MuchoMas
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CLICK HERE TO VISIT MUCHOMASPRODUCTIONS.COM!
Mucho Mas Productions is a not-for profit arts organization founded in 2004 as a way of bringing independent arts, music and writing to the public eye.
Since then MMP has evolved into a short fiction and non-fiction story publisher, a production company, and a collaborative and supportive agency for the arts.
We have published the writing and work of over 40 young creatives, as well as helped in the promotion of several Los Angeles-based events and organizations.
We are, in short, as involved as possible in just about everything we find interesting and relevant, and have a number of special projects, including "Gift to LA", an ongoing public installation work of random generosity.
We also have a constantly evolving directory of links to artists, bands, galleries, music venues, and media in Los Angeles & abroad.
If you are one of the above and want us to link to you, please email us at muchomasproductions@yahoo.com.
WE SAY: GET INVOLVED IN YOUR CITY. AND MAKE IT QUIRKY!
Joined: 27-OCT-06
Last Online: APR 25 2007 10:32AM
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MY NAME IS JACKIE BEAT
Director: Randolph Mark Viverito
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Film Maker's Blog
Long time no talkies
Jan 09, 2007 02:28PM
Hey all- Just popping by to wish a happy new year.
Here's to 2007 being:
1. the year we get out of Iraq
2. the year we get nationalized health care
3. the year we sign some version of the kyoto agreement
4. the year we see mass purchase of hybrid vehicles & solar powered energy systems.
5. the year we lift the embargo on cuba.
Here's to 2007 being:
1. the year we get out of Iraq
2. the year we get nationalized health care
3. the year we sign some version of the kyoto agreement
4. the year we see mass purchase of hybrid vehicles & solar powered energy systems.
5. the year we lift the embargo on cuba.
In memoriam... Tom...
Nov 08, 2006 02:59PM
We're sorry to lose you...
False Start
by thomas behrman
I am a sick and wretched man: all that another human being could or would ever want to know about me is summed up in those seven words.
It was one thirty in the morning and hot.
Phillip Pickleman had never considered himself to be much of a conversationalist; the little bit of wit he had had mostly been acquired in reaction to his brother’s endless taunts.
“There is an infinity of parallel universes,” I said, “each of which differs from this one by a second’s decision made by each member, so that in each universe each person is following a slightly different trajectory towards a slightly different goal.”
It was brilliant, he thought; a new kind of painting—that—but no, what was most brilliant about it was that it wasn’t new at all.
“Someone already wrote that,” she said, “I read it in the New Yorker.”
The street was dirty—a crumpled page from the Sunday paper blew across a stretch of sidewalk while the lone pedestrian walked too quickly through the darkness; his hands in his pockets, towards some uncertain and suspicious destination.
My name is Johnathan Ishmael Epstein, but you can call me Ishmael for short, everyone does.
“I like beer,” he said, “it tastes good in the heat.”
Wade thought about the stretch of woods that divided the farm from the main highway; that wood that his family had owned for six generations of Thorntons, fought for through the blood of his ancestral heir who had wrested it from some savage and lost his left eye in the process; the man had six hours to cross it—six hours before sun-up that was, unless the dogs got him first; but Wade thought, my brother will be waiting on the other side with a shotgun— though no true brother but more of mongrel and practically a halfwit at that— so long as he remembers the code taught to us since childhood and relayed to him three days ago when I went into town.
The motion sensors had detected an intruder; Robert leapt from the van, pistol in hand.
This work does not pretend to be a scholarly study of the Dominatrix/ Slave relationship in the sado-masochistic dungeon; it is, rather, a labor of love.
The question of the subjectivity of any universal Truth neatly resolves itself when one realizes the subjectivity of that very same question, and thus, through a neat circular leap, Truth reestablishes herself.
I didn’t like Gomer much; the main thing that cemented our friendship was the fact that I bought dope from him.
And I thought yes, this is what it would feel like to be truly free, here on the boat with her, and the peach orange sun setting down on us in the breeze—this would be it, like this all the time, with no job waiting or concern of my mother’s illness, but surely that is the way of the world (and how her thighs look, the white flesh like cream).
He thought about what the man had told him the night before and all of a sudden it made sense.
Jackie Beat @ AFI Fest
Nov 03, 2006 11:43AM
If there is anything you see at AFI Fest this week, make it Jackie Beat! Wednesday night, or thursday afternoon, as you see fit.
Our Gift to LA Project- Box #1
Oct 30, 2006 11:32AM
We wonder if anyone picked it up...?
We have placed inside this box:
* 1 blue stuffed animal
* 1 pack of green scented candles
* 2 small japanese zipper pulls in plastic eggs
* 1 small "smorkin labbit" vinyl figure by Kid Robot
* 3 mucho mas productions stickers
* 2 small japanese magazines with stickers
* 1 original 4"x6" limited edition print
* 1 self-addressed and stamped postcard with the question: "Please Answer: Do you feel socially satisfied?"
Beaner by David Navarro
Oct 29, 2006 01:23PM
This piece is entitled "Beaner", and is original content by David Navarro.
“I am drowning in the stench in what is my own putrid life.” This is how he starts his note. There are so many more feelings running through his head, through the glaze of alcohol, through the saliva-laden words that stick to his pen. His gun nestled beside him highlighted by the lamp that sits close, lighting his scribbled passages.
Only seventeen and he is trapped. Only seventeen and wedged. Only Seventeen and stuck. He thought things would be so very different, but up to now it has all been the same unbearable, daunting, miserable existence that he calls his life. Mother, church, god nor the usual beating from his dad could save him. Salvation he could never find, grasp nor attain, as he is too far-gone and as all has abandoned him; he is alone. There is no calm of arms in a church full of empty pews or phallic words coming from a stiff podium. There is no security in leather and steel penetrating his denim clad hide.
He has, by all means, found a new liquid spirit, an eighty proof soul. Wrapped in the leather of his hand.
“Make it stop, Make it stop Make it stop” he scrawls over and over. Through his tears he can barely see what he is writing but continues anyway. He mind runs webbed with an arachnid of memories reminiscent of denials;
“Lati-no” – “His Panic” – “Chica-no” – “Mexi-can’t”. He deliberately says his words with an immigrated accent. Mimicking those who have made fun of him in the past. He has ignored it up until today. It has got too him for some reason, it has got to him deep. He knows where he lives, he knows where he is from, he sees it everyday, spray painted on the walls around him, but as he has always said, “I don’t lay claim, it’s just where I live.”
He continues to write. “I have no home, how can I be Mexican, when you mexi-don’t let me. You want me to be like you in Baggies, white t-shirt and baldhead…Vato. You will only claim me on your corner “En tu tierra”. Even though the line crossed you. You have crossed the line. He takes a drink from his glass and a hit of his cigarette, “Mi Palabras blend between English and Spanish, Spanglish is a dialect. It worked in this house.” However, that didn’t matter any more. That didn’t mean anything to those on the street corners. That didn’t mean anything to the schoolteachers. That didn’t mean anything to the girls’ parents. They just saw him as short, scrawny, dirty and brown. Even though his hair was always, perfect. Even though he was well manicured. Even though he was always well dressed. Even though he spoke with perfect English.
To his mother he was ugly. To his father he was stupid. To the other kids, he was a sellout. To the girls’ parents, he was Mexican. Even though he was born in America. Even though he has never been to Mexico or had the desire to even go other than, the usual jaunts to Tijuana to get totally shit faced and screw a few whores just like every other teenager. Even though he worked smart and studied hard.
Nothing was good enough…for anyone.
He wonders how do you shed something that you have no control over. He has morph into a person with a lost identity. It is difficult for him to ignore, as he is constantly slammed in the back with life’s 2 x 4.
He once ran away when he was twelve years old. He was on the street for a week. There he learned the value of friendship and the meaning of family. He had friends to help him out because he had the weed. His family never bothered to find out where he was or how he was doing.
He picks up the gun that is nestled beside him, highlighted by the lamp that sits close, lighting as he writes his scribbled passages. Stares at it silver speckled steel. It shines back this is either be the light of the lamp or the tears that fills his ups. The steel sparkles. His reflection is in the revolver.
He pulls the mechanism to check the bullets. All six are loaded and in position. He laughs to himself as he thinks that all he really needs is one. He takes another swig of his liquid spirit. He looks at the words scrawled on paper spread out about the floor. He thinks, I write, but for who. My voice falls silent upon the masses who think I am too brown to be listened to and too white to be heard.”
He presses the cold steel to his head. To the father, the son and the holy shit. He puts the gun down. Stares at it again. Takes a swig of his liquid Jesus. Takes a drag from his cigarette.
All this is because he liked a girl. All this is because he held her hand as he walked her home from school. All this is because he kissed the girl. All this because he liked the girl. All this is because when her father saw him with his little girl, he told his seventeen year old daughter to go inside and went nose to nose with him and said, “I don’t want some Beaner dating my daughter!”
He cocks the gun…he closes his eyes…the phone rings.
© David Navarro
For more by David Navarro, and to read stuff from other independent writers in California and abroad, visit MUCHOMASPRODUCTIONS.COM!
“I am drowning in the stench in what is my own putrid life.” This is how he starts his note. There are so many more feelings running through his head, through the glaze of alcohol, through the saliva-laden words that stick to his pen. His gun nestled beside him highlighted by the lamp that sits close, lighting his scribbled passages.
Only seventeen and he is trapped. Only seventeen and wedged. Only Seventeen and stuck. He thought things would be so very different, but up to now it has all been the same unbearable, daunting, miserable existence that he calls his life. Mother, church, god nor the usual beating from his dad could save him. Salvation he could never find, grasp nor attain, as he is too far-gone and as all has abandoned him; he is alone. There is no calm of arms in a church full of empty pews or phallic words coming from a stiff podium. There is no security in leather and steel penetrating his denim clad hide.
He has, by all means, found a new liquid spirit, an eighty proof soul. Wrapped in the leather of his hand.
“Make it stop, Make it stop Make it stop” he scrawls over and over. Through his tears he can barely see what he is writing but continues anyway. He mind runs webbed with an arachnid of memories reminiscent of denials;
“Lati-no” – “His Panic” – “Chica-no” – “Mexi-can’t”. He deliberately says his words with an immigrated accent. Mimicking those who have made fun of him in the past. He has ignored it up until today. It has got too him for some reason, it has got to him deep. He knows where he lives, he knows where he is from, he sees it everyday, spray painted on the walls around him, but as he has always said, “I don’t lay claim, it’s just where I live.”
He continues to write. “I have no home, how can I be Mexican, when you mexi-don’t let me. You want me to be like you in Baggies, white t-shirt and baldhead…Vato. You will only claim me on your corner “En tu tierra”. Even though the line crossed you. You have crossed the line. He takes a drink from his glass and a hit of his cigarette, “Mi Palabras blend between English and Spanish, Spanglish is a dialect. It worked in this house.” However, that didn’t matter any more. That didn’t mean anything to those on the street corners. That didn’t mean anything to the schoolteachers. That didn’t mean anything to the girls’ parents. They just saw him as short, scrawny, dirty and brown. Even though his hair was always, perfect. Even though he was well manicured. Even though he was always well dressed. Even though he spoke with perfect English.
To his mother he was ugly. To his father he was stupid. To the other kids, he was a sellout. To the girls’ parents, he was Mexican. Even though he was born in America. Even though he has never been to Mexico or had the desire to even go other than, the usual jaunts to Tijuana to get totally shit faced and screw a few whores just like every other teenager. Even though he worked smart and studied hard.
Nothing was good enough…for anyone.
He wonders how do you shed something that you have no control over. He has morph into a person with a lost identity. It is difficult for him to ignore, as he is constantly slammed in the back with life’s 2 x 4.
He once ran away when he was twelve years old. He was on the street for a week. There he learned the value of friendship and the meaning of family. He had friends to help him out because he had the weed. His family never bothered to find out where he was or how he was doing.
He picks up the gun that is nestled beside him, highlighted by the lamp that sits close, lighting as he writes his scribbled passages. Stares at it silver speckled steel. It shines back this is either be the light of the lamp or the tears that fills his ups. The steel sparkles. His reflection is in the revolver.
He pulls the mechanism to check the bullets. All six are loaded and in position. He laughs to himself as he thinks that all he really needs is one. He takes another swig of his liquid spirit. He looks at the words scrawled on paper spread out about the floor. He thinks, I write, but for who. My voice falls silent upon the masses who think I am too brown to be listened to and too white to be heard.”
He presses the cold steel to his head. To the father, the son and the holy shit. He puts the gun down. Stares at it again. Takes a swig of his liquid Jesus. Takes a drag from his cigarette.
All this is because he liked a girl. All this is because he held her hand as he walked her home from school. All this is because he kissed the girl. All this because he liked the girl. All this is because when her father saw him with his little girl, he told his seventeen year old daughter to go inside and went nose to nose with him and said, “I don’t want some Beaner dating my daughter!”
He cocks the gun…he closes his eyes…the phone rings.
© David Navarro
For more by David Navarro, and to read stuff from other independent writers in California and abroad, visit MUCHOMASPRODUCTIONS.COM!
The Muse in Bannish's Basement by John Spudich
Oct 27, 2006 03:46PM
This is an excerpt from "The Muse in Bannish's Basement" by John Spudich.
This is a funny little story. It is the story of Bannish Padrigal. More specifically, it is the story of how he managed—without an army, and without wisdom—to tear an angel of song from the clouds, clamp her round the neck with a dirty dog collar, and chain her to his desk in the basement.
An unassuming man. Balding. Bannish. He worked in statistics for Wells Fargo at a cramped desk far from windows. He came to this windowless space more often than not in the same bland and boiled orange sweater (the color of a couch from somebody’s den in the 1970s that has been dragged up and left outside in the sun). Over time, co-workers began to identify him by this sweater, though unconsciously at first, and not due solely to the frequency of his wearing it—rather it was something about the off-kilter color, both eccentric and uninteresting; something about the pattern of the worn patches, communicating not so much steady use as steady misuse; and something about that particular pitch of fuzziness… It took the genius of the resident cartoonist of the cubicles to first clearly and publicly identify that Bannish was his sweater, was even overshadowed by his sweater—as his sweater was but a more visual, accessible, and somewhat exaggerated representation of his public self.
Bannish had a handsome wife. At Christmas parties, or what-have-you, co-workers and friends were always surprised—if it was their first time to meet his mate—to see a well-shaped woman, model tall, come through the door on their old friend’s arm, smiling, with lips fat exaggerated sultry and her dark eyes gorgeous to the lash. The truth was: Dhalia and Bannish had known each other since they were children. Her family was by some strong cultural coil adjoined to his own. In the old world, the two families had banded together for reasons of survival, and American culture had not yet caught up with the Bannish and Dhalia generation (first generation Americans, children of the 60s) and had not yet asserted its demand that men find women of commensurate physical beauty (unless one of the pair has attained a somewhat deeper level of superficial quality, of course—being a high-earning, high-status doctor or lawyer, perhaps). So Bannish had married the woman destined for him from his birth. And no one at the time had known that she would grow to such handsome proportions, nor that he would attain such a middling mid-level stature or that his hair would be half gone at 40 and his persona perfectly representable, almost reproducible, by a limp, off-kilter, uninteresting, and vaguely fuzzy orange sweater.
But as every new friend and co-worker quickly came to realize, this handsome wife failed, somewhat tragically, to visit upon her mate the borrowed fine light of her beauty. Unlike some couples, say, where we find the pair sitting together with glasses of wine on a couch at a party insulated by the attractiveness of the one that smears somehow across the both, Dhalia’s handsomeness merely managed to highlight the total improbability of her husband’s ever having seduced such a partner in the first place. Indeed, it would always appear to our poor hero, from the beginning of his highly artificial pre-determined courtship to the very end of his days, that on-lookers at restaurants and supermarkets were always in the process of stifling laughter at the awkward picture of their coupledom.
This has been an excerpt from "The Muse in Bannish's Basement", by San Francisco-based writer John Spudich. For more of this story, and to read stuff from other independent writers in California and abroad, visit MUCHOMASPRODUCTIONS.COM!
This is a funny little story. It is the story of Bannish Padrigal. More specifically, it is the story of how he managed—without an army, and without wisdom—to tear an angel of song from the clouds, clamp her round the neck with a dirty dog collar, and chain her to his desk in the basement.
An unassuming man. Balding. Bannish. He worked in statistics for Wells Fargo at a cramped desk far from windows. He came to this windowless space more often than not in the same bland and boiled orange sweater (the color of a couch from somebody’s den in the 1970s that has been dragged up and left outside in the sun). Over time, co-workers began to identify him by this sweater, though unconsciously at first, and not due solely to the frequency of his wearing it—rather it was something about the off-kilter color, both eccentric and uninteresting; something about the pattern of the worn patches, communicating not so much steady use as steady misuse; and something about that particular pitch of fuzziness… It took the genius of the resident cartoonist of the cubicles to first clearly and publicly identify that Bannish was his sweater, was even overshadowed by his sweater—as his sweater was but a more visual, accessible, and somewhat exaggerated representation of his public self.
Bannish had a handsome wife. At Christmas parties, or what-have-you, co-workers and friends were always surprised—if it was their first time to meet his mate—to see a well-shaped woman, model tall, come through the door on their old friend’s arm, smiling, with lips fat exaggerated sultry and her dark eyes gorgeous to the lash. The truth was: Dhalia and Bannish had known each other since they were children. Her family was by some strong cultural coil adjoined to his own. In the old world, the two families had banded together for reasons of survival, and American culture had not yet caught up with the Bannish and Dhalia generation (first generation Americans, children of the 60s) and had not yet asserted its demand that men find women of commensurate physical beauty (unless one of the pair has attained a somewhat deeper level of superficial quality, of course—being a high-earning, high-status doctor or lawyer, perhaps). So Bannish had married the woman destined for him from his birth. And no one at the time had known that she would grow to such handsome proportions, nor that he would attain such a middling mid-level stature or that his hair would be half gone at 40 and his persona perfectly representable, almost reproducible, by a limp, off-kilter, uninteresting, and vaguely fuzzy orange sweater.
But as every new friend and co-worker quickly came to realize, this handsome wife failed, somewhat tragically, to visit upon her mate the borrowed fine light of her beauty. Unlike some couples, say, where we find the pair sitting together with glasses of wine on a couch at a party insulated by the attractiveness of the one that smears somehow across the both, Dhalia’s handsomeness merely managed to highlight the total improbability of her husband’s ever having seduced such a partner in the first place. Indeed, it would always appear to our poor hero, from the beginning of his highly artificial pre-determined courtship to the very end of his days, that on-lookers at restaurants and supermarkets were always in the process of stifling laughter at the awkward picture of their coupledom.
This has been an excerpt from "The Muse in Bannish's Basement", by San Francisco-based writer John Spudich. For more of this story, and to read stuff from other independent writers in California and abroad, visit MUCHOMASPRODUCTIONS.COM!
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jam band mockumentary by icon les claypool? eyes popping out of head with excitement!
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MY NAME IS JACKIE BEAT
Director: Randolph Mark Viverito
Recently Visited Pages
Trade Thoughts with MuchoMas
You got some crazy stuff in here! LOVE it! Quirk is what I'm all about.
Nice to know you!
Beli
beli Mar 14, 2007 11:24PM
Yes, ONE poetry blog (my poem-a-day blog) was NOT enough,
Read a POEM at HTTP://my-poem-a-day.blogspot.com or
HELP me WRITE a poem by visiting my
Automated-Poetry-Machine™ blog where YOU
supply:
A NAME:
A Topic:
and
A feeling
And a POEM will be written JUST for you
http://automated.poem.machine.blogspot.com
markbnj
thanks again
markbnj Jan 12, 2007 09:04AM
tabloidart Jan 09, 2007 03:12PM
How's it going?
P
paulette Dec 19, 2006 10:55AM
I am venkat and i made a forum site for filmmakers .
since the site is new, i am myself collecting work profile , official websites of few involved in filmmaking to post in the site.If you are interested please post your work experience , profile or about your film projects at ----------> www.MyFilmmaking.com < ----------- in category that suits you.This is just a small effort .so the site may not be perfect and useful atpresent.It will take sometime for me to really make the site helpful for filmmakers.
thanks for your time
http://www.myfilmmaking.com
venkat
myfilmmakingdotcom Nov 29, 2006 07:39AM
markj Nov 28, 2006 02:31PM
markj Nov 13, 2006 03:50PM
markj Nov 10, 2006 10:36AM
markj Nov 07, 2006 09:13AM
Thanks for visiting my page. If you click on the 'Movies' tab at the top of the filmmakers blog, you'll find the trailer. I've spent the day trying to upload a good quality version through you-tube but it wasn't happening. Hope you like it.
I like banner 1. Very to the point and offers more than the second.
What evetually happened to the gift? Over here the bomb squad would be on it.
Check you later.
P
paulette Oct 31, 2006 02:16PM
markj Oct 31, 2006 10:31AM
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richmanclubonline Oct 27, 2006 07:34PM
thanks for the add.
Keep in touch in Audience!
richmanclubonline Oct 27, 2006 07:32PM
Wish you the best...
jam64 Oct 27, 2006 03:42PM