Tag Archive: Bob Ray


Total Badass kicked total ass at Documenta Madrid

Documenta Madrid was a hoot.  A fun-as-hell hoot.  If your documentary gets accepted to the fest, you should go.  And be ready to party.  And see good films.

I didn’t really take the time to bone up on Madrid before hopping on a plane for the fest. But I did learn a few things while there. Here are some observations: all the women in Spain look like Penelope Cruz. And the ones who don’t (including the men), look like a mix of white folk, Mexicans, Italians and Arabs.  Spaniards are shorter, on average, than Americans.  I’m 6’2” and taller than the average American, but way taller than the average Spaniard.  And the black folk (African-Spaniards?) are not fucking around with their blackness; they are as black as night.  Character-wise, the Spaniards I encountered were super-nice.  They are like Canadians, if the Canadians knew how to party your balls off.  Spaniards will throw down a party any time and any place.  And they love to be the last man standing, drinking, or smoking.  Even the women.  Which reminds me, they all smoke.

Day 1 – Thursday, May 5, 2011

This part mostly sucks, but it gets better.  My trip started on Thursday, May 5.  Which as some Mexicans and Americans know, is Cinco de Mayo.  The trip over took 21 hours… (The ellipses are to indicate the passage of time, not a lazy attempt at punctuation.)  The trip took a good deal longer than planned and I blame the President.

On the flight to the edge of America, New Jersey, I sat next to fellow Austinite Steve Sanders. Steve is an actor and pal of Michael Dalmon, of Platypus Rex and APESH!T fame.  He looks like Hellboy dude Ron Perlman.  We had a good time shooting the shit.

The flight from Austin to Newark was delayed.  The pilot made sure to let everyone know that it was the President’s fault, as Air Force One was flying around the Northeast and all planes headed that way were held up.  The delay caused me to miss my connecting flight to Madrid.  After the rigmarole, I ended up on a different flight through London featuring more delays and several hours added to my trip.  When I finally arrived in Madrid, it was 23 hours after leaving Austin.

Day 2 – Friday, May 6, 2011

As I just said, this day started on the plane.  And languished on the plane for a good deal longer.  The only up-side of my delay and diversion is that I learned that British Airway’s flights give you plenty of free booze.  Finally, by six in the evening, I was drunk in Madrid. Time to party!

I made it to my hotel and hustled down to the Cinema Palafox for the first of two Total Badass screenings.  The decent crowd at the cinema seemed to enjoy the movie.  It was pretty neat to watch the flick with Spanish subtitles.  I’m already familiar with Spanish cuss words, but it was cool and weird to see the whole flick subtitled.  We had no Q&A because one of the festival’s cinemas wasn’t ready for the fest and they had to squeeze in more screenings at the Palafox.  I had been looking forward to an awkward and language-barrier challenged Q&A, but no dice.

After the screening, the fest folks headed down to Club Costello for after party shenanigans and booze.  I made the trek with the fun-loving festival director Antonio Delgado and his pal whose name I forget.  It’s on this night at Club Costello where I’d meet many of the folks I’d end up spending the weekend with: Ruth Somalo (festival translator, filmmaker and Spaniard living in NYC), Sandra Ruesga (filmmaker and programmer for the films in competition), Jean-Claude Taki (fellow filmmaker with the doc Sotchi 255 screening at the fest), and more.  The booze flowed and the languages mixed.  The partying had begun!

Day 3 –Saturday, May 7, 2011

There’s a Documenta Madrid meet up and lunch every day around noon and several people were praising Total Badass.  Maybe because it was praise in the form of the seductive, lispy jiggle of the España Spanish language that made it so special, but it was pretty fucking sweet.  The filmmakers, crew and fans took turns introducing ourselves like at a way less sober version of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.  We all got a who’s who and I figured out which of these folks could speak English well enough to be my new friends.  When a guy resembling Geraldo Rivera’s moustache began to talk, his Spanish sounded more familiar.  It turns out he’s from Mexico and had no Spaniard’s lisp.  He also spoke fluent English and had that killer ‘stache, so we ended up partying throughout the weekend.  His name is Lorenzo Hagerman and he’s a great guy who has a film in the competition called 0.56%.  He runs a micro-cinema in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula called La 68.

At the same lunch, I met Martin Guerra, an hombre from Peru, who now lives in Spain and once lived in the U.S.  He’s a great guy as well as the hospitality liaison for the fest.  It’s a fitting role for him as he’s fun and charming and speaks the sweet, sweet English.  We’d end up partying and hanging out later as well.  A pattern was developing.

Immediately after the filmmaker lunch (with plenty of red wine), I took a five hour siesta.  When in Spain, do as the Spaniards, right?  But being an obnoxious American, I had to show them up at their own game.  A two or three hour siesta?  Bah!

I got a late start to this eve, but it wasn’t quite party-time, so I decided to walk half-way across the city and see some sights.  I strolled up past the Prado and eye-fucked some fancy architecture and sexy statues while en route to the bar.  Spain is a beautiful city.  It’s filled with lots of old buildings that are covered with sculptures and other spiffy accoutrements.  Even the newer buildings embrace an artistic bend in their design and construction.  I am really liking it here.  I timed my walk to land me at Club Costello for the after party.  After arriving, I partied.

We shut down Club Costello at 3 AM (again) then headed down to a Spanish version of a heavy metal bar.  The joint is called Refugees.  Our little gang of Ruth, Sandra, Jean-Claude and a few others (whose names I forget) pounded more booze until 6 AM.  These Spaniards like to fucking party.  They party like they’re on cocaine, but they’re not on cocaine.  They also sing along to all the American songs and don’t give a shit about how gay it makes them look. And they dance.  So I gayed out with the locals.  Stop, drop and roll-gay.

I made it back to my hotel as the sun was coming up.  Never a good sign.  Or always the best sign.  I flicked on the TV and immediately saw dick and balls, titties and ass: porn.  Spain is great!  I passed the fuck out and snagged some well-earned zZzs.

Day 4 – Sunday, May 8, 2011

I met a Belgian filmmaker named Sophie Benoot at the filmmaker lunch and we hit it off pretty swell.  She directed a film about the American South that I ended up watching later in the day.  I really enjoyed the flick.

I saw a total of two movies today, the other being 0.56%.  Both were great and both were made by some new friends.  My mustachioed Mexican pal Lorenzo directed 0.56%.  His flick was an in-the-moment account of the last presidential election, examining the thin margin of victory that gave the Mexican presidency to Felipe Calderon, over the liberal candidate and former mayor of Mexico City, Andrés Manuel López Obrador.  Aside from reminding me of, and re-pissing me off about, the Bush-Gore bullshit that we Americans had to endure, it was a great doc.

I strolled into my other new friend’s movie immediately after. Sophie’s flick, Blue Meridian, is a choice little essay-doc that floats down the Mississippi River, stopping in small communities along the way to revel in the local oddballs and weirdos who dot the landscape.  It was pretty sweet, beautifully shot and bizarrely engaging.  Among other things I enjoyed about the movie was getting more than a giggle out of watching the Spaniards in the audience laugh and freak out over a high-stepping, ass-shaking black high-school marching band from the deep-south.

Speaking of weirdness, people keep staring at me. This happens everywhere I go: the bar, the subway, on the streets, in the restaurants.  Everywhere, and a lot.  Sometimes it’s sexy gals, so that’s cool (happens all the time, ahem).  But it’s not exclusively sexy gals.  Hell, not even exclusively gals.  And when I gaze back at someone who’s eyeballing me, they don’t look away as if busted.  They keep on getting a gander, soaking up the me.  I’ve yet to figure out why.  I’m a bit taller than most here, but is that it?  There are plenty of folks with blue eyes running around Madrid, so that can’t be it, right?  Maybe it’s cuz I’m so goddamn pretty that they are lured to my visage like the light spewing from the Arc of the Covenant?  Or maybe they all think I’m Dr. House from that TV show?  I’m certain it’s not that I’m just paranoid, as I’ve found no weed here.

Speaking of sexiness, a sexy gal approached me in the streets and said something seductive in Spanish. I replied “No hablo español.” And she asked “Qué habla?”  “inglés.” I replied.  “Want to fuck?” she asks.  My dick plumped and tingled, as it should when a scantily clad babe inquires about succulently surrounding your cock with her hot, wet flesh.  And what kind of question is that?  Is there more than one answer?  “Fuck yes, I want to fuck, I’m a red-blooded American.” “Twenty-five.” She replied.  Euros, she meant.  I thought she meant minutes, as in: let’s fuck for at least 25 minutes.  Which was fine by me.  Hell, why stop there?  At this new realization, however, I began to barter her down to 20.  That’s when she slipped up; clearly her bartering skills were not good.  Or maybe it was the language barrier, but she offered to cut me a deal for 15 Euros (maybe she thought I was Dr. House?).  After a bit of back and forth, I settled for a hand job behind the dumpster for five bucks.  Or did I?

What I learned later is that Club Costello, the after-party venue, is in the heart of the prostitution district.   Lucky me.  And here I was thinking that there was this fine babe who just could not control her lust for me and coincidentally needed to borrow some cash.  I was slightly less flattered to learn this.

Berr-heen-ya.  That’s how you say Virginia in Spanish.  It took me a very long tome to figure out what the hell she was saying when I asked her name.  Both Virginia Candás and her friend Maria Torres are workers at the fest and we ended up partying all night at Club Costello.  It was a fun and weird night of speaking very slow Spanglish to, once again, conquer the language barrier.  Both Virginia and Maria were awesome.

After shutting down Costello, we gathered a gaggle of funsters and partied all night at Wurlitzer, a rock and roll club that’s open until 5AM.  The beers here cost 3.5 Euros (more than five bucks).  After three in the morning, they jump up to 4.5 Euros (nearly seven bones, American).  A mixed drink, while pretty fucking big, will rip eight Euros from your pocket (12 fucking dollars).  So, it ain’t cheap to get your drunk on around here.  That doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone from partying balls.

Day 5 – Monday, May 9, 2011

I slept for 11 hours.  I just skipped the first part of the day and ran the night’s sleep into the siesta.  I totally one-upped these Spaniards at their own game of day-sleeping.

I got all touristy today and walked around old Madrid, looked at buildings, ate tapas and chorizo.  Went totally American tourist on their asses.

 

We unspooled our second Total Badass screening tonight.  There were over a hundred people in there and they were digging it.  I guess the word of mouth from the first screening spread and got folks riled up for the flick.  That was nice.

Duh, but I partied at Club Costello again.  I hung out with my new friends, Ruth, Sandra, Sofie, Jean-Claude, Lorenzo, Omer Oké (filmmaker) and others, whose names I forget.

Late night found us at the Wurlitzer again.  The party was thinning and the Spaniards were starting to fall behind as it was only a Mexican, a Frenchman, a Belgian and an American who kept the torch going until the wee hours.  Well, there was a Spaniard in our midst, but he’s originally from Peru.  Martin was good to go, nonetheless.

As we stumbled out of the bar, I learned of this killer Oriental express beer-selling scheme that has a well organized groups of Asian folks (of whom there seem to be very few in Spain) slinging booze off cardboard boxes like crafty entrepreneurs or Three-card Monte hucksters.  When cops are spotted, the scouts on the periphery text all the pop-up speakeasies and they simultaneously disappear like a choreographed gang of ninjas sans smoke bombs.  A few minutes after the fuzz leaves they return in unison.  And a street beer for a single Euro (compared to 3.5 or 4.5 Euros in a bar), ain’t a bad deal.  That and the beer seems sweeter because crime is fun.

Day 6 – Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Today, I headed home.  I got two hours of sleep last night.  I hit the hay at 6AM and got up at 8AM to bolt for the airport.  Nothing eventful happened until I hit customs in Washington D.C., where I was to switch planes.

Hey, guess what.  Remember when Chad and I were arrested while on tour last summer? Remember how Chad’s forgotten bag of shwag-weed crumbs got us busted by the sniffer dog?  Remember how we just couldn’t come to part with our hash and I’d stuffed the weed and hash inside a jar and crammed it into my pants and then was subsequently jailed for possession after a warrantless search of our car? Here’s the tour journal entry, in case you’ve forgotten:  TOUR JOURNAL: Day 35: Tuesday, August 17, 2010 Miss Marfa and Arrested

Well, in the long run on that hot summer day, Chad and I each got a ticket for possession of paraphernalia.  If we weren’t ingrates who’d had their constitutional rights trampled (and $537 citations assessed), we’d be thankful that we didn’t get a felony possession charge for the hash.  But do you know what all this means for my current and future travel?  It means that every single time I return to the U.S. after a trip abroad, Homeland Security will search all of my possessions.  They will remove every item and shake, poke and prod it.  They will open every container, test the structural integrity of the baggage itself and take up to 25 minutes searching for a pipe or maybe some weed.  Way to gobble our tax dollars keeping us all safe by thoroughly looking for a joint, TSA.  That joint (had there been one) was surely going to blow up the airplane and kill hundreds, right?  What a grievous threat I am to the security of the homeland.  Our tax dollars at work.  Always keeping national security a priority, TSA, searching for some fucking pot.  Summon your patience the next time your find yourself in line behind a harmless weed-smoking fellow traveler, folks.  You will be delayed—for your own protection.

The bookend of the trip: Every single flight I took was delayed.  The first flight was the President’s fault (all planes headed to the N.E. had to be delayed or re-routed because Air Force One was flying in the area) and it was all downhill from there.  The last leg of the trip was actually not delayed.  That is, until we landed in Austin.  We then sat on the tarmac for an hour and a half.  Once again, the pilot made sure to inform us that it was the President’s fault again as he’d just finished his visit to Austin and was about to take off.

Despite the President’s fucking up my trip, I had a blast.  I’d do it all over again in a flash.

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12:11 PM – BOB
So yeah, basically we had three people for Hell on Wheels and five for Total Badass last night.  It was freezing tits cold, so there’s that excuse.  We also got zero press and had no derby support here.  I’m sure I could make more excuses for the lack of a turnout, but why bother?  However, all five stuck around for the Q&A. You might argue that they only stuck around out of fear of being rude by walking out or that they were just over-courteous, but all of them chatted it up with us after the screening. So, if you look at it this way, 100% of the crowd hung out and talked with us after the flicks.

Today, we split from Ally’s house (she had a badass quilt made up of old socks, btw (thanks, Ally!!)) and holed up in the downtown Providence library.   We’re uploading vids, emailing, promo-ing, taking shits, fielding questions from cinemas, etc… in short, we’re partying balls.

Library in Providence:



12:31 PM – CHAD
We woke up in Providence and went to what is bound to be the main library downtown and spent a couple hours working on our tour journal. I’m confident that the work we did there will have us caught up with everything in no time. The truth is, I think Bob and I both are in no hurry to get anywhere, because we have no idea where we are going to stay for the next two nights. We have a showing in Boston tomorrow, and know nobody there. We stayed here in Providence with a friend of a friend last night, but without even speaking with each other, Bob and I mutually concluded that we had probably imposed enough and asking to stay again would be simply… indulgent. Besides, whether we know anybody or not, we’re convinced Boston is going to be a blast and are eager to check it out.

8:49 PM – BOB
We made it to Boston.  We haven’t been here long and already I’ve done more u-turns in Boston in the last three hours than I did on the previous 20 days of the tour.

12:31 AM – CHAD
Boston Sucks. I might just now be typing that phrase for the first time in this journal, but you must believe me when I tell you that it eventually becomes our mantra over the entirety of our stay in the city. I don’t want any place to suck, ok? I’m a firm believer that you can go anywhere and it will all just be one big adventure and you’ll meet all these wonderful people and do all these amazing things but I’ve been to Boston twice now and it sucked both times. I want to apologize to all the good people of Boston too, and assure you that I’m certain that I’m wrong about this and the only reason I think Boston sucks is because I haven’t met you yet. I think part of the problem might be that both times I’ve gone to Boston, it has been straight from New York City, and maybe it just sucks by comparison. I’m fully aware that saying that might even be worse than simply saying “Boston Sucks” but I’m trying to offer explanations, so as to soothe the masses in Boston. I’ve got to tell you though; Bob and I seriously talked about printing up “Boston Sucks” t-shirts at one point.

Anyway, when we rolled into town, we went to this Irish bar that Davis Comeau suggested we go to, and told them that he sent us. I think our Texas accents may have been a big part of the problem, and maybe the folks at the bar thought I said “Albert DeSalvo” instead of “Davis Comeau” but we didn’t exactly end up pounding rounds of Irish Car Bombs into the night at this motherfucker, ok? On top of that, we had no idea where we were going to stay, and it was looking like we’d be sleeping in the car because we’re both too cheap to even split a hotel room. At some point I suggested to Bob that we place an ad on craigslist which would explain that we were two filmmakers on the road looking for a place to stay for a couple of days, promising free admission to the screening, tons of memorabilia, and just a great time, in general. I specifically posted the ad in the “men seeking women” and “strictly plutonic” sections of the site, and assured Bob that we’d be hearing from hordes of hyper-sexed gay men, in no time.

2:02 AM – BOB
It’s late.  Were driving from a bar to a dude’s house that we met on craigslist. The roads here are fucked. The signs are fucked.  The layout of the city is fucked.  If you wanna get riled up, drive in Boston. On top of that, there’s a fuck-ton of cops.  Those two elements came together in a fearful moment of dread followed by a momentary panic as I was making a weird turn at one of Boston’s finer seven-way intersections and bounced across some sort of bump/curb/train track thing in a weird fashion.  The cop was headed the other way, but he could pull a u-ey any minute, right?  And did he see what surely appeared to all civilized folk in the vicinity to be a drunken driving maneuver?  We didn’t know.  But we did panic. “Ditch the car?” Chad asked.  Let’s think: car full of drugs, Texas plates, beer in car, cops looming.  Answer: yes.  I swung the car over to an empty parking spot between two bigger cars and we bailed the fuck out. We strolled down the road a bit acting nonchalant.  After a few blocks, and nerves calmed by time, we made our way back to the car and headed over to the craigslist dude’s house.  His name was Jim, or James.  We took to calling him Jim James.

Upon arrival at Jim James’s pad, everything was weird. It would be wrong to assume that Jim James was a gay man intent on raping us, gutting us and replacing our vital juices with gallon upon gallon of Jello™, but the circumstantial evidence was mounting.

2:12 AM  CHAD
Had I written this journal on a day-to-day basis as planned, it probably would have been cool here to post some of the responses that Bob and I got from our craigslist advertisement. In reality though, this shit all happened back on about November 30th and it is now roughly February 8th of the next year, so I’m not going to go digging through my emails looking for the shit. You’ll have to make do with me assuring you that most of the replies were about dicks, and whether or not we sucked them. There was one guy, however, who rose above all the petty vulgarities and suggested that we could come crash at his place with no strings attached, though he did leave the door open for shenanigans if we decided that was the way shit was going to go down. His name was James.

We get over to James’ house and he lives in this really nice part of town and his “apartment” is like the third or fourth floor of a… I don’t even know what the hell you call this type of place; they don’t have them in Texas. It was like four houses stacked on top of each other with a stairwell running up the middle… one of those. We get up to his level, he lets us in and the when we walked through the doorway, the first thing I notice off to the left is that the living room is completely empty… no furniture, no pictures, no rugs, nothing. This was one of about four times in my life that I’ve walked into a situation and realized immediately that I’m likely to be killed. If you’ve seen Goodfellas, then you remember the part where Joe Pesci walks into the house with the old mobsters, thinking he is about to become a made-man and then he sees that the place is empty and almost has enough time to say “Oh No!” right before they blow his brains out. It was exactly that type of moment. I mean, I saw this shit and literally maneuvered myself away from Bob to where I felt like if there was some sort of attack, maybe at least one of us could react, fight back, or run while the other was being killed. Like I said, this is about the fourth time I’ve ever been in such a situation. Two of the other times were on drug deals, and I think I might have written about them in an old article that I pledge to post here in the journal sometime down the road on a slow news day (believe me, there are going to be a lot of slow news days coming up). There was one time though, that I’ve never told anyone about, so I’m going to go ahead and tell that story now before I carry on with this James in Boston situation.

Ok, about ten years ago, right around the time I started writing for Rank and Revue Magazine, I was online surfing yahoo chat and I run across this couple over on Riverside Drive who invite me over to come have a threesome with them. Now, I had pretty much grown out of threesomes involving men at that point in my life, but this was a really fine black girl and they swore that there would be no interaction between males… the girl just really liked getting fucked by two guys, or so the story went. I go over and meet them at a convenience store across the street from their apartments so we can all three make sure we’re comfortable with each other before we go to their place… this is all normal protocol when setting up threesomes over the internet, I assure you. It’s important that I mention this initial meet-up, because I think it lends credence to my theory that these two were planning to kill me, all along.

Anyway, I meet them at the store, and it’s a black girl like I said, with a white boyfriend. The funny thing is; they were a complete role reversal. She was a college student over at UT and was almost sorority-like in her speech and mannerisms while he was a ghetto-acting thug with a bad case of nigger-mouth. Not to be confused with trench-foot or pink-eye, nigger-mouth is an ailment that strikes one-in-four young Caucasians, causing them to insist on talking like a black person, and it bothers the shit out of me. In fact, I’m not ashamed to tell you that whenever I encounter this phenomenon, there is a little trigger in my brain that, the second I hear a word come out of the affected party’s mouth, it simply “switches off” and I never listen to or process a single fucking word they say for the rest of my life. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the way black people talk. In fact, I consider their command of the English language to be at the very least unique if not downright admirable. I don’t mind the way white people talk either… I’ve been talking like them for years. It’s just when a white person talks like a black person that I have an issue. The odd thing is, when a black person talks like a white person, it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I find it rather refreshing. Why is that, you figure?

Let’s not get hung up on semantics here, ok? The point is, I pass their initial inspection and am invited back over to the apartment. We get over there and all three walk in the door, and I can’t help but immediately notice that they have pulled up all of the carpet in every room, obviously in a bid to kill me without any of the troublesome bloodstains that are always getting people busted for murder on the TV shows. They tried to put me at ease by explaining that the carpet was all pulled up because of their dogs. You see, they had a whole bedroom full of pit bulls that they were going to chop me up and feed me to over time, in order to dispose of my body. We go back to their bedroom and begin watching Scary Movie 2… the one that starts off with James Woods spoofing The Exorcist. They started smoking crack, you know, to get themselves all amped up for the kill, but I respectfully declined because I’ve never smoked cocaine, only snorted it. Basically, I spent the next several hours trapped in their bedroom, trying to stay in their good graces so as we could either all fuck, or they at least would decide not to kill me. I was doing whatever it took to be charming… I even told homeboy that I was pretty sure I could get the magazine to publish some of the drawings that his friend had been mailing him from prison. The thing is; the issue of sex never came up. I mean, we were obviously not there to do anything of a sexual nature, so what else does that leave? I mean sure, maybe I just wasn’t their type, but the whole point of having an initial public meet-up before random internet sex is so that you can just tell the person right there on the spot not to waste their time or yours. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I was ninety-percent sure that these two intended to kill me, ok? But the girl was so fine; I was willing to risk my life for a ten-percent chance of fucking her. It actually got to the point where I had played out my own private screening of Forensic Files in my mind. In that particular episode, the police were able to go back and look at the archived conversations on my computer and that would lead them to the convenience store, and then eventually to the video surveillance footage of me and the last two people to see me alive. From there, it was simply a matter of sifting through dogshit to secure a conviction.

Anyway, obviously I escaped and went on to survive long enough to encounter this James in Boston situation, a decade later. Now, as I was saying about an hour ago… When Bob and I walked into James’ house, the bare-empty living room took what was already an awkward social situation and turned it into a potential double homicide. James ended up being a bit older than us, and not quite as in shape, so we weren’t in any danger of a bull-rush type situation, but that didn’t rule out treachery involving firearms, poisons, or sneak attacks in the darkness of night. Don’t think I didn’t have this in mind when I never drank a sip of the already-opened Heineken James gave me before I went to bed. Actually, since it was almost three in the morning, I was already so fucked up; I didn’t need a Heineken any more than James needed to drug me to make me pass out. I fell asleep on a couch within about ten minutes, leaving my life in Bob’s hands. The next morning when I woke up, Bob was curled up like a watchdog, sleeping on the floor next to my couch even though he had a bed available in another room. It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Incidentally, this might all seem like exaggeration and humor, with just a smidge of blatant homophobia mixed in, but when we woke up the next morning and did a thorough inspection of the premises, it became quite obvious that something was seriously amiss about our surroundings, so stay tuned for the next episode.

2:52 AM – BOB
I’ve seen enough war shows on the TV to be familiar with the divide and conquer technique.  I know Chad secretly wanted me to sleep in the other room so his fantasies of being molested after his death could finally come to pass, but we still have screenings to attend.  And I want to attend them not as a ghost.  For a man who intended to murder us, Jim James was quite nice and cordial.  So nice in fact, that he politely offered and re-offered to share his bed with me.  There’s plenty of room, he insisted.  No need to sleep on the hard floor, he pleaded.  Have more booze.  You have nice veins.  Don’t bother with the beer, have some of this whiskey, he offered as he dug out a bottle from way back in an empty cupboard.  My keen eye noticed that the half empty bottle had previously been opened and had bits of pills floating in the booze.  Well, potentially, anyway.  This is when I began to suspect that Jim James wanted not only to murder me, but to gay sex me as well.  I’m not sure if the sex or the murder was to be first, but later I realized that he’d also intended to pack my corpse full of Jello™.  Not to sound like a huge wuss or anything, but murder kinda scares me.  Have you seen Auto Focus? The movie where Bob Crane gets his head caved in with a tripod while he sleeps?  The shunned “group grope” got him killed, but good.  Group grope or not, gay sex just disinterests me.  Too much penis and not enough vagina for my tastes.  And I don’t think it makes me a homophobe just cuz the idea of a couple of dudes rolling around all sweaty and stabbing each other with their penises is not a turn on for me.  Hell, I don’t even get why hetero dudes get so riled up about lesbo sex porn.  I like the gays and the lezzies just fine and all, but sex-wise, I’m keen on the idea of cute, naked, sexy girls.  And if there’s a sexy naked gal having awesome sex with a penis (specifically, MY penis), all the better!  That’s exciting!  And if it’s porn with a hot gal having penis sex, at least I can imagine that it’s my penis and totally beat off to that.  But, having never tried the gay sex, maybe I’m being closed minded about it.  Actually, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Jim James never specifically offered gay sex, just a bed to sleep in alongside him.  And I was too much of a pussy to take the gentleman up on his offer. Fingers crossed he doesn’t murder me for being rude.  My apologies, Jim James.

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:
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3:40 PM – CHAD
It seemed like we were in New York for about four months… not that I’m complaining. I told you about how I lost my camera in the city about three nights ago, the night of that screening in Manhattan, right? I even called the theatre and everything, and they eventually called Bob back and told him they never found the camera. This is something that Bob will remember personally, and it is important that I have him as a witness. I also told you way back on the first day of the trip how we got all those pills in Houston, didn’t I? Well, I want you to know that up until now, I’ve been very proud of myself as far as the pill intake is concerned. As I mentioned, we got about forty valiums and forty somas. Well, I have been very careful to take the valiums one night and then the somas the next, never mixing the two. I know it might sound ridiculous to a normal person to hear this, but I honestly take that as a sign that I’m growing up. I have a problem, however. I mean, beyond the drug problem… I have a dilemma. If I lost the camera last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, then what the fuck was I doing in B&H Electronics on Thanksgiving itself looking for a camera to replace the one I had already lost? Or, let me put it this way. If I had already lost my camera by Thanksgiving, then why was I convinced that I had used and lost it at The Tank a night later and kept calling them on the phone and shit? I obviously don’t know what the hell has been going on, do I?

Here’s what I know for sure. It was absolutely Thanksgiving when I went to B&H Electronics, because they are a hardcore Jewish business with the hats and tassels and everything and strictly follow the Jewish calendar, which is the only reason they were open on Thanksgiving, to begin with. This place gets absolutely slammed with business, and has easily the most intricate anti-shoplifting measures in place of any store I’ve ever been in. You don’t even get to touch your merchandise until after it has been bought and paid for, and you are on your way out the door. To sum it up briefly, you go up to a guy who has the camera you want bolted down on a fucking table, ok? You tell him you want the camera, so he points you to a line and tells you, go wait over there and tell another guy that you want the Vado 4GB Camcorder in purple, because that’s the only color even close to appropriate that is left in stock. This second guy then prints you out an order form, which you take to a line with a bunch of cashiers. You give a cashier the order form, and they charge you for the camera. You pay for the camera, having not even touched the fucker yet. Then, the cashier gives you a receipt that you take to a fourth person who finally gives you your camera on your way out the door. I go and buy a camera on Thanksgiving, with Raphael and Lara Pan waiting outside. I go through the whole rigmarole and check point bullshit, pay about a hundred and fifty bucks for the camera, and finally have it handed to me on the way out. I walk through the doorway, and a fucking alarm goes off. This guy comes up to me and asks me if he can see my receipt for the camera. Keep in mind; they don’t even let you touch your merchandise until after you’ve paid for it in this shylock shithole. I told the guy the same thing I tell the people at Wal-Mart and elsewhere who do the same shit… you know, the people who aren’t even the police to begin with, and even if they were, they wouldn’t have the right to accuse you of theft with no proof, thus no right to search you, but Americans let them rile through their bags every day? Those people… I always tell them no, of course you can’t search through my shit, are you out of your goddamn mind? I usually start out saying that in a bit nicer manner, but inevitably the conversation always devolves into rudimentary phrases such as the previous one. Well, I get into it with this guy, and I really think that he thought he could just search people’s shit anytime he liked. To make sure, he asked me to wait while he went and got his supervisor. By now, a crowd had gathered, and I told him please do, go get everybody right up the chain, so that eventually there are like five Jews there in the doorway telling me I have to show them a receipt before I can leave with the camera. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I had a bunch of weed and some pills in my pockets, so I had to abandon my initial plan, which was to just walk out into the streets dragging all these Jews with me until the police came and broke the whole thing up. My fantasy was that after the cops stopped the fight and were stripping everyone down, they would find the receipt in my pocket and I would be fully vindicated, and maybe even become some sort of local hero in the New York media and then just move there and host the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade from time to time.  In reality, the police would have found all the drugs and arrested me for possession, along with assault and battery, shoplifting, and all kinds of other stuff. This was the first time in my life that I can really point to and say that drugs held me back. I had to settle with singling out the head rabbi and telling him look, I’ll give you my receipt, but I also want you to take this camera and stick it up your ass, then walk back through all those lines in there and get me my money back. I might even have taken the opportunity to remind everybody how far we were from the West Bank, at least in geographical terms. By the time I got back outside, Raphael and Lara were like, what the fuck took you so long? I know this was on Thanksgiving, because we went to George and Virginia’s house after that and I was bitching about the experience all night, in addition to having to shit really bad and watching the Longhorns lose to the Aggies.

I know this for sure, too. The night that I have been convinced I lost the camera on all the way up until this point (Late January) when I am actually sitting down here and writing this shit was November 26th, 2010 also known as the only night we showed the movie at The Tank in Manhattan. I can remember having it in my Astros jacket pocket at one point when I was talking to George Gierer out in front of the Pork Slap place, and I remember using it to film the introduction and/or question and answer portion of our program. Now, how in the hell could I have still had the camera a day after I was trying to buy a new one to replace it? The only logical explanation is that we have been traveling back through time on this whole trip and I don’t want to rule that out, but I think I might just be all fucked up and have no idea what I’m talking about. Except this: It is now Monday, November 29th (four days after Thanksgiving) and we are in the car leaving Manhattan to haul ass to Providence, Rhode Island in time for a screening tonight, but not before we stop back by B&H Electronics so I can buy that fucking camera… again…

7:15 PM – BOB
I’ve never been to Rhode Island.  I don’t know a single person in or from the entire state.  We’ll see what she has in store for us.  My gut tells me that this week will be a bit of a slow-crawl, but I’m hoping that the Fri/Sat 1-2 punch of Baltimore & Philly will kick us back into high gear before we besiege the south once again.

Leaving NYC

Enter Providence

8:58 PM – CHAD
We’re at The Cable Car Cinema in Providence and Total Badass is about to start. Here’s the Introduction, the very first thing I filmed on the new Vado camera, which sucks by the way:



9:10 PM – CHAD
While the crowd enjoys the movie, I have walked over to The Wild Colonial Tavern, where I will meet up with Bob in a bit. The tavern was pretty cool, but not near as cool as this butthole I filmed on the way over there. This was the second butthole I found on the trip, if you recall correctly (the first one was on St. Augustine Beach, Florida) but this one is manmade, while the first one was definitely a carbon based life form.



1:45 AM – CHAD
We ended up staying with a girl named Ally who worked at the Cable Car Cinema, but that was actually all a big coincidence because we had already been hooked up with her by Raphael’s roommate, Anna before we ever knew where she worked. Anna and Ally were friends back at The Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) which all the locals here pronounce as RIZ-DUH. Ally had a very nice place, a really cool quilt, and a cat that we were lead to believe would try anything to escape. I don’t remember the cat’s name, so I’m sticking with Dragon. As in, Jonathan Brisby made possible the rats’ escape from the terrible cruelty of NIHM. He was killed today while drugging the farmer’s cat, Dragon.”

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:
http://crashcamfilms.com/store.htm

9:09 PM – BOB
My rear windshield wiper must have mouthed-off to someone cuz when I approached my car, I noticed that it had been violently ripped off and strangled.

Lazy Sunday:

Aside from the shit in the pics and vids you just saw, I pretty much just took it easy today.  Wake and bake.  Watch TV. That kinda stuff.

11:34 PM – CHAD
This was Sunday, November 28th. It ended up being a very special day for me, and I’m keeping it all to myself.

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:
http://crashcamfilms.com/store.htm

3:31 PM – BOB
I’m currently sitting in the NYC Public Library, Mulberry Branch, writing the tour journal. I’m acting like it’s Day 06. If you go back and read “Day 06,” you can get yourself an eyeful of time-traveling lies.

6:14 PM – BOB
The library closed.  I’ve moved to the Whole Foods down the street.  I crapped out an entry for Day 07.  I’m currently writing this sentence that you are reading at this very second.  In a minute, I’ll try to find a place to sleep for Providence, Boston and all points beyond on the post-NYC leg of the tour.

10:22 PM – BOB
We ended up hanging out with Raphael, Lara, Eric and Bryant.  We headed up to a fancy-ass building up near the Mayor’s mansion.  In the lower level of the building was a private screening room that seats maybe 50 people, a game room with video games, a billiards room and then this:

10:38 PM – CHAD
We spent this night way uptown… like further uptown than I had any business being… at the building where Payson’s parents live. There was a big ass game room and private movie theatre in the lobby and that’s where we spent the evening. I remember the first thing that struck me about the neighborhood was that 6-packs of tallboys were starting around just under fifteen bucks a pop in the corner stores. At first I thought that must really suck for the people who lived around there, but then I realized the beauty of it: The people who live there are rich anyway, and making sure that all the goods and services in the neighborhood cost twice as much as anywhere else in the city ensures that riff-raff such as myself that ends up there by chance will know that it doesn’t belong. Anyway, it was me, Bob, Payson, Lara Pan, Raphael, and Bryant. The game room was equipped with a golf simulator, which I’m sure Bob has ample video footage of, so I needn’t get into how one of these things works, but don’t worry, I’d never seen one before, either. Not everything was on the up-and-up, though. In perhaps the greatest tragedy of the entire trip, there was a video game system that had every arcade game of yore that you could possibly imagine… Battle Zone, Dragon’s Lair, all the Donkey Kongs… I’m not going to sit here and bore you with a fucking list, trust me, they had everything but the controllers were broken! I couldn’t play a goddamn one of them. I felt like that guy in the episode of The Twilight Zone who is an avid reader and goes down into his fallout shelter during a nuclear war with all of his books, but then breaks his reading glasses. We had a good time on the golf simulator, and I remember Payson nodding off in the private theatre watching The Blues Brothers. The private theatre, by the way, was nicer than about 90% of the places we screened the movies at on either of our two trips. Next place I move into, I’m going to make sure they have one. The golf simulator, I can take or leave but goddamnit, the video arcade better be in working order.

3:03 AM – BOB
Later, we did this: