Tag Archive: Total Badass


You can either watch this, or read all the shit following it (and also watch some clips).  Hell, you can do both if you like.  It’s America, after all.

We made some more commercials for Adam Reposa, Lawyer, American, Loud Person! Sort of, maybe… who knows what’s happening anymore.


Chad Holt (of Total Badass fame), Adam Reposa (real-life lawyer, and Chad’s lawyer in Total Badass (where he got Chad’s felony “possession of hash” charge knocked down to an “emitting a noxious odor” misdemeanor)) and Bob Ray (filmmaker: CrashCam Films, Hell on Wheels, Rock Opera, Total Badass , etc.) made a “wacky lawyer” commercial for The Law Offices of Adam Reposa.

Here it is, in case you ain’t been paying attention:

The commercial got internet-famous.

Mr. Reposa asked Bob Ray to make another commercial. Mr. Reposa’s idea for the new commercial is to address the recent ban of Big Gulps and other large sodas in NYC.

Bob Ray thought that this idea sucked.

Here is the commercial:

Mr. Reposa didn’t like this version.   

Mr. Reposa insisted on some changes: “make it more patriotic by adding the Star Spangled Banner,” “do more choppy editing, like the first one,” “make the message clear by making it more repetitive,” “make it less snobby and avant garde,” “have less cinematography,” etc.

Bob Ray thought those ideas sucked.

Anyway, here’s the revised commercial:

???

and since we mentioned it, here’s the Total Badass trailer:

F-U-n!

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Hey!  We’ve finished up two of the four short films!  Huh, you ask?  Well, aside from writing/directing/acting in the opening scene of the Slacker remake, screening Total Badass at some fests, and attempting to finishing up the Badass Tour Journal (not to mention non-filmmaking life), our goal for this year was to make four short films:
“Road Kill”
“Sacked”
“Kicked in the Teeth”
“Puppies v Kittens.”

And I’m happy to announce that we’ve finished the first two on that list!

That’s right, “Road Kill” AND “Sacked” are complete!

Next, we’ll finish up “Kicked in the Teeth” and then onto “Puppies v Kittens!”  After the four shorts, I plan to get to work on another feature script.  I’ve got a little flick in mind that I’m calling (at least for the time being) “Snakebit.”

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.

12:21 PM – CHAD:
We had to wake up in Raleigh today and haul ass directly to New York City for our big Friday premiere there tonight. Along the way, we blazed through Richmond Virginia, Baltimore Maryland, Wilmington Delaware, and Philadelphia Pennsylvania. They’re all on film, if anyone gives a shit:

Richmond:

Baltimore:

Wilmington:

Philadelphia:

8:20 PM – BOB
The drive from Raleigh to Brooklyn took eleven and a half hours.  It should have taken about eight to nine, but we got lost.  The good news is that I hear that if you can make it to NY, you can make it to anywhere. (NOTE: And that’s despite the toll roads):

Toll 1

Toll 2

On the Road in the Car…

Lost

Toll 3

Toll 4

More Toll

Aaron from reRun Theater in Brooklyn had some questions about the “stunt”:

Chad’s Phone call Request for a “Stunt”

Drive/Arrive in NYC

Pulling up to the reRun Theater

9:30 PM – CHAD
Ok, so a week or two before we left for this trip, our producer, Mia Cevallos, had been talking to Aaron Hillis, who booked us our week-long run at The reRun in New York City. Somewhere along the way, they decided it would be a good idea for me to do some type of publicity stunt before, during, or after the screenings for the audience’s delight. I told Mia that sure, I would come up with something between now and then, but that it goddamn sure wasn’t going to involve me getting into a trashcan of any sort, which I already had the sneaking suspicion was exactly what the theatre had in mind. Along the way, I also started emailing and chatting back and forth with Aaron, all the while promising that I would do something spectacular, but steering the options away from anything trashcan related. I even told him at one point, you know, why don’t we announce that I’m going to have sex with a minor right there in the theatre and then at the last minute it actually turns out to be one of the Chilean miners and the whole thing had been a big play on words? This was back when that was much more topical humor, mind you.

Well, today we’re rolling up The New Jersey Turnpike about three hours before show time, and Aaron calls us. The motherfucker is at Home Depot as we speak, shopping for trashcans, talking about what color and size do I want. I’m like dude, my trashcan jumping days are behind me… but he sort of skirts around that and tells me the bar needs a new trashcan, anyway. I tell him that as long as the bar needs a new trashcan anyway, then I tend to favor the larger (64 gallon) Toter brand trashcan and have never seen one in any color but gray.  I then reiterate that I’m not getting in a goddamn trashcan but I did offer put on a clinic of sorts, where I would teach members of the audience or members of the staff or whoever was interested how to jump into the trashcan and do all of the tricks themselves. He’s like, what tricks? I explained that it’s not just as simple as jumping in a fucking trashcan like some asshole, there is actual skill involved in it, and there are specific, recognized tricks and stunts in the world of trashcan jumping (a world, keep in mind, that I saw come and go years back) many of which I had invented and perfected myself. You’ve got The Guadalupe, where it’s just like when you jump off a dock along the Guadalupe River with an inner-tube, slide the tube under your ass in midair, and splash down into the water sitting perfectly in the tube except instead, you’re jumping off the stage with a trashcan and landing inside it on concrete. There’s The Holy Diver, where it’s  basically diving head first off a platform into a barrel of water like the daredevils of yore, except it’s not a barrel, it’s a trashcan and there is no water in it. You’ve got The Grand Prize Game, which is just like the game of the same name from The Bozo Show out of WGN Chicago where the kids would throw ping pong balls into little buckets arranged in incrementally increasing distances away, winning prizes as they went, except you are the ping pong ball and you’re throwing yourself off a stage into a series of trashcans. There’s The Inch Worm, where you stand in one trashcan, bend over at the waist headfirst down into another one, and then “inch” along the floor inside the two of them while people try to break your back. There’s also The Fondren Family Planner, which is really just getting inside a trashcan and throwing yourself down several flights of stairs, but it’s actually only called The Fondren Family Planner because one of the best ones I ever pulled off was on a night at Room 710 when most, if not all of the important Fondren Family members were in attendance. There are shitloads of tricks… King Kamehameha, The Butterball Turkey, Oscar the Grouch, The Walk In The Park, The Man In The Can… too many to name, really. Back when I was into this shit, I was probably the best in the world at it and might even still be, but I’ve moved on, you know? I’m ready for a new generation of trashcan jumpers to come along and take it to the next level, which is why I was more than willing to put on a clinic for the people who were coming to the movie. No fucking way am I going to get into a trashcan myself though, because in all seriousness, I actually have done some other stuff since then creatively, like the movie I’m touring the country with, and I just don’t need that shit anymore.

So, fast forward to the theatre/bar a couple hours later. (Ok, I want to talk about something real quick. We get a lot of theatre/something-or-others on this trip, ok? Most of the places we show at, when we roll into town, it’s not simply a theatre… it’s a theatre/bar, a theatre/museum, a theatre/roller rink, a theatre/something-or-other. I just want to make that clear, to you and me both.)  We get to the theatre/bar and everything is going fine… Mark Hutchins is there early on with his wife…Raphael Vargas shows up with this fine-ass date…a girl who used to work at Cream Vintage on the drag when I delivered Whoopsy! Magazine is there… we couldn’t have asked for a better reception when we rolled into Brooklyn.

Hutchins

9:55 PM – BOB:
Aaron Hillis, the mofo who books reRun was a nice mofo.  The mofo even bought us dinner.   I had a game bird with foie gras stuffing.  Fucking good shit:

And thrust upon Chad a shoddily writer Liability Release form:

Liability Form – Evidence

10:03 PM – CHAD:
It was mentioned to me that Aaron had printed something in a magazine promising these people a stunt and he also had a couple of cameramen there to record it, so again, I start getting the impression that trashcans are becoming an issue.  The reRun Theater has a really nice restaurant attached to it and before the movie, Bob and I were treated to dinner with Aaron and one of the cameramen who was there to film me making a fool of myself. I had the filet mignon. You and I both know this was the only time in my life that I will ever dine on filet mignon as a guest of honor, so I made goddamn sure and did that while I could. Over the course of dinner, Aaron and I are going back and forth about how I’m not going to jump in a trashcan and he even gets me to sign some kind of waiver that releases him and the establishment of any type of liability, which I found to be extremely unorthodox, but I signed it and told him it was a moot point because I wasn’t going to be doing anything dangerous. Somewhere around that time, I hear a voice in my head… not one of my voices, mind you… but just the collective voice of differing opinions says, “Hey asshole… He booked your show for a week-long run. He gave you a filet mignon. Now, shut up and get in the fucking trashcan.” So, I cut a deal. I told him that if I could get someone from the audience to do a trick with me (which was obviously going to be The Fondren Family Planner straight down the two tiered flight of stairs right at the bar’s front door) then I’d do it too, knowing that nobody in the place is going to have the guts or the humility to try such a thing. I also told him that I’d take a vote after the Q&A and if more than half the people wanted to see me do the trick, I’d do it because I was convinced that having seen the movie and then heard what I was going to say afterwards, most people would understand why getting in the trashcan would be a bad idea.

Stunt I – Chad’s Acquiescence…

Ok, so it’s after the movie and we’re doing the Q&A and according to Bob, I rambled on quite a bit drunkenly and bored the shit out of everybody. In my mind though, I was delivering one of the most impassioned sermons on the state or art in our society to ever be publicly expressed in New York City. My main point was that if I got in the trashcan, it wouldn’t be art, it wouldn’t be real, it would not only be bullshit in that particular moment in time, but it would retroactively go back and turn everything I had ever created in the world of trashcan jumping into bullshit, as well. My main piece of evidence was the trashcan itself… the one Aaron had just bought from Home Depot. Not only was it physically deficient (it was a little 32 gallon piece of shit) but it was completely devoid of any soul or spirit. It had never been used. It was completely clean. In order to drive this point home, I told them the story of Alan Nelson, which is good for Alan, because he ghosted us out in New York and didn’t come to any of the shows, but it looks like he made it into the tour journal, anyway. I met Alan through his brother Pat, who used to work at Room 710 and was not only always a good friend, but he was a big supporter of the stuff I did… my writing and my shows. I always thought that was cool because he was a bit younger than me and it just made me proud that something I did could have an effect on someone from another generation. I used to call Pat Nelson “Butt-Crack Pat” because he always wore his jeans low with no underwear so when he was behind the bar, you had to sit there and stare at about a third of his ass all night. It wasn’t really as unpleasant as it sounds though, because Pat’s ass looked just like a little baby’s. Every time I’d see it, which was usually about fifty-three times a night, I’d think to myself… not in a gay way, mind you… but my fatherly instincts would come out and I just wanted to like, powder it and wrap it up and put it away for him, like he was my kid or something. Anyway, Alan moves into town, and Butt-Crack Pat really wants us to meet because it’s his older brother and he’s also a performer and shit, so Pat gets him to come out to a Frunttbutt show even though Alan was really sick with a stomach virus or something. Well, we get about two songs in, and I notice Alan off in a corner at the 710 leaning over a trashcan with it gripped in both hands, just puking his fucking ass off in the thing. My first thought was, wow, at least Alan wears his pants a little higher than his brother, Butt-Crack Pat, but I also realized that even though that particular trashcan wasn’t “in-play” just yet, it would be. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, I’m so covered in Alan Nelson’s puke, I could taste it, and not because any had gotten in my mouth, no, but because there was so much of it on my face, I was breathing it in through my nose and it was cycling all the way through my sinuses. This wasn’t just, had-a-little-too-much-to-drink-on-a-Saturday-night-so-most-of-it-is-just-beer-anyway style puke, either… it was sick-man vomit. Now, was there anything redeeming about being in that situation? Not at the time, no, but years later, I thought it served as a good parable about the difference between an authentic, bar-used trashcan and one that still had the fucking price tag on it. A trashcan at a bar is filled with not only physical perils like puke, spit, broken glass, cigarette butts, and so on, but it also contains the lies, the broken dreams, the tears, the laughter, the so-called good times of all the people who have gotten fucked up there. That’s what makes it a trashcan in a bar. Therein lies the art. (Did I spell it wrong on purpose? We’ll never know, will we?)

Anyway, the crowd wasn’t buying it. They still wanted to see me jump in a trashcan. I even took out the release form and showed it to everybody, trying to explain to them how ludicrous the idea of signing a release just to do one fucking trick would be after doing the shit for real down in Austin for the better part of a decade with no such legal wranglings. I singled out Aaron and the other employees of the club specifically, and told them that even though they might have found the shit amusing in a movie, if one of my old bands were to actually come up there and play a show in real life, we would fuck their place up so bad that not only would they have to stop the performance, but they’d never allow me back in the building again. Nobody cared about any of this shit… the crowd was still split, literally right down the middle in numbers of those who wanted me to get in the trashcan and those who didn’t. Well, my faith in my fellow man was so shaken by then, I just figured if these motherfuckers were there to see tricks, then that’s exactly what I’d show them.

I scooped up the trashcan, told everybody come on, I’m not waiting, and walked right out the theatre up to the front of the bar where the stairs were while everyone was still clamoring to get out of their seats and break down their cameras and shit. I took everything out of my pockets, set the trashcan down at the edge of the stairwell, got in it, and threw myself down the stairs, just like you do a Fondren Family Planner. Only thing is, I wasn’t doing a Fondren Family Planner. I had reached a little deeper back in my repertoire, all the way back to literally the oldest trick in the book. Playing Possum was always fun back in Texas, because it weeded out the people who had seen my shit before from the ones who hadn’t. Playing Possum is when you do one of your regular tricks (The Fondren Family Planner in this case) and then act as though things have gone terribly wrong, leaving you either dead or paralyzed for life. Then, you lay right there in a catatonic trance until either the very end of the night when everyone has gone home, or until the trick itself transcends art back into real life and someone calls in the proper authorities to come and take back charge of reality. As an expert trashcan jumper, I can assure you that this moment always comes… usually in about the seventeenth minute with a standard deviation of four minutes either way. Far and away, the funniest shit that happened before the fire department showed up (keep in mind I was watching all of this go down, floating above the scene of the “accident”) was when Aaron was openly lamenting that maybe the trashcan he bought was of the wrong size and the big ass bouncer goes, “What’d you get, sixty-four gallon?” and Aaron says, “No, a thirty-two. “And the big guy says, “Nah, man. That’s not big enough…”

So basically, I had people just sitting around postulating about trashcan jumping, and the little nuances of the sport, like the proper equipment and shit. I really couldn’t have asked for anything more. When I saw that the fire department had showed up and they were headed inside, I transcended back into my body, got up out of the trashcan, walked up the stairs and ordered a beer from the bar. Eventually, EMS and the police showed up as well. I was summoned to come talk to the lead fireman, and when he asked me what was going on, I told him the truth. I said this is what I do. This is who I am. I have a movie out about me jumping into trashcans. I came out here on tour with it, people came to see it, and this place begged me, amid much fanfare, to do one single trashcan trick for them, so I did one. I even did one of my oldest, most basic stunts, seeing as how they were all newcomers. We had people here filming the shit and everything. It was all very meticulously planned out. I have no idea what went wrong….

Stunt, Part II:

?

Fire Department

After the Fire Department

After-after-math

2:02 AM – BOB:
The screenings tonight were fucking awesome! These were some of the most rowdy crowds yet.  The Hell on Wheels screening was a hoot.  There were lots of derby gals (and soon-to-be derby gals) in the crowd, including a cute pack of them right front and center.  I did the q&a and only after did I realized that my pants were unzipped.  I’m sure that was a thrill for all the front row gals.  They bought merch and had me autograph some posters, and I’m certain that this was only the case because my fly was undone.  I’ll do all my q&as this was in the future.

The Total Badass screening was rowdy fun as well.  And I think Chad did some sort of stunt tonight. Fun.

Thanks Raleigh and NYC, Aaron, Hutchins, Vargas and the hot toll road dames!
www.badassfilmtour.com

10:35 AM

CHAD:
A big thanks to Kat of The Treasure Valley Rollergirls and her family for letting us stay with them here in Boise. When we got up this morning, the dog was watching television. Seriously… The TV was on animal planet and the dog was totally fucking watching it, freaking out on other dogs. I got it on video, see:

11:12 AM

CHAD:
Not that any of this topped a dog watching television, but I did spend about three hours walking around downtown Boise, and it fucking rules.  The nightlife was pretty happening last night, too.  Here are some videos of the state capitol building, and then I filmed an Idaho State Police car.  It was probably the coolest police car I’ve ever seen…And I’ve seen a lot of them.

12:12 PM

BOB:
Double-up on the ditto Chad done said, and a big thanks to Kat and her fam for the sweet, sweet hospitality.  The triptych of couches served us well.  Even when the pooches needed a snuggle.  We hit the road for another 8+ hour drive.  Despite the declaration of no more getting lost, we got lost on step one right off Kat’s porch.  But we managed to overcome and found the interstate.

Rest stop: (see big blue piss box on the right)

3:01 PM

BOB:
We saw several burnt-up patches of grass and a few tires.  The second vid was cool as we drove right through the smoke at 8Omph.  But the battery died before we got there, so just take a huge bong hit, blow out a puff of smoke and run through it at top speed and you’ll get the proper effect.

5:14 PM

BOB:
These 8+ hour drives are getting routine at this point.  Except this time we’re cruising through the Washington mountains and we’re about to run out of gas. No shit.  In a Prius and about to run out of gas.  Nice, huh?  Let’s see how it panned out:

6:41 PM

BOB:
More driving.

7:53 PM

CHAD
Originally, I was going to ride into Seattle today with Bob and then take a bus down to Portland so I can wait for him there while he does the Canada shows, seeing as how I’m not allowed into Canada. Well, it occurred to me that this might be the only chance I ever have to see Seattle, but I really don’t have anywhere to stay here. I got on the phone with friends down in Austin in a panic and asked them if they know anyone here whose house I could crash at for a couple days while I checked out the city. I was referred to a girl, Heidi, who might let me stay at her place. I say “might” as though I don’t know yet, because I’m pretending to have typed this days ago when actually I have already been in Seattle and Portland both, partying for over a week, and yes I stayed at Heidi’s house for about five fucking days, thank you very much, dear. Oh yeah, we went completely apeshit, too and here’s some video from my first night in Seattle:

I spent most of my Seattle nightlife up north in Ballard, where Heidi owns a bar and frequents about twenty others. They have a badass strip of bars up here, and I’ve met a lot of nice people and seen a bunch of shows. The above clip was Kaleb Hagan-Kerr doing an improvised little ditty in the back of Hattie’s Hat.

2:21 AM

BOB:
Okay, we got lost a few more times, minor affairs.  Before landing in my Seattle destination, I dumped Chad off.  He found a gal to crash on.  Or a couch.  I’m not sure which.  I’m not usually one to brag, but fuck it: what I am sure of is that I did get laid before Chad did on this tour.  So suck on that!

Okay, so don’t flip.  Everything’s cool.  I didn’t ditch Chad.  The thought crossed my mind.  Chad and I had to part ways cuz the fucker ain’t allowed into Canada on account of him being a convicted felon and shit.  And, there are a handful of Hell on Wheels only screenings coming up: Bellingham, Tacoma & Port Orchard and one more double header in the forbidden land of Victoria, Canada.  But we’ll meet back up when we screen in Portland on the 29th and be a two-headed bastard again through the rest of the tour.

Despite his rep and a few annoying habits, Chad’s a dam-fine travel companion.  I mean, except the part where he has a suspended license and can’t drive so he’s effectively dead weight half of the time.  But he means well and leaves very little damage in his wake, so it’s mostly pleasant or maybe tolerable.

Here’s a vid from inside Seattle.  I think I’ve played a race car video game where I drove through these:

Help us spread the word!!! We have more screenings coming up and could use your help w/ promo:

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http://crashcamfilms.com/filmtour2010.htm

http://crashcamfilms.com/filmtour2010.htm