Archive for August, 2010

6:19 PM

We finally caught up with Doc and Hawk and their little girl, Johnnie Mae and they have a video hello to everyone back in Austin:

8:45 PM

We’re down at the Egyptian Theater for tonight’s screening.  I met up with my old film pals Kimberly Browning and Andrew Crane.  Also, Kasey Bomber, Tawdry Tempest and Axels of Evil from the L.A. Derby Dolls came out to raise hell with us.  I’m not sure what to expect from tonight’s screening.  The Egyptian is an old-ass theater and has a ton of history, pomp and circumstance and shit. It’s kind of a feather in our hat just to screen here.  So, that’s fucking cool.

The Feel Good Film Festival is also screening here tonight.  We walked their red carped and got some pics with the paparazzi.

9:03 PM

We were eventually joined by my friend Will [last  name redacted] who came in from San Diego on leave from The Navy. He received a hero’s welcome during the introduction, and it was well deserved:


Well, the last screening in L.A. was as good as the others, but the audience’s reaction to me in particular was starkly different than the reaction last night in Echo Park. I think it’s a testament to Bob’s versatility as a filmmaker, because both strangers and friends of mine alike are divided on whether or not Total Badass is a funny or sad movie. Very few people see it as both. The questions in the Q and A tonight were shit like “Were you afraid at any point that he was going to die, and what was your responsibility as a filmmaker regarding this?” I could tell by Doc and Hawk’s questions that they liked the movie, but thought it made me look bad. Will straight up wanted to fight Bob after the movie, and threatened him several times during the Q&A. Then, he smoked a cigarette right in the theatre and tried to piss in the orchestra pit. Things only got worse form there:

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the people whom I begged for money before leaving town. These include John from Elysium/Valhalla, Jason from Jackalope/Chupacabra, Nordstrom from Club Deville, Steve From Headhunters and Dave from Trophy’s. I didn’t actually get any ad money from Dave, I just sort of took 50 bucks off of the 250 that I owe him. That’s right, I took money from a dying man. Also, I got some help from my friends at Affordable Sound and my sister gave me a hundred bucks, re-establishing the inter-family pecking order more to her liking. Talk to y’all soon. CHAD

12:12 AM

It turns out that the Egyptian screening was pretty badass as well.  Fuck.  I’m liking L.A. We went out and partied with Bomber and Tawdry.  Fun.

12:21 AM

The screening in Echo Park was great and we’re two-for-two so far in L.A. We went down to the screening with Laura Blanco, our other gracious host, and met up with a chunk of buddies. Chepo and Harvey Sid Fisher were there, Austin expatriates Valerie Aiello and Barron Gunter were there, not to mention our new friends, Cynthia, Julio and many others. The crowd seemed to really like the movie, even to the point of a guy who looked a hell of a lot like Sweet Tooth walking up with his girlfriend afterwards and both of them telling me it was awesome. We were very pleased with the crowd’s reaction. I was pleased with their reaction to me, in particular. Later on, we went out to The Drawing Room and drank the night away.

2:01 AM

Fuck.  L.A. has been nice to us.  Even the cops weren’t too dickish.  The USC screening was kick ass and was packed almost entirely with strangers: students still in town for the summer, old farts who pack into free screenings, local freaks from the ghettos that surround the campus, etc.  And they still loved the flick.  That was nice.

Tonight, we screened at Echo Park Film Center. EPFC is a home-made looking film group that screens films, teaches classes and is totally badass.  It reminds me of the old days of the Austin Cinemaker Co-op.  Back when I was shooting a shitload of Super 8, the Cinemaker was a home base for a group of filmmakers and we had fun screenings and taught classes as well. So EPFC felt like home to me. On top of that, Eve, who runs the joint, was super-cool.

Aside from a few friends, this screening was packed with strangers.  And the flick went over swell here too.  In fact, the vibe was killer and the energy was ramped-up. Another notch in our el lay belt.

Julian Nitzberg, the filmmaker behind The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia (the doc about the crazy hicks in the Jesco White clan) came out and was digging some Total Badass action.  We stood around and shot the bull for a bit. I have yet to see his doc, but it looks nuts.  Another filmmaker and old Austin pal, Jay Duplass came out.  Unfortunately, I told him the wrong time and he was there an hour early.  Either way, go see his little movie called Cyrus.  He can use all the help he can get.  And it’s funny as fuck.

Ex-Austinite Baron Gunter apparently came out just to make sure the movie sucked.  He needed to know that we were shit and that the movie was shit.  He dropped five bucks to see with his own eyes that we were wasting his time and dragging the good name of Austin through the mud.  But after the flick, he was sold.  He fucking loved it and showered us with praise and even invited us to a motorcycle party chock full of babes in school girl uniforms.  It was funny and refreshing to hear him admit that he came out to hate and he desperately wanted to hate the flick and us for making it.   But once he saw it, was on board as a fan.  Fuck yeah.

Earlier in the day, a friend who is a friend with one of the South Park boys had me swing by some DVDs of Total Badass and the cartoons I make called CrashToons (see them here: So I dumped some DVDs on Ted the intern.  If you are a friend of the South Park boys, please make them watch my shit.  So to speak.

After that, I ate some chow at Pho 86 in Chinatown, saw this cactus:

2:00 PM

Finally, Chad is earning his keep. Actually, he’s doing just fine riding shotgun and keeping things fun.  He’s like Julie from the Love Boat, always arranging the party situations and shit.

On the tech side of crap, I put about 5000 miles on the car since we left Austin.  So I took her get her juices drained and to get her oiled up proper.  We walked around Hollywood while they got the car lubed up as evidenced in these fine touristy-pics.  Feel free to print these and mail them to your parents and claim that you were in L.A.  That’s what we did.

We returned to get the car to learn that the water pump is squirting or leaking or something that is bad for the car. The proof was in the jizz marks on the underside of the hood.

To add injury to injury, I had the water pump replaced 12 months and two weeks ago.  It is barely 500 miles out of warranty.  What a load of shit.  They want $518 to fix it.  I can fix it for about $40.  So we’ll just keep an eye on it as we drive through the dessert next week. I’m thinking that the water pump might be kinda important in keeping the car cool… we’ll see how far we get with this new plan.

A highlight of the recent days was meeting and putting around with Harvey Sid Fisher.  He was fun.  We putted around the green and drank warm beers form his duffle bag.

3:34 PM

You guys heard of Harvey Sid Fisher? He’s an entertainer out here, just one of the many bigwigs we hobnobbed with in Hollywood. I’ve always thought he was an interesting guy, and had briefly met him through some friends back in Austin, so I had my people call his people, and we did lunch over a round of golf. I’m taking to L.A. like a duck to water. I know all of this seems improbable, but it’s captured here on film, including a video hello from Harvey to his friends back in Austin:

We putted around and shot the shit with Harvey for the whole day and evening. He gave us a bunch of pointers on our upcoming stardom, and also laid out for us some of the pitfalls and hurdles that we can expect as fame takes over our lives. He’s particularly bothered by websites that have clips of his astrology songs posted up, getting thousands of hits, but he doesn’t see a cent of it. Clips like this one:

8:29 PM

We met up with another old pal from Austin and had drinks with Dave Bennett at the Dresden.  We caught a tad of Marty and Elaine’s piano act.

At the bookstore next door, I saw this:

11:08 PM
I know everybody is expecting me to get arrested on this trip, and I certainly don’t want to let anybody down, but all I could muster up tonight was a thorough pat-down and handcuffing up against a fence. I even let the cop find our weed pipe, and he still wouldn’t arrest me. The police out here have their hands full, so Bob and I had to literally walk down Hollywood Boulevard drinking a twelve pack of Keystones to get them to even pay attention to us, to begin with. As a final reminder of our insignificance, when I picked up all my belongings from their pile on the sidewalk, the cops had slipped the pipe back in with everything else before driving off, laughing.

11:11 PM

Yeah, that was odd.  All we were doing was heading to a pool party on the roof of the Roosevelt Hotel.  Or maybe it was a pool party on roofies?  We weren’t exactly sure and our info was shaky at best. Turns out there is no pool up there.  But as we strode through the streets of L.A., chugging shit-beer from a can like we own the goddamn place, a couple cops decide to bust our balls about drinking in public. “Hey! What are you drinking? Wait right there!”

Chad needed to jettison the weed, so I put up a diversion as I started blindly crossing the street to meet our uniformed buddies at their car.  Can tilted skyward and chugging more beer, the cop demanded that I stop and step back on the curb. I figured to not waste it is all. Besides, look at me!  I think it worked.  We felt in control even as we were cuffed and up against the wall.   We sounded coherent and confident and the cops appreciated that.  We were mentally Alpha-humping them and they knew we were in command of the situation.  I played the Texas card:  “Y’all can’t drink in the streets here in California?  Down in Texas you can drink on the streets all day long,” I insisted with a newfound Texan accent.

It was a powder-puff affair, all be told. As part of the inquisition, we told the cops we were going to a party on the roof of the Roosevelt.  “I been up there.  It ain’t that impressive.”  Cops gotta burst my bubble too?

2:30 AM

We ended the night partying at the Chateau Marmont with Chepo Pena and some of the folks he is on tour from Austin with. I learned a little something just now. I’ve gone through life thinking that a “Marmont” is a medium sized rodent very similar to a groundhog. Turns out, these things are called “Marmots”… there is no “n” in Marmot. A “Marmont” is a French guy. I think I have been subconsciously blending the words “Marmot” and “Varmint” all these years. It was not until this very minute that a combination of spell-check and google led to this discovery.

I’m glad y’all were able to grow with me just now, but this is all detracting from the biggest news of the trip so far by a fucking landslide… I PARTIED WITH MRS. STANWYCK!!! That’s right, motherfuckers. Mrs. Stanwyk from Fletch. I was partying in a room. Mrs. Stanwyk was in the room. I partied with Mrs. Stanwyk. I played it totally cool, and sure as hell didn’t say anything stupid, like “Can I borrow your towel for a sec, my car just hit a water buffalo.” I just acted like everything was normal and even opened a bottle of wine for her at one point. She’s more beautiful in person now than she was in the movie, just in case you’re wondering.

2:49 AM

Yeah, that was nice.  And this was funny.  Earlier in the night, Chepo stuffed some cold beers in his man-purse. Unfortunately, the condensation form the beer combined with a faulty lid on his Xanax bottle led to the contents of his bag being coated in an orange Xanax shell.  Enjoy:

Then there was more singing and drinking and hash smoking.

4:44 AM

Anyway, shit must have gone downhill from there because I woke up the next day with this on the camera. I wasn’t able to make heads or tails of it, so you shouldn’t expect to either…


Well folks, you’re in for a special treat. In honor of our Thai friends we made last night in Los Angeles, I’m going to repost an old article of mine from Rank and Revue days. It starts out completely off topic (although it is eerily on topic as far as a back story for the movie Total Badass) but then at the end it has what I would consider my best “Thai Routine” to date, about my first college roommate, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, who had six T’s in his last name, alone. This was my thirteenth article I ever wrote:

Work In Progress

My son, Shay Holt, was two years old the first time he ever called a cop a “fat cunt” to their face. What’s that? You didn’t know I had a kid? I have two, actually, despite the fact that I have failed to mention them in the dozen or more articles I’ve written for Rank and Revue. All told, I have two kids, a common-law wife, a mistress, and numerous girlfriends. What can I say… I’m a very loving man.

Anyway, the fore mentioned incident took place three years ago as we were driving out in front of The Frank Erwin Center, moments before the tip-off of a Longhorn basketball game. Although it’s all the rage these days (if you think it’s bad now, wait until this season starts) only three short years ago community interest in Longhorn’s basketball was minimal at best. Despite this, parking for games at The Erwin Center always has been, and always will be, an absolute bitch. My sister, Ashley, who I have also failed to mention in an article up to this point, was riding shotgun. My kids, Shay and his sister, Jessica Burnie, were in the backseat. (Don’t let Jessica’s different last name alarm you folks, last names change like the weather in my family. I myself was Chad Jeremy Janecek at one point.)

Rather than forcing Ashley and the kids into walking the half-mile from our parking spot back to the arena, I had opted to drop them off up close and then meet them at our seats. In order to do so, I pulled into a parking lot located right out in front of The Erwin Center. This lot was of course reserved for illuminati and whatnot, so it came equipped with its own uniformed police officer to keep out the riff-raff. Upon seeing said riff-raff pull in, the officer jumped into action. Convinced I was trying to snag a spot meant for the Board of Regents, he started gesticulating wildly and shining his flashlight at us. I still had to pull in a little more to get out of traffic on Red River, and the cop ran up and started to beat on the roof of my car. “Hold on you fat cunt!” This is what I yelled, out of earshot of course. (I would like to make it clear that this guy was a fat cunt because he was beating on the roof of my car while my family was in it, not because he had chosen law enforcement as a profession. I’m sure that Shay feels the same way.)

So, I told Ashley to go ahead and take the kids inside while I talked to this guy, and rolled down my window. As I was explaining my intentions to the cop, Ashley took Shay out of his car seat. He was pissed! When Ash got him out of the car, he was pointing at the officer and yelling, “You fat cunt! You fat cunt!” I can’t imagine where he had heard such language. The cop seemed genuinely hurt, and looked at me as if to say, “Hey, your baby is calling me a fat cunt.”  I just kind of shrugged, like, “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?”  Realizing that even the police were powerless in this situation, I briefly considered having Shay commit all of my crimes for me, at least until he became an adult. Perhaps this wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
This is the second time, by the way, that I have typed everything up until this point. Lisa Burnie, common law wife earlier mentioned, found my first version and deleted it while crying and telling me that I am “From Hell”.

While I’m on the subject of hell, I would also like to tell you that as far as I’m concerned, a fart is wasted if it isn’t expelled directly on a small child, or at least a household pet. Although taboo in many circles, farting on children is commonplace in my family, the action being first introduced to me by my Uncle Bubba, who can fart on command. Around here, when you’re on the receiving end of such treachery, you are said to have taken a “fartbath.” Sometimes while I’m watching television, Shay will feign interest in me and crawl up into my lap for a minute, only to fart on me and squirm off giggling, “Chad took a fartbath. Chad took a fartbath.” (For some odd reason, my children have taken to calling me by my first name, rather than the more respectable title of Daddy or Father.)  Jessica, being a girl, suffers from only a small fraction of the assaults, and, quite frankly doesn’t seem very fond of the ruse. Truth be told, both of the kids are getting too big to fart on, and it may be time to have another. Anyone interested in having a child with me can contact me through Rank and Revue’s email. The insemination process alone would be well worth your time, I assure you.

Is it just me, or has Larry Stern been running entirely too many photos of me in the last several issues of the magazine? I’m sure many of you are wondering when I am going to make an honest woman out of Larry, but I promise that our personal relationship has in no way influenced his decisions as to which pictures he chooses to submit. I think it’s more the result of us doing so much tandem work together, being the most talented reporter/ photographer duo that this city, this state even, has ever seen. Nonetheless, I still think there are too many pictures of me in the magazine these days, and I am tired of people telling me that I look like Mr. Bean.

There is still a lot of space to fill ladies and gentlemen, and I have absolutely nothing more to say of any importance, as odd as that may seem. I’m going to take this opportunity to go back and tell you more of Jaturon Chattrattichatt, my first college roommate. Before I tell you about Jaturon Chattrattichatt, however, I must to tell you of the worst marketing decision ever made by a convenience store chain on the Texas Gulf Coast.

In the summer of 1991, I was on road trip from Lake Jackson, Texas to Orlando, Florida with Mike and Will of Affordable Sound. We were celebrating our graduation from Brazoswood High School, where, as you know, I reigned as Student Body President. (You didn’t think Affordable Sound has been running all those back page ads for the hell of it, did you?) I remember this summer distinctly; not because I haven’t completely destroyed my brain since then, but because of Stop and Go’s historic blunder. It came at a point where it was almost impossible to tell the difference between a Stop and Go and a 7-11, as there was some kind of hostile takeover in effect. Do you remember these confusing times?

Stop and Go launched their summer campaign by selling a quasi-permanent fountain drink cup that changed psychedelic colors when you filled it up. I think it was called The Super Shocker. Costing roughly seven dollars, the cup’s ability to make any acid trip ten times as fun was in and of itself worth your money. The fact that you got to fill the motherfucker up at ANY Stop and Go for FREE for the ENTIRE summer made it the work of madmen. The effects of this promotion struck Stop and Go like a plague.

Stage One: Every man, woman and child in Brazoria County buys a Super Shocker within 48 hours of infection.

Stage Two: Mad with the euphoria of walking into a store, taking something of value, and walking out without paying, hundreds of screaming citizens mob every Stop and Go in town, day or night. Panic sets in.

Stage Three: The fountain drink sections and surrounding merchandise of all Stop and Gos are completely ransacked within one week of infection. Fanta and Diet Sprite are only flavors in stock.

Stage Four: Death. Every Stop and Go on coast has a Sorry, No Fountain Drinks sign posted on front door.
When Will, Mike and I left on out trip to The Epcot Center, each of us had a Super Shocker in tow, convinced that we were going to cut a swath of free drink violence across the Southeastern United States. I shit you not when I tell you that, with the exception of the Stop and Go at the intersection of  “Old” 288 and Hwy. 2004 in Richwood, Texas, which was less than a mile from my house, we didn’t pass a single one on our entire trip. By the end, we were just using the Super Shockers to piss in, being too paranoid to pull the car over for anything but gas.

We were somewhere in Mississippi when I contacted my parents by telephone. They were here in Austin, securing a roommate for the condo I was going to be living in on and off for the eight years it was going to take me to secure a BA in sociology from the University of Texas. When talking to Bo, I could tell things were a little weird. He handed the phone off to my mom and I asked her what they were doing. “Well, we’re talking with your new roommate,” she said. “His name is Jat.” (I remember thinking to myself,  Strike One.) “He’s from Thailand.” (Strike Two!)  “And, today is his first day in America.” (Steeeeeeeeerike Three!!!!)
As I’m sure you can imagine, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, (or Jat, as he came to prefer) and I weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. I’m reminded of a Gary Larson cartoon depicting aliens shaped like a man’s ass coming off a spaceship into a field full of goats. The caption read: When worlds collide. That poor bastard…

Let me just say this. The best it ever got was during our first couple of weeks together, when I would introduce him to my friends from the coast. Regardless of which friend I was talking to, the conversation always went exactly like this; “Hey dude, this is my roommate, Jat.” “Jap!! Jesus Christ, his name’s Jap??” “No, it’s Jat, with a T.” “Oh. Hi Jat.”  “Ha-loooo.”
At the lowest point of our relationship, Jat was completely horrified by my friends, my lifestyle, and me in general. If he was in the house when I got home, he would hide when he heard me approaching. If I was already home when Jat arrived at his Hell in the West, he wouldn’t even look at me, bee-lining in terror straight to his room. Only venturing out at night, he lived like the Vietcong. Since he had stopped speaking to me for the last eight months we lived together, the only way I would know he was home was by looking to see if his sandals were in front of his bedroom door. (He had these sandals, see, and he would take them off before going into his room.)

Once, there were about ten of us still awake downstairs all fucked up on acid, among other things, at about eight o’clock in the morning on Super Bowl Sunday (Redskins/Bills). Greg Pearce and I were sitting against a wall, facing out the window on Jat’s side of the house. We both witnessed a flash in front of the window that appeared to be a small man scrambling down the drainpipe. Initially dismissing this as a hallucination, we both came to realize that it had indeed been Jat. Apparently, rather than encountering the maniacs who had been hooting and hollering in his living room all night, Jaturon Chattrattichatt had chosen the more honorable and face saving option of climbing out his second story bedroom window to begin his busy day. I remember, with our emotions being heightened by LSD, Greg and I found this both tragically sad enough and hilariously funny enough to cry about.

Fuck it, I’m done. Forgive me Jaturon Chattrattichatt, wherever you are.

11:45 PM

Actually, it was a pretty lazy day, today. Our gracious host, Jesse Blanco, took us out to see Venice Beach at night, and then later I had a date so Bob and I went to The Frolic Room. I frolicked. From there on out, this was one of the many things that happened on this trip that we have neglected to write about because you simply aren’t ready to read it. What I can tell you though, is that this and many other events just like it over the L.A. leg of our tour has led us to agree that if someone were to make a porno based on this particular part of our trip, it would be called,  One Flew Over the Cuckold’s Nest.

12:01 PM

We woke up in L.A.  That’s a good start.  Actually, we’re in a nice pad over behind the Hollywood Bowl. Underpants not allowed.

In acting like we’re writing this blog all day long, we time stamp the entries.  It’s a nice illusion.  You probably think we’re working hard over here to report in several times a day.  Bullshit.  We actually jot down the happenings as soon as we can.  Since I do all the driving (over 5000 miles so far), and have to deal with the cinemas, selling merch, doing Intros and Q&As for both Hell on Wheels and Total Badass and partying-balls as well, I have far less time to scrawl out the stories. With that in mind, allow me to allow Chad do most of the jabbering about L.A.  It don’t hurt none that he’s funny.

6:40 PM

The screening at USC was arguably the highpoint of the tour for Total Badass. There was a big crowd, and most of them stuck around for about 45 minutes of question and answering. Brazoswood’s own Ric Frazier was there, with a huge mass of dreadlocks on his head.

Bob and I went out after the movie with a younger couple, Brian and Gianna, who had just moved up from San Diego to go to film school at USC and Santa Cruz, respectively. I know it sounds corny, but it was kind of cool for me to think Bob and I could possibly impress something on the people we’ve been meeting along the way. Hanging out with Brian and Gianna was probably the flagship moment of this particular sentiment. Sometime around midnight, I got a call from Austin’s own Chepo Pena, who is out here on a tour of his own. From there on out, things in Los Angeles got apeshit in a hurry, so pay attention.


First, we all went down and met Chepo at “Jumbo’s Clown Room”, which I immediately started and still have not stopped calling “Operation Dumbo Drop”.  That would be a lot funnier if the girls who dance at Operation Dumbo Drop were as ugly as the rumors we ran into said they were. The night we were there, the girls were not only fine as hell, but many of them were way better dancers than your typical stripper. I’m talking about gymnasts and acrobats and shit, ok? Of course, then again, strippers take out their tits and show you their buttholes for dollars while the girls at Operation Dumbo Drop remain clothed. As a person who goes to titty bars, I noticed that the fact that these girls don’t get naked causes them to pay a lot more attention to the sexier details of their clothing. A stripper never has to really worry about her clothes, because she’s not going to be using them that much. Unfortunately, Operation Dumbo Drop strictly forbids photography of any kind on its premises, so all I was able to film was every stripper in the club that night giving a happy birthday orgy dance to one of their brethren (SFW):

Right next door to Operation Dumbo Drop was a karaoke bar, and an oriental one at that. It turned out to be Thai, but before we asked and found out for sure, we all made guesses. I said Cambodian, Chepo said Korean, Brian and Gianna said Thai, Chepo changed his to Thai, and then Bob said Thai, but followed that up with “Yep, Taiwanese.” Things started out a little shaky, and I paid five dollars for a beer that clearly said $3.75 right on the fucking menu. We sat down in the middle of the restaurant and watched people sing pop Thai karaoke songs with a live band backing them when Chepo realizes that it’s just like his live karaoke band, The Dead Motley Sex Maidens. I’m not trying to oversell Chepo here, ok? In the interest of full disclosure, Chepo wrote the first ever review that anyone ever did about me as a performer. It was way the hell back in the Zeppoli’s days over on West Campus, in about 1992 or 1993 and I’m pretty sure Chepo was publishing his own ‘zine. He did a review of my band DKB, and said something along the lines of I was half Jesus, half Charles Manson and one of the greatest performers of all times. It was nothing I let go to my head, I assure you. In fact, I was actually more pleased with the fact that he had conversely wrote a scathing review about the band Spill, our good buddies from Lake Jackson, and concentrated his ire almost fully on long time friend, Kevin Seay. Anyway, I’ve known Chepo ever since and he of course needs no introduction as a performer in Austin, but what happened next has to be one of his career highlights. He went up and asked the band if they did any songs in English that he could sing along to, and they actually agreed upon doing “La Bamba” in Spanish, so you’ve got all kinds of races flying around here. Chepo brought the house down so hard with “La Bamba” that the band just sort of held him hostage and went straight into “Twist and Shout” and “I Saw Her

Standing There” before they were done with him. Is this all captured on film? You bet it is:

We had a great fucking time this night, and especially in the Thai place. By the end of the night, all cultural reservations had been abandoned, as evidenced by this video:

If you got a particular kick out of this part of our evening like I did, then you might enjoy the following three videos of real Thais doing real Thai karaoke:

If you got a particular kick out of this part of our evening like I did, and you’re a fan of Ed Hall and Pong, then you might enjoy the following video of a real Thai Gary Chester doing real Thai Gary Chester karaoke: