We have just released episode 4 of Films Not Made, the video podcast everyone should be watching and/or listening to. In this episode, Oscar-nominated director Heidi Ewing regales us with her unmade project about a real-life Soviet domestication program entitled “How To Tame a Fox.” It’s a great story, and we had a really fun time working on it and laughing along with Heidi. Truly!

Here’s the ask - PLEASE subscribe to the podcast anywhere you get podcasts and to the YouTube channel. If you can, give it a rating and a like. And if you really can, please review it. I know this sounds totally cheesy, but IT REALLY HELPS US, and just like making a film and trying to get it seen - it’s super hard! You can also follow us on Instagram and TikTok! I know - social media!

But just look what you’re missing - me getting ROASTED by my own children!

So - please please please check us out. If you work in this contracting industry, and most of you do, you will really appreciate it. Why? We all have unmade projects. Amy, Lisa and I are trying to get those out of the drawers and back onto the screen. More episodes are coming, and even more are being recorded.

In other news, NASA astronauts are about to circle the moon. I find this completely exciting and having spent some years doing sound on space projects, I’m all-in. If anyone has a project about any of the NASA Artemis missions and/or their lunar landers - call me. This last month had me recording/mixing sound at at ketamine clinic, the Legal Aid Society and a variety of corporate concerns.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program of dubious meals and twangy guitars…

Project: It’s All Country

March 2, 2024
Tip the band

The dawn in Nashville once again unfurled a tapestry of grey, the heavens still weeping from some cosmic heartache, as we made our pilgrimage to the hallowed halls of the Music City Bar and Grill. Our mission: to capture the elusive essence of country music’s inner circle in a roundtable discussion that promised to be as flavorful as the local cuisine.

Upon our arrival, it became immediately apparent that the donuts on offer were not mere pastries but once again the colossal, sugary franken-puffs that defied conventional consumption. Fork and knife in hand, I braved the confectionery behemoth, marveling at its delicious defiance of pastry norms. This led to a philosophical quandary: if a donut lacks a hole, does it relinquish its ‘donut’ status, or does it ascend to a higher plane of dessert existence?

The walls of the Music City Bar and Grill served as a silent testament to the legends of country music, each photo and piece of memorabilia a mosaic piece in Nashville’s storied tapestry. Under the watchful eyes of icons like Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, George Jones, Dolly Parton, and Hank Williams, we orchestrated our setup, a concerto of cables and cameras.

And then, lunch.

As the specter of lunch loomed once again on the horizon, the words “catered Mediterranean” echoed through the Music City Bar and Grill like a foreboding prophecy, threatening to unleash a culinary déja vu upon our unsuspecting crew. Having only yesterday set sail aboard the HMS Taziki, where the choppy seas of “Mediterranean” cuisine had left our palates partially shipwrecked, the announcement of a sequel filled me with both anticipation and trepidation. Would this be a redemption of the flavors of antiquity or a further desecration of the culinary bedrock upon which Western civilization was built?

The first harbinger of our gastronomic fate was the so-called “Greek Salad,” a dish that bore as much resemblance to its Hellenic namesake as a Trojan Horse to Seabiscuit. This sarcophagus of iceberg lettuce, entombing the faintest whispers of Greek culinary heritage, was an affront to the gods themselves, drenched not in the ambrosial nectar of olive oil and citrus but in the pedestrian banality of a side trough filled with ranch dressing. I offered a silent apology to Margo and all of Hellenic descent; this was not the salad their ancestors had fought for.

The “seasoned rice” that followed was as cryptic as the Eleusian Mysteries minus the mind-altering ergot. I wondered, was this rice seasoned with the tears of culinary purists, or merely the dust of indifference?

Our main course, the beef and chicken kabobs, arrived like warriors from a forgotten era, skewers brandished like spears in defiance of the culinary mediocrity that preceded them. Here, at last, was a glimmer of hope, a potential return to form that could salvage the wreckage of our Mediterranean odyssey. Each skewer was, perhaps, a chance to reclaim some semblance of authenticity from the jaws of culinary calamity.

As the lunch saga unfolded, Scott, a veritable Nostradamus of the dining table, preemptively seasoned his chicken with a cascade of salt, stoicly proclaiming, “I know how it’s gonna be,” with the weary resignation of a man who’s seen too many unseasoned poultry in his day. Meanwhile, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the chicken, a veritable phoenix rising from the ashes of yesterday’s culinary debacle. Each bite was a duet of flavor, a morsel that whispered secrets of the grill, the char, the very essence of flame itself, leaving my taste buds in a state of eager anticipation for the next encounter.

The beef, however, was the culinary equivalent of a wallflower at the high school dance, unassuming and content in its anonymity. It was as if it had achieved a Zen-like state of beef-ness, existing simply to be, without aspiration or desire, a reminder of the existential void in meat form.

The glaring absence of sauces, most notably any trace of tzatziki, was a culinary oversight akin to a Greek tragedy unfolding on our plates. Here we were, adrift in a sea of flavor potential, with nary a dollop of geographically-specific creamy, garlicky salvation in sight. The absence of spice was a missed opportunity, a culinary cry for help that went unanswered, leaving our palates yearning for a taste of the Aegean.

Grant, ever the optimist, declared the meal “good food,” his standards a testament to the power of hunger over discernment. His culinary philosophy, “as long as it isn’t gross, I’m happy,” served as a humble reminder of the simple joys of sustenance. Meanwhile, Margo’s foray into the realm of pizza was a journey fraught with disappointment, her deadpan critique painting a picture of a dish in existential crisis. The thin crust, the “bad” sauce, all culminating in a verdict that only a Chicagoan could deliver with such conviction. She has “higher standards.”

But then, the baklava—a dense, sweet denouement to our edible odyssey. Though it bore the weight of a thousand phyllo layers, it was still a beacon of hope, a sugary lifeline in the tempest of our meal. With each bite, the vestiges of lunchtime regret were washed away. I indulged in a second piece, a silent Opa! echoing in my heart.

As the cameras rolled and the warm overhead light cast an inviting glow over the assembled “round table insiders,” the conversation meandered through the heartland of country music, traversing its storied past, its pulsating present, and peering into its uncertain future. Someone kicked things off with a nod to the more recent titans of the genre, Garth Brooks and Kenny Chesney, reminding us that once upon a time, country music’s worth wasn’t measured in album sales but in the miles and the stories it traversed across America’s vast expanse. Jay chimed in, his voice a testament to years spent in smoky bars and neon-lit studios, musing about the essence of country music as a tapestry of tales, where the narrative is king, and the chords are merely loyal subjects to the storytelling sovereign.

Alice pondered the seismic shifts in the landscape as back-to-back Black women topped the country charts, a phenomenon as refreshing as it was rare. The table mulled over the relevance of radio in an era where Tyler Childers might as well be a kindergarten teacher, and Beyoncé, with her genre-defying audacity, gifts mainstream country with a new playbook. Marcus, ever the self-aggrandizing philosopher, raised a glass to the blurred lines between country and Black music, their intertwined roots a hidden harmony awaiting rediscovery in the public consciousness. Holly, with a cutting sparkle in her eye, recounted tales of Oklahoma’s oil bust diaspora.

As the discussion veered into the neon-lit bar signs of bro-country and its subsequent implosion under the weight of Beyoncé’s influence, the panelists navigated the tricky terrain of cultural appropriation and authenticity. Mickey Guyton’s soul-stirring anthems became a beacon of hope, yet the specter of tokenism loomed large, a quota system in sheep’s clothing. The power dynamics of Nashville, once dictated by the iron fist of record labels and the insular echo of country radio, now danced to the tune of TikTok’s possibly democratic rhythm. But is it any good?

Jay, with the weary resignation of a seasoned record producer, likened his craft to capturing lightning in a bottle, a Polaroid snapshot of ephemeral magic that defies control or prediction. As the conversation meandered through the minefield of competition shows and their “glee club” mouthpiece alchemy, the insiders lamented the “veal-crate” confinement of genuine talent, their voices a chorus of concern for a future where AI might dilute the raw, unfiltered essence of country music into a pixelated shadow of its former glory.

And then we were done. With the sounds of some cover band banging out “Turn The Page” seeping into the set from the bar next door, “cut” was called and we began our breakdown waltz of equipment. The next thing I knew, I was outside loading the minivan marveling at the now-warmed air and sunshine, wondering if there might still be any adventure left in the day. But, as usual, as soon as the road began to roll under our tires, I was lulled into a daze, only coming back up for air as we approached the hotel - the hours of voices in my ears decompressing and settling like sand at the bottom of a New England kettle pond as I headed back up to the gear room to call it a day.

Down again and then back again on Monday!

PARTING SHOT
Things Are Moving Fast

While not on sound assignment, I’ve spent the last few weeks deep in Claude, Codex & Claude Code. It’s really amazing what’s possible now. I’m running a creative and personal framework you can get for yourself here. I’m building new AI pipelines for the show and have a roster of other ideas I’m iterating on. One is really big and will help get films made.

Overall, in my opinion, it’s all a major creative supercharger, and it occured to me that I’m literally co-creating with the type of agentic AI I had imagined in my Sundance Lab project “Zereoes and Ones,” only in 2009, a lot of people had a hard time imagining what we are living through now. The acceleration is accelerating.

So, once again, my advice is - get your hands on it.

And oh yeah… AI!

Now then. Nashville. Actual real-life filmmaking!

We last left the production in the glow of Castle Kane — an estate whose architecture suggested that generational wealth had briefly consulted with a theme park designer before losing interest midway through. Basketball with Luke Bryan. Virtual golf. A tour bus interview conducted, for insurance reasons, at zero miles per hour. The production had promised a down day, which arrived with the bureaucratic punctuality of a government holiday, and then we were back - the machinery of observation resuming its slow, deliberate choreography.

(Spoiler Alert! The food, for those tracking the culinary subplot of this series, did not improve. It pivoted. From Southern excess to Mediterranean adjacency. The distinction, as you’ll discover, is largely semantic.)

Project: It’s All Country

March 1, 2024
It’s all the same

The morning draped Nashville in a shroud of gray, the rain a persistent companion as Michelle, Athena, Kyle, and I navigated the philosophical minefield of documentary cinema within the cramped confines of our vehicle. As we dissected the anatomy of storytelling, the car veered towards “Mulberry Downs,” a name that conjured memories of Brooklyn’s mulberry-stained sidewalks and invoked images of thoroughbreds thundering down the track. Yet, this “Downs” was no racetrack but a sprawling labyrinth of cookie-cutter townhouses, a testament to the vinyl and aluminum gods of suburbia.

Michelle likened the scene to “The Truman Show,” a comparison as apt as it was unsettling, casting us as unwitting extras in a scripted reality. I countered with “a compressed Levittown,” a nod to the post-war American dream packaged in neat, identical parcels. Tomato, tomahto — the essence remained the same; we were adrift in a sea of architectural sameness, a dystopian suburbia where uniqueness went to die.

Our destination, it turned out, was the abode of Tenille Arts, a domicile so fresh it practically sparkled with the scent of paint and the heady aroma of new furniture’s off-gassing bouquet. The cardboard box sentinels standing guard outside were the only hint of the recent invasion of moving vans. Inside, the air was as crisp and untainted as the unblemished walls, a blank canvas upon which Tenille’s life in Nashville was just beginning to paint its first strokes.

Our venture into the creative sanctum of Tenille Arts unfolded like a nocturnal ballet, the camera lens capturing the quiet magic of her midnight musings. The witching hour, 3:33 AM, held a sacred resonance, a shared secret between Tenille and Michelle, both attuned to the ethereal “angel times” that punctuated their days with whispers of inspiration. In the sanctity of her music room, Tenille’s Paul Reed Smith guitars stood sentinel, each a sparkling testament to her craft, their names a chorus of birds, a harmony of wood and wire.

The concept of a “Pity Party” was Tenille’s artistic exorcism, a rite of passage through which emotions were felt, acknowledged, and then set free, the residue of heartache fueling the next creation. Perhaps it was in this crucible of creativity that “Call Me When You Get Home Friends” was forged, a melody so hauntingly familiar it wove itself into the fabric of the day, an earworm accompanying the crew from shot to shot.

The expedition continued into the wardrobe, a treasure trove where denim rubbed shoulders with Dolce & Gabbana, and boots, an army of them, stood at the ready for any occasion. The pièce de résistance, a miniature doppelgänger of her red carpet attire, whispered tales of glamour and spotlights. For today’s collaboration with Alex Kline, the sartorial choice was unapologetically Canadian — a denim-on-denim ensemble that spoke of comfort, confidence, and a touch of whimsy.

Downstairs, the interview took a turn towards the introspective, tracing the melodic contours of Tenille’s life back to its genesis. As a child, lost in the throes of a Shania Twain anthem, her voice carried beyond the confines of her backyard to the ears of a neighbor, marking the inception of her journey into the limelight. The female powerhouses of the ’90s, with their tales of heartache and triumph, became the celestial bodies around which Tenille’s musical universe orbited. The landscape of music, she mused, had shifted towards the raw and real, where the polish of perfection gave way to the grit of genuine storytelling, a realm where the scars of life were badges of honor, not blemishes to be airbrushed away.

Meanwhile, in this era of social media, the veil between artist and audience has thinned, offering a window into the unvarnished realities of the person behind the persona. Tenille, standing firm in her authenticity, eschewed the siren call of cosmetic conformity, her roots as a “farm girl” grounding her in a sense of self that no scalpel could sculpt. At the zenith of her pantheon stood Taylor Swift, the lodestar whose path of relentless reinvention and raw honesty lit the way for Tenille’s own odyssey.

The revelation that her collaboration with an all-female team was a pioneering first was a moment of serendipitous discovery, underscoring the groundbreaking nature of her journey. “Somebody Like That” scaling the charts to claim the number one spot was a milestone, yet it begot the daunting question of “Now what?” But in the faces of her “little army” of fans, Tenille saw not just fans but comrades-in-arms in the relentless pursuit of authenticity.

To Tenille, country music is not just a genre but a sanctuary, a narrative tapestry where stories of the human condition find voice and solace. As she stands on the cusp of unveiling a new album, anticipation shimmered in the air…

And then, lunch.

Lunch with the crew unfolded as a culinary odyssey into the nebulous realm of “Taziki’s,” a dining establishment that seemed to have sprung up from the fertile imaginations of those who view the Mediterranean through the lens of a fast-casual fever dream. The name itself, a bastardization of the venerable tzatziki sauce, felt like a slight to the rich tapestry of Turkish and Greek cuisine, reducing a culinary tradition to a mere condiment with a missing letter. Was this an act of culinary audacity or just a branding faux pas?

Our veteran ensemble seemed oddly enchanted by the offerings of this gastronomic chimera. Jiy waxed poetic about a piece of salmon that seemed to have been petrified rather than cooked, its sheen suggesting a polyurethane finish rather than a culinary one. Craig, on the other hand, navigated his lamb burger with the ease of a man who had found an unexpected oasis in the desert of our lunch options. Tempted as I was to follow suit, a moment of reckless abandon saw me opting for the “Mediterranean” salad, crowned with what was promised as “spicy harissa chicken.”

The chicken, an enigma wrapped in a riddle and buried under the library of Ephesus, managed to be simultaneously moist and as tough as a leather-bound volume of Homer’s “Iliad,” sans the spice that harissa traditionally promises. The notion that this chicken had ever made the acquaintance of harissa seemed as fanciful as the restaurant’s grasp on its namesake sauce. Jake’s surreptitious addition of salt to his meal stood as a silent testament to the seasoning shortfall, an unspoken critique in a sea of misplaced culinary enthusiasm.

As for my salad, it was Mediterranean in the same way that a postcard from the gift shop under the nearby replica of the Parthenon is Greek architecture — adjacent, perhaps, but hardly a substitute for the real thing. The roasted red peppers and the cursory sprinkle of feta cheese could no more transport me to the Aegean than the meal’s clamshell container could double as a trireme. Yet, as Socrates said — “hunger is the best relish,” and so I soldiered on, navigating the mildly treacherous waters of this “Mediterranean” mirage, my taste buds yearning for the shores of authenticity, even as we set sail on the SS Taziki’s, bound for parts unknown.

The day’s odyssey culminated in the subterranean sanctuary of Alex’s basement studio, a hallowed ground where sonic alchemy and sisterhood intertwined to birth chart-topping magic. Amidst the warm glow of ambient lights and the comforting embrace of familiar walls, Alex and Tenille recalled the ritual that had once conjured their number one hit into the realm of reality. It was more than a studio session; it was a reunion of muses, a testament to the power of their creative synergy.

The playback of their new song was a moment of revelation, the notes dancing in the air like sparks, each one a testament to their journey from dream to anthem. Amidst the reverie of music, Alex unveiled a treasure, a 1955 Gibson acoustic guitar, its wood seasoned with the whispers of bygone eras, a new guardian of their musical legacy. The instrument was not merely a tool but a talisman, imbued with the essence of every note it had ever cradled.

Tenille found solace on the floor, a serene moment shared with Patsy Cline, Alex’s canine companion and the most musically literate dog this side of Nashville, her vaccinations as up-to-date as the charts they aspired to conquer. In that moment, the studio transcended its physical confines, becoming a haven where the sisterhood of songwriters could bask in the comfort of unspoken understandings and shared aspirations.

Insiders tomorrow at Music City!

PARTING SHOT
Are you sick of hearing about AI yet?

As I write this, SAG-AFTRA has paused negotiations with the studios - no deal, talks resume in June - and the WGA just sat down at the same table, contracts expiring, AI protections at the top of both agendas. The guilds want compensation when existing performances and scripts are used to train the models. They should get it. But as I argue in a forthcoming essay on art in the age of AI reproduction, the question was never really about the technology. Your talent still matters - it just isn’t sufficient anymore, not in a world that reorganizes itself faster than you can update your résumé. What’s sufficient is the willingness to improvise: to put your work out there on your own terms, to embrace tools that make you uncomfortable, to stay in the room when the room keeps changing shape around you.

Compute is disappearing. The distance between the artist and the audience is collapsing. AI is becoming the connective tissue - not the replacement, the connector. The guardrails will come. The contracts will get signed. But the artists who thrive through this will be the ones who didn’t wait for permission. More on that soon.

Onward.

Some of you may have already seen the Deadline piece that dropped yesterday. If not, here's the news: FILMS NOT MADE, the show I've been building for the better part of a year, launches Monday, March 2nd - debuting via a takeover of Ted Hope's Hope For Film newsletter. If you've been following along here, you know this has been consuming my every spare moment. If you haven't - buckle up.

The short version: my co-host Amy Hobby (Oscar-nominated producer, co-founder of Distribution Advocates) and I created a video podcast about unmade films - the ones that almost happened, the ones that got killed in development, the ones still sitting in a drawer somewhere making their creators crazy. Each episode, a filmmaker sits down with us and tells the story of the movie they were dying to make and the very real reasons it didn’t happen. Then we do something different: we use AI to generate trailers, posters, and stills for the film that never was - with the filmmaker right there, reacting in real time. We even have AI “executives” who pop in to give notes. It’s confessional meets masterclass meets… whatever happens when you interview a machine.

Check it out at filmsnotmade.com.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

In December, I’d just wrapped a feature with my friend Brett Whitcomb down in Birmingham, Alabama. That involved such things as eating a hamburger in a place where you can also buy greeting cards, shaving cream, and adult diapers without irony. Some truths are better left intact. That whole adventure warrants its own Sound Report series at some point. We got the movie in the can, and despite getting sick on the job, I think it’s great.

Since then, I went to the very last Sundance in Park City, did post sound on a short doc, production on a film about a famous American artist, mixed an Optimum/Apple commercial…

But in every other moment, it’s been non-stop work building Films Not Made into something real. The episodes are great. The guests are great. The AI is amazingly fun. And now it’s here.

If you’re not already subscribed to this newsletter, now’s a good time - I’ll be writing more about the FNM journey, the productions, and of course, all the strange places sound work takes me. Hit that subscribe button everywhere you can, please, and come along for the ride.

More on all of it soon.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program - Part 2 of my deep dive into country music.

Project: It’s All Country

February 27, 2024
No Donuts at Castle Kane

In the muted dawn of a Nashville morning, where the volume of life itself seemed to have been turned down a notch, our caravan, helmed by Justin with Isaac Hayes crooning from the speakers, wound its way towards Kane Brown’s abode. The landscape rolled by, a tapestry of modest ranch homes that seemed oddly sedate compared to the architectural fever dream I recalled from our scouting day. Had we taken a detour through some alternate dimension of real estate, where childlike fantasies of grandeur were manifest in stone and timber? I remembered a house, more a caricature of a castle than anything else, its battlements seemingly sketched by the hand of an enthusiastic kindergartener with a penchant for medieval dramas.

Upon our arrival at the stately (if disappointingly donut-free) grounds of Castle Kane, the absence of sugary confections was not the only peculiarity. A notably malodorous dumpster, affectionately dubbed “Stinky Pinky,” stood in stark contrast to the genteel surroundings, accompanied by a less-than-regal bathroom trailer. The morning air, thick with anticipation (and the unsettling moistness reminiscent of yesterday’s pork), hung heavy as we speculated on Kane’s imminent arrival and sartorial choices. Amidst this tableau of expectancy and olfactory assaults, a whimsical discovery was made: tiny bags of cookies, shaped like mythical unicorns, sparkled with an innocence unbefitting our grown-up palates. Yet, in a concession to the enduring magic of fatherhood, I suspected these fantastical treats were destined for a more appreciative audience, smuggled home by Justin as a culinary treasure for his daughter.

As the day unfolded at Kane Brown’s palatial estate, the atmosphere was one of jovial rivalry and high-tech leisure, a far cry from the traditional Nashville scene. The basketball court, an NBA-regal expanse, became the stage for a less-than-epic showdown between Kane and Luke Bryan. With Kane modestly downplaying his skills and Luke self-deprecatingly branding himself a “slow white boy” from Georgia, their game of PIG (a curious variant to my Brooklyn-bred sensibilities accustomed to HORSE) was more a comedic ballet than a fierce competition.

The entertainment then transitioned to the realm of virtual golf, where GOLFZON’s simulator made a spectacle of Luke’s attempts at mastery, his shots consistently veering off-course. Kane, despite his youth, embraced the “old man’s game” with a grace that belied his age, humoring Luke’s less-than-stellar performance. The promise of a simulator addition to Luke’s home hung in the air, a testament to friendly envy.

In the sanctity of the rehearsal room, the day took a more melodic turn. The band, each member cocooned in their own auditory world via headphones, created a surreal soundscape where only the drummer and fiddle player’s contributions pierced the silence. Kane’s voice melded with the virtual ensemble, while Luke found solace in lyrics that spoke to the trials and tribulations of fatherhood.

The crescendo of the morning’s escapades was a high-octane race through virtual reality, with Luke at the helm of a digital Lamborghini, navigating the twists and turns of Limerock with Kane playing the role of a digital driving coach. It was a vivid illustration of Kane’s affinity for the digital realm, whose battlefield and playground alike reside in the boundless territories of the virtual world.

While entangled in the digital web of a Zoom meeting that saw my son being lauded by his academic entourage (not to boast, but the kid’s acing it with a 100 average), the midday meal unfolded as a culinary lottery. My gaze swept past the parade of sandwich-laden box lunches, my mind half on the glowing accolades of teachers, half on the gastronomic gamble ahead. Opting for a salad that flirted with promise, boasting strawberries and an ambiguous “green,” I was pleasantly surprised to find a lush bed of leaves, crowned with roasted chicken, crunchy croutons, and enveloped in a creamy dressing that sang a harmonious tune on my distracted palate. By the time the educational accolades had wound down, my fork was scraping the remnants of a surprisingly satisfying meal, the final note a cookie that sealed the deal with sweet finality. A rare win in the boxed lunch arena.

Scott, however, wasn’t as fortunate in the sandwich department. His feedback on the club sandwich was a succinct “seriously not good,” a sentiment echoed by Michelle, hinting at a curious reversal of lunchtime fortunes where the salads outshone their bready counterparts. It’s a peculiar day indeed when the oft-neglected salad becomes the star, leaving the sandwiches to languish in the realm of “meh” to “gross.” It defies the natural order of things, where salads at sub-shops and diners are usually the culinary equivalent of an apathetic shrug, a token nod to those grazing the periphery of the menu in search of something resembling health. Yet, here we were, in an upside-down world where greens reigned supreme, and the sandwiches, well, they left much to be desired.

The tour bus scene quickly morphed into a comedy of constraints as expected when the decree came down: no filming on the moving bus, safety concerns reigning supreme. Undeterred, Justin and the crew, armed with a magician’s flair for illusion, set about crafting the semblance of a bus in motion. With lights dancing in mimicry of passing street lamps and cameras swaying gently, they conjured the convincing illusion of travel without ever leaving the parking lot. It was movie magic in its most literal sense, a testament to the ingenuity born of necessity.

Amid this backdrop of faux motion, Kane Brown unfolded his journey from humble beginnings to the summit of fame, his tales punctuated by his prowess in the virtual battlegrounds of Call of Duty. Luke Bryan, faced with this modern tapestry of gaming glory, found himself adrift in a sea of nostalgia for the simpler digital days of Metroid and Contra, struggling to bridge the chasm to today’s world where online streaming could turn play into pay.

Their conversation meandered through the landscapes of their pasts— from the confines of single-wide trailers to the freedom of the open road, from the intimacy of small gigs in Rome, Georgia, to the vastness of connecting with fans across the globe. As their stories unfolded, the bus, stationary yet filled with the motion of lives lived in full throttle, grew warm with mouth-air and memories.

In a tête-à-tête that peeled back the glossy veneer of stardom, Kane Brown unfurled the scroll of his journey with a disarmingly down-to-earth air, reminiscent of someone recounting a rather involved dream rather than a chart-topping reality. His phone, a digital reliquary of song titles and nascent dreams, was the silent witness to his ascendancy from the aisles of Lowe’s to the luminous heights of Nashville’s firmament. “Used to Love You Sober,” more oracle than single, heralded his arrival on music’s center stage, a melody plucked from the ether of a dream.

Kane’s saga, underscored by an unwavering allegiance to his gut and the gossamer threads of dreams, was punctuated by moments of surreal disbelief—like mistaking a label’s overture as a hoax. Yet, it was his unvarnished candor, a life lived in the open expanse of social media, that endeared him to a legion of followers, blurring the lines between the man and the myth.

Offstage, Kane’s life unfolds with a tranquility that belies the fervor of his public persona—a tableau of domestic bliss punctuated by the digital camaraderie of gaming, a far cry from the kinetic energy of live performances. This dichotomy, the everyman in the extraordinary, underscores the essence of Kane’s appeal—a star who shines with the light of relatable, everyday joys.

Before the spotlight’s embrace, Kane’s serenades echoed through the mundane corridors of retail, a prelude to the symphony of social media that would catapult him into the collective consciousness. His narrative, a testament to the democratizing power of the internet, underscores the profound impact of authenticity in an age of digital connection.

Amid the accolades, Kane’s commitment to philanthropy remains a grounding chord, a melody of gratitude for a climb undertaken without the aid of rungs, a reminder that the true terror lies not in failure, but in overlooking the unfolding miracle of the present—a poignant reflection from a man who straddles the worlds of the ordinary and the extraordinary with equal ease.

As the day’s tapestry of interviews and impromptu gaming sessions wove itself into the fabric of memory, the ride home became a gentle interlude. Nestled within the cocoon of the van, the hum of Nashville’s evening outside a mere whisper, I surrendered to the lull of motion and the day’s residual warmth. The boundary between wakefulness and sleep blurred, and I drifted off, the day’s vibrant narratives and melodies fading into the soft embrace of slumber. It was a seamless transition, a quiet surrender to the rhythms of the road until the gentle deceleration of the van nudged me back to consciousness. We were pulling up to the hotel, the air still clinging to the day’s warmth, the night now a silent invitation to the restorative depths of sleep…

Down day tomorrow! See you Thursday!

PARTING SHOT
A few prescriptions for creativity in the age of AI

Everyone is freaking out. Fair enough. But Films Not Made exists because we decided to engage instead of spectate - and what we found was more creatively exciting than we expected. So here’s what I’d offer from the other side:

Get familiar - hands-on, not vibes. Pick one image tool, one video tool, one writing tool. Use them for two weeks. Not to master them - to develop taste. You can’t have an informed opinion about something you haven’t touched.

Build something small. A repeatable pipeline beats a clever prompt. That’s how we built the FNM creative workflow. Build the bridge from curiosity to capability.

Build your own tools. Coding assistants now let non-engineers create custom utilities that reflect how your mind works. That’s what I did - and it changed everything about how we created the show. Claude Code & Codex. Check it out.

Plan for acceleration. The tools are improving materially every six to twelve months. The acceleration is accelerating.

Anchor yourself in ethics and taste. Decide what you won’t do. Decide how you’ll protect the humans involved.

Let’s get to work - Films Not Made

October had me back on the road with the previously pre-empted project with the US Army (someone wanted a self-aggrandizing birthday parade instead of a livestreamed concert and documentary honoring the service). This time around, the broadcast was aimed at Veterans’ Day, and at some point you’ll read all about basic training and things like this:

We rode with them to Sand Hill, heads tipped forward, the bus a slow cradle. I watched their faces the way you check the weather: What’s coming? They seemed younger than anyone should be when choosing a life that sometimes requires you to lift the world with your back. I thought of my own kids, a year and a half behind these kids, a year and a half from standing in someone else’s idea of purpose. I wondered if anyone here wanted to cry and if that was allowed in this version of America.

Turns out you can’t cry in America anymore. Wait, yes, you can if you are testifying to the efficacy of a pharmaceutical in Rockland County, and it’s on camera. Which is to say I’ve also been doing plenty of corporate and commercial work. We love it! And also a handful of days on legit documentary work - including a tribute to Marianne Faithfull, late nights with Academy Award winners in famous music studios with classic drum machines, famous comedians, and highbrow libertarian head-to-head action. And next up - a feature film in Alabama. As I said - it’s been busy!

On the other hand, “Films Not Made” is currently in production (see the previous post or below for a description). We are recording, reaching out for guests, media planning and well, everything. It’s a lot of work, and my comrades Amy Hobby and Lisa Gray are amazing. You’re going to love it - I mean, where else will you experience having to fire John Turturro, losing an option to Christopher Nolan, dogsledding poodles, and an AI film executive that hangs up on you mid-pitch? Stay tuned!

But now, let us turn to the next saga - a little folktale of a show called “It’s All Country”

Project: It’s All Country

February 26, 2025
Pork Two Ways, Regret One Way

Landing two days ago in Nashville, Tennessee, the purported heartland of country music, the transition from traveler to temporary resident unfolded with the usual rites of hotel check-ins and exploratory jaunts. The vicinity of our lodging offered a curiously eclectic mix of sights: a startlingly exact replica of the Parthenon standing with an air of displaced majesty in Centennial Park, a storefront brazenly declaring “Any Lab Test Now!” as if challenging passersby with the vastness of possible bodily inquiries. Intravenous Solutions suggested a more direct approach to maintenance, while the local culinary scene boasted a hot chicken shack, and an Indian spot promising fiery delights. The Springwater Lounge, a cash-only dive bar of the sort that seemed to whisper tales of countless nights steeped in beer and music, caught my attention with its casually defiant patron enjoying a bowl on the sidewalk. The strip mall’s “The Honeybaked Ham Company” stood as a beacon of holiday feasts or perhaps just indulgent lunches. It felt like the very essence of Nashville was condensed in this microcosm, a blend of health, hedonism, and hearty meals.

The days that follow were a blur of scouting and setup, a preparatory dance before the main event. The locations, each with their own character and story, are earmarked for later, their secrets to be unveiled beneath the watchful lens of our cameras. But today, today is reserved for Starstruck.

At the crack of dawn, I sauntered past the Fairfield Inn’s promise of a continental breakfast, only to find a scene straight out of a high school cafeteria fever dream. The mingling scents of bacon, kept warm well past its prime, and the unmistakable hormonal exuberance of teenagers created an atmosphere that was less ‘country morning serenity’ and more ‘teen spirit meets breakfast buffet’.

Yet, as the crew herded into the vans, the outside world hinted at a different kind of absurdity. Despite the trees standing bare, like awkward teens at a school dance, the air buzzed with the whispers of an impending spring. This juxtaposition of the breakfast bedlam we left behind and the silent, hopeful promise of renewal outside was a stark reminder of life’s peculiar rhythms. What kind of day, I wondered, was set to unfold in the shadow of rubbery eggs and reheated pastries?

Starstruck, a name that conjures images of wide-eyed dreamers and melodies woven into the fabric of time, is nothing short of a time capsule. This studio is some kind of working relic, a piece of the ‘80s lovingly preserved in amber, yet awkwardly updated with wood accents reminiscent of the early 2000s. The decor was a study in contrasts: curved wood trim and hunter green carpeting that spoke of decades past, terra cotta tiles adding an earthy touch amidst the dark green of door tiles. The sloping ramps clad in more cherry wood led to hidden corners of the studio, like the two-track Studer that seemed almost an afterthought in its placement. It was as if we had stumbled into a time warp, half expecting to be thrust into a session for Rush’s “Moving Pictures” circa 1981 in Quebec, rather than in Nashville. The recording room basked in the warm tones of cherry wood, a stark contrast to the control room’s pragmatic formica-topped counters and a mixing desk that seemed as if it might require the living fossil of computing – a COBOL programmer – to decipher any upgrades. Starstruck was more than a studio; it was a bridge across time.

Inside, the air was thick with anticipation and the sweet, woody scent of musical history as Mickey Guyton and Luke Bryan settled in to listen to the live recording of Mickey’s latest anthem, “House On Fire.” The studio buzzed with the energy of creation, the kind that makes your skin tingle. Amidst the technical wizardry of Karen and David, who seemed to speak in a secret language of knobs and faders, Luke shared his quirky pre-performance ritual of munching on potato chips to ‘lubricate’ his vocal cords, eliciting a laugh from Mickey, who admitted her own ritual involved a bold shot of tequila before hitting the stage. Luke, with a twinkle in his eye, confessed his own penchant for vodka, sans the grapefruit these days.

As the band cycled through takes, refining and igniting the tracks with creative emotion, Luke and Mickey found common ground over their Super Bowl national anthem performances, their voices merging in an unspoken bond of shared highs and nerve-wracking moments. The conversation took a playful turn towards the burgeoning genre of “Emo country,” sparking a debate filled with banter and shared insights. Meanwhile, Marc, ever the reluctant participant, shed his lavalier mic at the first opportunity, his disdain for the intrusive gadget almost as palpable as the vibrant energy coursing through the studio.

Lunchtime arrived, unfurling its Sysco-sourced splendor like a magician revealing tricks with a flourish that lacks both magic and flourish. The salad, a sullen congregation of leaves that might once have aspired to be part of a Caesar’s ensemble, now found themselves wishing to be drowned in a sea of vinaigrette, and whispering regrets of their bagged past. As for the pièce de résistance, a culinary conundrum that I thought presented itself as “Pork Two Ways,” a title as misleading as a two-headed coin. One, the actual non-pork dish, which did not sport what someone ambitiously called an “herb-garlic crust,” revealed its true identity as chicken, so parched it could double as kindling. Are you confused yet? The ensemble was a masterclass in the art of culinary deception, a gastronomic trompe-l’œil that had us questioning our taste buds and the fabric of reality itself.

The sides, a monochromatic homage to the color beige, included mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and biscuits, each blending into the next in a seamless tapestry of comfort food. Amidst this beige bounty, one couldn’t help but ponder the local fascination with styrofoam, its presence as ubiquitous as the notes of country music in the air.

The revelation that my supposed second pork dish was actually chicken came courtesy of Margo, whose commentary (“the pork is better”) led to the discovery that the true pork dish was a standout, its moisture a small victory in an otherwise arid culinary landscape. Kamren’s quest for sauce became a communal desire, a silent plea for something, anything, to elevate the flavors from their somber baseline. Yet, even in the face of culinary adversity, there was an underlying current of gratitude. Here we were, basking in the warmth of a 70-degree afternoon in America, dining al fresco on the bounty before us.

And then, as if to punctuate the meal with a touch of whimsy, the wind, perhaps in critique or jest, swept Margo’s portion of mac and cheese from her plate, leaving us to (again) ponder the quality of the meal and the fleeting nature of outdoor dining.

Post-lunch, the afternoon unfurled with a kinetic energy, as Luke Bryan’s entrance into the building was captured in a dynamic walk-and-talk, setting the stage for the day’s next act. The air buzzed with anticipation as Mickey Guyton stepped into the vocal booth, her presence alone commanding attention. The session that followed was nothing short of electrifying, Mickey’s voice soaring over the tracks, imbuing each note with raw emotion and undeniable skill, her vocal overdubs not just hitting the mark but transcending it.

The atmosphere shifted as Michelle and Mickey settled into a more intimate setting for a one-on-one interview, delving deep into the essence of Mickey’s music and artistry. Mickey spoke with a candidness that was disarming, her words painting a vivid tapestry of her journey, influences, and the nuanced complexities of her identity within the country music landscape. She shared memories that shaped her, from the indelible impression of LeAnn Rimes singing the national anthem, to the childhood days spent crafting songs on her windowsill, her voice carrying the weight of both nostalgia and hope.

Mickey mused on the nature of emotion in music, particularly in country, where the genre’s evolution has broadened its thematic reach far beyond its traditional confines. Yet, she acknowledged the darker moments too, the sting of mean messages and the struggle to shield oneself from the negativity that can seep through the cracks of fame. But in her words, there was resilience, a conscious choice to surround herself with love and positivity, drawing strength from her roots in Crawford, Texas, and the supportive community she found in Nashville.

Her reflections on the challenges faced by Black women in the industry, pigeonholed into genres or faced with cyberbullying, were poignant, yet her resolve was clear. She spoke of forgiveness, the importance of moving forward, and the power of staying true to oneself, echoing Carrie Underwood’s advice to rise above the noise.

As the day at Starstruck concluded and the crew returned to the hotel, the evening unfolded with an unexpected culinary delight: a vibrant array of tacos that overdubbed the day’s earlier dining experiences. Each taco was a punch-in masterpiece of flavor, bursting with the zest of spices, the tang of fresh lime, and the colorful crunch of cilantro and radish. Faders up! Print it! Bravo! Encore!

Kane Brown VS Luke Bryan tomorrow! CATCH IT!

FILMS NOT MADE // PODCAST

I’m making this video podcast with Amy Hobby (co-creator) and Lisa Gray (producer) about the projects that almost happened—the ones that got close, then disappeared. Each episode is a real conversation with a filmmaker as we dig into what went right, what went wrong, and what still lingers. We bring out old scripts, lookbooks, and notes, and use generative tools to see what those films might have looked like if they’d made it through. It’s part confession, part creative autopsy, and at its core, the show lives at the intersection of tech and culture. It’s going to be entertaining, relatable, and everything is on the table.

JOB CALL - We need an editor! Comic timing is a MUST as well as multi-cam experience. The show is video-first, despite it being a “podcast.” It’s going to live on YouTube and push out from there to all podcast platforms, and its own Substack. Obviously, we are in development mode, so looking for someone who can help us with the proof-of-concept and roll with it. If this is you are someone you know, share this post and hit me up personally or at info@filmsnotmade.com.

PARTING SHOT
Been listening to this classic on repeat. Where did my vinyl copy of it go? Feels right for America now.

What else? It’s Junior year for the clone army, so college is an event horizon that comes in and out of view like one of those Star Trek malevolent clouds the Enterprise seemed to always pass through. How’s that for mixed-sci-fi-metaphors?

Industry-wise, well, we all know what it looks like. As I said to a director last night over fancy pizza after wrapping an advocacy project: “Prove me wrong, but it’s my observation that the entire documentary ecosystem has collapsed.” Taking a bite of he said, glumly, “I cannot prove you wrong.” Truth time - everything is changing, and it’s not coming back.

That said, September was unusually busy for sound work with a mix of corporate, a feature doc, one-offs, and yes, I can do that, thank you, come again. And October might be the same, for as I am writing this, I am sitting in the SkyClub waiting to depart for Nashville on a resurrected show (it had been cancelled in the Spring by our Great Leader). So… At least for the next two weeks, it seems like old times.

And also what else? The video podcast I mentioned last time is coming together. We’re going to start rolling on it this month. Check out more about it at the bottom of the post. For now, here’s a sneak peek:

And now, the thrilling (maybe) conclusion to my Greenlandic adventure!

April 10, 2025
Vision Quest Prog Rock Album Cover Unlock

I was jolted awake in the pitch-black abyss of pre-dawn, my slumber as restless as a caffeinated squirrel. A full hour before my alarm was due to orchestrate its daily cacophony. My brain, ever the overachiever, was already swirling with a circus of questions. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you—just the existential dread of an impending root canal and the eternal mystery of whether my check had cleared. You know, the standard junk mail of the adult American mind, sorting itself at this ungodly hour. Attempting further sleep? Futile. I’m well-acquainted with this particular scene in the play. Might as well rev the metaphorical engine. Teeth brushed, coffee brewed, New York Times unfurled. Ah, splendid—Trump news at 4AM. Because why not? ;p

Outside, the sky was just starting to yawn and stretch, casting a hint of light in the distance like a sleepy cat waking up. I pondered the view over the water and the amount of snow that had sneakily piled up overnight, like a prankster with a penchant for winter wonderlands.

Meanwhile, at Zaria's, the family was in full prep mode, a symphony of toothbrushes and the eternal debate of how many layers could be worn without resembling a Michelin man. We piled into taxis, our chariots to the harbor, where Gabe filled me in on the town's latest scoop: the new mayor was none other than the very owner of the tour company we were about to set sail with. "Ah," I mused, playing along with a smirk, "isn't it always the cement plant owner who becomes mayor and then insists on a town-wide sidewalk upgrade? Spoiler alert: Guess who gets the contract?"

Back on the ship, we bravely set sail, or perhaps foolishly, as we started to bulldoze through the fresh layer of ice that had sneakily settled in overnight. This new development was less than comforting. As I listened to the cacophonous symphony of crunching and grinding, which had become synonymous with progress in these chilly latitudes, my mind wandered to the integrity of our hull’s armor plating. Was it measured in millimeters, or perhaps inches? Or was it in fluufernoogaats? Or simply a metaphorical suggestion of security? And what, pray tell, would it feel like if we started taking on water? Would it be an immediate revelation or more of a slow, creeping realization? The mere thought of being submerged in icy water was enough to turn my blood into a slushy. But then, as if on cue, I glanced up to see the moon, an enormous pink spectacle in the sky, like a cosmic grapefruit. That’s when Zaria, bless her soul, started serenading us with “Pink Moon” by Nick Drake, adding a soundtrack to our potential doom.

The tour felt like we were drifting through a Roger Dean album cover, a surreal two-hour journey where reality and fantasy blurred. Our pilot seemed to possess a mystical, mental map of the bay, unfazed by the daily capricious dance of icebergs and shifting ice floes, like a seasoned veteran who had memorized the choreography of a particularly icy ballet. He orchestrated the perfect sunrise view—a nuclear burst of joy climbing over the hills, scattering gold confetti across the ice. The sky transitioned from cotton candy blues and pinks to a kaleidoscope of infinity. Zaria was there, practically inhaling the scenery with her long lens, while Gabe, ever the watchful documentarian, immortalized her absorption in his camera. Somewhere on the mountain, I imagined Derek in a comical quest to locate us, probably thinking he was starring in his own episode of "Lost Without a GPS." Meanwhile, I was in my own little world, blissful in my RefrigiWear™ bib, feeling the cold air's playful fingers tickling us on the bow, like an Arctic massage therapist with a penchant for mischief.

At this particularly mind-blowing locale, Zaria decided it was incense o'clock, which meant it was time for the family’s dive into Rena’s journal. As the smoke curled up like a wisp of existential mystery, we all leaned in. Rena had scribbled about her bodily sensations, somehow connecting them to the universe’s color palette and the surreal landscapes surrounding us. The icebergs around us seemed to get progressively more intense, as if engaged in a dramatic audition for a psychedelic opera, sweating and shining with an inexplicable glisten, like they’d just run a marathon in a Salvador Dalí painting. It all got so intense that you didn’t know whether to dance or meditate, until suddenly you find yourself adrift in the cosmos, feeling your center of gravity has bizarrely relocated somewhere south of your eyeballs. And everywhere you look, there’s this celestial magnificence—an overwhelming beauty that’s like encountering an alien symphony for the first time, leaving you awestruck and slightly worried about the state of your own mind.

And then, as if the universe was reading from a script, Zaria started narrating her adventures on the Nat Geo ships, where they apparently glide right onto the ice and park like it’s the most normal thing in the world. So there we were, sliding up to the icy expanse with a dramatic flair, and the captain nonchalantly popped out, flicked a little ladder down onto what looked like a frozen version of terra firma. Everyone else bounded off the ship like penguins off a diving board, but I hesitated, rooted in a cocktail of curiosity and sheer terror. Ziggy and Zaria were already flapping around, creating abstract art in the form of snow angels. My eyes wandered to the jagged edge of the ice—was that six inches thick? Is six inches the universally accepted measure of safety when it comes to not falling into a freezing abyss? I pondered the existential implications of plunging into icy waters. A frosty end or a life-affirming experience? Choices, choices. Realizing that this was a unique opportunity—like a once-in-a-lifetime, bingo-card moment—I retracted my pole with the cautious precision of an engineer and tentatively stepped onto the ice. Arctic Achievement unlocked! I was now part of the landscape, a character in a surreal Yes album cover, standing on the frosty stage of a topographic ocean.

On the way back, we spotted Derek’s drone overhead. He captured majestic footage of Zaria at the bow, dwarfed by an iceberg shaped like some ancient temple. Inside the cabin, I chatted with the captain-mayor. In ten minutes, I learned that he owns half the town—tour agencies, cannery, winter construction. He’s building a new hotel, wants more investors, and forecasts a population boom in four years. Something akin to small-town megalomania, though undeniably effective. Coincidence?

Upon returning to solid ground, after a nap that felt more like a brief existential pause, we gathered for a surprise celebration—it was Derek's birthday! We honored our man with a candle and some Danish chocolates, because nothing says "happy birthday" quite like the juxtaposition of wax and cocoa. Derek, you champion of existence, you deserve this sweet homage.

Then, off we went to Nuka for lunch, where once again I faced the eternal dilemma: to halibut or not to halibut? I dodged the yellow curry bullet and chose fish soup instead, a decision akin to picking the wrong door in a game show. What I should have chosen was the seafood Tom yum Soup, but fate handed me a bowl that was more chowder-lite, a creamy mirage of shrimp, scallops, and halibut. It was a liquid masquerade that would have left Melville scratching his head, questioning the very fabric of chowderhood. Nevertheless, I consumed it all, even the side of thin-sliced bread, which cried out for the sturdy embrace of a crusty baguette.

Ziggy and I then embarked on a philosophical journey into the essence of "chowder," a conversation that veered into the realms of the absurd. She concluded her meal with a Lava Cake that, much like life's grand expectations, failed to erupt with delight. Ah, the bittersweet lessons of existence, wrapped in chocolate and served with a side of introspection.

Meanwhile, Gabe lunched with someone from the mayor’s HR department, who basically called her boss the Greenlandic Trump. So apparently, not everyone loves our hero-captain. Another miniature soap opera in the making. And with that, we sprinted to the helicopter field. Or rather, they sprinted. I stayed behind, courtesy of weight restrictions, rigging coms for a flight I’d never see. Such is the sonic soldier’s role: facilitate, but do not partake.

Solo adventuring, I trekked back up the mountain like an intrepid explorer searching for the elusive Holy Grail of soundscapes. The scene was a bizarre symphony of nature: beautiful, quiet, howling, and raw, like an avant-garde jazz concert held on a deserted planet. Water lapped like an enthusiastic but slightly confused dog, while actual dogs bayed in a way that made me question if they were communicating with the boats churning nearby. The wind, not to be outdone, swished around me like it was auditioning for a detergent commercial.

And then came the pièce de résistance: my right leg decided to perform a vanishing act, plunging into what I can only describe as a snow-hidden abyss between two rocks. It was like Mother Nature was playing an elaborate prank, whispering, "Surprise!" Close call, but as I pulled myself out, I thought, “Nice try, Greenland; it’ll take more than a snowy trapdoor to outwit this intrepid sound-gatherer.”

We concluded our extravagant day by clinking glasses filled with effervescent champagne, a tribute to Derek's undeniable charisma. Back at the avocado-green abode, which somehow managed to be both retro and unsettlingly reminiscent of a guacamole fever dream, the man of the hour and I embarked on a culinary adventure. We dined on Denmark’s most exquisite frozen goulash soup, artistically layered over fusilli, accompanied by a salad that had clearly pondered its own existence. It was, dare I say, the epitome of dining perfection.

Light day tomorrow! Really?

FILMS NOT MADE // PODCAST

I’m making this video podcast with Amy Hobby (co-creator) and Lisa Gray (producer) about the projects that almost happened—the ones that got close, then disappeared. Each episode is a real conversation with a filmmaker as we dig into what went right, what went wrong, and what still lingers. We bring out old scripts, lookbooks, and notes, and use generative tools to see what those films might have looked like if they’d made it through. It’s part confession, part creative autopsy, and at its core, the show lives at the intersection of tech and culture. It’s going to be entertaining, relatable, and sometimes, perhaps, strange because as I said at the top - everything is changing.

We are going to launch in February/March.

CASTING CALL - we want people for the show! Do you have a project that went through development (feature, doc, show, series - anything!) and has a good story? Do you want to dish, vent, get a hug or just see what could still be done? If so - hit me up personally or at info@filmsnotmade.com.

All good thoughts,
Avi

To put a button on the last Sound Report intro - I did bike the Erie Canal with my friend Jake, and we did it in six enduring days. Along the way, we drank many cups of coffee, ate all the pasta in Syracuse, had the worst taco in Rome, and watched several 1980s films, including Rocky 2 & 3, and 48 Hours. Highly recommend the trip. Definitely something I want to do more of.

What else? Sound work continues to be catch as catch can, and it’s not just me, apparently. Everyone seems to be looking for a project. June was mostly corporate work, July was for indie docs. August is looking like a mix.

But… I’m co-developing a video podcast that should launch early next year - details to come. Very exciting project that combines the two worlds I find most compelling - filmmaking and advanced technology. Stay tuned.

Now, we travel back to Greenland!

Project: Zaria

Cast of Characters:
Gabe - Director
Zaria - Herself
Jared - Zaria’s Husband
Ziggy - Zaria and Jared’s daughter
Derek - DP

April 9, 2025
Fish Factory Ahoy

The night unfolded with an unsatisfactory cadence. After a prolonged late-night session, punctuated by the indulgence of beer, sleep became a delicate, tenuous thing—like trying to balance a spinning plate on a stick. My dreams played out in relentless succession, reminiscent of flickering television shows on an antiquated VHF set from the 1980s, the kind where the channels shift without warning. One vignette persists in my memory: my grandmother materializing at the entrance of my current dwelling, arms outstretched, her voice a repetitive loop requesting "cake," a longstanding euphemism for kisses. I complied, enfolding her in my embrace, astonished by her newfound heft. Oh Greenland, what peculiar transformations are you orchestrating within me?

After a ritualistic dance with caffeine and the delicate art of layering—an act that seemed to require the strategic precision of a chess grandmaster—I peered through the window. The bay, once a canvas of frosty whites, had transformed into a vast expanse of deep, unblemished blue, as if the sea itself had taken a deep breath and exhaled warmth. The icebergs, those monumental sculptures carved by nature's indifferent hand, had either shifted their positions in a quiet, stately ballet or vanished entirely, as if they had never existed, leaving only the memory of their grandeur. Gabe, in his own corner of the world, sent a text that echoed my observations, as if we were both part of some cosmic joke. The sun, an indifferent observer of human folly, shone brightly, suggesting with a casual inevitability that it was time to move forward, to embrace whatever absurdities the day had in store.

At Zaria's place, the air buzzed with anticipation as the boat ride was locked in—finally, a tangible yes amidst the sea of tentative plans. Derek and I captured boats on the bay, our eyes wide, as if witnessing the world dissolving in fast-forward. Everything around us seemed to liquefy, the edges of the landscape blurring in a surreal dance of light and warmth…

I embarked on my quest to capture the elusive soundscapes beyond the mountain, a venture that seemed both profound and slightly absurd, as if I were documenting the whispers of a forgotten world. The path led me back beyond the familiar territory we had traversed with the family the previous day. The snow, now in retreat, revealed markings on the rocks like cryptic messages from the earth itself. It was here that I encountered a Japanese man, conspicuously absent of footwear, a curious spectacle that bordered on the comical. He warned me with an air of solemnity, advising that I tread only where others had gone before. His cautionary tale was marked by the unfortunate misadventure of snow invading his boots, rendering his socks a sodden mess—a detail both trivial and profound in its absurdity. Silently, I labeled him an amateur and pressed on, my pace brisk as I aimed for the first cairn on the ridge, a beacon ahead in the landscape of shifting snow and silence.

Once I crested the ridge, the next cairn appeared on the opposite side of a valley, which seemed to cradle a lodge of sorts. Could this be the legendary "sandwich place" whispered about on the trail? I pondered, opting to pause somewhere before reaching it, my steps meandering toward the water like a deliberate dance with the landscape. Upon selecting a spot, I began to set up, only to be swiftly confronted with the harsh reality that a quality stereo recording was but a mirage. A rogue cable had transformed my aspirations into static-laden disappointment, the noise floor soaring, punctuated by erratic pops that mocked my efforts. My patience was tested, and after a futile session of cable gymnastics and swaps, I surrendered. Curse you, Gotham Sound! I had entrusted you with repairs, only to be thrust into the field with a malfunctioning weapon. Yet, the march continues. I vow to return, equipped with my reliable rig, to capture this symphony of nature in resplendent mono. Later, we shall conjure the missing dimensions through careful sound design... I can envision it now: vast and opulent. And I repeated my Stoic mantra: All is well with the commander.

The silver lining, if one can be found in such chaotic orchestration, was that I managed to return in time for the meeting with Christian, the ever-enthusiastic helicopter pilot, to meticulously sift through the labyrinthine complexities of the next day’s flight plan. The scene unfolded with an air of delightful absurdity; everyone except Gabe—whose head seemed to be on the verge of a most vivid implosion—found amusement in Zaria's decision to let Ziggy, with her unpredictable flair, chart the course of our endeavor. Once this peculiar delegation of authority was resolved, we concocted a real strategy whereby Ziggy and Jared would embark on a compact round trip, eventually swapping places with Derek. Alas, my own presence was to be but a phantom, but a Jedi cares not. Instead, I am to be the unseen hand, ensuring the coms are deftly wired, capturing the essence of sound, even in my absence. Again: All is well with the commander.

After meticulously agreeing on the plan, the goals, the route, and making calls to both the airport and, in a theatrical sense, the lord god himself, we clambered into taxis. The procession wound its way through the labyrinthine streets, heading toward that peculiar spot opposite the "fish factory," a moniker that conjures both the literal and the absurd. It was here, in this oddly industrial setting, that the long-anticipated boat ride awaited us. The moment had arrived, finally, to embrace the sea.

The ride was a frenetic ballet of chaos and wonder. Almost immediately upon departure, the sky transformed as clouds rolled in with an eerie luminescence, a visual symphony that bordered on the surreal. The biting cold followed swiftly, prompting a silent lament for my forgotten insulated bib. It was a curious sensation, the way the chill seemed to gnaw at the edges of our resolve. Derek and I positioned ourselves on the bow alongside Zaria and Ziggy, as Zaria embarked on her relentless ship-to-shore telephoto marathon, a performance both methodical and frenzied. The small icebergs gradually surrendered to colossal leviathans, and with each passing behemoth, our perception of scale seemed to unravel into abstraction. The boat's hull assaulted the floating ice with a cacophony reminiscent of metal trash cans clanging against a loading dock—an absurd symphony of the Arctic.

Despite our unintentional obstruction of the pilot's view, Zaria insisted on venturing as close and far as the realm of possibility would allow. She was enveloped in a peculiar trance, impervious to the elements, cocooned in her Canada Goose armor, emerging only to swap lenses. Meanwhile, Ziggy wavered precariously on the brink of both the prow and her own sanity, much to her mother's disquiet. Yet, in this peculiar dance of risk and reverence, mother and daughter reached across time, communing with ancestors, offering praises and incantations, capturing countless images. Amidst this spectacle, there were exclamations—a few "oh my gods" punctuating the air.

And then, the moment arrived to reverse course. The pilot, with an air of casual authority, informed us of his intent to accelerate on our return journey, suggesting we might find it prudent to seek refuge indoors. Yet, as the engine's roar intensified, Zaria remained steadfastly outside, embracing the absurdity of the wind-whipped deck. It was, after all, the quintessential place to exist—a defiant stance against the conventional wisdom that dictated safety and comfort over raw, exhilarating experience. Fuck yeah.

Back on shore, we reclined into the Inuit Cafe for dinner, a place both unassuming and oddly comforting in its simplicity. I opted for mussels, Derek chose the crab, Zaria the halibut, and Gabe, in a state of ravenous anticipation, selected the ramen—a choice both unexpected and strangely fitting in this Arctic setting. Derek dismantled his crustacean with the fervor of a Norse deity shattering realms, a spectacle both awe-inspiring and slightly unsettling. Zaria, meanwhile, was visibly perturbed by the mini shrimps scattered across her halibut, as if they were tiny sentinels guarding a culinary secret. Gabe, embodying a serene patience, awaited his ramen with the calm of a saint awaiting enlightenment.

The mussels, a dish that aspired to Belgian heights but settled comfortably in Ilulisset's embrace, were soft—neither chewy nor decisively firm. The broth, though flavorful with its warming mix of tomato and spices, was sparse, a slight but notable shortcoming. The accompanying bread, unfortunately, was a weak attempt at accompaniment; the absence of a robust, crusty loaf was palpable. A French bakery could make a fortune here, I mused, as I longed for a baguette to squeegee the remaining flavors from the bottom of the pot.

The meal concluded with an iceberg lettuce salad, a fitting nod to Greenland's own icy identity. Derek, with his usual perceptiveness, noted the symbolic resonance—an iceberg salad for an iceberg nation—Get it?

Now back in our little house, I am observing the snow as it begins to blanket the earth. Just yesterday, the world basked in the warmth of a 40-degree sunlit day. Now, paradoxically, the sun clings to the sky even as night descends. It's a curious inversion—grand illusions masked as reality. The colors defy expectation, hues shifting like a mirage. Ice appears and vanishes with a capriciousness that leaves one questioning both sight and sanity. My sense of scale teeters on an edge, while time itself feels warped and elastic. The weather undergoes transformations in the mere span of brushing one's teeth. It resembles a dreamscape, where the boundaries blur and logic retreats. And all is well with the commander.

Dreams await. Early boat tomorrow!

Although Greenland was not on my bucket list of places to go, it should have been. It’s completely unique. At times it was like a frozen set piece right out of “The Thing” and at others it was like a fantasy illustration of heaven. And it was cold! And I ate reindeer and whale! Like I said - unique. You’ll see what I mean. And yes, we will be continuing to document Zaria’s progress over the next year.

In other news, the business continues to crawl along. I don’t know about you but I’ve had THREE jobs cancel due to the whims of our dear leader. One was for a well known public television series, another for a certain Ivy League university, and the last was for a branch of the armed services that apparently cannot celebrate its birthday as it coincides with said leader’s own. No joke!

But enough about that! People are still making movies and podcasts and everything in between. A project I mixed is at Tribeca! So, as always, feel free to call me for any production or post needs. Would love to hear from you!

What else? I’m biking from Buffalo to Albany along the Erie Canal starting tomorrow. When I was a teenager, I was very into cycling and between sophomore and junior years in high school I biked from San Francisco to San Diego. It was a turning point for me and I came back from that summer with a sense of purpose and potential. Getting out into the real world with family or friends is always the right choice, especially now. I’m looking forward to this trip.

And yeah, this is a long read. It’s good for you. Onward!

Share The Sound Report

Project: Zaria

Cast of Characters:
Gabe - Director
Zaria - Herself
Jared - Zaria’s Husband
Ziggy - Zaria and Jared’s daughter
Derek - DP

March 06, 2025S
No Boat, No Veggies, No Problem

I’m not sure if I slept or merely dozed through the numbing haze of two days’ travel collapsed into one—Brooklyn to JFK to Iceland, culminating here in Ilulissat. My body arrived, but my soul still lagged somewhere in that transatlantic circuit, tethered by a spectral line. Yet, the morning demanded coffee, so coffee I made, trying to coax consciousness to align.

We spent the first full day collecting B-roll in a town that feels like an outtake from The Thing meets an abandoned Maine fishing village. Frozen harbor, scattered boats, bright Lego-like houses (practical or whimsical?), and one memorably drunk fellow clutching vodka and suspiciously neon soda, insistent that we stop rolling. Somewhere behind those kaleidoscope houses, dogs were baying in a ragged choir, their songs bouncing off the ice. The cabs, in stark contrast, arrived within two minutes—a logistical miracle in a place where the supermarkets carry zero fresh produce. And yet, the restaurants are good. A culinary paradox: no vegetables in sight, yet the local halibut curry was made by actual Thai folks and the reindeer steak was borderline transcendent. Whale steak, we’re told, is “liver-y.” Hard pass.

At our rented lodging, I marveled at the open-face toaster, a contraption that basically roasts bread over a heating element. A normal pop-up toaster feels like it’d be a game-changer here, but maybe that’s just me imposing homegrown American convenience. Another note: bread is a scarce commodity, discovered at the end of an exhaustive quest like it’s some hidden treasure. Meanwhile, moldy vegetables lounge mournfully on supermarket shelves, as if to say “We tried.”

After a short siesta, we ambled over to Zaria’s place for an initial interview about her mission: capturing a big picture to help actually conserve actual forest in South America—straight to the heart of planetary stewardship, basically. Then came the boat-ride bombshell: canceled. Sea ice too thick, operator refusing to brave it. But we see boats out there, so maybe we just need a bigger boat or a more daring captain. Perhaps we can wave a wad of kroner at some intrepid fisherman?

Plan B led us on a walk past (and technically over) the museum, descending to the Icefjord. Gorgeous, stark, quiet—except for the thunderous crunch of snow underfoot. Derek led and flowed with the gimbal, Ziggy made snow angels, Zaria snapped photos, Jared wished for better gloves. My thoughts drifted to balaclavas and how the moonlike vista seemed to stretch into infinity. Vast glaciers, ephemeral icebergs, and the sense that you’re perched on the edge of the planet’s secret heart, everything swirling in a cosmic hush.

By nine in the evening, the day’s glacial magic gave way to a practical conundrum: no open restaurants (Sunday closure is real here). We retreated to our Green House, where Gabe channeled his inner Top Chef and whipped up pasta and kippers. A hot meal on a cold night, with the essence of newly arrived adrenaline still humming in our veins. Day one in Greenland: a swirl of wonders, a few misfires, but overall a gentle hush of possibility.

March 07, 2025S
From Sisyphean Icebreakers to Gas-Station Udon

The morning began in a half-dazed scramble: Derek and Gabe shipped off to the museum before the sun finished rising, armed with a drone they planned to send skimming across an ocean of ice. Meanwhile, I took a more terrestrial route, fiddling with my stereo rig and eying a hulking structure at the point beyond our little rental. Power plant? Cannery? Some combination of the two, perhaps. My hope was to capture the distant hush of the bay—but hush wasn’t what I found. Instead, it was two small boats punching through sea ice, sounding exactly like a Brooklyn garbage truck colliding with a lawnmower. Clunk. Grind. Reverse. Clunk. Grind again. A Sisyphean ballet of battered steel hulls. Were they fishermen or just gluttons for punishment? I’ll never know, but the acoustics were glorious in that crisp air, bouncing directly into my mics as if they were standing right behind me, asking for directions.

Eventually, I spotted a footpath winding between two squat buildings. Greenlandic sled dogs lounged on the rocks, blinking at me with stoic indifference, while even the slightest engine hum traveled unobstructed, echoing off ice and sky. Nature recording, this was not—motors seem to permeate every corner of the modern world. Maybe if I scramble up the opposite mountain, I’ll hear pure wind. But as always, real life seldom grants perfect isolation. By the time I returned to our house, Derek and Gabe were stumbling in, half-frozen. A well-earned nap was promptly declared. Then, upon re-entry to consciousness, we were informed: boat ride canceled. The sea ice was too thick for our operator. But we saw boats out there, so are we being timid? Once again, the question of the expedition: Do we need a bigger boat—or a fisherman with fewer inhibitions?

Determined not to dwell, we pivoted toward lunch, revisiting yesterday’s reliable Thai spot. My brilliant plan to “branch out” backfired: I replaced the luscious halibut with a chicken curry that tasted of spicy pressed sawdust. Everyone else? They stuck with the halibut and yellow curry, unwise to deviate. Ziggy, enthroned in her glory, crunched her chicken nuggets (made of “crispy,” she proclaimed) and reminded us that she has a pink sled and desperately wants to see glaciers. Derek and I, walking home, mused that not a single tree grows in this icy domain, so how on Earth did the first people make dogsleds centuries ago? Whale bones, we hypothesized. Necessity is the mother of bone sled invention, I guess.

By evening, we found ourselves at the airport, searching for a pilot with “the big smile,” whom we’d only glimpsed in text messages. Turns out, it was Anna, and soon she was ushering us into a six-seater twin-engine plane after a safety briefing that mostly sounded like: “Don’t open that door in midair.” Off we flew, gliding across a sky that looked suspiciously painted with watercolors. Zaria immediately fought with her camera—faulty focus, weird lens reflections, a bubble window and all the usual cinematic gremlins. Derek and Gabe stepped in, each playing the role of camera tech paramedics, and in short order she was perched at the window, capturing iceberg vistas that might have been carved by some cosmic sculptor on a day off, operating with the precision and zest of a side gunner in an Apache helicopter—though, notably, with a mission that's more about artistic creation than destruction—and as we swept across the landscape. Instead of unleashing chaos, Zaria infused it with vibrant life, like a benevolent deity armed with a camera instead of thunderbolts. Over the headset, I heard one exclamation after another, the “oh my gods” stringing together like a set of prayer beads. Icebergs shaped like vaginas or whipped cream, glaciers stacked like castles. Meanwhile, I spotted a tiny built-in ashtray next to my seat and pictured myself lighting up a Marlboro, calmly flicking ash into the Arctic abyss. Why not, right?

We eventually looped back toward town, glimpsing tracks of sleds and snowmobiles. Cell service sneaked in, like civilization’s little tap on the shoulder. After we helped Anna wheel the plane into the hangar, the next priority was dinner: The Hangout Café, discreetly tucked behind a gas station. Sounded promising in that classic “best meal in an unlikely place” sense. Perhaps not. My “Beef Udon” was lukewarm broth reeking of dog-chew-toy, topped with noodles that presumably doubled as fishing line. Gabe’s ribs were slathered in a sauce I can only call “mysterious,” and Derek’s beef stew caused me to wonder if we’d all collectively lost our sanity. Yet, as the Stoics remind me, hunger is the ultimate seasoning. I slurped every last drop.

And then we were done—bags of gear, a swirl of new footage. “Success!” we said. It felt a little like a ragtag victory parade, all of us trudging back to our houses, wind-chapped, exhausted, and vaguely euphoric. Sure, the boat ride was scrubbed but we soared over glaciers, saw drifting cathedrals of ice… Huzzah, indeed.

Got Boats?

The End

I’m starting a new personal project called “The End Of Work” and if that sounds scary or intriguing, then I’m interested in talking to you about your work - past, present and future. Like my film “Welcome To The Machine,” it’s going to explore the intersection of technology, society and humanness.

Hit me up and we’ll chat.

On the Film Industrial Complex front, the seas have remained choppy (to mix metaphors - or have I?). This month, I mixed corporate communiques extolling the virtues of AI, froze my hands off recording in the fields of northern Arkansas, selected music for a quirky profile documentary (that is also about a Jewish basketball star), co-wrote an outline for a feature film adaptation, and am now knee-deep in cutting (yes, I’m an excellent editor) some political spots to help farmers from getting screwed by funding cuts. Ahoy!

The takeaway - I have expertise in several domains and I like to do a lot of different things. This is a strength; it’s built upon endless curiosity.

The plug - if you have a project, I can probably help you make it great.

And now on to what was an epic shoot down in the nation’s capital. I was reminded of the production just today, as I saw the film is headed to VOD: Merkel. Check it out!
There’s more to the story below, much of it classified to protect the innocent, but I laughed out loud re-reading this one.

Project: Merkel

Cast of Characters:
Lizzie - Producer
Eva - Director
Ted - DP
Mat - AC
Larry - PA

November 12, 2021
The Wingback, the Diplomat, and the End of History

Sometimes, when you're passing a saga down from one generation to another, it's hard to know where to begin. Do you start with the moral of the story, or do you begin with the birth of the universe? Well, here are the facts. We made it back to DC, although but for one day of shooting. We slept, awoke at the proper time, and I met Ted in the lobby ready to load into my minivan. A light rain was peppering H Street outside the hotel. The air was warm, and I could smell the pavement; it filled my nostrils with a cool, misty scent. But my car was not outside. Then, the hammer fell - the valet attendant told me that my car "wouldn't start."

Oh no, I thought. Not now.

Around the corner, down the alley, start the car. It turns over but then dies. I know this one, so I pop the hood and sure enough, nestled on top of the battery is a mouse, looking up at me like "What?" and sure enough again - the wires on the right are chewed through. Long story short - we load into Ted's car, leave mine to rot, and head to the University club.

See you later, rodent-demon.

The University Club is everything you want in a "rich guy" hangout place. I don't know what the dues are, but it's probably worth every penny. There's a health club, a library, shoeshine machines, paintings of wartime frigates, and mouthwash in the bathroom. Mat always uses the mouthwash. We were in the Franklin Room, which as you can imagine, featured a portrait of the eponymous Ben Franklin. Larry noted that "rich guys" don't care about the floors - and indeed, there were many scratches. There was also a rather prominent bust of Taft, which confused some of the crew. Also, wingback chairs - do I need these in my life? Could this be a new thing? They are comfortable, yet elegant, almost regal, and yet at the same time dumpy, ornate with little legs and throw pillows. But I do not complain - I set up, Lizzie was on the Zoom, and I as sat back I instantly understood their timeless appeal. They were very comfortable and made me want to curl up and sleep until we all had grown old and died.

But you know who's not dead yet? John Bolton. The Hawk. "Mr. Tough Guy." Mr. Mayhem. The man whose assistant is more tightly wound than a bedspring and the same man who smiles like the guy in the silk suit offering candy to kids at the carnival. C'mon, take another.

And then it began, like a sluice of neo-con liquid cascading over a cliff. Bourgeois capitalism. China is exploring hegemonic aspirations. He's unsure about Germany’s legacy after Merkel; if all you're interested in is selling more good then you will be blind to other issues. The EU approach is incompetent, they only use economic tools. Back over here, Trump talked 50% of the time in meetings and usually about irrelevant topics. Meanwhile, Angela Merkel tried to reset the tone of meetings when needed. Trump once gave her a hug and a kiss when he had to leave. Merkel had a dry sense of humor, even sardonic. As far as Germany's defense spending, look, every administration has felt this way. They are free riders. So, naturally, Germany was the "biggest bone" in Trump's throat on NATO spending. I mean, what’s the point of making a commitment if you won’t ever meet it. What’s even the point of this alliance? Anyway, she put her game face on when meeting Trump. His principal focus was always economic, and he felt that Germany was a principal offender. Ultimately, Trump had a problem with prominent women in politics.

Then we turned around and reset the room. I stepped out and scheduled a mobile mechanic to come and fix the car. I sent pictures and set a time. I felt good. I wouldn't be out there trying to jerry-rig the thing myself. Things were going to be done properly. There was some fiddling with the zoom connection, and I wondered if the demon-rodent was eating the internet. Ted used his phone as a hotspot.

Then we sat down with Maureen Orth, who is like the anti-Bolton. Warm, agreeable, and friendly. Angela was Putin’s minder and the US depended on her. She was like that line from "The Godfather Part 2," she kept her enemies close and then got rid of them. And effective leader. As for her Vanity fair profile, it was rare for a foreign journalist to interview her directly but hey, "the girls camp" was running the country behind her. Maureen got as close as possible. Angela never played to the crowd. She lived in a non-descript building and pursued a low-key style of business. She was an academic type preferring numbers, stats, and formulas. She was very relaxed with her husband and dreamed of going to San Diego. It was obvious that the trappings if power did not interest them and as such, she rules by silence. Meanwhile, the men were always fighting each other. So, she moved when necessary. Her high school teacher said Angela got straight A's except in gym. It took her 44 minutes to jump off the diving board! It wasn't feminism, per se, she was just a worker, never wavering. For women, she’s an inspiration and her legacy proves that women can rule. But, she preferred Bush to Obama. No one's perfect.

And then we were done. We quickly wrapped out and I left the crew. Apparently, there was some kerfuffle getting into the EEOB, perhaps Ted has two names, perhaps some folks overstayed their time, I don't know and I cannot be made to testify. I, however, retreated to the hotel and waited for my Mobile Mechanic. But he never came. When I called him, he said he was having "stomach problems" he was "trying to control," and would come tomorrow. Ok, bye. Frantically, I tried other outfits only to reach wrong numbers, no help, and dead ends. Then, I got one to say he was coming! But at the same time, Larry offered to bring some tools and help see if we could get me on the road. Okay, I thought, time to DIY this thing. I didn't want to, but there I was, Leatherman in hand, a bag of gaff tape at my feet. I knew what the problem was, and now it was time to face the demon.

Wires were stripped. But then I broke off the last remaining lead on the spade connector. Ack! And then I saw the demon! It was still in the damn engine somewhere! Good grief... Whatever. Onward. I gaffer taped the wires together and I turned it over. It stayed on. Ok, I thought, proof of concept. it works. Then I asked inside for some electrical tape. I canceled the appointment with the mechanic. Larry was tied up with home life, but that was fine, he inspired me! If only I had a soldering iron with me and some heat shrink tubing! After more twisting and taping, I set it up, tested again, shook it around, and unless the demon feeds again tonight, I should make it back to Brooklyn. And if I stall out, at least I know how to fix it again. Crazy.

With the car back in action, I laced up my sneakers and hit the road for an end-of-day run. I ran down to the Washington Monument, just as the last light of the day was lighting up the horizon. A golden band still visible below rungs of orange, yellow, and blue. I ran up to the base, it was lit up brightly, majestic, clean, shining, with flags around, and I saw all kinds of people milling about, taking pictures, having fun and I thought yes, this is America, this is beautiful, made up of millions of hands and millions of minds; an eternal oscillation between the celestial and the clumsy; a song rich with counterpoint; something like magic and something like darkness; a million colors; a million sunsets; a million stars. Yes, for all its faults and problems, and terrible history, here we are, a nation, an idea, and here are the people, all beautiful and hopeful and coming together in harmony. We will persevere! The music was in my ears, the endorphins coursing through me, and it was all perfect. Then I headed down the mall, down to the Hirschorn, my favorite, and then back again right through the middle, the darkness now complete and I felt as if I was floating through the landscape.

As I made my way back, Marine One was ferrying President Biden off to somewhere special and I began the steady climb back up the hill to H Street. Residents were coming out for the night, dressed nicely, the air of possibilities and promise and money hovering just inches above the sidewalk. Young men, solid and confident, in suit jackets, brown shoes, and open shirts, and women, tall as castles, in above-the-knee skirts, boots, light jackets. But then... When I turned the corner for the home stretch, I ran through a stack of doe-eyed tourists, all white, stuporous, lined up like pinball machines or criminals, waiting to get into the Cheesecake Factory and I thought, America, I hate you. My god, of all the places in this gleaming city, this is the one you are waiting for? Just blocks away you could be eating the best Ethiopian food in America and yet you'd rather lay your money down for the same hot garbage that you might as well eat back at home in Des Moines.

Oh no, I thought. What a terrible place this is, we are doomed. Alas.

But all was not lost. I helped Ted into the hotel, we ordered in from Butter Chicken (yum!) and all was once again right with the world.

Almost Forgot

In January I went to Sundance for the first time in… Twelve years? And before that I’d have to reach back to 2009 when I was a fellow at the Sundance Lab (see above: polymath). In actuality, my history with the festival goes back about 20 years - both as a volunteer and a filmmaker. Lotta memories. Lotta skiing this year. Still a crazy scene.

Parting Glance

"To hold our tongues when everyone is gossiping, to smile without hostility at people and institutions, to compensate for the shortage of love in the world with more love in small, private matters; to be more faithful in our work, to show greater patience, to forgo the cheap revenge obtainable from mockery and criticism: all these are things we can do."

— Hermann Hesse

Writing: I was hired to co-create and write a treatment, outline, and pilot for an animated series. I am working on a rewrite of my Sundance Lab project “Zeroes and Ones,” which is now ever more relevant given today’s world of ever more accessible AI. Alexandra and I are also collaborating on another script.

Filmmaking: Alexandra and I are endeavoring to finish a funny and thoughtful documentary we have had in the can for some time now. I was also chosen as an alpha tester artist for OpenAI’s Sora generative video platform (now public) and am working on a hybrid project with it.

Travel: Much less for work. Due to the overall slowdown in production, I’ve gotten to be home more much to everyone’s delight in the household. Alex and I went to Peru and we took the kids to the Grand Canyon (were they even impressed?).

Politics: Not going there. You know.

Shameless plug: Call me for your next project.

Overall, as usual, it was a winger of a year. But here’s the thing, we are always up against the world, climbing over one barrier or another. Our stone-age brains are wired to bias toward the worst present and future but remember the best pasts. Madness, I say. But do not despair. The obstacle is the way. Onward!

So, I leave you with what was maybe the most unique (strange? sexy? odd?) shoot of the year for me, in the best location. Ordinarily, I do not release these until the movie or show is made (I’m ready to go back anytime - please fund this!). In any event, anyone who didn’t grow up renting VHS tapes probably won’t even know what or who it’s all about. Nevertheless, I have redacted as necessary to protect the innocent.

May your new year be filled with blessings, love, joy, industry, and everything that makes you happy.

All good thoughts and wishes,
Avi

Project: [REDACTED]

Cast of Characters:
E - Director
J - Self
E2 - Producer
T- Self
J2 - Self
Mike - DP
Ted - B-Cam

April 23, 2024
Casa Ocho!

I awoke after sleeping deeply for ten hours. The bed was a haven, cradling me in its warm embrace and sending my dreams on a journey through the night. I had been adrift in a sea of slumber, finally finding peace after weeks of restless nights. The stories of my subconscious unfolded before me, like a movie with clear beginnings, middles, and ends. Even when I stirred at 6 AM, I sank back into the softness knowing I didn't need to rise just yet. It was pure bliss until I opened my eyes to start the day and received a text from Ted, like a beacon guiding me to coffee on the patio where he had already welcomed the dawn with open arms.

Yes, I remind myself, we are in Mexico, in Punta Mita, a kind of Jurassic Park for millionaire human fossils, some of whom we passed by on our golf cart the night before on our way back from dinner. Like ancient creatures trapped in amber, they zoomed by us in their luxury carts. “Casa Ocho!” shouted a bleached "Mrs. McCallister" to the guard as she raced past, leaving us behind in our own cluelessness. They glowed with preserved youth and privilege, looking down benevolently at our ragged and obvious outsider status, like ancient deities observing mere mortals. But I didn't mind as I gazed at the full moon, savoring the lingering taste of grilled shrimp on my lips, our rich surroundings reminding me of a lost civilization.

So, yes, in Mexico and now awake, like a conquistador entering new territory after ordering his crew to burn the ships. I was slowly awakening to the bustling morning routine. Mike, our savior, and chef, crafted breakfast from the bountiful supplies Jess and Fabian had stocked for us - enough eggs, milk, and ham to last a month. As I watched Ted pick at his fruit, I devoured my eggs with a ferocity that could rival that of a Mayan warrior taking down a jaguar with nothing but his hands. Of course, this comparison was far-fetched, as we were comfortably nestled in an air-conditioned rental equipped with modern appliances like a toaster and microwave.

After we gathered our gear, we set off for J’s place. Like navigating through a labyrinth whose center hides the great goddess of ageless softcore VHS tapes, we made our way past multiple guardhouses and gates until we reached the 36th chamber. As we stepped inside, the expansive compound opened up before us like a giant cathedral, radiating a sense of warmth and tranquility. Ted warned us about the "anything" button on the phone, comparing it to a genie's lamp with unlimited power. Despite his warning, my mind couldn't help but dream up possibilities beyond just summoning a helicopter.

Then E met up with J and we began with a walk into the abode. J explained the origin of saying “speed” (after all he’s a “documentary” filmmaker who went to USC) when starting to film and then proclaimed his desire to tell it all and hold nothing back. This was the time to make the story known, and E was the one to receive it.

Sitting down in the main room, legs crossed, but not in a “feminine way,” J and E got down to business. Like synchronized ice dancers competing for the gold medal, they effortlessly glided from topic to topic, trading opinions, and ideas as if it were second nature. His show was number one on [REDACTED] and the whole business was built on his marketing genius. Just like how everyone naturally craves a good meal, men are drawn to women by instinct. Even social media giant Facebook was built on this primal desire. But enough about that, let's get to the real issue at hand - the outrageous lies being spread about J. This is going to be the greatest untold story of all time, people! And don't worry, the [REDACTED] were handsomely compensated for their participation. Talk about a win-win situation!

Facts: J is Catholic. There’s a new trend of people crushing human bones and snorting them. And yes, Incels are real. But the problem is that if you look on Google, you’re not going to get the real facts about Joe. He bought [REDACTED] and then sold it back to them. There are three unique people in the universe - Larry Flynt, creepy old Hugh Hefner, and J. Only one is still alive. Kobe Bryant told J that he was “his hero.”

Let's face it, men are just more visually stimulated when it comes to sex. They need a real-life girl next door to fantasize about while their brain is on autopilot. And that's where our friend J comes in - he basically lived the life of a rockstar before it was even cool, and his website was probably one of the first ever created (take that, Al Gore). But he’s a serial monogamist despite all the fun throughout his 20s and 30s. He even did IVF and chose to have daughters. Girls just love their daddies more and he can spoil them a lot easier. He’s not into the tough love thing, anyway. He’s a romantic!

As for the origin story - just like a Marvel superhero (Captain Video?), it all began with his [REDACTED] videos. The genius of it all was that he licensed the footage (just like E did) - it already existed! Then, one night, alone in his fortress of solitude, he was watching a tape that went in to him for review and he came across what would soon become his goldmine, his treasure trove - hours upon hours of [REDACTED]. On the spot he licensed the entire library of material and [REDACTED] was born.

And then, lunch. Mike and Ted, with shoulders tired and armpits sweaty led the way to the taco set up by the entrance. There, modestly set up was the offering - six types of tacos and endless choices for combinations of toppings. I briefly considered entering all the variables into ChatGPT to help determine the best permutation, but instead asked for a mushroom birria, chicken, and one jicama. Then, adding pineapple (Al Pastor!), cilantro, onion, and salsa verde, I concocted a Mexican Arnold Palmer from the hibiscus and green tea barrels and sat down for the meal.

As I took my first bite, the flavors danced on my tongue like a mariachi band playing a lively tune. Ted's praise for the guacamole was like a standing ovation, while Mike struggled with the spiciness of the mushroom birria like a sailor navigating rough waters. T knew he’d be good with three tacos but it was the kind of fare that would make him go back for six. Meanwhile, between bites, J2 outlined the proper schedule for this latitude, and I found myself wanting to live that perfect life - waking early, exercising, having a meal, and then tequila until sunset.

As for my meal, it was sublime. The flavors all agreed with each other like crewmembers on a racing yacht, each performing their assigned task with precision and aplomb. The spices were not too intense and yet could not be ignored. Each bite was a burst of flavors - the smokiness of the chicken, the tanginess of the pineapple, and the freshness of the cilantro, all complemented by the spice of the salsa verde. I couldn’t stop myself and yet I knew I had had enough when the plate was empty. Some folks finished with a cookie, and Ted, ever the Alabamian, capped his best taco experience with a bag of queso-flavored Ruffles.

The post-meal banter tacked from trying to determine the cubic volume of the main room and if Ted’s entire house could fit into it horizontally. E2 considered building a loft level wherein he could reside, like a gargoyle. Mike then tried to gaslight us with obviously fake news about pelicans going blind from diving into the water; he hadn’t yet heard about evolution. But E2, ever the skeptic, fact-checked with Google (which we all know can't be trusted - just look at what it says about J).

And suddenly, we were transported back to the blissful days of the 90's. You know, when phones weren't glued to our hands like an extra appendage? Oh, those were the good old days before TikTok took over. J just wanted to create something light and fun, so he decided to do his own music instead of sticking with the usual hard rock that was so sexy back then. And who could forget the time that The Donald and J had a bromance for the ages, starting with lunch and ending with thirty tapes being delivered for a night-long binge session. E couldn't believe how many times one man could possibly “wank” in a day.

Finally, there’s David Pecker and Kim. David taught him how it works in the media and J parlayed his knowledge into helping Kim. I’d bet good money J’s got points on every dollar she’s ever made despite his hands being clean from it all. She wanted to be famous? Mission accomplished. Talk about a dream team in the realm of fame. But J knows all too well that in the end, no one will remember any of this. Except maybe USA Today, America's "McPaper," where J is listed as number 23 out of 25 "revolutionary" things to happen in US history - thanks to his pioneering work showcasing [REDACTED]. Check and Mate.

With the conversation on pause, we headed outside. A walk on the beach, a stroll by the pool and then Mike and Ted baptized themselves in the living waters, filming epic GoPro shots. The result - images befitting a 90’s album cover. Nailed it!

And then we were done. We packed up, rolled out, and via some secret tunnel passageway we somehow made it back to our spot without ever leaving the reservation or needing to bribe yet another Punta Mita militiaman. As the sun set, we poured ourselves a finger of Blanco and were reminded by our absentee hosts that “tequila fixes everything.”

Indeed. It was a good day.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

In the meantime, it’s finally cool out again, and I’ve worked on a short narrative, went out to Michigan on a doc following a certain bluegrass phenom, and recently wrapped an indie feature. A few doc days coming up and some post projects are on the horizon… But I am certainly looking for more projects! Call me. Please.

What’s also news is the release of a documentary I had the pleasure to work on for a few years - “Acts Of Reparation” by Selina Lewis Davidson and Macky Alston. It’s a very important movie and I loved working with the team to bring it to life. Of course, the journey included lots of of trips to Monroe, Louisisana, wonderful people, aunties, and daring meals on the road - all a part of movie-making magic.

Project: Acts Of Reparations

Cast of Characters:
Macky - Director
Selina - Director
Tony - DP
Sam - AC
Artemis - AP

April 04, 2021
Hammer Time

We began on a progressive drive through Bosco, stopping at Bobbie, Rose, and then Bea's houses before heading back over to Helen's. Bobbie showed us her garden, plates, and angel collections. Rose showed us Bobbie's kiln in her backyard "junk house." Bea and her husband just celebrated sixty years of marriage.

Lunch was a disaster. I sorry but I just can't reframe it any other way. After looking at the menu, I realized that I wanted to go lighter with a salad topped with grilled chicken. But what I got was a jumble of sandwich condiments and ranch dressing. I mean, there's nothing morally wrong with that, but it's like the mathematical inverse of the Platonic ideal of a "salad." Meanwhile, Tony had the food service freezer-to-fryer kids meal special of dry chicken tenders and mealy onion rings. There was a lot of ketchup. Macky enjoyed his crispy burger. Kenya's came without a bun, courtesy of Artemis. 

Ernestine lightened up the afternoon kitchen table session and had everyone, including me, in stitches.

After wrap, we hit the drive-thru daiquiri oasis and were floored by the array of names and choices. "Smurf Piss," "Battery Acid," "Buttery Nipple," and "Hard Core Sex" were all appealing, but Sam and I settled on a pair of "Shit Hammers." Our underage server shamed us into upgrading to the medium-sized drinks which we then enjoyed around the firepit back at the hotel. Then we tucked into a legit good meal from Cormier's. My shrimp etouffee was spicy, hearty, and delicious, all served in yet another styrofoam container. Sam might be related to Matt Damon. My waistline is expanding down here. Life is so rich.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

October 09, 2021
The High And The Low

With the call time today, I had time to go for a run. The sun was already rising when I hit the pavement and headed straight for the blocky monolith across the parking lot - the Pecanland Mall. As I circumnavigated the shopping mecca, I vaguely recalled that at one time, this may have in fact been the site of a pecan orchard. Were the trees I was now passing also pecans? And is this the last JC Penney in existence? It was too early for any shoppers, so the whole area had an air of waiting. I had many questions. What would it be like at ten AM when the doors were unlocked? Is mall culture still alive and well in Monroe? On my third revolution around the earthbound retail labyrinth, I imagined the inside as a polychromatic wonderland of green, red, purple, white, yellow, orange, and yellow-orange, everything from fluorescent lights to wicker things hanging from the ceiling. And a sunbeam streaming down from the top, lighting up the whole shebang, with the air smelling of cinnamon and old buns, fried chicken and hot dogs, gum, peppermint, the smell of sweat, the smell of money, the smell of desperation. I heard the train whistle blowing as I rounded the last corner and the sun blasted upon me, sending me higher. Oh, Monroe, you are glorious!

After the endorphins died down and we got to the museum, we trailed the aunties on a tour of all the artwork on display. There were groundbreakers, slave documents, ankle shackles, wax statues, many styles of painting, hidden maps of Louisiana, relatives, and plenty to peruse at the gift shop.

Lunch was brought in from Melvyn's. Tony reported that his burger was "pretty gross" and that a "new low" was attained, but he could "respect that." Also, there was no mustard. There was, however, sour cream, vegetable oil, captain's wafers, and mayonnaise which Tony also said was a "secret weapon - a problem solver." I had the grilled chicken sandwich, and while it was moist it was also completely devoid of flavor. It was like biting into a zero. I mean, it looked like a chicken sandwich, and yet eating it was like contemplating what existed before the big bang. It was baffling and made me question my own state of consciousness. But I was not alone with this problem - apparently, everyone's food was de-flavored. There was a rush on the salt packets. How is this even accomplished, we wondered... But before an answer was constructed, I foisted my inedible, un-savory, and rubbery french fries upon Sam. She offered tomatoes in return but I couldn't take any more surprises. Tony reported that his onion rings were a "non-factor." Artemis was not having the tuna and was furthermore regretting not bringing a backup meal. Who is this Melvyn the Un-Food Magician?

Then we got into the Auntie interviews. Macky had his questions and we traversed time and space, setting the controls for the heart of the Ford family. There was farm labor. Washing up in a pot. Big daddy. The spirits are within. Scaring each other as kids. Mama was always there. Lotta fun growing up. Just a joy to have so many sisters. Bosco. Bea was scared of cows. And there was Sunday school. Appreciating now what you hated then. Macky does not know how to use a hoe. You gotta listen to the children. Can’t dwell on the past. Live in the present. Never complain. Plenty of company on the farm. Quiet. But as for selling.. No, You don’t tell me, I tell you the price. But it’s worth it. And by the way, white people were also afraid of the KKK.

After we wrapped out of the museum, we headed to the Garden District and met up with just the nicest ex-actor/dance/performer/chef turned real estate agent. He toured Macky and Selina through the house and we all got destroyed by mosquitoes in the backyard. The roof needs work. The garden is lovely. He'd love ya'll to move in. Like tomorrow. Could this be the place?

To the stars!

Recipe Of The Month

Beef Stew With Prunes

Courtesy of Michael Richard Martin

Travel Tip / Sign Of The Times

The end of in-flight magazines.

And now I’m back and I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m likely available for work. Why not call me for your upcoming production or post sound projects?

In the meantime, I thought I’d revisit some archival nuggets (much of it involving the brutal triumphalism of high school football), in order to regale you with humid summertime fragments of perspiration and snippets of epicurean folly…

And have a great rest of your summer (which now, thanks to climate change, goes through September… and October…)!

July 20 2017, Chillicothe OH, “Gone” - 87°

You know you're back in Chillicothe when after a sweaty day, dinner is
a big 'ol slab of tasty meat at the Old Canal Smokehouse. Sadly, no
mead was on tap, but several very odd flavored beers were. Sam had the
Prime Rib. Lunch was at the 'new' R Kitchen, where the Thai Tuna Salad
was a table favorite. Ah, Chillicothe... You may not have my heart,
but my stomach aches for you.

August 27 2017, New Orleans LA, “QB1 Season 2” - 91°

New Orleans! 'PE for Athletes' is like school on Thanksgiving - No Class. Lunch was had beforehand, in Tony's room from the famous Cleo's down the way and was, in fact, right on. My falafel was downright delicious. We got soaked, again, on the field, and the coaches let it rip after playing it cool in the beginning. Dusty and I strolled Bourbon Street after wrap and after eating some tourist-approved Jambalaya I caught a whiff of vomit on the way home. And it's a Monday.

September 21 2018, Fort Lauderdale FL, “QB1 Season 3” - 88°

Today was fire and rain. And mac n' cheese, chicken breasts, kaiser
rolls and watermelon for team lunch. But backing up a bit to call
time, a fiendish plan was hatched to have Chipotle for lunch. I asked,
in earnest, "What's the best meat to have on your salad bowl?" The
responses I got were all over the map, so I went with chicken.
Walkthroughs were sweaty, Nik's bus had air conditioning, no one uses
Waze. We ate lunch standing up. The Chiefs trounced the Eagles but it
was sloppy. Jerry was amazed by their band. Nik's head was everywhere.
We got through the rainy bits.

Secret confessions were revealed in the van back to the hotel.
Everyone thought the Chipotle sucked. I know - shocker. Jordan
complained that his salad was basically just a heap of condiments you
get anyway when you order anything off the menu topped with salsa.
Other colorful commentary included "It was okay" and "Disgusting."
Perhaps because I was hungry, it passed right over my lips without any
impact at all. I actually have almost no recollection of eating it at
all. Vague memories of spice and texture, but nothing here to report,
move along. Honestly, I knew what I was getting into (call time
planning) and had the day to unwind my mind enough so as to experience
it without experiencing it. The post-game pizza was equally sad and
morally ambiguous but tempting enough for the nearby Landmark Forum
participants to ask for a slice (and a banana pepper).

The Fort Lauderdale airport smells like turpentine.

September 4, 2019, Gainseville FL, “QB1 Season 4” - 87°

At breakfast, I met an older couple sheltering from the storm, up from St. Augustine. We were fine all morning. Anthony and Corey went over their times' tables and Corey learned a "life hack" for dealing with nines. Anthony called it a "cheat code." I call it a scene. We call it maize. At practice, we finally got a taste of Dorian when all at once the sky opened up and drenched everything on the field, including us. But we soldiered on, and then, as if by a miracle, the skies parted, the sun came out and soon we were dried and sweaty. It was the best/worst of all possible worlds all rolled up into an experience burrito. Are six plus seven thirteen? 

Then we retired to La Tienda where the house salsa is "just like mom used to make but with more tomato" according to Jordan. Many tacos were eaten, all with better retention than our last excursion to Cilantro Taco. I had the chicken fajitas - they were okay. Points off for the truly horrific guacamole plating. Looked like a bathroom misadventure... After inspecting my picture of it, Tony (Team Bryce) asked if it was, in fact, "uneaten." But then again, I don't eat avocados.

May 24, 2019, Southlake TX, “QB1 Season 4” - 89°

And we were meant to eat at Torchy's Tacos for lunch but the line was too onerous. So we went a few doors over to Zoe's Kitchen. They make sound really good, and I was hungry, but my "Greek" salad was lame. What made it "Greek?" Not the red potatoes hiding underneath. Not the salad out of a Sysco bag. How many times do I have to ride this hobbyhorse up Mount Olympus before someone notices? And yes, I opted to add four falafel balls on top. If my cousins from Netanya saw me eating these, they'd disown me and they'd be right to. Crumbly orbs of tasteless meal reminiscent of packing peanuts. And the side of "braised" white beans? Forget it. But, as usual, I ate the whole thing. Brett and I agreed that it was a far cry from the nirvana of Hummus House in Fort Lauderdale.

Later that day... Brett threw his entire home state of Alabama under the bus after eating the homemade grilled chicken at the Hogan house. And after we wrapped, Brett guided Felipe and me to Hard Eight BBQ - AKA "Meatlandia." Kyle, perhaps too prescient, opted out. What can I say? Like Zoe's they make it all look really good, and they pile it high on your tray. Like meat pushers, they're slingin' 'cue. Felipe said it the best: "It's a meat superstore!" We were stoked! I got some ribs, brisket, a "brush popper" and hot sausage. But now, after the fact, under the cold hard light of my laptop, just writing all of it down is making me feel bad. Bottom line - the ribs were good, the sausage was very good but the rest was eh. The brisket was too salty. "I've had better barbecue," remarked Felipe. I say 2.5 stars at the most. Brett would go three stars, but he also had the steak. I took home leftovers. And the live music was not appreciated.

What else? This hotel has a secret entrance that goes right into the Bass Pro Shop next door. America, what a country. 

October 9, 2021 - Monroe, LA “Acts of Reparations” - 86°

With the call time today, I had time to go for a run. The sun was already rising when I hit the pavement and headed straight for the blocky monolith across the parking lot - the Pecanland Mall. As I circumnavigated the shopping mecca, I vaguely recalled that at one time, this may have in fact been the site of a pecan orchard. Were the trees I was now passing also pecans? And is this the last JC Penney in existence? It was too early for any shoppers, so the whole area had an air of waiting. I had many questions. What would it be like at ten AM when the doors were unlocked? Is mall culture still alive and well in Monroe? On my third revolution around the earthbound retail labyrinth, I imagined the inside as a polychromatic wonderland of green, red, purple, white, yellow, orange, and yellow-orange, everything from fluorescent lights to wicker things hanging from the ceiling. And a sunbeam streaming down from the top, lighting up the whole shebang, with the air smelling of cinnamon and old buns, fried chicken and hot dogs, gum, peppermint, the smell of sweat, the smell of money, the smell of desperation. I heard the train whistle blowing as I rounded the last corner and the sun blasted upon me, sending me higher. Oh, Monroe, you are glorious!

Lunch was brought in from Melvyn's. Tony reported that his burger was "pretty gross" and that a "new low" was attained, but he could "respect that." Also, there was no mustard. There was, however, sour cream, vegetable oil, captain's wafers, and mayonnaise which Tony also said was a "secret weapon - a problem solver." I had the grilled chicken sandwich, and while it was moist it was also completely devoid of flavor. It was like biting into a zero. I mean, it looked like a chicken sandwich, and yet eating it was like contemplating what existed before the big bang. It was baffling and made me question my own state of consciousness. But I was not alone with this problem - apparently, everyone's food was de-flavored. There was a rush on the salt packets. How is this even accomplished, we wondered... But before an answer was constructed, I foisted my inedible, un-savory, and rubbery french fries upon Sam. She offered tomatoes in return but I couldn't take any more surprises. Tony reported that his onion rings were a "non-factor." Artemis was not having the tuna and was furthermore regretting not bringing a backup meal. Who is this Melvyn the Un-Food Magician?

Parting Thought

I’m starting a new personal project related to the idea of “careers.” It may be something on your mind as well.

If it is, let me know.

If it isn’t, then you may be in the center of this diagram:

And we’re back. Since last we spoke, I edited and mixed a very cool documentary about the Penn South Cooperative (they make their own electricity!) in NYC and spent even more time on the road with many famous and soon-to-be-famous country music stars. I was in and out of Nashville like a bachelorette party on a Friday night on lower Broadway. If you don’t know what that means, then you haven’t been to NashVegas recently. It’s a Kid Rock versus Blake Shelton four-story hot-chicken assault on the senses.

Anyway, lots of strange and beguiling hospitality adventures were had, all of which you will read at some point, but here’s a sneak peak from our final sojourn to Tonasket, Washington:

This morning I peered behind the curtain. being one of the first people into the breakfast room, I went straight for the Nescafe machine but lo and behold - it was being serviced. And that’s when I saw what’s really going on, like a dystopian future come to life. True to its roots, the whole shebang is just filled with multiple containers of powdered materials. Powdered milk, powdered cocoa, powdered espresso. It was both fascinating and depressing and the irony was not lost on me; an instant-fancy-coffee robot. As I considered the implications of this knowledge on my next maneuver, I observed a power line worker dressed in a caution yellow vest eating scrambled eggs. On the table in front of him was a hardcover library copy of “Poems, Prose and Stories” by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. This must be some kind of utopia, I thought. And then I grabbed a paper cup and hit “cappuccino.” It was delicious. 

Speaking of eating on the road, did everyone catch the Red Lobster news? I must confess that I’ve actually never eaten at one of these; I guess I always thought it was just a matter of time. But no, we’re all hanging by a thread. So, seize the day, my friends. Do the things. Go to the places. Tell the people you love how much they mean to you. And eat the lobster.

And now, another entry from the whole Ellen/Gorilla saga… I swear we’ll get to the top of this mountain yet!

Project: Saving the Gorillas: Ellen’s Next Adventure

Cast of Characters:
Abbie - Director
Billie - Producer
Mike - DP
Ted - Cam Op/AC
Ani - AC
Craig - EP

June 05, 2022
Knuckles Con Carne

My alarm went off and I had no idea where I was, who I was or what I was. Then it started to come back. I'm in Rwanda, it's 5:30 in the morning. It's still dark out. And we are going on another trek. Batteries, water, drybags, hat, sunscreen, picaridin repellant... Check and check. Then I loaded into the dining room and waited. And waited. I had pre-ordered two shelled hard-boiled eggs and a green tea for 6:00 AM. Alas... So then I had to scramble to hook up with the local mixer, Safali, who is awesome, and get into the truck sans brekkie. As we were pulling out, someone handed us two paper bags - was this the breakfast? In one was a Spanish omelet. In the other was two hard-boiled eggs, shells on, and a sliced up avocado. Well, you know how I feel about avocado. So, like a primate, I ate the Spanish omelet with my bare hands. A nice sit-down meal.

After a quick visit to the park HQ, we loaded up with Augustin and went to Singita to meet up with the Ellen trek. Out in the fields, the approach to the protected areas was bucolic. Over rolling fields of fallow cropland, Mike and I raced ahead and captured the comic stylings of Andy while Tara and Augustin stayed on point. The weather was perfect, no rain, cloud cover, and a cool breeze every now and then.

Once inside the park, we only hiked for about twenty minutes before we linked up with the trackers, donned our masks and went in to see the gorillas. Well, this was a welcome surprise to me and Mike, after the rainy slog we endured the last time. But there they were - a whole family. The silverback was napping hard while the females were tending to the kids and the juveniles were jumping around, full of energy. I saw two young ones wrestling with each other, over and over and over again and I thought of my boys, constantly on top of each other.

Then we moved up a bit and there was a mommy and her one-month-old baby gorilla. It was captivating. It was if everyone was placed under a spell. There before us was our origin of humanity, of love, of consciousness. The mother was gently cleaning the eyes of her baby, her large fingers working delicately to remove debris. Then the baby opened its eyes, stretched, and we could all see something of ourselves in there. Our fragility, our vulnerability, it was all on display. Then a young one got interested in my boom, approaching it and then retreating.

After about an hour, we moved along, despite the silverback still not getting up and moving the troupe, and Andy claiming that he paid for the "ninety-minute experience." At the bottom of the mountain, Ellen shared thoughts about what we had just witnessed. Michael claimed it was a 2/10 experience. 2 for effort, 10 for quality. I agree. Then we dropped off at the Singita where hot towels awaited those who were staying there. Mike and I ate those two hard-boiled eggs from breakfast on the way home.

Back at ol' Amarembo, Mike and I decompressed and then joined the rest of the crew for lunch. I've never had so much soup in my life. Twice a day, every day. Is that healthy? I don't know but I do know that I like cauliflower soup with black pepper. It had a gentle and focused flavor, with a haunting afterglow of cloves. Anii had a roll that was as hard as a stone and he even knocked it against his plate to show us. But while the soup was tasty, the "Chinese and Mongolian Chicken" thing was a misnomer on at least six levels. Disregarding the complete affront to Asian culture, the chicken was surprisingly uncontaminated by actual meat. That is to say, my plate was built upon a serving of very tasty fried rice, topped with bones and garnished with cilantro. Mike thought he was given the spine and the heart. Okay, there was some meat in there, and maybe I'm just an ugly American, and I'm sure they're trying hard in the kitchen, but the ratio was off, in my opinion. Anii confirmed my feelings when he told me he looked up what Mongolian chicken was supposed to look like and was disappointed with what he received. So it's not just me.

Over at Singita, where I can surely bet they did not have a bony lunch, Andy Lassner sat down for his interview. He clocked 20 years with Ellen. He just loves daytime TV; he needs the new thing every day. According to him, Ellen is exactly who you think she is and she is a change-maker. She puts her whole heart into it. What’s next for Andy? Producing a Jennifer Hudson show for Warner Brothers. Last night, at the campus, was an exhale for Ellen. As for the gorillas, he cared because Ellen cared. But now, after the trek, he’s changed.

Back at our hotel, parts of dinner were like parts two and three of lunch. I'm too tired to describe it all, but there was pork that was ninety percent knuckle, ten percent fat. Didn't matter - Joe Woods made it back safely after an epic trek with Craig. Huzzah!

June 06, 2022
Everyone Is Ellen

We rose early again, but when I opened the door of my hut I saw that the skies were clear. Would it be a could-less day for my and Mike's final trek? I breathed deeply and took in a pungent, background smell of cooking oil, a slight pine aroma, and nature's scent in the morning. In the distance, I saw the haze burning off the mountaintops, but the haze in my brain was still hanging low by the time I maneuvered to the breakfast buffet in the dining room. I was thoroughly flummoxed by the folded-in-half pancakes in the chafing tray as I thought they were omelets. Okay, they aren't eggs - but I ordered an omelet anyway. So confusing! Once again, it was a bit of a dine-and-dash, but duty was calling!

After the usual roundup at the Park HQ, we rode with Augustin back to Singita and he gave us the good news - the gorillas were close by, the trackers were with them, and he knew exactly where to guide us. On the way I could have sworn I heard bagpipes playing in town. Mike conjectured that the same type of instrument could be found in these parts and then said something about "The Last King Of Scotland." And then we got another update - rocket attacks were happening in Congo, on the other side of the volcano.

Then we loaded in the rest of our group and made our way up to our entrance. Along the way I noticed a very long trench was being dug all the way up to the mountain, passing in front of everyone's house. Turns out it's some kind of fiber optic cable.. Likely for another lodge to be built.

Once on the trek, we went "over the wall" and began to head toward our gorilla family. At some point, after wriggling through a bamboo tunnel, I heard voices up ahead. When we turned the corner my eyes were caught by a royal blue something. I thought oh, here are the trackers already, but as I got closer I saw that it was another tour group, and the blue thing was a woman in a crisp western shirt and an immaculate straw cowboy hat. As I tried to put the pieces together in my head, I pressed record on the mixer so as to capture the scene unfolding - a woman, also named Ellen, telling our Ellen that she was the reason she came here! Ellen 2 then said that she wrote Ellen 1 an email every Monday, but never got a response. No matter now, though. In fact, why bother to go see the gorillas now, her friend suggested, they got to see Ellen!

Later on, we did indeed see more gorillas. We observed "Big Ben," a balding silverback, and then another couple of them as we followed and got ahead of the family. There was much vertical ascension amid fifteen-foot-tall stinging nettles and thick breaks of bamboo. The trackers slashed and hacked a path for us, and we pressed on until we got a spot where the gorillas came right to us, sat down, and started eating. And when they were done, they went on their way. This is the forest. This is the jungle. We are but apes with driver's licenses.

On the way back to the vehicles, Ellen helped a sheep get untangled from its rope, and then at the bottom, we followed her into the hut of a local woman. Inside we saw the bare manner in which so many of the people we have passed each say are living. A few utensils. An open fire for cooking. A bucket of potatoes. The hard ground for sleeping. Not enough money to buy soap to clean her child's uniform for school that day. It was eye-opening and as we left, Ellen changed the woman's life.

We almost had lunch at Amarembo but were called over to the campus instead. And thank goodness because for once I had a large and glorious salad instead of a meat-heavy sleep-inducing three-course meal for lunch. My "Green Superfood" salad was glorious - It was vibrant, earthy, and fresh - full of quinoa, mint, apples, and greens. I felt like a man coming up for air after being submerged for days.

Then we went back to Singita for a few scenes and interviews. Jay and Ellen talked about purpose and being present. Jay offered to license his amazing photos to Discovery. Michael has a voice like a velvet glove cast in iron. I'd listen to him read the phonebook.

And then we were done. Dinner back home was a very tasty lamb curry. Anii, however, was incensed that his order was not delivered correctly. Too bad for him - but I got to taste "Masala Chips."

Parting Thought

“Where your fear is, there is your task.”

 - Carl Jung

LATE BREAKING NEWS

Flavor Flav is maybe going to SAVE Red Lobster?

Well, that was fun. But talk about being tardy - I apologize for the lateness in keeping this going. It’s been both busy and not busy, and everything else 2024. Whoo Hoo!
So, first a quick recap on the news, and then we will continue our sound recording saga.

Despite Variety’s prediction, and what with last night’s awards, “American Santa” did not make it to the Oscars but we ARE going to PBS in the fall. We are lining up underwriters for that broadcast, so if you or someone you know at a corporation, brand, foundation or non-profit might be interested, please let me know. The film is also now available for educational and non-theatrical sales as well as streaming on Kanopy through New Day Films (are you a university professor? Do you know any?). Check it out!

In other news, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks in Nashville (Country Music!) rolling sound on a new project. Plenty to report on that flavor palette. Just prior to this series, I was on a few post sound projects, including a feature premiering at SXSW.

Anyhooooooo… Spring is in the air, the clocks are an ahead an hour, so let’s pick up where we left off, somewhere near the volcanic forests of Rwanda…

Project: Saving the Gorillas: Ellen’s Next Adventure

Cast of Characters:
Abbie - Director
Billie - Producer
Mike - DP
Ted - Cam Op/AC
Ani - AC
Craig - EP

June 02, 2022
Into The Breach

I'm completely beat, so this will be a bit more concise than yesterday's double-stuffed report. Once again I did not get a full night's sleep, even though I took all the necessary precautions including unplugging my heating pad upon laying down. Apparently, neither did Ted (up at 1:30 AM) nor Billie (up all night) despite her reunion with her suitcase, clothing, and toiletries. Joe Woods, our walk-on hero was somehow completely charged up as was Mike. Just how does he do that?

Anyhoo, the morning was wet and gray and as we made our way to the park to hook up with our tracker, guide, and researcher, Abbie said she was feeling nauseous. Joe confessed to being the rat at a Chuck E. Cheese's as well as a clam digger at some point on his career path. Kids waved to us as we bumped along, passing terraces of crops rolling like waves on a placid beach, Andrew's steady hand guiding us to safety.

The rain had beat us to the park and was coming down steadily by the time we pulled in. Tourists on bucket-list vacations thronged the meeting points, many in matching hats, like a large, lusty herd of bright beige camels robed in a collective fortune of technical fabrics making a sharp contrast with the camouflage BDU fatigues and rubber boots donned by the park and fund staff. There were briefings and a feeling of anticipation hung low in the local atmosphere. Joe was not allowed to trek due to his lack of a PCR test.

A heavy mist settled around the terrain as again we rode for more than another hour on completely unpaved and rocky roads to our entrance point. The air had a forced, compressed quality, dense and hard with tall tumbling fractal tendrils of grey and white, like a breath of leaves on a wood lathe. Along the way, we learned that Nadia's mother was a "badass" and had eleven kids. Out the window, I saw an open-air pottery studio with a makeshift kiln, a man repairing a bike surrounded by parts and onlookers, many of the ubiquitous yellow containers, shepherds moving their flocks along, a coffin maker, a tea plantation, and endless acres of rich volcanic soil planted with beans, potatoes, cabbage, corn, and pyrethrum flowers.

Then, after paring down to the necessities, we hit the trail. The approach began through a series of terraced fields like a huge green carpet that rolled away into varied, dark tangles of forest, making our way to the actual edge of the park, at the base of the volcano. And then we began to ascend. It was difficult, with shoe-devouring mud, sweat-inducing climbs, dark tunnels of bamboo and hanging vegetation, and straight out glute-busting bushwhacking. One wrong slip and impalement on sharply angled sticks seemed likely, especially after grabbing a handful of stinging nettles on the way down. Mike, Ted and I were all carrying gear as well, so balance and flexibility were ongoing issues. And, of course, it kept raining on and off the whole way. But it was gorgeous. Some likened it to the landscapes in "The Lord Of The Rings" what with the thick vegetation, the adventuring party making its way on foot through dark wooded areas and opening up into Rivendell-like clearings in majestic vistas. And then I received a text welcoming me to the Democratic Republic of Congo. We had crossed another invisible boundary known only to the satellites, electrons and photons.

At some point, we connected with the trackers who had been guiding us all along via said technologies with our guides Prosper and Augustin. It was then that we donned our masks, dropped any extra bags, and headed further towards the areas where a family of gorillas were last spotted. It's hard to describe, but after a bit more climbing and crawling, there they were - just walking in front of us. One was eating bamboo, another rolling around, and soon a silverback was claiming his rights, pounding his chest and it was if we were mere ghosts within their world. We were rich with cameras, recorders, phones, machetes, water bottles, boots, and everything from our modern world and yet they walked around us, saw through us, and kept moving. We were nothing. They were everything.

And so we followed further upwards. And there were even more. Bille and Ted got up close and within inches of a few. We all considered the gorilla body odor - musky, earthy, and metallic. It was like the smell of a moist jungle, moldy bread, and sweetened black tea; it was fecund and feculent as a mound of decaying peach and melon left out for summer; it was ripe and rancid as an overripe guava your grandfather forgot to pick off his tree months ago. In short, being that close was astonishing. When they moved toward you, you felt their presence and made sure to carefully step aside.

Although I was hyper-vigilant and recording non-stop, I periodically tried to pierce the event and take in the wider experience. We're on a mountain in Africa. The sky is either raining or sunny. The sounds of gorillas eating plants is in the air as are their huffing and grunting. I gazed at them and took a moment to consider that, despite our physical and physiological differences, these creatures and I have a common ancestry. What if I could live on their mountain? What if they could press the record button and point the boom? Where would our narrative go from here?

After a generous amount of time in their world, Prosper gently led us back down the mountain. Back at the rally point where we left our bags, Mike was first to rip into the snack packs prepared for us and, like a barbarian, roughly shelled a hard-boiled egg. I followed suit and after Ani told me I had done it all wrong, he shared a technique that involved cracking both ends and blowing into the egg but really, in my opinion, all you have to do is cook them correctly (steamed, 13 minutes) and the shell comes off like nothing at all. Ted ate a passionfruit with the skin on. Gotta start somewhere.

Ted redeemed himself at the vehicles and wowed the locals with his aviation skills while Ayubu looked on with great interest. Next year, he will be a drone pilot. Nadia claimed we did a "beginner" hike. That is until Mike handed her his camera wherein she regraded it to "advanced."

Because we were trekking all day, we ate our lunch for dinner. Soup, croquettes and stir-fried beef and noodles. The Stoics were right when they claimed that hunger is the best condiment. Amen.

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Disconnect from desire.”

All good thoughts,
Avi

🚨 Spoiler Alert - Self-Promotion Ahead. 🚨

WATCH NOW: AMERICAN SANTA // AWARDS ELIGIBLE

I’m late, I know! But I’m working hard and so much has happened… Here’s the non-sound update:

Since being honored on the Shortlist at DocNYC, we've been embraced by the LA Times, featuring our film as their December highlight in the ShortDocs series. Then, to add to the excitement, the remarkable Billy Porter has joined us as Executive Producer.

On December 1st, "American Santa" launched on the LA Times homepage, kicking off a month-long celebration of storytelling. The response has been incredible, with standout screenings in Los Angeles and New York City drawing full houses and stirring discussions.

For those who haven't had the chance to watch, "American Santa" is streaming for free on the LA Times website and their YouTube channel. As we approach the holiday season, the film offers a moment to contemplate the true spirit of Christmas and how we can all contribute to a more inclusive celebration. It's more than a film; it's a movement. Watch it, share it, and let it inspire your holiday traditions.

And if you are moved, please let me know.

Okay, back to the saga wherein we continue our journey through Rwanda on the (culinary) adventure of a lifetime!

Project: Saving the Gorillas: Ellen’s Next Adventure

Cast of Characters:
Abbie - Director
Billie - Producer
Mike - DP
Ted - Cam Op/AC
Ani - AC
Craig - EP

June 01, 2022
It Begins

At breakfast, Ted asked me if my bed was hot. Well, yes, I explained, there's a heating pad, and then I told him all about my relatively sleepless night. Ted too was beguiled by the "magic bottle" to the point where he described the whole night as a "clambake." However, Ted's coping strategy was decidedly different from mine - he placed all his pillows on the bed in a row and then slept on top of those as a kind of heat shield. Billie, on the other hand, loved the bed as it was like a "hot pocket." Mike was similarly thrilled to have been nocturnally slow roasted. Or is that broasted?

Then we loaded into the Cruisers and drove off to the park to meet up with Prosper. Along the way, we passed by what seemed to be a gigantic Gorilla-Wicker-Man, and in my haze of previous-night-sweats and Malarone, I wondered if this whole trip was in fact an elaborate ruse to deliver me to this "naming place" only to be immolated inside the wooden simian totem.

But no, really we just sat down with Prosper who broke it all down for us as we all dodged the rain. What to expect, how you ought to have no expectations; you can’t pre-plan a gorilla trek. After all, Prosper is the head warden and the park can be high density. He has always worked on engagement between the community and the park. His passion for wildlife began at a young age. In university, Prosper worked with rangers and trackers. The more he did it, the more he smiled every day. He's helped to turn poachers into conservationists. The first time he saw the gorillas in person he could see the design of his cousins and the organization of nature. We have a lot to learn from mountain gorillas, so now ask yourself what you can do. He had many questions about how humans lived after the genocide. And yet, here were gorillas - organized, friends, so perhaps we could learn something.

And then the rain came hard as we headed to lunch. The butternut squash soup teed things off nicely. It was warm, creamy, with a gentle acidity that lingered on the tongue and salted just enough to make a statement. I wrapped a snuggly blanket around myself and asked for a green tea. Perhaps this meal would redeem us all. At least half of us ordered the beef medallions and the other half went for the tilapia. I had been leaning towards the fish but tilapia just screams "frozen in a giant foodservice bag" to me so I followed Mike's lead to Beeftown.

After a lifetime of waiting, and still no tea, the meals arrived. Ani got his fish but the sides were all wrong. When he protested he was basically told to take what he was given. As Eric Clapton's 1990 hit "Pretending" played, I began to imagine what Gordon Ramsey might do to a place like this. My beef medallions also had the wrong sides, but I too kept my mouth shut and accepted my lot - clearly overcooked circles of meat and a ketchup-like sauce dribbled over the edge. As Mike said of the dish's flavor: "you gotta work for it. It's not giving it away." On the other hand, Ani stated that the fish was "good but a bit salty." Look, there were lamb chops on the menu, but after yesterday's boot-leather experience, I thought I'd go another way. Well, Mike was right, it wasn't going to give it up and in fact the further I got into the meat, the more it fought back. Like a bare-knuckle brawl, I traded jabs and crosses while it parried and pivoted from my knife. I made my way to the end, more out of attrition than delight, but once again I was full.

After forgoing dessert, we met up again with Felix and shot some of the reforestation projects at the campus. Over in Bisate, we toured the school and Felix took home a beet so large it ought to have won a 4-H award somewhere in America's heartland. At the Trackers' field compound, I got to use the latrine. Lastly, on our way to Nadia's house, we got "officially lost" but then were found. Nadia has many cordless phones. Someone walked into her house with their filthy shoes on.

Dinner was eaten. I can write no more words. I pray for sleep to take me at last. Tomorrow we go to the mountain.

One more promotion

All good thoughts,
Avi

As you’ve probably all heard from me, my short documentary “American Santa” screened at the Woodstock Film Festival, is playing this week at the Montclair Film Festival, and was selected for the Short List for DocNYC. If you haven’t heard any of this, that’s fine too, just head on over to the website or our Seed & Spark crowdfunding spot to help us get the film out as widely as possible come the holidays, which are right around the corner.

I won’t go on too much about this, but I made this film to try to change minds. So while it’s a holiday movie with a message, it’s also a very unapologetic statement about bigotry and the power of ideas. Simply put, racist ideas make racists. “American Santa” aims to reverse that flow by peeling back the reality of these superhero-like Santas.

If you haven’t seen the trailer, it’s just 90 seconds of your life and it’s right here:

If you can help with a donation, click HERE. If you can help us host a screening in December, or have any other ideas, please get in touch directly.

Okay, sermon over; onward back into sound:

Yes, it’s true, I went to Rwanda with Ellen DeGeneres to go gorilla trekking. Does that sound funny already? But this is serious! The show, “Saving the Gorillas: Ellen’s Next Adventure,” is on Discovery, and here is the start of a great adventure.

So, buckle up, the road is bumpy and long, but I promise you will enjoy the ride.

Project: Saving the Gorillas: Ellen’s Next Adventure

Cast of Characters:
Abbie - Director
Billie - Producer
Mike - DP
Ted - Cam Op/AC
Ani - AC
Craig - EP

May 29 - May 30, 2022
Inter-Continental Balastic Malaise

The plan was to meet at JFK in the afternoon. There was much discussion about going to departures versus arrivals. There were good arguments on both sides, but we went with the former and more logical choice. I wrangled some skycaps and waited. Once loaded onto two large carts we did the import/export dance downstairs and then overwhelmed the desk agent at Sky Priority.

After a delightful sojourn in the Centurion Club, replete with chicken, salad, little delicious tarts that Ted could eat until eternity, and many trips to the bar, we boarded our flight to Amsterdam. Ted, our mixology ambassador, only drinks cocktails that either involve aviation themes or require raw ingredients found on a farm. Anyway, we got on board and settled in for the first leg of our commute to Kigali. That sounds like the title of an old Bing Crosby and Bob Hope movie

Once onboard, Ted was super excited that we were on the new Airbus Neo Whatever Ship but I was less excited because apparently it was so new they forgot to hook up the wifi router. Really? Then he suggested we watch season 4 of "Stranger Things" and I relented, despite knowing I'd partially regret the experience. Well, it was what I expected, lots of closeups of shocked yet heroic teenagers, a paint-by-numbers plot of jocks-versus-nerds and oh here comes the monsters again, 1980s signifiers detached from what is signified, Hopper is alive, and Wynona Ryder emitting the same harried feeling we got in season one. Don't get me wrong, I loved season one, and thought it was great. Should've ended there, move along, nothing to see here folks. Okay, I like the last scene that got kinda horror-filmy. Then, after eating the blandest chicken in the friendly skies, I tried to sleep but barely succeeded.

In Amsterdam, we snacked on pastries, yogurts, and hot beverages. Billie could get no oat milk, nor almond milk, nor macadamia milk, for in this land of great dairy pleasures, that is grounds for ex-communication. Alas.

And then we boarded our second double-stuffed flight to Kigali on a comprehensively less new airbus, where the wifi worked but the seats were beaten out more than your average school bus. This was the flight I was supposed to be awake for, but of course, I couldn't keep my eyes open and woke up midair. Something also happened with luggage and passengers that did not show up. This time I got the pasta meal which was grade-school delicious.

May 31, 2022
Kigali to Kinigi, Of lambs and fishes

After breakfast at the Marriott which included options ranging from East African Chicken Stew to croissants to omelets to eggs any style, we loaded into the Land Cruisers and headed towards our basecamp. I love African Tea.

Here are some moments I observed along the way:

- Lush, terraced hills thick with crops.
- Glinting white and silver roofs on the far side if steep ravines.
- Packs of motorbikes, all awaiting taxi fares
- A man prying a giant truck tire off a rim with a five-foot iron bar.
- Road repair work being done by hand.
- Baskets balanced atop women's heads.
- Impossible cargo loads being pedaled and pushed up hellish ascents on the backs of bicycles.
- A many-tiered hillside cemetery punctuated by hundreds of gleaming white crosses.
- People working potato fields
- A burnt-orange roadside brickyard being picked over by stooped-over women
- My ears popping ears as we climbed higher and higher towards the volcanic mountains.

Meanwhile, Billie suffered a traumatic shopping experience while trying to temporarily salve the loss of her delayed suitcase. Everything she saw was "massive and not cool." Craig and I bonded over the greatness of lamb meat. In fact, we both confessed to ordering it for lunch, which was our next stop of the day. Too bad for us, it was to be the beginning of what can only be described as a slow tour of culinary mediocrity. What can I say? The lamb curry was a bowl of tough, hardened lamb kibble in a somewhat tangy sauce that smelled like something between a hoof and a cup of prize-winning chili. A hint of cinnamon… But was it, in fact, reconstituted lamb jerky? It was tough and flavorless, like beef hard-packed with gristle and sawdust. Craig said it was like eating "little morsels of bricks." He was also confused as to why I got pita with my meal while he, inexplicably, got a piece of chicken. Is that trading up, or merely a lateral move?

The rest of the day was spent scouting and then setting up camera and sound equipment. But then, we heard drums coming from outside our gear room and then we were summoned to come to see the "Welcome Dancers." A troupe of drummers and dancers were getting real for Bille and Abbie outside the main house, so by the time Mike and I arrived, it was enough to kick the whole thing up a notch. Soon Mike was holding a spear and little shield, while I was being wrapped in a cloth and shown how to move this way and that, clapping, pounding feet, feeling the spirit.

Dinner continued down the highway of hmmm. My fried fish was Gorton's-equivalent but I ate the whole thing, so shame on me. For dessert, I ordered the banana fritter which at that point seemed like they just replaced the fish with a banana just to make it easier. I ended up splitting it with Ted, who swapped some of his bread pudding my way. I wasn't thrilled by the mouthfeel.

Finally, I made it to bed and was pleasantly surprised by the hot water bottle warming up the sheet and comforter. I fell right asleep but then awoke at 2:30 to what seemed like devil magic - the bed was still warm. Now, I knew that there was a heating pad on the bed, but I also knew that I turned it off in the afternoon. So how could this water bottle still be killing it? After a bit of thinking, a trip to the bathroom, and some water, I figured it out - when the staff put the water bottle in the bed, they also turned the pad back on. Shame. I turned it off but the damage was done, only a smattering more of sleep would come to me tonight.

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Discover the recipes you are using and abandon them.”

All good thoughts,
Avi

Apologies for the extended absence - summer called and we had to jump in the car and drive to the Canadian Rockies with the clan. A three-week road-and-camping trip with three fourteen-year-olds is not just a parenting job, it’s an adventure. Well, at least they were grumpy and just wanted to stay at home and play video games. On the flipside, the scenery was gorgeous, we walked on a glacier, hiked to at least one of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen, caught an eruption of Ol’ Faithful, and sat in a couple of hot springs. Oh, Canada!

In future news, “American Santa” will play at the Woodstock Film Festival on September 30, and Alexandra and I are working on a plan to release it for the holiday season. As the film makes a very strong statement against racism and bigotry, we are also starting to share it for some community and event screenings. The film’s website is now up and - fair warning - you will be asked for your support in getting the word out! If anyone is interested right now in learning more about the film, has some ideas for outreach and press, would like to bring the film to an event, or just wants to see an advance screener, please hit me up. We are definitely looking for partners to help get this movie seen.

Back in Brooklyn (and around the world) I’m on a few projects, but have room for more, in both production and post. At home, those same three teens are about to start high school. So - let’s get to work!

And now, to set it all off for another school year of fun, here is the belated season finale of “How I helped send someone to space.” I had never seen a rocket launch, and haven’t seen another since (my other missions were scrubbed) - it’s pretty remarkable.

Project: Blue Origin

Cast of Characters:
Joe - Production Manager
Sean - Director of Photography
Donny - Assistant Camera
Wally - Herself / Astronaut
Kevin - Himself / Crew Member Seven
Mark - Himself / Astronaut
Jeff - Himself / Astronaut
Oliver - Himself / Astronaut

July 19, 2021
The Penultimate Sandwich

Did I sleep? had I slept? A 3:00AM call time will wreck your head if you're not careful, but after having gone through becoming the father to triplets, I can honestly say that this ain't nothin'. Still, I'm tired and we're turning around tonight for the lead-up to First Human Flight.

This morning our astronauts braved the morning show gauntlet and came out on top. The world met Wally. After some additional capsule training, we headed out to the tower for photos and rehearsal. Quite the view. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to walk across the bridge tomorrow, and actually get into a fully fueled rocket. It gave me pause. Could I do it?

Breakfast from Wendy's also gave me pause, but my bacon-egg-and-something seemed to go down easy. Some were disappointed by the news that there were no croissants or biscuits. Donny, halfway into his meal, suddenly looked up and said "is this a burger?" before switching to a nominal breakfast sandwich. I think he was looking for sausage. I was braced for a mild laxative effect. But where was Sean?

Then we barely made it through the capsule recovery briefing, with the air getting increasingly warm and the fatigue of the day settling in like a warm smothering blanket, but it's in your head, and it's a maze of incomprehensible shortcuts and backdoors. Someone mentioned a vehicle incident during the last operation... We will have a driver and navigator tomorrow.

July 20, 2021
Liftoff

We awoke in the night. Everything was in shadow, but I could see the glow of the moonlight in our faces as we packed the vehicles. And then our night became day. We rode out to LSO under the cover of darkness and proceeded to the Barn to observe the rocket being laid down, loaded, and rolled out. It was really quite amazing to see just how it's done. All the parts, all the guys working on it, all the pieces.

On the pad, we then caught the other side of the operation. The truck backed up, and then placed the vehicle on the launch pad. Under the bright lights, it looked marvelous, shimmering as nightbirds swooped around and the crew worked to hook up all the hoses, cables, and lines. The tower bridge extended to the capsule, and Sean went up to capture that work

Down below, after the truck pulled away, everything became rather silent, save for the voices of the crew and the occasional clang or bump of a tool. I breathed in the night desert air, filled with the smells of things that are old and far off. Of things that have walked and lived and died. it was dry and warm with a light breeze, like velvet, like a lion's mane. And I took note of the moths flittering around the lights. I heard a flapping and looked up - one of the red "remove before flight" tags was flapping gently against the side of the capsule, just under the tower bridge. This is going to happen, I thought.

Then we all moved to Fallback 1 and stood by for the pressure and surfaces tests. All went well until the landing gear test - one foot didn't go down all the way. After an inspection, it was determined that nothing was amiss, just a cable in the way, and everything was back to nominal. So we went to "lunch."

Sean, ever the adventurer went to BSF (the dreaded Quonset hut) for a "hot breakfast." Hard pass for me, thanks. I saw him again at the media tent whereupon he exclaimed "How do you f*** up waffles?" "Worse than Eggo, and Eggo is bottom of the barrel," he continued. Incredulous, he then doused his "hot breakfast" with syrup, so it "tastes like syrup." Meanwhile, our Wendy's breakfast was canceled due to a suspicious "emergency maintenance" event. Donny opined that the emergency might be that they ran out of food. Joe saved the day by rerouting our dining experience to Subway and I have to say that their breakfast sandwich, on a four or five-inch bun, was better than Wendy's. Now, I never go for fast food, but if I had to, this is the way I'd go for breakfast. Yes, it all tastes the same, but there was something a bit more delectable here. Probably the bun, it's the right consistency, muscular, and full of flavor. I'd say even their texture makes a person's mouth water.

After filling up, we headed to ATC for some final crew meetings. CM7 Kevin presented the challenge coins, the astronauts bagged their belongings, postcards were written, audio recorders were armed, and then we were off to Fallback 3 for the lineup.

Excitement was in the air. Families and crew alike gathered to watch the launch. Some were following along with the webcast, while others hugged and waited patiently. I'll never forget the looks on all the children's faces. Nervous, proud, excited, scared. I thought of my own sons and daughter and what they would be feeling if I were in the capsule, sitting on top of a tank of hydrogen, waiting for liftoff. Once again, it gave me pause. And then we were counting down.

The liftoff was spectacular. Truly one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in person. Seeing it on TV is nothing compared to seeing it in person, that close. The rumble of engines. The howling wind. Everything moving. The taste of fear and tension. All of the senses are screaming at once. It was like gray-green muffled thunder, the sky wrestling with itself, churning and contorting above, a dead weight rising, the air like thick porridge sliding away from the base of the rocket, the whole event magnificent in its clear energy, a sky-devil severed, the cauterized sunburst of a distant fire. It seems impossible, and yet there it went, into the heavens. Amazing.

And then we were off! Just as fast as they took off, it seemed they were coming back. I saw the capsule under main chutes as we bounced along, going off-road and then pulling up to the recovery area, just as we rehearsed. We jumped out, got into position, and then Jeff opened the hatch. They did it! Family rushed in, champagne was sprayed, tears were shed, massive hugs and gratitude by everyone - astronauts, crew, and family. Wally, Oliver, Mark, and Jeff. The Ferociter Four.

Back at the media tent, we decompressed, handed off cards, and wrapped up. It all came together. We did it!

Oh, and then I had a chicken caesar salad brought in from Sprouts in El Paso. Finally, a proper one with an intact, sliced chicken breast. And while not perfect (too cold, the dressing was meh), it was the one I needed at this special time, it was the edible mission patch for this adventure. Which is to say, it was nominal

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Simply a matter of work.”

All good thoughts,
Avi

Sorry for the delay! It’s been a bit busy… “American Santa” had its premiere at the Provincetown Film Festival, which is a great great great fest in a fantastic town. I’d only once before been to P-Town, in college, and I got thrown in a pool. This time was remarkably more fun. The vibe of the place is really just as my friend Anne summed it up - “it’s like, my dad has a barn, let’s put on a show.” And as for our shows, we had great audiences who stuck around for Q & As afterward. We also got to see many dear friends, some with films in the festival, some there just to watch, and still another to be honored (ahem… see below).

Outside of all this, and as we begin to ready the film for further showings and an exciting offer to distribute it(!!!), I just returned from Kingston, Jamaica where I was sound supervising a dance-related documentary series. Yes, I took a selfie with Sean Paul. Yes, I ate jerk everything. And yes it was hot. But as a lifelong listener of ska, rocksteady, reggae, and dancehall, I got to finally check that box off the list and you can bet I’ll be back and, of course, it’ll make its way into this publication at some point.

But let’s get back to the other hot place I was telling you about - Alabama…

Project: 1619 Project

Cast of Characters:
Nikole - Creator / EP
Shoshana - EP
Christine - Director
Tony - Director of Photography
Yusuke - Camera
Cesar - Gaffer
Naimah - Producer
Quinton - Producer

September 09, 2021
For the love of chamomile

Apparently, Rodney's BBQ didn't rate for some people. Fine by me - take me to the river.

This morning, as I sipped my chai, I was awakened by a tinge of heat up the back of the throat. Cinnamon. Some milk. A heady and earthy scent, like rustling paper and ink, like gently sifting soil, like the scent of old books, old photos, old vases, old metals. And I thought, yes, here I am, awake, in Birmingham, and like chai itself - I felt for a moment as if we were standing at the crossroads of empires. But then I came to as I watched scores of unmasked folks dressed in business casual, checking in for some kind of meeting, buzzing about HR specialists. What empire is this, I wondered, while Cesar leaned on the window and Yusuke had two meals and four bananas. An empire in decline.

At the house, we set up and it was noted, on the record, that Tony was ready to roll by 11:00 AM. Indeed, I could see that he was as ready as the dreams of the people whose minds he slipped into. Nikole let it be known that her basil lavender latte was all that. Then, she and Jennifer got in their seats and we got down to the business of Amazon, Bezos, and unionization. Jennifer explained all about the five flights of stairs, the cameras everywhere, the value of work, getting out of jail only once, getting benefits through the front door, and being robbed out the back. Time off task? Bathroom breaks? A fair union vote? Not happening.

Of course, it was also humid, and the sound of air conditioners blended with the cicadas, creating an insecto-mechanical orchestra of background sound. But not nearly as bad as yesterday, and for that, we gave silent thanks.

And then, lunch. I barely glanced at the menu when I saw Naimah's choice of the romaine and spinach salad with steak. That's it, I thought. Perfect. I immediately copied the order and sent it in. Well, I had imagined that at this point in the report, I'd be glowing about the blend of flavors, the perhaps a bit too salty yet tender meat, the fresh greens. But I made a critical error by not looking at the menu.

The dish specifically states that it comes with avocado. And I'm allergic to avocado. Not in the throat-closing-up-take-me-to-the-ER type of allergic, but more like the ohmygodImbeingstabbedinthestomachfourthousandtimes type. I thought I had parried the offense by picking out the evil green chunks but I'm pretty sure the steak was slathered in it. So, about an hour later, as we were headed toward Publix, I felt the first pang of regret, right in the belly. It was a slow crawl starting distant and small. Then, all at once, it was as if a bomb went off. It was as if I'd been slammed in the stomach by a pile driver. The pain was like an elephant standing on my stomach. Yusuke left to shoot some B-roll and I tried to meditate on the quality of my pain... Like a distant cry from a pit where horses once starved to death. Long story short - thankfully Quinton liberated all the teabags from the AirBnB which included the antidote - chamomile. After cold-brewing about 32 ounces of said flower and some alone time in the car, I got over the ordeal.

Back at the church, Tony and Christine rehearsed the walk, and there was rain, and there were umbrellas. Nikole then arrived, with new shoes, and reminded us why she's the host. Why make it look like we're going into the church? The gaze is all we need. Bird is the boss. Then we went into the park and I recorded the Alabama cicadas. These are different from Iowa cicadas... Harsher. How can I put it? It sounded like a thousand fingers walking across a million Italian tiles, never stopping, never letting up. Relentless, almost angry, like dozens of underfed lumberjacks using two-man saws trying to fell an entire forest.

We finished under the waning sun and were treated to a visceral retelling of the civil rights movement in Alabama by a local activist and former footsoldier. Protest brings attention to a problem. And then, sunset. It smoldered over the horizon., glowing a watery salmon orange. The sun bent across the horizon like a fisherman's palm across the surface of a lake. The last rays stretched to infinity, and the surface of the world ceased to reflect them. Soon, the light was gone, and shadows lay across the ground like a pool of melting blood. Jacked-up cars cruised the avenue as the cicadas continued to laugh. A muffled roar of engines, a whisper of tires on the asphalt, the crunch of gravel. We got it.

Dinner was delicious. Thank you.

Previously in Provincetown…

“First you smile, then you serve.” - Billy Porter

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Put in earplugs”

All good thoughts,
Avi

It’s that time of year in New York City when it’s still spring but at any moment you could get the most wretched and humid conditions one day and a freeze warning the next. And then, as if the great switch in the sky is flipped, it will be summer. It just happens like that; everyone is suddenly scrambling to install air conditioners and eyeing their bank accounts for AirBnB rentals outside the city limits.

Since our last meeting, I had a gastronomically challenged run in southern Ohio that featured some of the worst Asian-inspired food I’ve ever had, I got to run up and down the field during an XFL game, went back to Indianapolis for the NFL draft and recorded some of the deepest conversations about Buddhist philosophy. I also edited and mixed another feature documentary. And, of course, everyone knows it’s now pretty slow out there in production-land. And there’s a strike.

But the biggest news around here is that my short documentary film “American Santa” is premiering at the Provincetown International Film Festival next month. This will be the start of what I hope is a solid festival run and the prelude to a wider release come the holiday season. I’m finishing up the sound mix and am very proud of the film. It’s an indictment of racism in America wrapped in a Christmas movie. You will see it soon!

And now back to more fun south of the Mason-Dixon line…

Project: 1619 Project

Cast of Characters:
Nikole - Creator / EP
Shoshana - EP
Christine - Director
Tony - Director of Photography
Yusuke - Camera
Cesar - Gaffer
Naimah - Producer
Quinton - Producer

September 07, 2021
It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity

Well, labor day had most places around the hotel closed, so last night's dinner was an experience in Southern hospitality. Mugshots had all the ambiance of an airport sports bar with none of the convenience you'd expect from a beer-and-burger joint. I didn't go inside, but my sense was there was lots of shouting into mobile phones and a general atmosphere of a pharmacy. Upon asking about the local draft beer selection, I was informed that one was "sweet" and the other was "sour." Oh, okay. When further prodded for information, our server, who was also training someone, let us know that she didn't know much about beer because liquor was her "thing." She was also flummoxed by Yusuke's and mine order of seltzer because I guess around here that just means White Claw. And Anyhoo, they were also out of mushrooms, but not the kind that goes on the mushroom burger, swiss cheese, turkey burgers and well, food, because there was a football game - in the stadium next door - and everyone was taken by surprise that the fans were hungry?

But I digress. Christine and I went for the patty melt, which was an insult to that most basic of diner orders. Alas, apparently they were also out of sourdough bread because they tried to fake it by slicing the tops off some buns to make it look like... bread. Nice try. Naimah's turkey club was the platonic inverse of what she was expecting, of what anyone ought to expect. There was no thickly sliced fresh roasted turkey, no hint of cranberry and mayo... No, that turkey club sandwich was a walking apology, an anguished country ballad, a heartbroken '60s croon, the smell of someone's breath, a loogie on your shoe. Which is to say, it looked like straight school lunch. She did not finish it. Meanwhile, Cesar at his whole meal, as did I for that matter. Because while it was all kinds of wrongly made, it still was tasty and we were hungry. And the salsa tasted like it was straight from the "Tostitos" jar. Just like home? Tony said it all was "worse than expected." So, here's to overdelivering!

Today we rose early and by the time I got to the lobby, Billy Joel was once again singing "Movin' Out" over the speakers. The chai was warm and the croissant-wich was tasty, and I continued the hotel elevator security discussion with Naimah and Christine. Is it better to have elevators that require a key card to operate thereby keeping out unwanted intruders or ones that can close their doors quickly and get a person out of harm's way?

Out in Pratt City, at the end of the road, down the path, we set up for our scene with Doug. A pop-up tent went up as the yellow butterflies danced, the cicadas laughed and the gigantic spiders marched across the grass. A moth landed on my boom pole as I recorded the ambient sound. I shooed it away but it came back and so I watched it while listening to the insects and the train in the distance. It was small, its color almost translucent, like an image seen through black-and-white film. And I knew it was a moth and not a butterfly because moths keep their wings upright while butterflies spread them out while at rest.

Doug then gave us a master class in American corporate history and its capital roots in the antebellum convict leasing of labor. Truly a horrific landscape of the past, leading up to our very present. All those Carnegie libraries. Pittsburgh. New York. It's all built on top of this. All the systems, the criminal statutes, the private industry, the state, all interlocked in a terrible jigsaw. And of course, it was devilishly hot. The air was thick with humidity, and the sun rose and rose and rose as if it wanted to burn off the world. Sweat collected on Doug's brow, the heat poured from his body through his shirt. Oh man, it was hot, the humidity like the veins of the dead animal, plump, turgid, broken. We were all feeling it and did our best to continue with the discussion, and I imagined what it would have been like in one of those terrible labor camps.

And then, lunch in Birmingham. Urban Cookhouse is a head fake. What does "Shop Local, Eat Urban" even mean? What was local? What was urban? After the heat and the filming... it was too much to ponder. I got the most anodyne meal - a "local" wrap which in this case means greens, chicken, and egg. Totally forgettable. Tony said his mushrooms were good and that it was "better than last night" but then confessed to liking the salsa. Yusuke got the most popular dish and reported it to be "the driest chicken ever." Cesar's berry salad with shrimp was "not bad." The bathroom was in a bank vault and Shoshana does not like Dallas, Texas at all.

After all that we headed to Bessmer for B-Roll and portraiture. Somehow, even after having a discussion with Christine and Yusuke about not pressing the record button, I managed to NOT record the train barreling by the old station. Mea Culpa. I scrambled to get up and running and yet... there I was, staring at the record button after the train had left the station. I felt the shame on the roof of my mouth, like a heavy and cold stone, a terrible and cold regret. The cardinal sin. So ring the shame bell for me. Later, downtown, I did record some train sounds. Redemption.

Nikole then walked back and forth and got up and sat down enough times to make it a thing to talk about and then we were done. I got a shot of Willie on the bench. Yusuke checked out Air Jordans at Memory Lane.

Rodney Scott's BBQ renewed my faith in barbecue. Best I've had in years and although I was feeling badly about not having my mother's brisket for the Jewish New Year, Rodney's set me straight. Shoshana should have gotten an extra bag of pork rinds.

Quinton is our Crew Dad. Nikole is Bird. See you in the morning!

Will you be in Provincetown on June 16th?

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Is there something missing?”

All good thoughts,
Avi

Spring is in the air. Time for new projects, new ideas, planting seeds, and tending to growth. I've been deep in post-production on my short documentary, which is nearing completion. By the time the next edition of this newsletter comes out, I'll hopefully have a whole lot more to say about the film.

On the production front last month, let's see, I found myself in Las Vegas and on a stage with Billy Gibbons, Stephen Stills, Kevin Cronin, and Vince Gill. Then I had my mind blown apart over and over again for a week trying to grok some of the deepest thinkers on subjects ranging from Hinduism to transhumanism to the nature of consciousness. Rounding it out, I joined some excellent filmmaker friends on their food documentary, communing with Nick Offerman on a farm in Kentucky.

Back at home, I'm also sound editing and mixing a music-related feature doc, and as expected AI is eating the world.

Moving ahead, I thought that it was time to jump off the spaceship (although that'll get revisited at a later date), and move to a project that was most meaningful, now streaming on Hulu - The 1619 Project. Last month I went to The Apollo for a screening of the Music episode and got to catch up with some of the awesome people I worked with on it. American history is not what you learned in school.

Onward!

PS - We shot a lot of days, so these will be long. Savor the experience!

Project: 1619 Project

Cast of Characters:
Nikole - Creator / EP
Shoshana - EP
Jerry - Director of Photography
Coleman - Camera
Bety - Producer
Catie - Producer

August 30, 2021
America Is Ranch Dressing

The dawn of Iowa shone upon us as we got ready and loaded into the vehicles outside our former John Deere factory hotel. The quiche was cold and dry, but the chai latte was warm and sweet and like a comforting hug in a tall paper cup. I felt the golden window of the day begin to open, and after a brief meeting, we split up and B-Rolled the town.

My team went to the old soldier's memorial/veteran's memorial hall. We found the brick, and the flags were at half-mast. Then we went down to the river. The water was brown and churning, bisecting the city with the dexterity of a dancer, shuddering and furled like a snake. And it was high, lapping the stairs of the fishing area. I wondered what could be caught in such a place, seemingly filled with sulfurous rot and decay. And then Coleman saw it - a man walking along the bank, fishing rod in hand, seemingly trolling the waterway. For what, we could not discern; he spoke no English. A woman was camped beneath the overpass. Back up top, the fountain was turned on and the marble lions once again spewed forth their liquid quarry.

Downtown, all was quiet, even for a Monday. Which day is the busy day? Outside the courthouse, a patch of giant white mushrooms was blooming while American flags flapped in the occasional breeze. I thought about how once upon a time, the Earth was covered in giant fungi and no flags at all. Further down the road, the church bells rang and I saw how one could go directly from the house of worship to the courthouse, the lawyer's office, the bank, and then to the bail bond store. Respectfully, the Human Rights office is also on the way.

And then, lunch. We ordered in from Cottonwood Canyon, and I went for the Jerk Chicken Salad. Coleman was dismayed by the unavailability of the bean burger, but he seemed satisfied with his second choice. The Jerk Chicken could have been spicier, in my opinion, but with the fresh greens, it worked and was plenty juicy. Jerry had the same and seemed to concur. Points off for including ranch dressing. I mean, I know we're in Iowa, and ranch is America's number one condiment, but it really has no place in Jamaican food. Full disclosure, I took the "up for grabs" curry rice bowl to my room, which I just ate for dinner. Solid meal, no complaints. Jerry observed that the plants in the courtyard are fake and yet appear to be watered, like soldiers in the foxholes of a lost war, beautiful but abandoned.

After lunch, we headed out to meet the uncles. The sun was a problem, so many silks were assembled and raised. Jerry beat Coleman in a knot-tying competition. And then, everyone sat down for some real family talk. There was discussion about the house, life in Mississippi, and life in Waterloo. Then there was a car accident right on the corner. All I heard was a massive concussive sound. What I saw were two cars that had certainly collided. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt. But who has an intersection with no stop signs next to a playground? What kind of local government is this? Thanks, America.

After the fire department, police, towing company, and everyone else came to help clear the scene, we sat down again. We learned about time in the Military, what it's like to work at Deere and Tyson, and how Bosnians got ahead, while black folks still can't get a loan. The sun set, the silks came down, and we closed out the conversation with a wide shot.

September 1, 2021
Dog Shank Afternoon

Before we get to the day, there was a request that I include the fact that some of us ate dinner at Incredible India last night. True to its name, it was actually incredible. The Chicken Vindaloo was tangy and spicy and well balanced. Ditto for the garlic naan. What shot us over the Iowa moon, though, was the dessert - Gulab Jamun. Warm balls of smooth lightly spiced dough stuffed with a wonderfully rich, gooey molasses-like filling that leaves a long, sweet aftertaste. It was so so so good we couldn't understand it, but just kept eating it all the while wondering what was sold across the street at "Cartridge World."

Back to today. We got tested in the gear room and then breakfasted in the cool morning air. The chai was extra sweet this morning and I was reminded that Fall is just around the corner now that we've broached September. Meanwhile, in the lobby, America grabbed and go'd their breakfasts under the baleful stares and gaping, riotous mouths of Fox News on the monitors. The woman behind the counter cautioned several guests not to microwave their breakfast sandwiches more than two minutes or "the cheese goes boom.”

When we got to the apartment complex, two white ladies exiting the elevator looked up at us and said "you're here already?" Noting that Donna Summers lives down the hall, we set up in Ms. D'arcie's apartment and sat down with Nikole and Shimere. The tears came early and were expected. Very real talk about real people. About the wages for a lifetime of hard work. About getting ahead. About caring for each other and those around you and living the best you can. The pandemic opened people's eyes. The house is at risk.

Then we headed to El Patron for a "light" lunch that I knew wouldn't end well. I do like Mexican food very much, but it's often hit-or-miss on the road. I'm putting this one --

Okay, just got back from the dinner party. Let's just forget about lunch. It was basic and Jerry wasn't having it with the no substitutions or choices. His quesadilla was as big as a large pizza, my fajitas were meh, and yet for hours afterward, I felt like I had eaten a goat. Anyway, as Nikole said, it's been the longest three days of her life, and today her uncle almost had to shank her mom's dog. And that's a sentence I've never written before. So, fast forward to Larry talking about fishing, Bety probing for details, Shoshana loving talking to lawyers, there was a basketball on the court, Catie made some half-court throws, Jerry was Hercules, I did my bloated best and then we were done for the day.

Back at the dinner, we were reminded of our bond and gave thanks for the food and fellowship in the room. The food was delicious. I especially loved the dry ribs, the mac and cheese, and the potato salad. Everyone at my table had seconds. Nikole learned that Maker's Mark comes in a family-sized bottle. So while "Oh Honey" and "Last Two Dollars" played, the spirit was in the room and we were all lifted away, into the cool Iowa night.

Coming Soon:

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Tidy Up.”

All good thoughts,
Avi

What have I done this month? Let’s see - I witnessed raging anti-semitism in Bucks County at a school board meeting, I tailed some New York City developers charged with creating an entertainment venue on a ship, and saw a new head coach installed in an NFL team. And when I wasn’t rolling sound, I was deep in the edit on my short documentary - with excellent guidance and help from Alexandra. Stay tuned for more info on that project. So, in general, you know, the usual.

I also turned fifty, and in customary fashion, I was on the road while it happened. In Indianapolis. So there.

All is well with the commander.

Project: Branson

Cast of Characters:
Richard - Himself
Sam - Himself
Chris - Director
Ryann - Producer
Ro - Assistant Camera
Ben - Director of Photography
John - Gaffer

June 26, 2021
Loo-Loo Clubland

A bit of a later start today, and yet I was awoken before my alarm was set to go off by the thunder and rain of an intermittent tropical squall. I opened my curtains and a flash of lightning lit up the sky over the edge of the world, illuminating the fissure of the night. The thunder was like a wolf on a chain, loose, playful, and ready for adventure, while the rain was like a slow, gurgling brook, quietly meandering through the wild grasses.

As I arose I thought to myself, today will be a great day no matter what, because I have everything I need to withstand the elements. Rain cover for mixer - check. Rain jacket - check. Waterproof bag - I'll improvise (thank you, Ro!) But before heading out, and due to the early rising, I made my way into the villa kitchen and prepared myself a green tea and some granola with yogurt. I knew there was a "breakfast sandwich" for me somewhere in the Headland House, but I honestly don't really know where that is. The granola, smelling like raisins and cinnamon, was filling, and even after I noticed that the expiration date on the yogurt was from December, I felt fortified and ready to capture all the sound, everywhere.

Once on Necker, we jammed to get ready and then headed out with Sir Richard on what was to be a five-hour tour of the island. We saw lemurs, went sleuthing for giant tortoises (there are seven), observed the flamingos (and seagull) feeding, spotted scarlet Ibises, cooed at the runner ducks, and melted by the miniature horses. Oh, and there are bunnies for the grandkids. We also saw all the houses, Richard donned his crown on the outdoor loo, showed us what Necker cost to buy in 1952, and had several coffee and teas along the way. Chris nailed when he said it was like "Jurassic Park," with all the birds flying in a flock across the pond as we made our way. Totally amazing.

At the Elder's Temple, I noticed there was something off with Richard's transmitter - it wasn't sending any sound. When I inquired, he told me he had had a "little accident" and it had dropped into the toilet. Well, of course, this isn't the first time I've had equipment damaged, and while this could happen to absolutely anyone, I will admit that the list of folks who have done this specific maneuver includes only one other entry - Ricky Martin. Welcome to the club!

And then, lunch. Once again, the food was simple yet refined. A caesar salad. Roasted sweet potatoes. Bread, butter, potato chips, and a brownie for dessert. What else can be said?

Richard and the family had gone off-island for lunch, so the crew was left to stand by until they returned and had a proper after-meal siesta. Several of us also dozed off and then, with the help of Helen, Ben, Ro, and myself went to the watersports area for the first lesson in kite surfing. I'm not sure if I was alone in my misconception, and while it makes perfect sense now, I had just assumed we were going in the water. But no, you first have to learn how to handle the kite on land. So, we had a proper kiting lesson - first with the trainer kite and then with a standard-issue marine kite. It was thrilling! And yes, I think we'd all like to stay a bit longer to continue our studies. Ro even considered applying to be the junior concrete-road-palm-leaf embosser just to stick around a bit more.

After all this hard work, it was time to... get back to work. Once again, Richard was in the interview seat and Chris was behind the lens probing for insights into the mind of the man behind Virgin Brides. Okay, so that was a fail, but you cannot succeed unless you try, and the list of failures is always going to be longer than the list of successes. Just make sure the successes are really well done. Like seat-back videos! Or flying through Syndey harbor attached to a helicopter. But not like jumping off the roof of the Palms in Vegas. In the end, your legacy is how you live on through your children. You want to leave this Earth having done more good than harm. It's really about how your family and friends will remember you. Richard would like to feel like he made a difference, and he's planning to do more in the next twenty years. 

After wrap, we boated back to Moskito. As I stood on my balcony, I wondered if I'd have time to go in the ocean and then I saw Ro and John paddling about the cove below. Quickly, I donned my trunks and ran toward the shore. Ro got a snorkel and facemask and went off to explore the caves and schools of fish around the bend. John spotted a sea urchin. The water was blindingly crystal clear. It flowed through the imagination and rectified Neptune's straight lines. I waded out a bit and then floated on my back, arms outstretched. I closed my eyes and let the saltwater surround my body, weightless, my ears dipping below the surface, silent. The water gently churned around me, its warmth like being in a bed, a comforter, a soft cloud. I felt at home in the brine, buoyant, free. I felt at peace, and when I opened my eyes I was reborn.

After a pina colada, Ben re-emerged with the post-massage aura of a beatified saint. He looked the same, but now he was glowing. His cheeks were pink and he walked with a bounce. He too had been reborn but through the kneading hands of an expert technician.

Dinner was the best fish sticks in the universe, plump and thick; they were the platonic ideal. And there was wine.

Tomorrow - last day, best day!

Also Of Interest

This sounds like an alt-version of “The Last Of Us,” but apparently a “whiskey fungus” has encrusted an entire Tennessee town. Drunk zombies?

Real estate for the apocalypse.

New Jersey gets everything wrong via Bon Jovi. Even Ed Harris.

Oblique Strategy Of The Day

“Shut the door and listen from outside.”

All good thoughts,
Avi