Park City, UT— Sundance Institute announced today the program of short films selected to screen at the
2009 Sundance Film Festival. This year the Festival’s Short Film Program comprises a record 96 short films
from 5,632 submissions, from U.S. and international filmmakers. Submissions grew by 10% over last year.
The 2009 Sundance Film Festival runs January 15-25 in Park City, Salt Lake City, Ogden, and Sundance,
Utah.

“The shorts program at Sundance has long been a place to discover new talent, and this year’s directors are
no exception,” said John Cooper, Sundance Film Festival Director of Programming. “We are seeing very
accomplished filmmaking, with some of the most entertaining and engaging films in the Festival.”

“It is indicative of the quality of the work that we programmed a record 96 films this year. The program is
terrific from top to bottom, with a nice balance of different genres, tones and styles,” said Trevor Groth,
Sundance Film Festival Senior Programmer. “From clever animation and really funny performances to
provocative subject matters and completely bizarre imagery and stories, this year’s filmmakers are truly
original storytellers. We are thrilled to be able to present them in theatres at the Festival and a selection of
them online through iTunes for those who can’t make it to Park City.”

Short films screen in Festival theatres prior to a feature film or as part of one of the Festival’s eight short film
programs. During the Festival, a Short Film Jury awards prizes based on outstanding achievement and merit
in U.S. and International Short Filmmaking. The 2009 Short Film Program Awards Ceremony will be held
Tuesday, January 20th.

This year, the Sundance Film Festival will highlight an exclusive selection of 10 short films over 10 days on
the iTunes Store (www.iTunes.com). All 10 films will be available as FREE downloads beginning January
15 and running through January 25, 2009. Sundance has partnered with Shorts International to provide
digital distribution services and encoding services to the selection of 2009 films.

The short films selected for the 2009 Sundance Film Festival are:

U.S. SHORT FILMS
This year’s 47 U.S. short films were selected from a record 3,267 submissions. This year’s program includes
an adaptation of an Elmore Leonard short story; a comedy about questionable spaghetti recipes; the newest
work by an Oscar-nominated filmmaker; a haunting animation about WWI, a documentary portrait on the
fascinating short life of the actor who played Fredo in The Godfather; an original recorded monologue of a
Harvey Milk speech; and a documentary from the famed director of Weather Underground about one of
China’s first massive shopping malls.

U.S. Dramatic Shorts
Abbie Cancelled (Directors: Dumb Bunny)—Two couples who have never met find themselves engaged in
an awkward dinner after their mutual friends cancel at the last second.

Acting for the Camera (Director: Justin Nowell; Screenwriter: Thomas Nowell)—An acting class. Today’s
scene: the orgasm from ‘When Harry Met Sally.’

Asshole (Director: Chadd Harbold; Screenwriter: Bryan Gaynor)—Vincent Allen goes to the doctor for a
diagnosis. The diagnosis: he’s an asshole.

Boutonniere (Director: Coley Sohn)—A dark comedy revolving around a simple teenage girl’s attempts to
survive her overbearing mother’s exuberant plans for a prom she’d rather not attend.

Choices (Director: Rashaad Ernesto Green)—Explores a young man’s thought process as he makes love to
his girlfriend.

Concerto (Director: Filippo Conz; Screenwriter: Jon Haller)—A drama about the lengths men will go to find a
moment of grace in a violent world.

Copper On The Chopping Block (Director: Kai Orion)—Tormented by the cultural reality he finds himself in,
Yalmer plots revenge upon a close relative.

Countertransference (Director: Madeleine Olnek;Screenwriters: Madeleine Olnek and Cast)—A comedy
about an awkward woman with assertiveness problems who seeks the questionable help of a therapist.

The Dirty Ones (Director: Brent Stewart)—Two Mennonite sisters are traveling throughout Southern states
with the body of their dead grandmother lying in the trunk bed.

HUG (Director: Khary Jones)—Drew is a musician with a contract ready to sign. When Asa, his friend and
manager, realizes Drew is off his meds the across-town drive to sign the contract becomes significantly more
complicated.

Knife Point (Director: Carlo Mirabella-Davis)—An evangelical family passing through upstate New York
gives a ride to an unusual traveling knife salesman.

Little Canyon (Director: Olivia Silver)—Greta’s dad is moving the family cross-country. Promising a
California paradise he packs half the household into a dented station wagon. All that’s missing is Mom.

Little Minx Exquisite Corpse: Rope A Dope (Director: Laurent Briet)—Alana, a 10-year-old bad-ass little
girl goes head to head with a professional boxer in a jump rope contest.

Little Minx Exquisite Corpse: She Walked Calmly Disappearing Into The Darkness (Director: Malik
Hassan Sayeed)—A young man tries to sort out what has happened during the chaos of a street side
shooting.

The Nature Between Us (Director: William Campbell; Screenwriter: Trey Hock)—Radical dudes, mega
babes and a secret crush stumble into a neon-drenched universal oneness.

Nobody Knows You, Nobody Gives a Damn (Director: Lee Stratford; Screenwriter: Rebecca Thomas)—A
young mother struggling with post-partum depression inadvertently connects with her infant child through
attempts to sort out her sexual relationships.

Our Neck Of The Woods (Director: Rob Connolly)—Bob Underwood’s mundane life manufacturing plastic
lawn-ornament deer is disrupted by an enchanting Georgian (the country) refugee whom Bob decides to
rescue–whether she needs it or not.

Pencil Face (Director: Christian Simmons)—A young girl makes friends with an unlikely being able to bring
her dreams to life. But behind his smile lurks something unsettling.

Sparks (Director: Joseph Gordon-Levitt)—The story of a former rock and roll goddess who may or may not
have burnt her house down. Adapted from the writings of crime novelist Elmore Leonard.

Predisposed (Director: Philip Dorling; Screenwriters: Philip Dorling, Ryan Nyswaner)—A conservative son is
pulled into the messy mission of helping his manipulative drug addicted mother score. In working together
they realize they’re not so different, and that some personal qualities are deeply embedded in our genes.

Protect You + Me (Director: Brady Corbet)—A reminder of a long-forgotten event, combined with a
challenging situation, provokes a man to extreme action.

Rite (Director: Alicia Conway)—A young girl faces an unsettling ritual.

Short Term 12 (Director: Destin Daniel Cretton)—A film about kids and the grown-ups who hit them.

Small Collection (Director: Jeremiah Crowell)—A love story caught in the corridors of memory. Through
fragments of conversations still echoing in now empty places, we piece together the record of a relationship
cut short.

Trece Años (Director: Topaz Adizes)—A young man returns home to his family in Cuba for the first time in
13 years experiencing a divide greater than physical distance.

Wunderkammer (Director: Andrea Pallaoro; Screenwriters: Andrea Pallaoro and Orlando Tirado)—An
exploration of the dynamics of the co-dependent relationship between an aging woman and her mentally
challenged son.

The Young and Evil (Director: Julian Breece)—A highly intelligent but troubled gay black teenager sets out
to seduce an HIV-positive prevention advocate into giving him the virus.

U.S. Documentary Shorts
575 Castro St. (Director: Jenni Olson)—Set to the original audio-cassette recorded by Harvey Milk in
November 1977 to be played, ‘in the event of my death by assassination’.

The Archive (Director: Sean Dunne)—An eight-minute documentary about the world’s largest vinyl record
collection examining the man who owns them and the current state of the American record industry.

Chop Off (Director: M.M. Serra)—An exposition of the dark, fearful recesses of the human psyche by filming
the body modification of performance artist R.K. who literally risks ‘life and limb.’ R.K.’s body is his medium
and amputation is his art.

Good: Atomic Alert (Director: Max Joseph)—An examination of nuclear arms asking; who has them, what
are their intentions, and what would happen if a nuclear weapon hit New York City?

Good: Internet Censorship (Directors: Morgan Currie, Lindsay Utz, James Jones; Screenwriter: Mattathias
Schwartz)—Internet censorship can take many forms, from restricting private internet access to blocking
searches for politically volatile keywords. This film explores how different countries apply their bodies of
censorship to cyberspace.

I Knew It Was You (Director: Richard Shepard)—John Cazale appeared in just five films — The Godfather,
The Conversation, The Godfather, Part Two, Dog Day Afternoon, and The Deer Hunter — and all were
nominated for Best Picture. This documentary is a fresh portrait of the acting craft and a tour through the
movies that defined a generation.

The Kinda Sutra (Director: Jessica Yu)—A combination of interview and animation, that explores the
youthful misconceptions of a spectrum of people over the universal question: How are babies made?

So the Wind Won’t Blow it All Away (Director: Annie P. Waldman)—Two and a half years after Hurricane
Katrina, desiring to graduate high school with their friends, a group of students return to New Orleans despite
their parents’ relocation and absence.

Sister Wife (Director: Jill Orschel; Screenwriters: Alexandra Fuller, Jill Orschel)—DoriAnn, a Mormon
Fundamentalist, shares a husband with her younger biological sister. During a private bathing ritual, DoriAnn
explores the surprisingly universal challenges of her marriage.

SUSPENDED (Director: Kimi Takesue)—The film both documents and re-contextualizes the experience and
perception of suspended time capturing a range of evocative moments that reveal states of emotional and
physical suspension.

Utopia, Part 3: The World’s Largest Shopping Mall (Directors: Sam Green, Carrie Lozano)—A tour of the
world’s largest shopping mall, located near Guangzhou, China. Built three years ago, the South China Mall
was supposed to be a celebration of consumerism and Vegas-like spectacle.

U.S. Animated Shorts
Dear Beautiful (Director: Roland Becerra; Screenwriters: Roland Becerra, Meredith DiMenna)—The sudden
appearance of exotic flowers in New Haven spawns an unprecedented epidemic that threatens to destroy
the city. Paul and Lauren, a married couple, are caught between the catastrophe and their own troubled
relationship.

Field Notes From Dimension X: Oasis (Director: Carson Mell)—Captain Fred T. Rogard muses in isolation
on planet Oasis.

From Burger It Came (Director: Dominic Bisignano)—An animated film that recounts early 1980s-era Cold
War fears of a young boy in middle America. Using a variety of techniques, the visual narrative is colorfully
assembled over semi-documentary audio conversations between a grown adult recounting his fears and his
mother’s memory of the time and her own concerns.

Hot Dog (Director: Bill Plympton)—Our plucky hero joins the fire company to save the world from house fires
and gain the affection he so richly deserves. Typically, the results never turn out the way he planned.

I Am So Proud Of You (Director: Don Hertzfeldt)—Dark family secrets cast a shadow over Bill’s recovery; in
this second chapter to Don Hertzfeldt’s ‘Everything will be OK’. (Winner of the 2007 Sundance Film Festival
Short Film Grand Jury Prize, U.S.).

I Live In The Woods (Director: Max Winston)—A Woodsman’s fast-paced journey, fueled by happiness,
slaughter, and a confrontation with America’s God.

Joel Stein’s Completely Unfabricated Adventures (Director: Walter Robot; Screenwriter: Joel Stein)—
Journalist Joel Stein takes us on an animated adventure through the waste treatment plant of Orange
County.

Western Spaghetti (Director: PES)—Everyday objects become delicious ingredients as we learn how to
cook spaghetti through stop-motion.

The Yellow Bird (Director: Tom Schroeder; Screenwriter: Jay Orff)—The animated journey of a young man
fleeing the draft during World War I. After taking a job on a cattle ranch in eastern Montana an accident
occurs causing him to reflect back on his life as he seeks medical attention in a nearby town.

INTERNATIONAL SHORT FILMS
This year’s international shorts include 41 films from 18 countries. Films include futuristic French computer
animation; a spoof of Swedish pornography; a funny film about an aspiring magician; a love spat between a
penguin and a polar bear; intergalactic space travel and the story of a senior citizen weightlifting champion.

International Dramatic Shorts
2 Birds/Iceland (Director and Screenwriter: Runar Runarsson)—A group of young teenagers embark on a
journey from innocence to the stark reality of adulthood.

2) Secret Machine/Germany (Director: Reynold Reynolds)—2) Secret Machine is the second from a three-
part cycle exploring the unperceivable conditions that frame life using stop motion animation to portray the
futuristic deconstruction of the female protagonist’s form.

A’Mare/UK (Director: Martina Amati; Screenwriters: Martina Amati and Dario Cané)—Andrea and Felice are
two kids whose lives center on the sea. One day during a fishing excursion their usual routine is disturbed
when something unexpected appears from the water.

The attack of the robots from Nebula-5/Spain (Director: Chema García Ibarra)—”Almost” everybody is
going to die very soon.

BAIT/Israel (Director: Michal Vinik)—On a hot summer day, tomboy teenager Nitzan is on her way fishing.
Will she catch the right fish?

The Blindness of the Woods/Argentina (Directors and Screenwriters: Martin Jalfen, Javier Lourenco)—A
narrative that combines the naive simplicity of fairytales with the Nordic erotic movies from the 1970s.

Captain Coulier (Space Explorer)/Canada (Director and Screenwriter: Lyndon Casey)—An aloof space
captain becomes restless amongst his robotic crew. Maybe intergalactic space travel isn’t his shtick.

Crocodiles and I/Brazil (Director and Screenwriter: Marcela Arantes)—The emotional conflicts and
discovery typical of adolescence are expressed in Rachel’s daily life and dreams.

Instead of Abracadabra/Sweden (Director and Screenwriter: Patrik Eklund)—Tomas is a little bit too old to
still be living with his parents, but his dream of becoming a magician leaves him with no other option.

James/Northern Ireland (Director: Connor Clements)—A young Irish man grapples with the impulses and
thoughts about being gay.

Jerrycan/Australia (Director and Screenwriter: Julius Avery)—While attending a party, five bored kids decide
to blow something up. A childhood game seals the fate of Nathan, who risks everything after he is bullied,
and is forced to make a life and death decision.

Love You More/UK (Director: Sam Taylor-Wood; Screenwriter: Patrick Marber)—Two teenagers are drawn
together by the Buzzcocks’ single ‘Love You More’ during the summer of 1978.

Miracle Fish/Australia (Director: Luke Doolan)—A young outcast finds solitude in a fantasy world only to be
brought back to reality when faced with a psychotic man.

Omelette/Bulgaria (Director: Nadejda Koseva; Screenwriter: Georgi Gospodinov)—While a woman makes
an omelette we learn how difficult it is to make ends meet.

PAL/SECAM/Russian Federation (Director and Screenwriter: Dmitry Povolotsky)—At the dawn of
Perestroika, little Boris, ravaged by hormones, seduces the neighborhood with his mother’s VCR.

A Mate/Finland (Director: Teemu Nikki; Screenwriters: Teemu Nikki and Jani Pösö)—Pera wants to try
something kinky in the bathroom and he asks his straight mate to help him. However, Pera’s wife comes
home a bit too soon.

Netherland Dwarf/Australia (Director and Screenwriter: David Michôd)—Harry really wants a rabbit. Harry’s
dad really wants his wife back. And somehow in the middle of all this wanting, they both seem to have
forgotten that they already have each other.

Next Floor/Canada (Director: Denis Villeneuve; Screenwriter: Jacques Davidts)—During an opulent and
luxurious banquet, complete with hordes of servers and valets, eleven pampered guests participate in what
appears to be ritualistic gastronomic carnage.

The Stronger/UK (Director: Lia Williams)—Who is stronger? The wife or the mistress?

Ten For Grandpa/Canada/USA (Director and Screenwriter: Doug Karr)—An introspective look at the
enigmatic life of an influential ancestor that pushes an individual to immerse himself in a nefarious web of
danger and infamy.

This is Her/New Zealand (Director: Katie Wolfe; Screenwriter: Kate McDermott)—As she watches her
younger self in the throes of childbirth, Evie’s deliciously wry commentary reveals exactly what life has in
store for her new baby daughter, her loving husband, and the six-year-old ‘bitch’ who will one day steal his
affections and destroy Evie’s life.

Treevenge/Canada (Director: Jason Eisener; Screenwriter: Rob Cotterill)—Sometimes Christmas is worth
crying over.

The Watch/Argentina (Director: Marco Berger)—Two young men find a surprise connection during an
impromptu sleepover.

Wet Season/Singapore (Director and Screenwriter: Michael Tay)—Utilizing stop-motion animation, the
production pays tribute to the filmmaker’s real-life father who passed away six years ago.

International Documentary Shorts
China’s Wild West/UK (Director: Urszula Pontikos)—This part observational, part impressionistic study of a
day in the life of a Muslim community, illustrates their hopeful efforts to discover jade in the harsh conditions
of a dried-up riverbed in a remote town on the Silk Road in Western China.

Lessons from the Night/Australia (Director and Screenwriter: Adrian Francis)—As dusk approaches and
workers stream out of the city, Maia is about to begin her day. She reflects on life, work and toilet bowls as
she goes about her nightly cleaning round through silent, empty spaces.

Ma Bar/UK (Directors: Finlay Pretsell, Adrian McDowall)—Bench pressing isn’t a hobby for 73-year-old Bill
McFadyen - it’s a way of life, and he is on a quest to be the best in the world

Magnetic Movie/UK (Directors: Semiconductor: Ruth Jarman + Joe Gerhardt)—Natural magnetic fields are
revealed as chaotic ever-changing geometries, as scientists from NASA’s space sciences laboratory
excitedly describe their discoveries.

My Surfing Lucifer/Switzerland (Director: Kenneth Anger)—Using found footage, we’re introduced to the
short life of Bunker Spreckels, Clark Gable’s stepson and surfing legend.

The Real Place/Canada (Director: Cam Christiansen; Screenwriter: Blake Brooker)—An animated poetic film
celebrating the life and spirit of playwright and librettist John Murrell.

Steel Homes/UK (Director: Eva Weber)—Self-storage units are windows into human histories: the silent
cells with their discarded objects and dust-covered furniture are inscribed with past dreams, secret hopes
and of lives we cannot let go.

International Animated Shorts
Cattle Call/Canada (Director and Screenwriter: Matthew Rankin, Mike Maryniuk)—A high-speed animation
film documenting the art of livestock auctioneering.

A Film from My Parish: 6 Farms/Ireland (Director: Tony Donoghue)—An animated film shot on location in
North Tipperary. It consists of six stories by six farmers from one parish.

hear, earth, heart/France (Director: Yi Zhou)—A white box unfolds to reveal a surreal and shifting landscape
of fragmented clouds, suns, mountains, stardust, darkness, and flames that eventually freeze in time and
space.

John and Karen/UK (Director and Screenwriter: Matthew Walker)—John the polar bear apologizes to Karen
the penguin after an argument.

Keith Reynolds can’t make it tonight/UK (Director and Screenwriter: Felix Massie)—Keith Reynolds leaves
his hat in his car. This isn’t the only mistake he makes today.

Lies/Sweden (Director: Jonas Odell)—Three perfectly true stories about lying. In three episodes based on
documentary interviews we meet the burglar who, when found out, claims to be a moonlighting accountant,
the boy who finds himself lying and confessing to a crime he didn’t commit and the woman whose whole life
has been a chain of lies.

Mister Cok/France (Director and Screenwriter: Franck Dion)—Mister Cok is the owner of a large bomb
factory. Looking for efficiency and profit, he decides to replace his workers by sophisticated robots; however
one of the workers does not accept being discarded so easily.

Out of Control/Mexico (Director: Sofia Carrillo)—Remote and alone, various personalities share feelings of
solitude in the interior of a labyrinthine house.

Skhizein/France (Director: Jérémy Clapin; Screenwriters: Jérémy Clapin and Stéphane Piera)—Having been
struck by a 150-ton meteorite, Henry has to adapt to living precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself.

This Way Up/UK (Directors: Adam Foulkes, Alan Smith; Screenwriters: Adam Foulkes, Alan Smith,
Christopher O’Reilly)—Laying the dead to rest has never been so much trouble.

New Frontier Shorts
The New Frontier category champions the expansion of the craft of cinematic storytelling beyond what is
traditionally found in theatres. The eight New Frontier short films play either in one of the short film programs,
before features, or at New Frontier on Main.

All Through the Night/USA (Director: Michael Robinson)—A charred visitation with an icy language of
control: “there is no room for love”. Splinters of Nordic fairytales and ecological disaster films are ground
down into a shimmering prism of contradictions in this hopeful container for hopelessness.

American Minor/USA (Director: Charlie White)—A filmic meditation on the isolated world of an American
teen, focusing on the external environment and internal state of a fourteen-year-old, upper-middle class girl.

The Beekeepers/USA (Director: Richard Robinson)—An experimental documentary on the environmental
crisis surrounding Beekeeping and Colony Collapse Disorder. It explores this ancient profession in its
current crisis and the implications for our environment when millions of bees just disappear.

Horizontal Boundaries/USA (Director: Pat O’Neil)—A film that looks at certain aspects of the geography of
California as the ground for cinematic disruption and restatement. It is not a static repositioning, but rather a
dynamic one, moving more or less randomly, causing image combinations to be generated unpredictably.

Nightstill/Austria (Director and Screenwriter: Elke Groen)—Night images captured with time lapse
photography.

Out of Our Minds/USA (Director: Tony Stone)—A fantasy world spawned from sound. Three time periods
and three narratives, one connection–blood. At the center of this life force is the heart.

Theresa’s Story/UK (Director: Maria Marshall)—Side-by-side only two takes of the same incomprehensible
emotional improvised story unedited depicting four-year-old Jake Marshall Naef’s world before finally Jake
addresses the viewer directly.

Untitled/USA (Directors: Sandra Lea Gibson and Luis Recoder)—A black and white film suggestive of being
projected behind a translucent window frame while giving the illusion it is hovering somewhere between the
screen and the viewer.

The Sundance Film Festival is the premier showcase for U.S. and international independent film, held each
January in and around Park City, Utah. Presenting 120 dramatic and documentary feature-length films in
seven distinct categories, and 80 short films each year, the Sundance Film Festival has introduced American
audiences to some of the most ground-breaking films of the past two decades, including sex lies and
videotape, Maria Full of Grace, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, An Inconvenient Truth, Trouble the Water
and Central Station. www.sundance.org/festival

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Please note that the entire series of Ron Steinman’s “The Notebooks” can now be viewed at http://ronsteinman.wordpress.com/

QATAR MUSEUMS AUTHORITY AND TRIBECA FILM FESTIVAL
TO LAUNCH "TRIBECA FILM FESTIVAL DOHA" IN NOVEMBER 2009

*   Her Excellency Sheikha Al Mayassa bint Hamad bin Khalifa Al-Thani and Festival
Founders Sign Strategic Alliance Agreement and Announce Long-Term Cultural
Partnership

*   Doha's Museum of Islamic Art to Host Film Festival

Doha, Qatar, Nov 23 2008: Qatar Museums Authority (QMA), the organization dedicated
to developing the cultural resources of this Arabian Gulf state as a platform for
international dialogue and understanding, has announced a groundbreaking agreement
with New York's world-renowned Tribeca Film Festival (TFF), to launch a world-class
international film festival, Tribeca Film Festival Doha.  The first festival will
take place November 10 - 14, 2009 and be presented at Doha's celebrated new Museum
of Islamic Art and in cinemas across Doha.

The announcement of the cultural partnership was made at a special ceremony at the
new Museum of Islamic Art, which was attended by Her Excellency Sheikha Al Mayassa
bint Hamad bin Khalifa Al-Thani, Chairperson of the Qatar Museums Authority Board of
Trustees, and Abdullah Al Najjar, Chief Executive Officer of the Qatar Museums
Authority.  Joining on behalf of the Tribeca Film Festival were the co-founders,
Robert De Niro, Jane Rosenthal and Craig Hatkoff.

H.E. Sheikha Mayassa expressed her confidence that the Tribeca Film Festival Doha
will bring together people from around the globe and help to build international
awareness and understanding of Arab culture and the Arab world.

"I invite film enthusiasts from every country to share their passion for this art by
visiting the Tribeca Film Festival Doha," Her Excellency stated.  "In today's
increasingly globalized world, creative initiatives like this Festival can play a
truly inspirational role by bringing cultures closer together."

Tribeca Film Festival Doha will be modeled after the annual Tribeca Film Festival in
New York City, which is going into its eighth year. Like the New York event, it will
welcome the community, diverse audiences and the global filmmaking industry. As a
result of an extensive collaboration between TFF and QMA, the Festival has been
designed to showcase the local Qatari community, as well as the broader Arab
culture.

Tribeca Film Festival Doha will feature new work from established filmmakers,
alongside film debuts from newly discovered directing talents.  The program will
include approximately 40 films, as well as special events. The Festival will launch
"The Doha Conversations", thought-provoking and insightful dialogues between icons
of world culture set in intimate environments, with the goal of fostering discussion
in Qatar and around the globe.  Full details of the festival program and guests will
be announced at a later date.

"The Tribeca Film Festival Doha is destined to become a major annual event in world
cinema," stated Abdullah Al Najjar. "The Festival will include a wide range of
programming, from outdoor screenings to movies for children, from documentaries to
new Hollywood releases and from independent films to showcases of the very best
works by Arab filmmakers."
"We are honored to create an enduring cultural partnership with QMA and to announce
the launch of the Tribeca Film Festival Doha next November.  Qatar's
transformational vision for the 21st century with its emphasis on culture and
education is uniquely consistent with the goals and aspirations of the Tribeca Film
Festival," said TFF co-founder, Jane Rosenthal.

"We hope that film will not only be used as a form of entertainment at Tribeca Film
Festival Doha but play a role in bridging cultures closer together. By learning each
other's stories, we can see how much we share in common as well as explore and
better understand our differences," said Robert De Niro.

"In addition to the positive cultural implications, this initiative underscores the
enormous potential of the entertainment market in the Middle East and the strategic
importance of the region to the future of the film industry," said TFF co-founder
Craig Hatkoff.  "We think the key to success will be understanding and respecting
one another's cultures and traditions. We believe this Festival will lead to many
other important and educational initiatives in Doha and beyond."

"The Tribeca Film Festival has become a world-renowned event, and its new
partnership with the Qatar Museums Authority will leverage that success and help
further its mission of introducing films and filmmakers to a global audience," said
New York City Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg. "The Festival's substantial cultural and
economic impact in New York City is unequivocal, and our hope is that Doha will reap
similar benefits. The expansion of a New York institution like the Tribeca Film
Festival to Doha is a sign of the international significance of New York City cinema
and will help foster new relationships between our two cities."

Tribeca Film Festival was founded in 2001 by Robert De Niro, Jane Rosenthal and
Craig Hatkoff in response to the events of September 11. The festival's initial
purpose was to spur the economic and cultural revitalization of Lower Manhattan
through an annual celebration of film, music and culture.

Up to date festival information can be found by visiting the official Tribeca Film
Festival Doha website - www.tffdoha.com<http://www.tffdoha.com>

LOS ANGELES, CA – Scriptapalooza, Inc. is currently accepting submissions for its eleventh annual Scriptapalooza Screenwriting Competition. Script submissions for the reputable competition are read by over 80 top production companies and literary agencies. The first place winner, chosen by Scriptapalooza, receives a $10,000 grand prize. In addition, the Scriptapalooza staff will promote the semifinalists and finalists for a full year after the winners are announced.

With the participation of production companies such as Disney, Miramax, Big Light, Lawrence Mark and Bender-Spink, among others, Scriptapalooza offers what even the largest grand prize could never buy: a guarantee that an “unsolicited” script will be read by leading Hollywood decision-makers. In many cases, the Scriptapalooza scripts are optioned or even bought outright by enthusiastic production companies.

“Now in its eleventh year, we have an unsurpassed track record: over 30 scripts optioned, many scripts sold, two Lifetime movies made, even Emmy winners, and the list goes on,” says Mark Andrushko, president and co-founder of Scriptapalooza. “I started this competition knowing that although everyone has a story to tell, there isn’t always someone listening. I’m delighted Scriptapalooza has helped talented storytellers get heard by the most respected and influential people in Hollywood.”

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Please visit www.scriptapalooza.com for an application and additional submission details.
Deadlines are as follows:

• “early bird” deadline is January 7 - (application fee $40)
• regular deadline is March 5 - (application fee $45)
• final deadline is April 15 - (application fee $50)
  

About Scriptapalooza, Inc.
The Scriptapalooza Screenwriting Competition was founded in 1998 with the goal of discovering promising writers and creating opportunities for them in the fiercely competitive entertainment industry. Each year, dozens of production companies and literary representatives sign on to read the participating scripts, resulting in many being optioned or bought outright. The first place winner receives $10,000, and Scriptapalooza promotes the semifinalists and finalists for a full year. Scriptapalooza, Inc., along with its divisions, is widely regarded by writers, producers and agents alike as the most influential and successful competition company of its kind. Divisions include Scriptapalooza Television Writing Competition and Scriptapalooza Coverage Professional Script Analysis. For more information, please visit www.scriptapalooza.com

New York, NY – October 28, 2008] The Tribeca Film Institute (TFI) has announced the selection of five film projects to receive financial and creative support from its inaugural TFI Sloan Filmmaker Fund, supported by the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation. Out of 130 applications submitted, the five projects chosen will receive a total of $110,000. The TFI Sloan Filmmaker Fund supports narrative projects that tell compelling stories about science and technology or portray scientists, engineers and mathematicians as major characters.

The projects were selected by a committee made up of filmmakers Darren Aronofsky (The Wrestler, Requiem for a Dream) and Steven Shainberg (Fur, Secretary), producer Caroline Baron (Capote), producer and writer Ann Druyan (Contact), Columbia University Howard Hughes Medical Institute Professor of Biological Sciences Darcy B. Kelley, and former Director of the National Institutes of Health, co-recipient of the 1989 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine and President and Chief Executive Officer of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center Dr. Harold Varmus.

The selected projects selected and funding are:

· Face Value - $40,000

· The Radioactive Boy Scout - $40,000

· Alva - $10,000

· A Noble Affair - $10,000

· Kitty Hawk - $10,000

“The TFI Sloan Filmmaker Fund affords us an opportunity to provide funding at a crucial time in the industry,” said Jane Rosenthal, Co-Chairman of the Board, TFI. “These are projects we would like to see brought to fruition and we are happy to be able to support them with funding and our vote of confidence.”

“We are delighted to partner with the Tribeca Film Institute in supporting these five film projects that showcase the tremendous box office appeal of science and technology themes and characters,” said Doron Weber, program director at the Sloan Foundation. “We expect Face Value and Radioactive Boy Scout to be produced within the next year – there is already significant industry interest and attachments – while developing the other promising scripts for the future.”

“It was exciting to read so many interesting and compelling stories with scientific themes,” said Caroline Baron. “It makes you realize how big a role science plays in all of our lives. The committee feels strongly that we have identified projects where Sloan funding would have the greatest impact.”

Films funded tell stories of a screen siren’s unheralded talents as a pioneering inventor, the true story of a boy scout trying to build a nuclear reactor and win his father’s respect, the controversial life of Thomas Edison, Marie Curie’s passionate personal entanglements on the path to the discovery of Radium, and the intense family drama and intrigues behind the extraordinary achievements of the Wright brothers.

Selected projects for funding:

Face Value - The story of screen siren Hedy Lamarr’s little-known vocation as an inventor and scientist. Working with avant-garde composer George Antheil, with whom she had a passionate affair, Lamarr patented “frequency hopping” to aid the US military in WWII. Little did she know, it would become a key component in most current wireless technology.

Director: Amy Redford; Producers: David Baxter, Gretchen Somerfeld;

Screenwriters: Gretchen Somerfeld, Jose Rivera

The Radioactive Boy Scout - Based on the true story of a 16-year-old Boy Scout in Michigan who, in 1995, attempted to build the core of a nuclear reactor in his backyard shed and was shut down by the Federal government.

Director/Screenwriter: Greg Harrison;

Producer: Danielle Renfrew, William Horberg;

Alva - Was Thomas Edison America’s greatest inventor, or a clever thief with a pioneering acumen for marketing? Alva explores the life of Edison from a precocious young rule breaker, to the full blown ‘Wizard of Menlo Park’.

Screenwriters: Alex Lyras, Michael Dorian

A Noble Affair - Marie Curie was one of the leading feminist figures of the scientific world, facing obstacles in her professional and personal life, both exacerbated by gender discrimination. This is the story of how she proved the existence of the element Radium, thereby paving the way for many discoveries in nuclear science and earning her a second Nobel Prize.

Producer: Anil Baral

Screenwriter: Kathryn Maughan

Kitty Hawk - The story of the Wright Brothers, the original aviation pioneers, that chronicles their journey and struggles towards the first manned flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

Director/Screenwriter: Tim Kirkman

Producers: Joshua Astrachan, Lucy Barzun Donnelly, Gill Holland

Submissions for the 2009 TFI Sloan Filmmaker Fund open November 12, 2008 and will be accepted through January 9, 2009 (postmark deadline). Fund recipients will be announced in the spring of 2009. Visit www.tribecafilminstitute.org for further rules and information on submissions.

About Tribeca Film Institute

The Tribeca Film Institute is dedicated to creative innovation in film and media arts. The Institute creates original programs that draw on the unifying power of film to promote creativity, understanding, tolerance and global awareness. Our commitment is to educate, entertain and inspire filmmakers and audiences alike, while strengthening the artistic and economic fabric of New York City and its Lower Manhattan community.

For more information visit www.tribecafilminstitute.org.

All thirty or so people freeze as one. I begin to melt them as the heat from my empty words sear their nearly naked bodies.

“I see new friends. And you are all my friends, aren’t you? Say yes, nod in agreement, say yes if it is yes, give your nose a wriggle no, if it’s no. Shake your heads no. From where I stand the ayes have it and that is how it should be. Now hear what I have to say. You’ve stood here long this day and you have listened. You have heard. You have heard my words. You have seen. You have seen me demonstrate the quality of these products. Perhaps you have imbibed the mystery of life. I call you together for the express purpose of allowing all of you to return home with a touch of my bottled sunshine. Many years ago, on this very day I may add, I came across a man on his deathbed. He was an old man, a shriveled man, but a gentle man, once a virile man. He was a stern man. He was a scrupulous man. A fearless man. He was addicted to, of all things, as you are, I am sure, of all things to life. He was the true precious jewel to all he touched. Life. Yes. But he was an addict. He could never get enough life so he tried to invent some of his own. He sowed and he reaped and never regretted anything he had ever done. This is not his eulogy. This is not a eulogy for his followers of which there are many. This is just an expression of thanks. He knew no wilderness. He never wore a hair shirt. Some of you may think this is blasphemy. He was not a Christian. He was not a Jew. He did not embrace Buddhism or Hinduism. He was not a Moslem. He was a man who lived and he died a man wanting to continue living, embracing everything that came his way. He died because he neglected his own discovery.”

I pause to let my sermon sink in. Some older people mumble. They look puzzled. The younger ones wear smiles of amusement, perhaps cynicism on their untested faces. The women anticipate. The men look bored and only mildly curious. A cool breeze rises leisurely from the ocean. It is getting late in the afternoon. The tide has already changed, forcing the water higher onto the beach. My body is drying and caking with salt. I am chilly, dirty, in need of a shower. I wish I could retire someplace quiet and empty where I can be alone. My act has to go on if I am to make any money. They have come for shampoo but they are getting something unexpected. The ‘tip,’ my unyielding front rows, are now the firm root of my audience. People are in place, one row pushing into another. No one can move on their own. They have to wait it out to see where it, where I am going.

“My friends,” I say.  “My friends. You shall have the benefit of that discovery because I’m in a magnanimous mood. Yes. I want to do something for you that will make you remember me for the rest of your natural days. And even some of your unnatural ones. I want to make you happy. I want you to leave here as happy as you have ever been. I want you to be happy. I want to relieve your sadness. I want you to walk the eternal green valley before you reach heaven. I want you to experience harps and angels and floating clouds before the real thing comes to sadly interrupt your lives. I want you to share my secret. I see a man in the back shaking his head in disbelief. (There is no man.) Believe me, sir, I’m not going to give you the formula. That would make me a fool in this great free enterprise system we have in America. I don’t own the patent on my product. No one yet can reproduce it. Some of its elements have a habit of changing and once changed, the formula is never the same again. All I intend allowing you to do is to go home with a little of my bottled sunshine. It is harmless. It is delicious. It smells sweet. It is safe for children of all ages. It relieves your aches and pains. No leading health agency sanctions it because the Feds are afraid to touch it. It has great restorative powers. The government is afraid it might put their favorite companies out of business. Step in a little closer. Good. That’s it. Better to hear me. After talking to you and many of your friends so much during the day, my voice is starting to slip away just as that decent, kind and gentle old man’s voice did so many years ago in the moments before his death. Can you see it now? Me, so young, he, so old. He beckons me to bring my ear to his mouth. Oh, it was a sad sight, indeed. I bent my head down and he whispered the magic formula in my already jaded ear. I rose as if Lazarus from the dead and knew that I have been the recipient of a great and wondrous gift. That is correct. That is right. Move in closer.”

They are in the palm of my hands. I reach behind me for a bottle of the hair lotion. It is getting close to when the spot is almost complete, when they will pay me with money instead of applause. They are in my pocket, zippered and sealed, buttoned. They wait for me to pluck them, dice them, roast them. I can feel it.

I continue with my pitch. I have to use it before I lose it, before I lose
them—my people, standing patiently in awe in front of me. I am tired. I’m losing my concentration. But I need their money. I have to defeat the withering, yellow, newly calloused thumb of a god unknown—my personal devil driving me to a place foreseen only by “it.” It is a place predetermined before my time, a place of destiny, perhaps that will eventually make me see my time at its end. There is that negative aspect of my being. And damn it, I start smiling. A great big grin washes over my tense face. My uncurled lips seek their mirror in the eyes of the people in front of me. My eyes become less dull. Even my hair begins to shine as if dipped in oil. I receive the strength to go on with my many lies. I’ll take their money and then I’ll go and think. I’ll think and drink and relive something of what I have left behind. I’ll sniff the airs beguiling stench for solace. And I will love it.

I’m in pieces. I have nothing of lasting duration to tie me together. Is my past enough? I’m too young to have nothing so soon. Is my suffering different in intensity and depth than any other individual? Am I different from any other person out of all the millions who are also lost and wandering? Can I seek after myself in limited time and come up with part of an answer? Part of an answer. I am not greedy. Or is it for me to head forward, deny the past and leap boldly into the future by taking a hot iron and cauterizing my festering wounds that refuse healing from the lack of compassion I feel for myself?

Men and women talk on the edge of the crowd. They are loose cannons, mouths in motion. I have to get them back. There is work to do.

“That guy must be nuts,” says an old man wearing a red handkerchief around a balding head covered in liver spots and moles.

“Yeah,” answers his young companion. “I been here all day. Only once I took a break, a break for a frank. I like them franks with the pickles and onion, sweet relish all over. Only once I left.”

“Did you buy anything from him?”

“Not yet. Maybe this time. Just look at him. Sweating like hell. Like a horse. Pouring out of him like piss.”

“Yeah, a real character, that one,” says a skinny, middle-age woman dressed in faded black cotton and wearing black heavy silk stockings.

“Character ain’t the word. An actor, maybe. But a character, no,” says the old man.

“What’s he selling, anyhow?” asks a teenager, a high school-kid with grease in his hair. Pimples dot his unlined face.

“Shhhh,” says his girl friend. “You’ll disturb him, Jerry. You shouldn’t disturb him. He won’t like it.”
“Crap,” says her boy friend.

“Right. If you disturb him, he’ll shut up and start staring like he is blind or something,” whispers another young man with a pencil-thin mustache and long sideburns. Two-toned white and black shoes covered his big feet. The shirt he wears is white on white with, of all things, a tie also white on white. Dazzling.

“He’s in his third one after lunch. I think he did three this morning. I lost count when I got tired standing here,” says a skinny black woman on the side. “I always carry lunch in my pocketbook when I come to the boardwalk looking for a show. After I ate, I lost count. I always sit when I eat my sandwich.”

“You live around here?” says the old man to the skinny woman. He can hardly believe his eyes, the way she looks, but she excites him in spite of himself.

“During the summer, only. In his third one, he stopped and looked at the sky. He got dizzy and someone got him a glass water.”

“It’s still sitting there,” says the teenaged girl. Her timely poodle haircut is frizzled from too much sun and sand. Her red bathing suit is too tight as it stretches across her blooming body.

“Shh . . .” says her boy friend. Whenever he looks at her, he jumps, startled with what he sees.

“I think I’ll buy something this time.”

“Me too. Son-of-a-bitch works like hell.”

“What’s he selling? I forgot.”

“Does it matter?”

“Who cares? He puts on a show.”

“Some show . . . ”

“I’d still like to know what he’s selling.”

“Lady, for a buck, you can’t go wrong.”

“For a dollar, I can eat two days. Here two days. At home, three days.”

“Don’t bother me with your trouble.”

“A dollar? Is that all it costs?”

“A buck. To the track, I almost went today. A better show and for cheaper, I’m getting here.” A smile.

“Shush,” says the skinny, middle-aged woman with lunch for two days in her pocketbook and a room in a bungalow by the ocean for the summer.

“Look. He’s laughing,” says the girl with the poodle cut.

“What’s he laughing at? I want to know.”

“Go ask him, wise guy.”

“I think he’s laughing at us,” say a pompous, pregnant woman in her late thirties. She wears a spanking new maternity swim suit, the best money can buy, the best that an overjoyed husband will buy. She is new to the crowd. The oversized pregnant woman has an expression on her face that says, she never wanted the damned child anyway, so she’ll take her pampered husband for everything he has.

“We’re going to pay him! Why should he laugh at us?” says the old man.

“Well, he at least looks human when he smiles,” offers the pregnant woman, an erotic sneer streaking across her pouting lips.

“Kind of cute,” says the teenaged girl.

“What do you mean, kind of cute?” says her shocked boyfriend.

“Cute. Cute. Don’t worry, he’s too old for me.” She pats his hand, grins prettily like a child, but the blood beats faster than usual between her legs. She likes him for the moment. She likes all men and boys for the moment.

“He better be too old,” says her boyfriend and that ends that.

“Cute she calls him. Are we here for cute?” says the pregnant woman. “He looks so sad, so sad and so out of it. I never saw such a sad face on such a young man. He’s not too old for me.”

“But he works hard, no?” says the old man.

“Yeah. Maybe. That hard, I would never work. Ain’t worth it.”

“But what’s he selling? Someone please tell me what’s he selling.”

“Oh shut up and eat your lunch,” says a new voice to the audience, and that ended that.

My silent laughter done, I go loudly back to work. Reality floods over me, signaling me it’s time to feed the vulture again. I’ll make them squirm first.

Just as with the product, the pattern never varies. When I start calling on people to come see what I have, I watch my crowd slowly build. On most days people are in bathing suits and beach robes. The first few lines of hungry eyes are my “tip.” As the first rows are born I hear myself shouting, coercing, whining, begging, laughing. My feigned, tear-choked, too hoarse voice simulates a whisper as they move toward me. If I am lucky and my timing is on, I can make them move closer to me and listen to everything I say with an inquisitive, hungry intensity. They always think I am about to give something away for nothing. Well, I am, in a sense. Part of me, personal, hating, longing to love and waiting for love in return, goes down the drain with every pitch I make. I auction myself to the highest bidder, waiting for annihilation by the sun-bleached, yellow haired, hard browning, lizard skinned, crawling crust of decaying humanity standing impatiently at my feet.

I go through the motions of calling my flock. I, the Deacon in white, stiff with starch in faded blue cord slacks covering my torn white under shorts. I perspire freely in the intense heat and am soaking wet. My neck itches in a circle. Closed collars and blunt razors make me unhappy because they irritate my tender neck. Though my beard grows fast, the whiskers are soft and almost red, not black or with the feel of Brillo. Weak but gentle shocks come through the frayed microphone cord each time the sweat drips from under my arms to my wrists to the hand holding the mike attached to the portable speaker system at my side. The shocks came as if on cue, matching my heartbeat, in time with the pulsating vein in my forehead.

I see a man slowly lift his elbow and then guide it deftly behind him with finesse and grace. He places it firmly into the breast of a beautifully endowed teen-aged junior Amazon. She stands in a sheath of cloth, tissue paper thin in two-pieces, purple-purple, which passes as a bathing suit. He stands his ground, looking at me, his only expression, innocence. She wriggles in closer to hear what I have to say, her breast working his elbow as his elbow works her breast. I see her breathing change from normal to short sensual gasps.

I often wonder what effect I have on women when I preach the gospel of clean hair, but the chick in front of me is reacting to the guy with the elbow, not me. The newly mated couple come closer to each other. She begins to writhe in obvious sexual pleasure. He grinds his elbow neatly into her taut nipple. His feet stay firmly rooted to the wooden board walk, while he smiles stupidly toward me as if he is listening to everything I say. I feel like saying:  Take your elbow out of her young tit, jerk. Leave her alone in public. For chrise sake, take her under the board walk and lie down with her in private on the cool, damp sand away from my jealous eyes. Just be done with your mechanical, spluttering fluctuations and leave the rest of us less fortunate slobs in peace. Jesus, I am envious.

On that particular day, as with many of my days, my crowd, the tip, starts edging from me. It has to be obvious to them that my mind is drifting, not paying them the attention they think they deserve. But the man and the girl remain rooted, held in place by a devil set loose to torment them and me. I realize I stopped talking. Slowly I started again, fervently demanding, knowing insanely that I depend on them, they who ae freely roasting in the sun, standing at my feet, comfortably and vulgarly attired for pleasure. My words and how I throw them out, sound like an Indian chant. “Now here this, now here this. Hya. Hya. Step right hup. Hup. One and ahl, step right hup. Everybody a winnah, no one a losah. All go home with something. Something useful, something you’ll use every day. Everyone a winnah. Nobody leaves empty handed . . .” Apparently it is enough to hold them even under the broiling sun. No one moves.

The silence ends when an impatient mother drops her child. The fat baby lands with a squashy sound, then rolls with a thud, its head bouncing off someone’s flabby-knee and never crashing on the wooden slats by his mother’s feet. It wails with that all too trite truth that exclaims, oh where oh where is my mother’s love? The small boy is perhaps three and he cries well, normal for his age. His mother is beside herself for dropping him and is useless in quieting him down. My crowd moves in closer and tries consoling the mother, a fat woman, wide at every turn, wearing a funny, single piece bathing suit with little pink and blue bows that mark the fullness of her rich, too ripe breast and thighs.

I wonder how some bare feet can stand the heat and splinters of the crumbling wood board walk. Briefly, without warning, a single cloud drifts in front of the sun temporarily blinding its ferocity. I blink several times to bring the crowd back into focus. They are my people now and so like putty. The Atlantic Ocean is calm. I can see very few white caps on the soft, almost noiseless, rolling waves. A tern chatters overhead and drifts high into the blue, near soft-gray thatched sky. Lazily, but with an apparent and avowed mission, it starts a long descent to the water below. Faster and faster it comes and then it hits the ocean, breaks the surface and disappears. An imperceptible second later it emerges wet and empty-billed. The tern does an awkward loop, rights itself and gracefully and nonchalantly flaps itself higher and higher,  out of sight.

A man’s whinny voice breaks my reverie.

“Hey, mister. Yeah, you. When do we get the freebie? When? Huh?”

Reality is a pain in the ass. The man is a pain in the ass. If I could zap him to nothingness, I would do it, but I need him.

Once the cloud floats away, the sun returns with renewed intensity. I look down at the people in front of me, most of whom are waiting patiently for me to give them what they think they have come for. They have freckles and blisters on their faces, arms, legs and bodies.  Unruly stalks of hair stand on their heads and patches of hidden hair are beneath their clothing. They have good and bad teeth, a variety of eye colors, and I know they have many untapped dreams. There are maybe thirty people standing in front of me waiting for me to start my act, probably waiting for me to fail. They want a show. I am their trained seal, their sheared and coifed pink poodle. I hate every minute of it. At first I mumble, a trick I use to get the crowd to lean in closer, the way they should when I want them to listen and lean on all my words.

I can’t help noticing the man with the elbow. He stands there as if he has nothing to do except distract me from what I should be doing, turning the suckers’ smiles into gold. He is in his late twenties, possibly in his early thirties. His body is strong but already his middle is starting to flesh to premature heaviness. His eyes are tiny and they squint against the glare of the sun. He has a long, sharp nose, thin parched lips and his lips press flatly against his wire-haired, dirty-blond head. His bathing suit erupts with a sizeable erection. It holds in place, jutting out. He does not care.

The girl he leans against is in her teens. Pretty, yet plain, she is strangely homely and possesses the ideal girly magazine figure for that year. She has huge breasts and large nipples. Thick ankles reach upward to thicker, though well-defined calves. These flow toward fully muscled thighs. She has a richly ripe, meaty body. Neatly packed buttocks perch below a small, rounded stomach surrounded by an unbelievably narrow waist. She can grow to fat before she reaches thirty. For now, she will probably provide a hell of a lot of entertaining moments for anyone nearby or for a wandering elbow that happens to find its way onto her body. Her freckled face is proving to be more that just a brief distraction for me. She is so young, and she looks inexperienced. But she is enjoying every moment of his sharp, screwing elbow. I wish I could be down with him. I’d indoctrinate her in a way I deserve.

It is getting late in the day. I have done nothing to earn my keep. The sun floats listlessly in the sky, growling with silent, gaseous, infernal fire. People are leaving the beach, looking for something to eat or drink, seeking a place to release their swollen kidneys with a rush of pleasure. The conglomerate odor of hot grease, sweet custard cream and dense spice fills the air. The edge of my crowd, the floating part of the tip, is under assault by darting, energetic, screaming, and shouting  kids hurtling themselves uncontrollably across the boardwalk, their parents nowhere in sight. Their high-pitched screams annoy me and do not allow me to think. I have to get into my pitch mode and cannot.

The man and the teen-age girl are still at it, grinding themselves slowly to ecstasy. Now and then they are jostled sideways so they suddenly are face to face. Expressions of fright cross their normally bland features. They see each other for the first time, the second time, the third time. The shackles of the past reach out and grab them. Lust fills the man’s face. Confused passion drains the heavily suntanned girl almost white. Her freckles pop like black polka dots on a white silk tie. The two people move as if they are in the throes of intercourse, their orgasms almost complete. His hands now rest lightly on her hips. Her hands hold fast to her fleshy thighs. Does she know she is not alone? I think she is aware of his hands, yet she doesn’t care what he does—her pleasure comes first before anything in her life. I see her trying to move away—once, but no more, probably wondering how many notice their open, nearly consummated passion. I watch a race between two untrained, semi-tamed, uncultivated, partly domesticated dogs.

I lean in, my big moment about to begin. The crowd leans toward me. I reach a frenzy, at least in my mind. In that particular, special madness, I draw myself together almost becoming one with myself, a melding of mind and body. I have to sell. I have to make some money. I have to work. Suddenly the wicked sound of a harsh slap, skin against skin, brings me back to real time.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” the voice of the girl says.

She acts like a wilted, teenage passion flower, her true self. I  see her try to get away from the man but he will not back away from her. His arms try encircling her waist but she wants nothing to do with him. She moves from him, to get away from him. The man will not retreat from the girl. As a tactic, he backs off a half-step until his hands and arms again go to her waist and he pulls her to him. She lashes out at him again, this time with her small fists, striking him on the head and body. Now the crowd backs off to give them air, give them room to move in whatever direction, emotional or physical, they want to go in the stillness of the humid afternoon.

The man drops his arms from her hips. Tears come to his eyes. A small bubble of blood appears on his broken lower lip. We are all silent, waiting for something else to happen, wondering who will take the next step.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go now,” he says.

He hesitates. Each word has a huge gap before he says his next. The pauses between them are enough for a train to pass through, easily, without the wheels on either side touching any letters in any of the words. His thick voice carries no weight. He is spent. His back appears to bend to the ground, his head hides deeply in his neck. The curl of his body protects him from any feelings he has toward himself as a despicable person. He turns from her, makes his way through the crowd and moves swiftly down the board walk, the hotel shadows casting an eerie darkness over his departing body.

Her eyes flicker at the people surrounding her. Maybe they believe they protected her from any further evil. A wild timbre visibly flows through her body, and sends a shuddering spasm from her feet to her head. Her head then droops to her chest. Blood flows to her face. She is dizzy. Was she embarrassed, ashamed, guilty? None of it matters. None of it applies.

“Stop!” She shouts at his retreating back. He does and she takes after him, running to catch up. Another love affair made in heaven.

I bend down to my supplicants and whisper, “Now my fine friends, it’s your turn.”

All ears perk as one. Some in the back row can’t hear what I say. I lean back on my heels and repeat myself, my voice continuing in a coarse whisper. Still a few don’t hear me. I stand higher, square my round, slumped shoulders and shout at the top of my lungs. It will be the last time for my opening line, “Now my fine friends, it’s your turn.” With the help of my antiquated and shock-filled sound system, everyone finally hears everything I have to say.

“Now my fine friends, it is your turn. So lend an ear. Pay absolute attention to what I have to say. Here we go.”

My thoughts on being a pitchman. I work in front of people.  I know nothing about them. But I now know exactly what they are and what they are not. Generally they smell badly, as if they can’t afford deodorant. Could it be the weather? They are like leeches. They mooch every chance they get. The people are poor in this neighborhood. People run to me when they hear me call: Come over, come on over here. I have something for everyone. I want them steered here, to me, to my counter. They come as if I’m a magnet. The show attracts them to me and they believe they’ll get something free. When they get something free, they pay nothing for anything extra. The people are thick, with minds that don’t move fast. Usually they make me sick. I throw the poor bastards a bone and then they fall asleep in front of me. I know that’ll never do. I don’t know how to wake them without doing something foolish to make me appear stupid. Then again, maybe I just toss a lousy spiel.

All is aberrant.
So is this damn job.

I now work the McCrory’s store in Newark. Suddenly I can’t escape New Jersey. I spend my first 21 years in Brooklyn and manage to be in Jersey three, four times. I graduate college with high distinction in history and get my first job in Joisey. Is there a message here? Maybe my luck will change. I’m averaging 70 bucks a week, hardly a living. That’s too low. Six pitches a day are all I can manage. I can’t get the crowds to stay once I charm them. I have to do at least ten pitches a day to make a c-note a week. The outfit I’m working for is making a fortune off me and all the other suckers they have working for them

At night when I return to my parent’s home in Brooklyn, I’m getting into the habit of having a drink in the neighborhood joint on the corner a half block from my house. It is a place where “nice” Jewish boys don’t go, especially when they live down the street. I consider myself lucky for having this goy bar to visit. Tonight I saw a man crying, truly crying in his beer. I thought that only happened in the movies or in bad books. See how wrong I can be. I wonder what it is that causes a man to cry, and at times, if not to weep, at least arrive at the point where he wants to weep. I’ll take it a step further. If he doesn’t want to cry but he suddenly finds that he is going to cry, that he must cry to wash his soul of some damage, what does he do to fight himself and not cry? He knows from his upbringing that he must never cry, at least when he’s in front of others. Without doubt he struggles to make sense of an emotion he can’t control. I think that’s a man problem, a problem for men in our backward society. “Boys don’t cry!” I heard that all my life. Still, hear it. “Boys don’t cry!” Hurt or not, inside or out, boys don’t cry. Men cannot cry, should not cry, especially in public, because society doesn’t allow them to cry. It is the one public defense a man cannot use, unless, of course, he is drunk like that man down at the other end of the bar.

July 15, 1955, 10:45 p.m. Soon I hope to be making it, anything, again.

Man, it’s hot. Heat is funny. It makes me want to do nothing, but it makes me erotic as hell. It’s crazy and paralyzing. The hot weather gives me an erection when I sit and write. Wrote Leslie again. Still no answer.
I have to do more reading. All this work is getting in the way of my head. So much is on my mind. Money, future, women, money, future, women. I’m still waiting for a reply from NYU. I hope there’s no trouble. Hope everything works out, but if it doesn’t, well then I can’t allow it to bother me. I’ll be 21 in a few days. Too damn few days. Radio on. The music is great. Balcony Rock. Take Five. Brubeck. Shearing. Too much ale. Birdland Show, Lullaby of—one, two, three, testing.  Soon more money. Buy sandals for tired, hot feet.

Brooklyn, July 16, 1955. So agreeable, so new, so fresh, so clean, so blue: Am I? Sigh.

Two years for graduate school and my masters degree. But I have no money. Sailors, whores, college men (bright ones). I don’t care. Who cares?

July 20, 1955. I wrote Carole a day after my twenty-first birthday.

I have to get more bristles and more lanolin. I’m always running behind what I earn and what I pay for supplies. At this rate I’ll owe them more than I earn. I must aim for the boardwalk in Atlantic City. It’s the least they can do for me after all my failures.
Graduate school seems almost certain now. I have to work up a program that will carry me through over the next two years. I’ll go for my masters at night and work during the day. It should work out okay. Father to his son, “Here comes my son the student.” Finally, someone will be happy.

The goods arrived at the store. I now have combs and brushes and lanolin and shampoo. I’ve so much of the god damned stuff, I don’t know what to do with it. I’m not selling enough to make any money so I can’t consider myself a successful pitchman. Can I arrange to have someone in the store steal this crap? Who will be dumb enough to buy it even on the street?

There is so much to do, to see, to hear. There are so many ways to live life, to have action. Does action by itself necessarily denote ant-intellectualism? Man, I hope not. I wish it were easy for me to say, definitely not. Action for a Hindu is much different from action for a Jew, than in the pure sense for a Hebrew. Take that for granted. Action means movement, but movement toward what? Toward learning? Toward sex? Toward arriving at self-satisfaction? Toward knocking at the door of anything physical? Toward existentialism? Toward an intellectual activism of the mind. The mind leaps forward and bounds toward answers that can’t be found by searching within. Sitting. Standing. Prostrate. All happen simultaneously with a flick of the mind’s wrist. Don’t ruin it by lowering it to the depths of ocean slime and muck. Is it a game of semantics? Is it a game of philology? No doubt, a game. No matter what anyone says. No matter what.

Do I love her? Hey, I wonder. That’s the problem confronting me. I’ll either figure it out by hard thought (different from soft thought), or it’ll come to me in a religious flash. Should I trust it if it comes? Her letter will tell me much. Leslie still hasn’t answered but what she writes seems to matter less each moment. I must discover where her mind is these days. I assume she has some curiosity about me, life, us. Does she have a passion to learn? Is there anything she wishes to discuss, to read? Does she want to get in a car and drive someplace for adventure? I don’t think I’m asking too much when I express my urge to know. I know I must wait for her answer. If the signals are right, there should be one coming soon. Signals, right? My imagination is at work. A few more days. A few more drinks. Now to sit back, sweat it and wait.

July 28, 1955. It has become a big day. Carole answered and now I’ve written her another letter. I have no choice but to wait for her answer. If it hits me the way I think it will I’ll ask her to come to New York. This is not as silly as it sounds. It’s not senseless to make plans. Plans put me in a good frame of mind. Though I do plan for events in my life, I rarely make plans that succeed. I may end breaking earlier plans I made or I may act on the spur of the moment, but what the hell. Dave may be right, but I think it’s she I’ve always loved. I’ve been away from Carole for too long and I really would like to hear from her. I would like to see her soon. Carole’s answer to my latest letter remains my most important priority. Her letter must answer my letter and not screw around with what I wrote. Otherwise, we will continue the mess we are in. And she must realize many things about me she refused to see in the past. Our possible impending situation needs a resolution.

I spoke to my boss tonight. He says, with a sigh of resignation, I can have part of Atlantic City for a few weeks. Perfect. Perhaps I can right myself and get out of debt. I’d also like to prove I can do this job, though I realize it has no future. I’ll delay telling NYU my decision until I finish the boardwalk stint. With partial expenses, sun, sand and surf, available chicks and kosher franks, maybe even I can make some bucks and come out ahead. Goodbye Bamberger’s in Newark and hello Mrs. Court’s Rooming House By The Sea.

I haven’t been reading much lately. Carole is too much on my mind. She consumes all my thoughts. And there is the matter of making a living, another consuming passion. This would be a good time to get started again, especially with graduate school staring me in the face. Take at least ten books with me to Atlantic City. Include works on religion. Read about Buddhism, Taoism and Judaism. If anyone asked me why, I would have to say I really don’t know, but with those three religions, I believe there is common ground.

“Why is there any being at all and not rather nothing?” Martin Heidegger.

“Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.”  Ulysses, James Joyce.

“No one need make a spiritual detour to ascertain that he exists.”
The Tale of The Wig, Pio Baroja.

“Brutishness,” I suggested.

“Yes . . . All my brutishness, but he can scarcely read or write.”

“And he has never philosophized on life,” I added.

“No,” Wolf Larsen answered, with an indescribable air of sadness.
“And he is all the happier for leaving life alone. He is too busy living it to think about it. My mistake was in ever opening the books.” The Sea Wolf, Jack London.

“The warbler, swinging
his body upside down
does his first singing.”
A haiku attributed to Kikaku (1661-1707)

Atlantic City, New Jersey. August 7, 1955. These are my impressions of Atlantic City while trying to work a pitch, working a pitch, surviving a pitch.

Dirt from the old wood boardwalk always covers my ankles. Sand fills the crevices between my toes. My sandals quickly become scuffed-raw and grease-stained. But they are comfortable. The rest of me is surprisingly clean, my clothing neat and pressed, smells good. All of me is a mixture of salt and taffy and coarse Jewish mustard, the tastiest in the world.

Before starting my pitch I always sniff the clean ocean air. I love the smell of salt borne on the wind. I cough the fine dust and sand that blanket everything only a few feet off the ocean. When I cough, I hawk and spit brown-stained cigarette saliva from the unfiltered Camel’s I smoke. Then I get down to work.

It doesn’t matter what I sell. My job is to reel in the crowd. Wayne’s syrupy product is always the same richly perfumed, lanolin based, whitish orange colored liquid with less than ten-percent alcohol. I’m positive he bottles it in his spare room. It cost the customer one dollar a bottle and if he buys the shampoo, he also receives a free comb and brush, what we call the teeth and bristle. The free comb and brush are the come-ons. It is that give-a-way that turns the audience on or keeps them away.