My parents were Spanish-speaking U.S. citizens, living in central Texas. When they went to school and were caught speaking Spanish, they were punished, or at least reprimanded by the school teachers. As if that were not enough, when they were a little older and began to ride on public transit, they were ushered to the back of the bus, along with the African Americans, who were also being robbed of their civil rights. I can't say exactly when it happened, but at some point during the course of events that served to bruise the pride of a particularly proud young Hispanic man, he decided that, when he had children that they would learn to speak the language of the people who had berated him and his wife. And so, when I was able to speak and read, it was English that I consumed, and I grew to a degree of mastery of such that it was not long before I was helping those for whom English was the language of their family to better use it. I speak English very well, I must concede, but at the cost of losing touch with the language of my parents. When I hear people speaking Spanish now, I feel as if I am hearing distant echoes of my parents' voices, and those of their parents -- only I cannot make out the meanings of their words to save my life.

I am waiting for a job to print just now, so, unless it is horribly in need of babysitting, I am going to take this time to allow for a stroll down memory lane. Here goes...

For the last few years, I have been trying to get into the film industy in Texas. This is a bit of a challenge, since I live a hundred miles from the hub of the Texas film industry: Austin, but I felt that I could make the distance work in my favor. After all, if I am a hundred miles away, then I must be that much close than someone in say, Dallas or Lubbock, right? Additionally, I have some family, friends and contacts in the area that might help me out by providing me with temporary lodging during a film stint, should I happen to land one. After months of slogging along, emailing, faxing and phoning, I received a call from an indie film company in Austin that was about to shoot a period western on HD. The catch was that payment would be deferred until the project was sold. It sounded a bit sketchy, but I was determined to do some work on film, indie or otherwise, film or videotape. I agreed to meet with some of the production staff later that month. When I arrived, I was a bit shocked to discover that I was the oldest person there (I was thirty-one at the time, I think). Nevertheless, I listened to what the director (an actor named Jesse Petrick) had to say, and when it came time to tout my expertise, I told him that I would be of greatest use to him as a member of the camera crew. Nevermind that I had no experience with motion picture production or even with HD -- I have an affinity and a great aptitude for cameras, no matter the species. Jesse told me that he already had a camera crew lined up for the project, but that he would try to get me on the gaffer's crew. I accepted the post, hoping that I would find an opportunity to shine. When the first day of production arrived (or, rather MY first day, as I was laid up for a couple of days with a nasty case of poison ivy), I was called out by the cinematographer (Paul Wojack - sp?) because their camera crew had apparently turned up missing. He interviewed me briefly in order to determine whether it was wise to have me share the responsibility for the $200,000.00 camera that they were about to pick up. We seemed to be well-attuned to each other, and he agreed to have me as his First Camera Assistant, asking also that I bring my light meters to the set each day. I was in! I rejoiced this fact to no end as we awaited the arrival of the camera gear on the set -- Willie Nelson's ranch outside of Bee Caves, Texas. And so, for the next three weeks, I was part of an indie film crew shooting a period western somewhere in Texas. There are a few more chapters to write in there, but I'll return to that line of the story later on. With some "real" experience under my belt, I felt that I would have no trouble -- or at least, less trouble finding work in film production. After updating my resume accordingly, I set out to strike for work on "The Life of David Gale" and "The Alamo", as well as a plethora of other indie projects. No calls. Nothing at all. Not even a hit on my online resume page. I couldn't be sure that my letters and faxes arrived at the production offices, because those guys are way too busy to acknowledge anything short of an offer to bankroll the project. One day, while bemoaning the fact that I was having no luck breaking in to the film biz, my gf's sister suggested that I try out as an extra for one of the films that never called me. As luck would have it, in another week or two, there was a casting call for extras on the Alamo film in downtown Austin. I made the cut, and spent three days in December in a cow pasture during a heavy rain learning how to march and fire a musket like a Mexican soldier at $15 per day! Here is where something interesting happens. On the first day of training, I found myself praying. I was praying for guidance -- probably the most important thing that I can think of. Actually, I wasn't praying for guidance, I was praying for Guidance, and some sort of indication of whether or not I should be pursuing this project. My friend, Rusty, felt that this was going to be my big break. So, I wanted to chase down that hope, or dream. I'm on the road, like I said, the first morning of training. I have a map and instructions to not be late. I've given myself plenty of time to get there. The training ground is on a privately owned ranch near Wimberley, and I don't want to lose my bearings. There was heavy rain the night before, and it is still drizzling. Feeling a little out-of-my-element, I commence to praying that Guidance prayer. That's when the left rear tire on my car goes flat. I frantically change it, putting the temporary spare on and getting back on course. This time, I am praying for help in getting to the location. In my haste, I ignored the fact that the Guidance that I was requesting was delivered. Once the day's training was over, and I, along with everyone else who showed up was soaked and covered with a mixture of mud and manure, I got into my car to make my way to the hotel in San Marcos where I was staying. Along the way, I continued, with Guidance Prayer part II. That's about the time that the temporary spare went flat.