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.
November 12, 2010
NOTE: This entry could be is considered (NC 17). More importantly, the lovely ladies referenced in this entry are in NO way associated with the sexually explicit content.
10:30 AM – CHAD:
Let’s go ahead and start this day out the way all days should be started on a road trip:
7:08 PM – CHAD:
Despite the wonderful review we received from New Orleans’ The Gambit, the number of people who showed up for Total Badass was barely enough to fill an egg carton. However, in that baker’s dozen, we had much quality. Austin expatriates Sarah Odem, Jimmy Bradshaw and Champ Superstar were there along with friends. Far and away the biggest surprise of any of our tour stops so far was when Brazoswood’s own Jeff Collard pulled in from Mississippi. I know it sounds improbable, but here’s proof:
9:48 PM – CHAD:
I’m not sure what went wrong, but Bob and I seem to have missed the Q and A for Total Badass in New Orleans. One minute we were at a calendar signing party with a bunch of roller derby girls on the other side of town and then the next, we were all fucked up drunk on pills trying to drive our way back to the theatre from memory. Shit didn’t work out… We did, however, get to stay in a haunted house where the lady who used to live there hung herself and her dog sometime around the turn of the century. I imagine my sister, Ashley, will get a big kick out of that. (Not as an enthusiast of the paranormal, but as a dog lover.)
9:55 PM* – BOB:
*(from the distant future (Day 12), but faking like it’s still Day 3)
The party. Right! I ran into a pal that I’d originally gotten to know while working on a TV show in New Orleans a few years back. Neither of us lived there. She hailed from Massachusetts and I HQed in Austin. But we were both in NOLA working on this show called “How’s Your News” and it was a fucking blast. The show basically had us running around with a gang of man-on-the-street-reporting adults with disabilities. These disabilities ran from mental retardation and Down Syndrome to cerebral palsy and Williams Syndrome (a.k.a. Cocktail Party Syndrome). And filming that show was some of the most fun and funniest shit I’d ever witnessed. At night when the reporters slept, the crew and the reporter-wranglers partied our asses off. In New Orleans. Booze. Strip clubs. You know. The usual.
Among the things I’ve learned in life, I discovered that when a lesbian says she “fucked” a gal, she could mean that she finger-fucked said gal. I know, I don’t get it either. That’s fucked up. Some of our other definitions of sex and related terminology didn’t jibe much better. Like a girl-girl-guy “threesome” that is just a bunch of finger fuckin, isn’t really a threesome in my book. It’s a lez-out with a dude nearby. Maybe our differences are because she’s a Yankee.
Anyway, Sarah P, it was great to see you! I hope you enjoy NOLA and kick ass as a Big Easy Roller Girl.
July 23, 2010
Checked out a lot of Seattle today… Had Lake Jackson’s own Burgandy Viscosi show me around in the daytime:
I loved walking around in Seattle. Feel free to look at this girl I filmed playing the fiddle in the street. I think they call them “violins” up here. The fiddles, I mean…
Burgandy turned me on to this badass bar in Belltown called Shorty’s. They have a shitload of pinball in there, and I’ve filmed all the machines for the Jim Isaacsses and Adam Reposas of the world, not to mention the Scott Fondrens and Mike Marquardtses.
Then, that night, it was more partying up in Ballard with Heidi and her friends. Here are The Basements doing a song at a place called The Tractor, where Austin’s own Lauren Fogel used to work. They still talk about her up here…
The drugs were supposed to be removed from the car. Chad’s dirtweed was supposed to go with Chad. My sweet leaf was supposed to be dumped at my Seattle crash-pad. That was the plan. When a doper like Chad rides shotgun, you never really know what kinda drugs can fall off of him like a landslide of dandruff and end up scattered all over the crevices of the vehicle. Shit tends to migrate on a road trip. That’s the fear. A cleanse was had, but is it enough. Where the fuck did that pill roll off too? Was there a joint that went astray? Let’s find out. Hello Canadian border. Hello thorough inspection of every inch of the car and its contents.
And they gave it their best shot. They tore through my shit like a tornado raping a trailer park. Fucking every inch of it.
But someone forgot to tell the Mounties that the drugs were back in the states. So once they finished tearing the car apart in search of the mind huggers, they proceeded to prod my every nook and cranny. I guess I finally got that anal probing the Roswell promised but never delivered on. Thanks, Canada.
Speaking of, did I already mention that I got laid before Chad did on this road trip?
But back to Canada: the fucker doing the searching was bummed that he came up empty handed. So he decided to lecture me about the little note in the merch case. The note that pleads for “Tips, Gas Money & Drugs.”
At one point Canadian bacon/cop grilled me about smoking weed “it’s okay of you do, but did you bring any?” Followed by a long pause and the hairy eyeball as he attempted to break me with his twitchy gaze.
No dice. The fucker was diceless. So I made it to Vancouver. And holy shit, the Vancouver screening was killer. Terminal City Rollergirls showed up! Check out the line:
And dig this huge-ass crowd:
The Q&A was kick ass. And I’ve been commissioned by Terminal City Rollergirls with a message to relay to the derby gals in Victoria: hey, Eves of Destruction Roller Derby, the Terminal City Rollergirls think that their team, the Faster Pussycats, will be whipping up on you in an upcoming bout. So what do ya think of that?
Speaking of, super-big thanks to the Terminal City Rollergirls and to Alex, Chris Coralline and Alicia at the Rio. They are a killer bunch and plied me with beer and love.
Here are some clips from the drive to and my time in Vancouver:
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:
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.
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)
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.
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:
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
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:
Our new doc, TOTAL BADASS is getting some love. www.TotalBadassTheMovie.com
An insanely funny and wickedly debaucherous new documentary about crime, sex, art, drugs, music and life in the Austin underground.
TOTAL BADASS is the Texas tale of a hilarious, crazy-ass writer/publisher/singer/weed-dealer/sex addict/Guinea pig enthusiast/dad/pirate radio host/raconteur and general man-about-town as he rides out the last six months of felony probation and, ultimately, must change his ways when a financial crisis befalls his estranged family.
“(Total Badass) is a rough film, and that’s a good thing: Holt comes across like a lost John Waters’ collaborator, or like a real-life version of Nicolas Cage in Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans.”
“Holt is a modern day Texas punk rock version of a Kerouac character; speeding through life on whatever fuels him in a non-stop flurry of writing, drug dealing, singing, stage diving, love making, and guinea pig raising.”
from Houston Press:
Austin’s Indie Guru delivers a doc about drugs, sex and Chad Holt: Drugs, Sex and the Austin Underground
The ultimate slacker filmmaker just might be Austin’s Bob Ray, responsible for the indie productions “Hell on Wheels,” about women’s roller derby, and “Rock Opera,” a weed-infused little goodie about the Austin rocker scene. He’s also been at the helm of numerous animations and good-time music videos, such as “Platypus Rex’s Clone Whores” and “Night of the Kung Fu Zombie Bastards from Hell!” Anyone with a High Times magazine nomination for Best Stoner Film is alright by us.
Ray and his CrashCam Films are always a highlight at the prestigious SXSW festival, and his latest cinematic adventure to screen at the fest is “Total Badass: A Film by Bob Ray about the Life and Times of Chad Holt.” We quote from the film’s web page: “an insanely funny and wickedly debaucherous new documentary about crime, sex, drugs, music and life in the Austin underground.” (They had us at “insanely.”)
-D.L. Groover, Houston Press