Gorman Bechard's Blog, page 7

So you want to get a dog…

A few years ago I was helping out on an undercover video project for one of the larger animal protection groups.  The subject was about pet shops selling puppy mill puppies, despite said pet shops’ vehement denials.  Just under seventeen thousand dogs were tracked.  You read that right: SEVENTEEN THOUSAND DOGS.  And you know how many of those pet shop pups came from reputable breeders?  Not one.  Every single tracked dog came directly from a known puppy mill, or worse from one of the middle-men companies that try to cover up what the mills are doing.

 

Go into any pet shop.  The one in the mall with the fresh-faced kids working behind the counter.  The one in the run-down strip mall that also sells exotic birds and reptiles.  Any pet shop that sells dogs is selling dogs that came from puppy mills.  Absolutely, and without question.  I don’t care what the person behind the counter tells you, they are either lying, or reading a script from corporate.  End of story.  There is NO exception.

 

And you know why?  No reputable breeder would sell to a pet store.  If they did, they wouldn’t be reputable.  A good breeder, and there are some out there, wants to know where each and every one of their dogs is going?  Into what home, and with whom.

 

Now if you have doubts as to what I’m telling you, ask said pet shop flunky where the dog came from.  Write the name down, then go home and Google.  I guarantee you will find that the name given you either is a well-known puppy mill, or is one of a handful of middle-men (Lambriar and Hunt are two of the biggest) brokering for the puppy mills and smaller backyard breeders (just as bad), or that the name just does not exist.  And really now, who doesn’t exist on Google?  That should probably raise the biggest red flag.  A huge “what are they trying to hide?”

 

After working on the undercover piece, I found myself visiting any and every pet shop.  And on every cage of every dog I saw the names of those puppy mills and brokers.  No exceptions. I remembered them all so well.  And in every store I was told that the dogs came from loving caring breeders who only had a few litters a year, and that they would never get animals from a puppy mill, etc., and so forth.  A load of crap, unless you consider hundreds of dogs living in their own feces and urine, sleeping on wire, and in many cases double-decker cages where the top dog’s waste ends up in the bottom cages, and well, you get the picture.  Not my idea of a “loving home.”  I saw the hundreds of hours of video. The images will haunt me forever.

 

And look, as I’ve suggested, there are reputable breeders.  And if you do your homework you’ll eventually find one.  But if you want to make a much smarter decision.  If you want to actually do something good.  As in something that’ll get you points in the hereafter, kindness points, so to speak.  Skip the breeder altogether and visit your shelter.  Guess what, if you look around, and you can visit any shelter in any town, not just yours, you’ll find more pure breds than you’ll know what to do with.  You’ll find puppies.  You’ll find rascals in their terrible twos.  You’ll find seniors who want nothing more to sit on the sofa with you and watch whatever your heart desires.  You’ll find dogs or every size, every breed, every energy level.  I’ve seen Chihuahuas.  I’ve seen Great Danes.  I’ve seen every breed in between.  Take them out of their cage.  Go for a walk.  (No, really, go for a walk with a bunch of dogs.  Even dogs you have no desire to adopt.  You’ll be their hero for the day.  You’ll feel as if you did the greatest deed of all.  You’ll get some exercise.)  And you’ll find your dog.

 

And if shelters get you down.  And I’ll be the first to admit they can be depressing as hell.  (Think of what it’s like for the pups living there.). Go online.  I know you can because you’re reading this online.  Search rescue groups in your area.  You’ll find abuse rescue groups, you’ll find senior rescues, rescues that are breed specific, more rescues that you can shake that proverbial stick at.  Look at the photos.  Find a pooch that speaks to you.  Read his/her story (sorry, a dog is not an “it”).  Then go visit the dog.  Take him/her for that walk.  See if you bond.  Remember this is a lifetime relationship.  It should not end until one of you goes on to the great beyond.  But you WILL find your dog.

 

And if you’re one of those people who really feels the need to spend $2,000 on a puppy, do this instead.  Go to the shelter, or find that rescue group, pick out the puppy of your choice, and write the shelter/rescue group a check for $2,000.  You’ll help not only the dog you’re adopting, but a bunch of others as well.  And that money will go to animals who really need it.  Not to the owners of puppy mills lining their pockets off the suffering of dogs.  Do you really want to support that?  I sincerely hope not.

 

One last thing.  Perhaps you already know everything I’ve written. Perhaps I’m preaching to the choir.  Then great, but I’ll bet you know someone who’s considering a dog.  And they might not be armed with this information.  So inform them.  Tell them to not buy from a pet store.  To never buy a dog from a pet store.  Don’t be embarrassed. Wouldn’t you want to know?  If you had no idea that the folks at pet store were lying to you about puppy mills, and about where your future best friend came from, WOULDNT YOU WANT TO KNOW?

 

Speak up.  Step up.  .

To crowdfund or not crowdfund, that is the question…

Are you passionate? Are there subjects for which you feel the need to speak up about?  Subjects which make you want to step up?  Do something?  Then read on…

One of the hardest aspects of making a film has always been raising the necessary funds to do so.  But all of that changed a few years back when first IndieGoGo, and then KickStarter gave filmmakers a way to connect with their fans and other like-minded people.  For filmmakers who know how to keep costs to a minimum (i.e. not spending a million dollars to make a film), KickStarter and IndieGoGo, known as CrownFunding or CrownSourcing sites, have opened up a world to us that we never even imaged existed.

I’m going to use “Color Me Obsessed,” my documentary on The Replacements, as an example.  For CMO we ran nine successful KickStarter campaigns, from the first which allowed us to get the ball rolling, to the last which gave us funds for film festival submission fees, and everything in between from the need to travel for more interviews to a sound mix.

These sites allowed us, the filmmakers behind CMO, the ability to connect with other fans of the band.  To offer them “rewards” in exchange for backing to help get the film made.  These rewards ranged from a simple “Thank you” in the film’s end credits, to what is obviously the most popular reward, a copy of the finished film on DVD, to other more grand perks like your name appearing in the credits, on the poster, and on IMDB.com (a data-base of all film credits, take a peek at the list of producers on the CMO page) as an executive producer of the film. The rewards typically ranged from $1 (for a thank you) to $25 for a DVD, and upwards to $2,000 or more for that executive producer package, with a dozen or so other possibilities in between.

If you are passionate about a subject, as the CMO backers were about The Replacements, if gives you a chance to help a film get made.  A film that might not otherwise ever be made.  And it allows you to wear your passion on your sleeve.  Let’s face it, even a “thank you” in the end credits is cool.  Especially if it’s in a film about a subject you are passionate about.  Plus, you are most likely to see the film before anyone else.  People who backed at the DVD level for CMO received their DVDs during August 2011.  The commercial DVD was not available in places like Amazon and Best Buy until November 2012.  A full fifteen months later.  So think about that, not only did these backers help get a film about their favorite band made, they got to see it first, and then were able to open up the eyes of others when the film received national distribution and coverage in media outlets the world over.  A new generation of music fans discovered The Replacements, and it was all because of the passion of a few.

And yes, it also makes you a backer of the arts.  But in this case, you get to choose the art projects which gets your hard-earned cash.  You back one project at a time.  You know exactly what you get in return.  Consider it a form of preordering something you want about something you care about.

In the case of our newest film, “,” we are reaching out to animal lovers, people who want to see an end to animal abuse.  People who want laws toughened, so that those who do abuse receive felony convictions and actually serve jail time instead of getting a simple slap on the wrist. So, if these are your passions, by backing “” you are backing a film aimed at raising awareness and opening the public’s eyes.

None of the crowd funding goes into the filmmaker’s pockets.  We use these fund to travel to get the needed interviews, to purchase hard drives for editing, for sound mixing, for festival fees.  Your backing goes directly into the film.  It’s up on the screen, as is your passion.  A passion we share.  A passion which will reach the widest audience imaginable.  Opening the eyes of a nation to the abuse that occurs on a daily basis in this country.

So if you share this passion, this love of animals, please consider backing “.”  Preorder the DVD, or a poster.  Or donate a dollar or two just for a “thank you” in the end credits.  Everything helps.  If you have a group of animal lovers in your town, or want some local politicans to see the finished film, choose the private screening reward.  There’s something for everyone.  All you need is the passion to help stop abuse.  That’s why we’re making this film.  Please help us get it made.

First trailer for A DOG NAMED GUCCI, new KickStarter campaign

The title says it all, and the trailer says even more.  We’re really proud of the way this film is turning out.

Please consider pre-ordering the DVD, or the poster, or becoming an executive producer, or having a home screening…the rewards are endless…

Or just please share the link with other animal lovers, so that those who abuse animals will NEVER AGAIN walk free.

KickStarter link: 

Thank you.

A slap on the wrist for murder

Today, Alex Wullaert, 23, previously of Branford, now of East Haven walked away from New Haven court a free man despite an arrest warrant which stated he admitted to strangling his pit bull mix Desmond in January 2012.  The New Haven Register article can be found here.

It’s a sad day for dog lovers in Connecticut, but as we’ve discovered not unexpected. The American public, and more importantly, the justice system needs to learn that the laws that do exist, exist for a reason. That domestic animals can no longer be considered as merely possessions to do with as we please. And that slaps on the wrist only encourage future violence, instead of helping to prevent, as the laws intended. But we will remember Desmond, as we remember Gucci in our upcoming documentary.

And though we speak through film, everyone one of you has a voice just as loud. All it takes is time and passion. Write letters, share links, call representatives, post, tweet, care, remember.

 

How I know when the editing is done…

It’s sound mix time on my newest feature, EVERY EVERYTHING: THE MUSIC, LIFE & TIMES OF GRANT HART.  This is my fifth truly independent film in 9 years.  My sixth, BROKEN SIDE OF TIME, is also complete and will be mixed next month.  All at DuArt in NYC.  All with Matt Gundy at the boards.

One realization came to me as I was completing these films over the past few months.  The moment when you know the film is ready to unleash upon the world.  When the tweaking is over.  And there is not one frame that you’d change.

This is how I knew for certain with EVERY EVERYTHING.  The first cut, the assembly of every scene ran over two and a half hours.  So I was already cutting as I was assembling, as the goal was between 90 and 95 minutes.  That was what I knew was perfect for the format I chose.

I got the film down to a respectable 99 minutes, then down to 97, and that’s when the real work began.  Removing pauses.  A frame here or there.  And remember, one frame is 1/24th of a second.  Doesn’t seem like much, but it can make all the difference in the world.  And then, last week, the film was down to 93 minutes even  And I sat down in my living room, and once again watched it from beginning to end.  And that’s when I knew I was close.  Because instead of having to trim just a little more, I knew I needed to put a little back in.  Not a lot, but a pause here or there.  A breath.  A break.  And heading back into the editing room, I ended up adding 17 seconds to the film.  Again, not a lot, but just enough.  And that’s when I knew it was done.  That moment when I stop trimming, and put something back at the very end.  That’s when the film is complete.

It happened a month earlier with BROKEN SIDE OF TIME, which I had down to 119 minutes.  The locked and final running time is now 126 minutes. It happened with COLOR ME OBSESSED, YOU ARE ALONE and FRIENDS (WITH BENEFITS).  Hell, it even happened with my Archers of Loaf Concert film WHAT DID YOU EXPECT? when I realized I had trimmed the band interviews too far down.

That’s the point for me.  And it’s always a little sad.  The people who had kept me company for weeks if not months in a darkened room, in this case Grant Hart and only Grant Hart, were moving on.  When I hear people talk about having kids, I secretly relate, because what they’re describing is what I feel.  I look at these films and see a part of myself, but also know they have unique personalities.  And I love them, unconditionally.  And even if they annoy the piss out of me at times, I always will.  They are my creations, from the heart, from the soul.

And now I begin the mix and get ready to send EE out into the world.  What fortunes with await it?  What will it become?  With others bully it?  Or adore it?  Or ignore it?  Will it live and long and happy life?  Only time will tell.

In the mean time, I begin anew.  .  This child I know will break my heart.  But will make me proud in the end…

Beautiful, chaotic noise

There’s something about CHRONICLES OF MARNIA, the new record from Marnie Stern that just makes me smile.

I love noise pop. LOVE it! I love guitars. Big guitars, loud guitars, out of tune guitars.  Guitars with broken strings.  Guitars with fret buzz.  Every guitar is beautiful.  Every guitar has a soul  (If I hear a synthesizer starting up a song, I take it off.) I LOVE balls to the wall rock in the spirit of The Replacements or the Archers of Loaf. I find beauty in the choas, peace in the noise. I love bad singers, people who screech and wail, and tear their hearts out through their sleeves, and always manage a few off-pitch notes during every song. There’s no passion in perfection.  There’s nothing more boring than perfection.  People who can play and sing every note perfectly, repeating such perfection perfectly each time, are robots.  Soulless.  Gutless.  Artless.  It’s powered milk for the masses.  Pure shit for hip people.  (Guitars can’t hurt people, only people can hurt guitars.)

I love artists who aren’t afraid to take a chance and try something new.

Artists who turn genres on their ear.

Artists who realize failure is the only road to success.

I love Marnie Stern.

And I love this record.

Is there anything less cool that wearing fur? No, there is not.

Had to share this piece from today’s NY Times.  And the thought that perhaps at this point in our evolution we can leave ALL the fur to the animals…

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/20/business/faux-fur-case-settled-by-neiman-marcus-and-2-other-retailers.html?_r=0

Another Vampire Weekend rant, thank you very much

A song from the upcoming Vampire Weekend album was released today. And because I do not believe anyone has a right to criticize anything they’ve not experienced, I listened to it. All the way through. Really, I did.

I thought maybe that things might have changed in the time since their last effort. That since now even bands like the Strokes,who had at least a nanogram or two of rock respect with their debut album anyway, and have now gone synth, and lost what little respect they deserved, that perhaps VW would take it in another direction.  That the surgically-remove balls of the individual members might have started to regenerate.

But no. It is the same lame-ass wimpy shit for which they are well known.

In fact with “Step” they might have out-wimped both Fun(period) and Foster the People, which is impressive when you think about it, as they are the reigning kings of lame.  It probably goes without saying that I hate Ezra Koenig’s voice.  It belongs on American Idol, to be cut in an early round.  The production is so polished that Dusty Springfield might be a little embarrassed by it.  And lyrically it’s a name dropping mess.  There’s nothing profound, unless you’re deeply rooted in hipster-ism, then, sure, yes, this has meaning.  It’s a throw away easy listening song that would probably be tolerable on an elevator, or in the supermarket when you’re shopping for candied yams.  But to elevate it, or the band, to ecstatic heights is just nonsense.

And look, before one or two of you come to VW’s defense, this is my issue. This is not rock. This is not alternative. And yet somehow here are people who consider it one, the other, or both.  There are publications who kiss their ass as if they were the new Pope.  (Really to compare any part of any song by VW to Jandek might be the single dumbest comment I’ve ever read in a review in my 54 years.)

If these bands could somehow be put in the same category as music by Barnie the Purple Dinosaur, then I wouldn’t have an issue. Because that is where their music belongs. It’s gutless tripe made to fit nicely as background music for the next iPod or Honda Civic (or certainly this tune at least was written to be included in any number of tv shows, True Blood, to name one). Pre-processed, it’s the head-cheese of sandwich meat.  It doesn’t rock. It’s doesn’t roll. It lays there on your welcome mat like dog shit you’ve just wiped off the bottom of your shoe.

Can’t wait for the rest of the album.

David Bowie’s “The Next Day”

OK…so I wake up this morning and wondered if I were dreaming. Would I need to chew my own arm off and escape silently because of a horrible mistake I had made in a rush of teenaged lust?  It was too goo to be real.  I was a teenager again.  Six feet tall, 120 pounds, with hair half-way down my back.  I could drink and fuck all night.

I was afraid to be awake.

So, I get in the car, half-asleep, hair in Albert Einstein mode, and head into town for my morning cup of Willoughbys. I bypass the news, and turn it on.  I turn it up.  And I get goose bumps.  I actually get turned on. It wasn’t a dream. David Bowie HAD released a brilliant new album, and it sounded even better today.

The opening and title track “The Next Day” made me want to cry, I don’t think the stereo in my wife’s GTI could go any louder.  The dirty horns on made me feel as if I were in the front row of Radio City Music Hall once again and Bowie was about to launch into “Young Americans” or “Fame.”  ”Valentine’s Day” sounds like the great missing track from the Ziggy Stardust sessions, the reel of 2-inch tape stolen from the vault and never reported missing. “Dancing Out In Space” must have been recorded in 1969, right? What the fuck?

Thank you, Mr. Bowie, for making me feel young again.  And for showing the hipsters and would-be rockers of the day what it means to rock and roll.  What it means to write a song.  What it means to be a God.

I just need to keep repeating it wasn’t a dream.

I just need to keep it repeating.

 

Remembering Casey

Seven years ago tonight, it was about 3 am, give or take, a few hours from now, we were awoken by frantic barking from our dog Kilgore Trout, who rarely if ever barked. I went downstairs to see what was wrong, and found our puppy Phoebe cowering under the kitchen table, and when I turned the corner I understood why.  Our oldest dog, our first, Casey, was lying dead in the living room. A little over twelve years of age she had just up and died in the middle of the night. Lying by the entrance to the dining room, in one of her favorite spots.

I do often think back to that day to see if there were any clues.  If I had missed anything.  I remember playing ball with her just the day before.  She ran and retrieved like the puppy she still was at heart.  Yet that morning of her death she was walking slowly.  But not slowly enough to cause concern, she was after all twelve.  That day I do remember giving her a treat, which she didn’t gobble right down.  In fact it took her a while to eat it.  And this was a dog who never turned down food.  I remember standing, suddenly worried.  Not eating was a bad sign, right?  But watching me, Casey suddenly gobbled the treat right down, and I was immediately relieved.  Had she sensed my panic?

That night, instead of jumping on the sofa to watch TV as she did on most nights, she sat on the floor by Kris’ feet.  She felt a little older than usual to us that night.   I remember even Kris saying that night, as she stroked Casey’s head, “I’m not ready for you to go.”

Casey really was out smartest child.  If she in fact had been human, and at times we certainly felt as if she was, she’d have been the one to graduate from Yale with more degrees than one could understand.  She knew when something was wrong, and she acted upon it immediately.  If you were sad, she was there right by your side, as if she knew what you were thinking.  She was protective.  I always believed if anyone came near us in a threatening manner she’d have died trying to protect us.  She even protected Kilgore once against another aggressive dog, taking that pooch, turning it on its back, and holding it there.  She ruled the roost when it came to the three dogs. She was without question the boss.  But still very much that little black snow-covered puppy whose photo I’ve published so many times (see banner above), even at twelve.  (How I adore that scowl in her face, even at eight weeks she knew it was silly to be outside in the snow for a silly photograph.)

I was thinking the other day about how none of my shoes are scuffed like when we had Casey.  I would often sit on the sofa to write on my laptop, and just drive her nuts by stepping on a tennis ball the whole while.  She could spend an hour doing anything and everything to get that ball from under my foot, usually at the cost of my shoes.  But the amusement it gave both of us was more than worth it.

Or her excitement at even the whisper of the word “squirrel.”  And I would often more than whisper it.  “Oh, my God, there’s a squirrel in the yard.”  She would go bonkers, jumping up onto the bay windowsill to get a better look, running to the door to the back yard, and back again.  She actually never caught one of those evil squirrels, but not for want of trying.

She wanted to be with you all the time.  And though she understood we slept upstairs, once we were awake, there was no excuse.  And she knew immediately.  It became a joke between Kris and myself.  If we were awake, we had to be completely silent.  No walking to the bathroom.  No turning on the radio.  No talking even.  Because as soon as Casey heard a peep, she’d want in on the action.

Perhaps like all of us, she didn’t want to be alone.

The night she died, I knelt by her side, and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling completely helpless.  Sobbing, I ran back upstairs to tell Kris that Casey was dead.  I felt like some very important part of me died with her.  And perhaps for a while it did.  Kris came downstairs, we wrapped her in a red blanket, one which she loved to chew, carried her out to the car, and took her to the emergency animal hospital.  Kris drove, because on that night I couldn’t.  Our vet explained that a tumor that we knew nothing about had burst and she bled out.  And there was nothing we could have done.

The next day we couldn’t function.  I so remember getting a vegetarian sandwich from Edge of the Woods in New Haven.  A sandwich we both loved and would usually split.  And sitting there sobbing as we tried to eat, we stared out that bay window, wondering who would protect us from the squirrels now.  We never did order one of those sandwiches again.

When Kilgore passed two and a half years later, I looked back on that night and realized Casey died that way to save us the pain of seeing her slowly fail, as we just had with Kilgore.  She was that sort of dog.  Protecting us even from the pain of watching her die.

Casey was our first dog.  She made us both better people.  More understanding, more patient, more loving.

I miss you, girl…