Badass Film Tour 2 – Day 21: off Providence to Boston

November 30, 2010

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.

Badass Film Tour 2 – Day 20: NYC to Providence

November 29, 2010

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.”

Badass Film Tour 2 – Day 19: NYC wake and bake

November 28, 2010

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.

Badass Film Tour 2 – Day 18: NYC slow crawl

November 27, 2010

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:

Badass Film Tour 2 – Day 17: Manhattan, NY @The Tank

November 26, 2010

11:44 PM – BOB

I drove in from Long Island and met up with Chad and Rafael in Brooklyn. Rafael has a roommate and a guest.  Both of whom seem like fine folks.  There’s also a dog that is 183 in dog years and wears a diaper.

Getting back in the tour groove took a bit of effort. Needless to say, I was late to The Tank.  As I did with all the venues, I shipped DVDs so that if I’m late or in jail, they can screen the film without me.  For some reason, The Tank couldn’t find the disks.  Adding insult to my tardiness was the fact that I didn’t realize that I’d have to drive through the Theater District to get to the joint.

Running Late to the Tank

In the long run, it all went down just fine. There was a little group for Hell on Wheels and about twice as many for Total Badass.  The crowds were into the flicks and we got a great response. This is our final NYC screening and we’ve been having a blast here.  It was just plain cool to see the killer reviews we got in the NY Times and the Village Voice, but it didn’t seem to translate into noticeably larger audiences.  Last Friday at reRun was probably our biggest draw.  It was a pretty full house, but not a sell-out.  And the cinema is tiny.  I think it holds 80.   I guess I figured that a great review in the Times would get some asses in seats.  Hell, maybe it did. Maybe there would have only been 8 people there without the Times write up.

Tank Basement

2:50 AM – CHAD
So tonight we screened Total Badass in Manhattan at a place called The Tank. We were right in the middle of the theatre district and Times Square, down the road from Radio City Music Hall and all that shit, but oddly didn’t get much spillover of tourist traffic. On the bright side, most of the people we had been staying and/or partying with in Manhattan came… Payson, George and Virginia, Raphael for his third appearance, and my old college buddy, George Gierer even showed up. It seems like Austin’s James Teiser was there too, but don’t take my word for it. We went to Rudy’s Bar and Grill afterwards to eat hotdogs, and Gierer treated us to some Pork Slap beers, which immediately became my favorite new beer I discovered on the entire trip. Not because it was good, necessarily, but because of the two pigs slapping their bellies together on the can. In fact, I think the beer might have even been kind of disgusting, but the pigs made that alright somehow, and it seemed to get you fucked up more than usual. So fucked up, in fact, that I went ahead and lost the Flip video camera that had survived through the entire production of Total Badass as well as our west coast trip last summer and seventeen days on the road this time around. As such, I have no video of the riveting Q and A that followed our Manhattan premiere. Eventually, most of us went back to George and Virginia’s house and partied into the night. I didn’t have to shit near as bad this time when I got over there, because there were bathrooms at The Tank.

Anyway, remember how on yesterday’s journal entry, I told you that I wrote an article one time that explains why I don’t get as bent out of shape about Texas Longhorn Football as I used to? Remember how I told you I would reprint it later on when there wasn’t much else to talk about? Well, you’d think that the night that a movie about my life premiered in Manhattan wouldn’t fall into that category, but I really don’t have anything more to say about it, so I’m going to go ahead and get the Longhorn shit out of the way right now. This is a story I wrote back in 2005, when writing didn’t bug the living shit out of me, like it does now…

From Top to Bottomus

I could sit here and carry on for quite some time about how much The Texas Longhorns winning The National Championship in football means to me, but it’s actually much too special and important of an event in my life for me to completely share it with you people. Let’s put it this way…. Before the Longhorns won, Jesus could have come back to Earth and told me, “Chad, it’s time. I’ve come to take you, your family, and your friends to heaven with me.” And I would have said, “You know what, Jesus? Fuck You. I’m not going anywhere until The Longhorns win a National Championship.” That might seem a bit worldly to you, but seriously, there is no way in Hell I would have died a happy man if this hadn’t happened and now that it has, my life is complete and nothing can stop me from reaching my full potential. Oh sure, you would think that little creature comforts such as having children, graduating from college, or being such a phenomenal success in the entertainment business would have afforded me this level of happiness in life, but they offered me nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment and overall satisfaction that have swept over me since that glorious day. You have to understand that before now, underneath all of the smiles and successes, I was but a husk of a man because I knew it was all a lie. I would be out in society going through the motions with the rest of humanity, trying to make my mark on history, but all I could hear inside my head was a little voice saying, “It’s all bullshit. You, your people, and your state are all a bunch of losers because The Longhorns haven’t won a National Championship in your lifetime. You will all be forgotten, and your lives are in vain.” I have never really used the word “bliss” all that much in the past. In fact, I always thought it was kind of a pussy-word, but now I’m not ashamed to tell you that in my heart and in my mind, I have a feeling of absolute bliss. The best thing about it is the lack of caring… the complete and total aloofness… that I have towards sports now. All of the failures and setbacks and tragedies in my life… the deaths of loved ones, the felony convictions, the struggles with substance abuse… they were relatively easy for me to deal with compared to The Longhorn’s 1999 home opener upset at the hands of North Carolina State and the three blocked punts that went along with it. I used to suffer every loss as though it was a lesion upon my very soul. Every season that The Longhorn’s shot at a title slipped away left me with the horrifying uncertainty of whether or not all of my dreams would ever come true and because of this, I was never able to live my life without fear. Now, I could give a fuck less if a plane goes down with the whole team on it because it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does. All of this bad shit that is supposed to happen in 2006 and all of the signs of the apocalypse and growing indications that we’ve all succumbed to evil are much easier to deal with since the UT win. In fact, maybe it’s a good time for the end of the world. What else do we have to live for? These are the things I’m telling myself in the aftermath of the most wonderful thing to ever happen to me.

So anyway, this other time, I fucked shit. I actually fucked shit. As fun as that might sound, it actually turns out to be quite unpleasant. If you don’t want to hear about it, I suggest you quit reading. I had gone to the home of a large woman who I met over the internet, which should come as no surprise because I’m like Nanook of the North when it comes to hunting down fat chicks on the computer… I log on with a fucking ice axe. Before you get the wrong idea, I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. I obviously think fat girls are sexy, or I wouldn’t fuck so many of them. The funny thing about this is that the fine girls I fuck get all weirded out when they find out I fucked some fatty… They take it all personal like it’s a reflection on them or something. I don’t know what it is, I guess they’re just pissed off because they spend all that time and effort staying in shape and being fine, and it turns out they could have fucked me anyway.

So, I’m laying back in bed with homegirl, who’s balled up at my waist, giving me head, and I tell her she needs to swing her ass on up my way so I can start manipulating it whilst she goes about her business. I don’t know what is behind the universal assumption that fat girls are always going to let you fuck them in the ass, but I have a couple of theories. First, there’s the self esteem issue, where maybe the girl feels like giving up the ass gives her a much needed advantage over the competition. That might explain the girl’s motivations, but why does it always seem like such a natural option to the guy? Is it because every part of a fat girl is much larger than the corresponding part on a skinny girl, so it stands to reason that the same would hold true for her butthole? I mean she eats more, she takes bigger shits, so maybe her butthole is more suited for having things stuffed up it. The truth is, some girls are so fat, their butthole is pretty much the only place you can fuck them.

I know that may have all been a bit over the line, but it’s nothing compared to the shit you’ll tell yourself about not needing a rubber when you fuck a fat chick. First of all, you mistakenly assume that you are the only person on earth who would even fuck this girl, when deep down inside you should realize that ninety-seven percent of your friends would, too (with the other three percent being gay). Then, you start telling yourself that she must not have AIDS, or she wouldn’t be so fat. Or even if she does have AIDS, she’s so big, by the time it gets down to her pussy, you’ll be gone. Some girls are so fat, their AIDS never even know you’re fucking them. You’ll be all draped on top if her, hounding away, and she’s like. “Shhhhh! My AIDS are sleepin’!” Some of you guys with smaller dicks don’t have to worry because your peehole is never going to make it anywhere it could pick up a disease. You’re fucking skin, dude… labia at best. What were we talking about again? Oh yeah, so homegirl motors around to where her ass is facing me. Despite their awkwardness on the land, fat women are actually quite fluid and graceful when in bed, which brings me to a story that I have been wanting to tell for years.

One time my parents took my sister and me to The Houston Zoo and we were all at the hippopotamus tank. I was about twelve and my sister, Ashley, was about five. We were in this big crowd of people watching the hippopotamuses swim around in what was really nothing more than a large swimming pool. It must have been mating season, because there was this big male hippo courting a bunch of females. He hopped up on one’s back, and I remember I decided to try out the word “humping” on my parents. You know how when you’re young, there are bad words you aren’t supposed to say, but as you get older, some of them become fair game? For instance, at twelve years old, you might get away with damn or hell, but shit and fuck are strictly off limits and words like “hump” are in a grey area. Well, I decide to try it out and I announce to the crowd, “Look, they’re humping!” and my dad, Bo, just backhands me right there in front of everybody because if there’s anything he hates, it’s being involved in some kind of sophomoric public spectacle. I promptly took “humping” off the list of acceptable words to use in front of the folks.

Moving on, have you ever heard a hippopotamus bellow? They have this really loud “moo” that you’d recognize anywhere once you’d heard it, and the male starts belting out a couple of them while he’s humping his girl. Well, Bo cups his hands around his mouth and starts bellowing back, and they get in this big argument, for lack of a better word. The hippo would just go “Bwaaaah!” and Bo would go “Bwaaaah!” right back. I don’t know if it thought that Bo was another male hippopotamus, or if it was just pissed off that somebody was bothering it while it was fucking, but the hippo was becoming visibly agitated. I hopped off its mate and swam across the pool towards the crowd, pulling up in front of us all broadside, like a battleship. Its tail was right above the waterline, and it started to whirl around, like a propeller… I had no idea hippopotami could do this. Well, this thing starts taking a shit, and its tail was just slinging the turds right out of the pool and up towards the crowd. The shit started raining down over to everybody’s right, and the hippo just turned its body accordingly, strafing the crowd. I can remember watching a wall of doo-doo working its way towards us, like a sprinkler hitting the sidewalk. People were literally running over each other to get out of the way.

Anyway, I’m not trying to say this girl was as big as a bull hippopotamus by any means… but she could have passed for a calf. Once again, I want to assure you that I’m not complaining. In fact, this was one of the better buttfuckings I’ve ever been involved in, before everything went to shit. It was one of only a couple of times in my life that a girl’s butthole had totally given way, allowing me to fuck it as I chose. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been around when that has happened, but you can get pretty wrapped up in the moment. So, I’m hammering away back there like John Henry, and I had no idea that anything was even wrong until my whole dick just started stinging. I looked down and everything looked fine- clean as a whistle. I didn’t realize that she had taken an entire shit, and my dick was the only thing holding it in. I had been fucking it for about five minutes without knowing because my cock had created a vacuum at the anus from which nothing could escape, not even smell. My dick was being digested. I pulled out and broke the seal, and her fucking butthole turned into Spindletop. I had like three pounds of shit in my lap in a half a second. I fucked shit. That’s all I could think. I would try to come up with some witty way to explain to you exactly how much damage was done, but I have never seen this much shit all in one place in my life and this was fucked shit, mind you, so it went everywhere. I was in a state of shock as I got up and walked to the shower, and my dick was still hard. I had like two and a half turds worth of pounded shit piled up on top of my dick like a key-bump, so I had to walk all slow so none of it would fall off on the carpet. It was like that race they do at picnics with an egg balanced in a spoon, except with shit and a hard on. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror out of the corner of my eye and I looked like Rambo hiding in the mud, hunting for Russians. I don’t know if you’ve ever been shit all over by another person, but it gives you this look on your face that you can’t get rid of for days. It’s a look that says, “I fucked shit.” I always try to be a total gentleman when dealing with women, believe it or not, so the whole time homegirl was apologizing, I was like,”Sorry? What are you sorry for honey? Oh, that little ol’ mess? Don’t be silly…”

Anyway, they took the hippopotamus tank out of the Houston Zoo years ago. My kids and I went there last summer and they were devastated to learn it was gone. They have always loved the story about the time the hippopotamus tried to poo-poo on grandpa. I have yet to tell them the one about the time I fucked shit…

3:14 AM – BOB
We ended up partying all night with some old Austin friends and some new New York friends.  We met up with Austin ex-pat Bryant Jackson who has offered his couch/floor for the next three nights.



Chad and I ventured to the late night pizza joint to grab a bite of booze-absorbing pizza before crashing out.  We witnessed this spectacle while chomping our grub:

Street Brawl

Guns were flashed.  Fun!