DEAR JOURNAL

Dear Journal, I heard this is what you’re supposed to do. You’re the psychiatrist/bartender/hooker/” get out of your head” cure all. I have to admit journal, I’ve always had some curiosity in the “blind faith” part of you. Not so much as to get up enough estrogen to commit, but isn’t that what they say is the problem with men. You see I’m at a crossroads, and the 16-­‐year-­‐old girl inside me is saying she’s more of a man than I’ll ever be. Thus, to prove I’m sensitive and progressive enough to be a man, I’ve decided to Moleskin the fuck up.


My crossroads is not the type that makes you a killer blues man. My deal with the devil involves you, journal. You see I was never one for “putting it out there.” I’ve always felt that if you were such a conduit to the metaphysical, if you were this physical manifestation of all wants, needs and desires than why do I have to write anything. Shouldn’t you know? I should be able to sit on the couch and construct mind entries, as I watch my New York Knicks. Each thought a magnificent reveal in the act of psychological prestidigitation. TA DA, problems solved and my Knicks win the championship. But my Knicks lost, and she’s still leaving me.


My mother always journaled. She would tell me it was how she kept all her ideas from choking each other in to submission. Her only rule was to be specific. My mother also told me to treat every woman as you would your own mother. Now I’m in the place where I’m eager to try the former, cause the latter burned the fuck up on re-­‐entry.


She said she despised sex with me. DESPISED,she despised sex. I should’ve guessed it. Every time I left a room, the corner of my eye would catch her trying to shake off everything that had me on it. I would detect the slight disappointment in her phone voice when she answered, “he’s fine,” and not, “he spontaneously decomposed in bed last night.” I swear her speech at our wedding, which included the term, afflicted with husband, was not just “her style of humor.” This is the woman of my dreams. The woman I wished for. I wasn’t specific enough to say that she would love me back. That she would melt at the thought of me being inside her. That time would be measured in increments of inches penetrated. I can say those things to you journal because you don’t judge?


You’re really not making me feel any better journal. You suck at this job. I’ve never fallen directly in to hate with anything quicker than I have you. How do all the greats put up with you? You’ve really got nothing to say. I’m doing all the fucking work. You’re an asshole. And not like the, you say douchebag things; you’re an asshole like a cat is an asshole. You walk in and expect everyone to stop and pet you and your purring is reward enough. In actuality, you’re an entitled furry selfish nuisance once step above rodent. Your purring is just quiet humming mixed with gas, and nobody likes that. You smell like feet journal. I’m not talking elite athlete feet, you smell like ballerina feet. The deformed bunion that looks like a sixth knuckle, sock smell of decades crammed in to shoe built for a younger, more pliable, more attractive you, feet. Make her love me again, Journal. Did she ever love me? She could hate me as long as she loved fucking me. Can you do that journal? 


Make her hate me so much that the pain of me between her legs is the only way she can

materialize an emotion for me. Make it a, you’re in me and I can’t stand you when you’re not, type metaphor. I’d be all right with that.  Like the time we made love high, and I called her the N word even though she’s only 1/16th Nigerian. Needless to say she didn’t appreciate it. Not that I called her the N word, but that she shared the deep dark secret of her African lineage and I used it as a weapon to gain an advantage. It was the best sex we’ve ever had.


I’m sorry journal. I could never say to her what I just said to you. Maybe it’s because I just had a shot and I’m all Highlandered right now. Maybe she was right to abhor me. It seemed so sudden, but for her it was waiting to ignite. All those years of me being right, and me being first, and me being needed. All those arguments ending in an analysis of the modern female. I could’ve just been human. I could’ve just been sympathetic. I could’ve just been wrong. Maybe not wrong, but definitely sympathetic.


I can do a better job journal. I can connect all feminine sides. I can put it out there. I can specifically ask all my needs to choke themselves in to submission. I can put her needs first. I can be a bigger and better man than all the 16 year old girls inside me combined. I’ve shaken myself off of all the things in the room. I can be the metaphysical manifestation of the man of both our dreams. As soon as you deliver that message for me, I’ll get to work. Thanks for that, journal. Good talk. 

BASECAMP X AXE WINNING ESSAY, "What's Your Ultimate Basecamp"

There is no record of my true tribe of origin.  Nor are there ashes from their campfires.  My path to these shores was involuntary.  Enslavement, indentured servitude, and the wake of such atrocities gave my tribe reluctance to root.  But root we did.  We didn’t look back.  We pitched our tents and lit our fires and formed new tribes, populated by the disenfranchised and the misplaced. 

We put muscle to iron and blazed trails for engines of coal and wood that overcame the limitations of horsepower.  Leaving palms of worked chaffed hands on miles of discarded rope and wood handles.  We dreamed of a day when we had a plot of land we can call home.  But for that moment, home was a base camp where your word was the bond of the tribe of fatigue and big dreams.

We laid our lives down for a country that didn’t see our similarities or manhood, but the hope of that day is why we fought on.  We held that flag high.  We traveled where we were needed, and we fought for the dream that was put to the test, and won.

Never did we complain. We lifted our tools, fell forests and found paths of personal prosperity in family and legacy. We coveted the words of our founding documents not just for the few, but so all can celebrate in the promise of those first campfires.

Some say reparations are in order.  I say I’m not interested. How can you repair something my spirit has already fixed.  I want the leaves of Whitman and the roads of Kerouac for payment.  I want a free clearing in the woods that proves I took the one less traveled.  That’s my ultimate basecamp. There’s a seat for you there, a drink of ‘grown folks business’, a song that sings the praise of the mutts that we are, and the fact that we came on different ships, but we’re all in the same boat.  On my ultimate basecamp a nod of the head says thank you and you’re welcome. 

BUZZINE MAGAZINE FILM COLUMN: EPIDEMIC FILM FESTIVAL

 Ahmed Best

May 15, 2011

(May 6-8, 2011 in San Francisco, California) The stage of the Golden Gate Theatre in San Francisco has always had a very special place in my heart.  It was on the boards of this fine establishment, during a late show of Stomp, where I was discovered and my film career jump-started.  I remember the calf-building walks up the street to my apartment after those late shows at the Golden Gate.  Whilst walking and cursing Pythagoras for convincing engineers there’s a formula to build streets on a hypoteneuse, I would often pass the red and white logo of the Academy of Art University.   Thus, when asked to review the Epidemic Film Festival hosted by the Academy of Art University at the Golden Gate Theatre, the romantic in me had to oblige. 

Now, a five-hour night of student films doesn’t have as attractive a ring to it as, say, a five-hour night of not student films. Not to mention naming your festival “The Epidemic” conjures up the idea of an experience with the same name.  But, like all black men in this business of show, I understand that giving back to the places where you started ups the street cred quotient, and the Golden Gate has never let me down in the past.  I was pleased to discover that the Epidemic Film Festival is the hidden gem of the Academy of Art University. I would go so far as to suggest to all film festivals that they find the worst name you can to describe your event, and like Epidemic, it would be code for a night of huge entertainment value, immense talent, and potential greatness.

On the way in to the city, in an Academy of Art University van, I was joined by some faculty of the school.  Being the curious, non-threatening American that I am, I enquired about the origins of this film festival with the uninviting name.  As legend has it, the film school already had a festival.  Much to the chagrin of the underclassmen, the festival was exclusive to the upper class and graduate students.  The underclassmen felt a bit slighted by this archaic stipulation and decided to turn activist.  They created their own film festival.  With sage-like foresight, they named her ‘Epidemic’ with the belief that, once she was a float, her popularity would spread through the school like (say it with me…) an Epidemic.  They were right.  So right that the Motion Picture and Television department abandoned their film festival and adopted Epidemic to represent the entire school.

Within ten seconds upon entry to the meet-and-greet part of the night, there was a drink in my hand.  A tasty beverage coupled with my old friend the Golden Gate put me in a great mood to check out some student flicks. At events like this one, I try to stay as incognegro as possible.  Unfortunately, I was outed as an actor by one of the well-informed faculty, and escorted to a table of Best Actress nominees hungry for the skinny on life in the H to the WOOD.  Deanna Gandy, Brynn Ann Kerin, and Wei Ren all exuded an optimism that I fondly remember having as a young “take on the world-er.”   All three had very insightful questions about the logistics of being an actor in Hollywood, as well as being very easy on the eyes. There was an energy at this festival that was delightfully infectious, and I wasn’t even drunk yet. The crowd was then herded into the theatre, and the show was on the road.

The festival began with the University honoring film legends Roger Corman and Eva Marie Saint. They both received their Doctorate awards with an eloquence and grace that is rarely seen anywhere south of Alcatraz.  Their speeches not only encouraged, but instructed and inspired.

The main event for the night -- the film screenings -- showed an incredible range of talent. From the documentary A Float, about a young circus performer trying to find her place as an artist, to the hilarious romantic comedy For Rent, about a young, lovable kleptomaniac, to my favorite, Angelito, a heartfelt drama about a woman from Latin America whose job as a caregiver is tested by a very spoiled young boy.

For a complete list of the festival winners, click here.

Great Scott!  These are student films? How did they get Roger Corman and Eva Marie Saint to a seemingly obscure film school in the Bay?  How is it I’ve just discovered this place?  How do they keep refreshing my drink without me seeing?  The big picture is not just in the Epidemic Film Festival.  There’s something special growing at the Academy of Art University.

Richard S. Stephens founded the Academy of Art University in 1929. Stephens, a fine artist and art director, started the University in a loft on Kearny Street to teach advertising art.  He believed the best education for an artist comes from those who are professionals in the field.  This philosophy is the foundation that became the largest private art and design university in the nation.  His granddaughter, President Elisa Stephens, keeps the spirit of Richard S. Stephens alive.   President Stephens’ goal was to raise the awareness of the school so it may attract the type of students and faculty true to her grandfather’s vision.  Enter one Ms. Diane Baker.

If you do a search for the Emmy-nominated Diane Baker, you’d find that she’s touched every facet of the entertainment business.  She‘s an actress of the highest caliber, a Producer, a Filmmaker, and now the Executive Director of the Motion Picture and Television Dept. of A.A.U.  Her relationships with the motion picture community in Hollywood are responsible for attracting folks like Roger Corman and Eva Mare Saint to the University.  These relationships provide an invaluable wealth of information that’s given to the students through her handpicked faculty.  In a conversation with Producer and A.A.U professor Simon Edery, it’s Diane’s passion for making the A.A.U. film school world class that brings talent through the doors. 

Here’s the good part: What makes The Academy of Art University the ninja film school is its online degree program.  You can attend A.A.U. from anywhere in the world.  That means if you want the benefit of Roger Corman explaining the values of text and subtext, or the ability to ask the beautiful Eva Marie Saint a question on an actor's longevity (which they both explained at their panel discussion on day two of the festival), you can do it from China.  Any degree with that type of flexibility, credentialed gravitas, and expertise is worth its weight in Oscar gold. There are literally no limits to getting an A.A.U. education.

The Epidemic Film Festival contained some really exceptional work.  The level of talent is a testament to the world-class guidance that President Stephens, Diane Baker, and the entire faculty at A.A.U. instill in the young minds of its students. Congratulations to all the festival nominees and the winners for an inspiring evening. The Golden Gate Theatre has always been a magical venue for me.  I guarantee, after this festival, I will not be the only one I know discovered on that stage.  

BUZZINE MAGAZINE FILM COLUMN: LA COMEDY SHORTS FILM FESTIVAL

By: Ahmed Best

April 11, 2011

In the interest of full disclosure, as a frequent film festival go-er and sometimes participant and winner, the idea of being in a room of comedians watching their on-camera attempt at trying to out-joke each other in 15 minutes or less really didnʼt float my boat. A Comedy Shorts Festival? What could I see in a three-day unabashed onslaught of funny that I couldnʼt hash tag in the privacy of my own MacBook Pro? Besides, the idea of a festival of comedy shorts is so 10 years ago. It sounds as if it was conceived by folks who, like my grandmother, refer to their home computer as THE MACHINE. Oh how wrong I was.

Not only was the LA Comedy Shorts Festival entertaining, but it was, by far, one of the best festivals I have ever had the pleasure to attend. Since starring as the first digital character in the first digitally shot and digitally projected movie ever, the term “shoot it digital” has been, to me, as rare as tube-shaped meat.

However, the digital film format has found a very viable and comfortable home on the Internet. Short, fast, and funny content captured quick and cheap seems to thrive as the screens get smaller and smaller. Yet the ratio from cost to comedy has yet to translate to a bigger screen. With the success of the LA Comedy Shorts Festival, the small screen genius has found its big-screen soul mate, and I do believe this one is gonna go the distance.

Whenever Iʼm invited to anything social in this den of excitement called Hollywood, I usually look for two things: first a drink, then a friendly face. I got both as soon as I walked in the door. The friendly face was Mr. Gary Anthony Williams. After the customary exchange of black-man handshake and colloquial comforting words of our people, I asked him if this was his first time here. He informed me of his position as Artistic Director. This brought about an extreme change in my otherwise very east coast cynicism.

Gary and I had worked together several times. I know him to be an incredible talent and an amazingly intelligent, down-to-earth gentleman. Needless to say, if heʼs the Artistic Director, this thing is going to be good. He then introduced me to his partners in festival: Jeannie Roshar, Festival Director, and Ryan Higman, Festival Producer. They offered a threesome of assurance that I was in for a night of hilarity. This assurance also came with a glass of Revel Stoke spiced whisky and, as we all know, free booze makes the night look pretty.

The thing that a comedy shorts festival has going for it is that all the movies get to the point in good time, and comedy brings out the folks. If youʼre an actor of any kind, you always want to be in something funny. This first night of the festival was just that. The movies ranged from the star-studded high production value of Funny Or Die-producedGrandpires--starring Billy Crystal, Helen Mirren, and Rob Reiner--to the riff on a Yo Momma contest called Youʼre So Hot (my personal fav), starring Christopher Mintz-Plasse and Dave Franco. Scott Thompson, one of the framers of what is now called alternative comedy, frankly needs his own category. His film about his fluctuating “4 Pounds” is done with such brilliance that it can only be defined as Scott Thompson-esque. Michael Ceraʼs deadpan humor kills inBad Dads. Tim Daly as the self-deprecating aging actor in DILF was an amazing surprise to see. Who knew he could be so funny? And how did they get Tim Daly? Rex Lee as Kim Jong Ill in The Adoption Agency and the best realized short of the night, Turning Japanese featuring Brian Austin Green, both had high concept value as well as great jokes. This is just day one.

The next two days were just as impressive. Films that were celebrity-driven--such as Anthony Anderson and Jenna Elfman in the Atom.com film Matumbo Goldberg, to Donnell Rawlings’s comically biographical Ashy to Classy--played just as seamlessly with shorts done by filmmakers with no celebrity cache and no live actors.

Yes, there was animation as well. Dates on Tape (winner of the Best Animated Short Award), Weisberg Is Growing Bald, Ninja Sex Party, Hip, Undocumented Worker, andBear Force One (the Festival winner) are all films that starred the soon-to-be ubiquitous filmmakers themselves and rendered thecomedy playing field level.

The talent pool of filmmakers is just part of the brilliance that is this festival. For all those whoʼve never participated in a film festival, the big #winning for anyone who subjects themselves to this type of contest is distribution. At most festivals, some filmmakers walk away with deals. Some just walk away happy they were there. This festival is tailor-made for everyone to be distributed. Of course, the festival winners get deals with Atom.com or Funny or Die (check out the festival winners), but because short, fast and funny makes the Internet go round, every film in this festival can be put somewhere. The careful selection of films by the crack team at LA Comedy Shorts Festival gives each a credentialed stamp of approval. Distribution done. I canʼt think of any other festival where everybody wins.

The festival circuit is one that has slowly been fading. Itʼs easier to be selected as the next “Real Housewife of the Rings of Saturn” than it is to get in to the more popular ones, and the obscure ones are becoming more disorganized as popularity fades. The LA Comedy Shorts Festival runs like a well-oiled machine (shout to the crew behind the scenes, especially new friends Snehal, Criss Ann, Carol, and Stephanie). Itʼs diplomatic yet discerning in its acceptance, practical in its business model, and socially viable in this ever-expanding medium we call entertainment. If your work gets seen at this festival, your work gets seen. I recommend everyone jump on board now. Itʼs only going to get bigger and better.