As the Explorer braked, it dipped our nose down, just enough to get under the grille of Drunky’s Jeep – which wasn’t braking – so we basically popped him up and over. His Jeep smashed upside down on the opposite side of the road and immediately burst into flames. Mind you, this was July and the surrounding foliage hadn’t seen a drop of water in four months, so the ensuing brushfire grew quickly.
Inside the Explorer, we did a three-way “you all right?,” got a look at the fire directly in front of us and decided that it was time to flee. Mike had to step over Drunky’s inert body to get out. I circled around to the back of the Explorer and we both converged on Jennifer, who was holding her chest and grimacing.
By that time Jason, a local contractor, had stopped his Dually truck to help. Because Drunky was so close to his burning vehicle, Jason and I dragged his limp body to the gravel on the opposite side of the road and backed off. Drunky’s arm felt cold and clammy and flopped to his side when I let go. He could have been dead for all I knew – or for all I cared at that moment.
Like they say: “You should see the other guy.”
Because summer keeps fire crews on high alert around here, the fine people of Fire District #9 were on the scene very quickly and all the rescue/ police/hospital stuff began.
Pacing incessantly from the adrenaline rush, I looked down to see that my right hand was bleeding. Apparently, in car crashes where the air bag deploys, inertia keeps your extremities moving forward. My right hand slipped off the steering wheel and punched the windshield, while my left hand ended up palming it. A circular bruise that formed on my palm an hour later confirmed my suspicion.
Mike got rattled. He wasn’t bleeding, but he was wrenched something good. Sitting in the backseat during the crash, Jennifer was hurt the most. She didn’t have the cushion of the air bag, so the seat belt – which certainly held her in place – fractured her sternum at the same time.
Jennifer spent a night at the hospital enduring tests. Mike stayed by her side and eventually slept in a residential section of the hospital. I got the glass picked out of my right hand and got back home around 3:00 in the morning – dazed and thoroughly creeped out by the whole encounter. The image of Drunky’s Jeep coming around that corner replayed in my head like a bad loop for the rest of the night. The image still replays today but thankfully has been slowly fading like a retina burn.
Thinking back, I realized that this wasn’t just a car crash between a Ford and Jeep; it was a collision of cultures, ideologies and traditions. Just ten years earlier, that accident would never have happened. Back roads have long been a haven for characters of all types – drifters, loners, explorers, sightseers and locals hoping to evade local authorities. Drunk drivers use back routes to avoid detection any time they can and I might not have collided with this joker had I not been part of a late-nineties exodus of people moving in from California.
Isolated roads that were only used by the occasional yahoo or logging truck are now as likely to sport BMWs and minivans. Drunky may not be happy with the change, but his days of doing whatever the hell he wants are over.
In the aftermath, there was much to be thankful for, but mostly I was glad that dear Ida missed the whole thing. She had been partying with a girlfriend in Seattle and never even knew about the accident until her presumably fun night was over.
I love making fun of idiots. Humiliating them is a veritable hobby of mine. Finding flaws in human nature is also a hearty pastime, so when the tables turned December 13, 2005, and I got a DUI, I became the subject of my own ridicule.
For those of you who have either narrowly avoided or are destined for a DUI, here are a couple reasons why not to do it:
1. For starters, it’s fucking dangerous and irresponsible. Large vehicles no longer drive like large vehicles, so it’s easy to overestimate the handling of an SUV, even when you’re sober. I got off easy – I ran off my very rural road, wiped out part of a metal fence and collided with a majestic Douglas fir. Immobile trees tend to win most confrontations with flimsy SUVs, and this one totaled my 2003 Explorer.
2. Getting a DUI can be painful. Again, I got off easy – I only broke my collarbone, fractured the bridge of my nose, tweaked my wrist and generally rattled the living hell out of myself.
These injuries were not applied by a make-up artist.
3. Getting a DUI is really humiliating. Ever been arrested? Ever been arrested at your own house? Because I crashed in a rural area, there wasn’t much traffic, but I soon got a ride back home from a very accommodating neighbor. Someone subsequently reported the wrecked vehicle and a local deputy paid a visit. I was administered a field sobriety test in my carport, handcuffed with my hands behind my back (even more fun with a broken collarbone) and driven to the station to be booked.
4. It’s expensive. Between legal fees, municipal fines, higher insurance rates and the difference in value of paying off an old car loan and getting a new one (at almost twice the interest rate), I wound up forking over about $10,000.00. I don’t know about you, but that was a completely unnecessary financial hot poker up the ass.
I can now say that I have been on both sides of the drunk driver issue and I can’t recommend either one. I guess it’s time to finally sit down and write that TV sitcom pilot, DUI Guy.
CALL OF DUTY
In a curious twist, I found myself back on the right side of the law. Most people cringe when they hear about doing Jury Duty. After going through the process, I encourage you not to avoid that official notice when it comes. Say yes and serve – it’s a blast. Having said that, when the notice arrived my first thought was not: How can I get in on this?! Ultimately, it was a nagging sense that I needed some form of community involvement that led me to respond in the affirmative.
Jury Duty is like a box of chocolates – you don’t know what kind of case you will be assigned to or how long it will last. You could be dismissed after twenty minutes, or you could wind up on the case of the century, lasting two years.
That was part of the thrill for me as I shuffled into an assembly room with about twenty-five other potential jurors. Apparently, that day they had two cases, so twenty-five people would be whittled down to two juries of six and six.
A basic questionnaire let the legal teams know critical things about us – whether we were felons, drug addicts, sex offenders, anything that would make us an immediately undesirable juror. Mathematics dictated that 50 percent of us had to be weeded out – and it turned out to be a good thing.
One of the lawyers asked if there was anyone affiliated with Law Enforcement. A few hands went up and a woman who was not a cop herself but came from a long line of police officers was excused.
Too biased, I assumed.
Another guy made a random crack about “disciplining” his wife and he got the boot in about nine seconds.
After collecting the information they needed, the lawyers disappeared, presumably to argue among themselves about which jurors were suitable or not. In a reasonably short period of time – as even criminal justice is on a schedule – the final lists came down and I was one of six chosen.
The courtroom we sat in was nothing dramatic or imposing. Most courtrooms aren’t Gothic and oak paneled like you see on cable television. The defendant and the accuser were seated. I was shocked initially, because each of them had to have been at least seventy-five years old. The accuser was a woman, small and tentative, and the defendant was a robust man, who moved easily and sat erect in his seat.
The accuser got to go first and I have to say, she was one lousy-ass witness. Her words were slightly slurred and her sentences unformed. She admitted to taking three different medications – some of which were not meant to go with alcohol – and imbibing “at least” a bottle of wine a day. Not exactly a recipe for total recall.
“He grabbed me by the throat and choked me and threw me down and I got a concussion,” she recounted ruefully.
As the accuser was testifying, the defendant was scoffing, snorting and
grumbling after each statement out of her mouth. I’ve been called a ham actor, but this guy was over-the-top.
It was his turn next. Unfortunately for the accuser, this guy was sharp as a tack. He was totally dickish in his overall behavior, but his recall was complete and his refutes to the accusations were specific, thorough and without hesitation.
The thing that bugged me was that although accused of a serious crime, the defendant was treating this whole thing so offhandedly. I wanted to know why. Oregon law to the rescue. In court, it is one of only a handful of states that allow jurors to ask questions, indirectly, to someone on the witness stand. It’s a great tool in the event that the lawyers aren’t providing jurors with the answers they seek.
Having been briefed that we could do this, I submitted my written question to the judge, which he evaluated, then read out loud: “‘Why was the accuser’s testimony so amusing to you?’”
The defendant smirked. “Because she was making this all up. It didn’t happen that way at all,” and he very effectively reconstructed the events of that fateful night in his favor.
After his testimony was wrapped up, the trial took a recess for lunch. Jurors were instructed to not talk among themselves during the break. In a small town, it’s hard not to bump into someone you know because it happens every day.
A moment from the classic jury room drama, 1 Angry Man.
As I cut through the parking lot, I saw the defendant unloading his two dogs from his truck for a walk. I thought it was odd that here was this guy, doing an everyday task like nothing was wrong, yet his entire world could be turned upside down by the end of the day. I gave him a wide berth and ducked into the closest local restaurant I could find.
As I sat down, the lawyer for the defendant stepped in. Our eyes met. He nodded and did an immediate U-turn. He didn’t even want to be seen in the same place as a juror, which was appropriate.
After lunch, the six jurors began the deliberation process. Evidence was sketchy. Long before “body cams,” the local police had no audio of the arrest. The only photo of the woman was a horribly illuminated close-up that didn’t even show her neck – which would have potentially provided evidence of scrapes or bruising from being choked.
Because the accuser mentioned a concussion, you would think that initial EMT reports, emergency room records or follow-up doctor visits could confirm that a concussion had in fact occurred. No such documents existed.
We even suggested a hung jury, so prosecution could take more time to “get its ducks in a row” and try this again. As jurors, we mostly thought this asshole did something unsavory, but we had to prove it. Word came back that we had seen all the evidence available.
There was nothing much else we could do as a jury. We didn’t want to do the prosecution’s job or let them off the hook. Collectively, we six strangers felt the genuine responsibility to make sure, since a person’s liberty was involved, that the accusers had to convince us – and they did not.
We returned a verdict of Not Guilty and the guy walked. I felt bad for the accuser because she had to deal with that self-righteous jerk, but mostly I felt satisfied that as a jury we had performed exactly as directed to preserve the rights of our fellow citizens. Fear not, Small-Town America – justice was served that day.
6
GETTING HIGH
Like a lot of American kids, I was exposed to high doses of Disney movies and TV shows. Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color was a Sunday-night staple in our house for the better part of a decade. I also went to every live-action Disney movie during the sixties – anything from That Darned Cat to Son of Flubber. I even bought the gooey Flubber gel sold in toy stores after the movie came out.
I loved the way Disney movies in particular integrated special effects with live action, creating something of a “hyperreal” world, which was perfect viewing for a kid. When you watch an animated movie you know it’s all fake, but when I saw a football player float over the goalpost in Son of Flubber it was real.
That string of movies made acting in Disney’s The Love Bug a huge thrill years later. It was part of a mid-nineties revamp of the Disney Sunday night TV movie, and I was happy to be a part of it. Working with the storied company was cool in and of itself, but it was also refreshing as hell because The Love Bug was as family-friendly as you could get. After I’d been appearing in unrated, mostly genre stuff for almost twenty years, it felt nice to broaden the ol’ repertoire and act in something without a single drop of blood.
Not long after The Love Bug, I got a “development deal” with Disney – the sort of nebulous agreement that says you both want to do something together, but nothing is set in stone, so over the course of six months or a year you mutually look for projects. If nothing materializes, you often find yourself cast in shows produced by your partner – in this case, the ABC/Disney sitcom Ellen, as her uptight boss.
During the course of the development deal, I realized what a huge catalogue of material Disney had at its disposal, so I sifted through their catalogue. When I came across Dick Tracy, I perked up. That would make a great weekly TV show – very stylized, with fifty years’ worth of stories already laid out in comic book form. I also thought I could have pulled off a convincing, if slightly snarky, Dick Tracy.
The notion was compelling enough for the TV mucky-mucks to kick it around, but eventually the idea was kyboshed by a Mr. Warren Beatty, who still had some control over the rights. The sands of time on my deal ran out and I returned to my exploitation-based career, remaining positively Disney-free for almost a decade.
My return to the House of Mouse came in the form of the kids’ movie Sky High. Reading the script, I was immediately reminded of those Disney movies from my childhood – it had a fun premise (a high school for superheroes); it was fast-paced and had fanciful special effects. My character, Coach Boomer, determined who would be a Sidekick or a Hero at the school. It was an enjoyable, over-the-top part.
Being a decent budgeted studio movie, Sky High afforded an interesting, appropriate cast, with more than a few nods to the past – chief among them was Kurt Russell, who headlined Disney movies when he was a kid. Supporting Kurt was a great roster of veteran actors, like Kelly Preston, Lynda Carter and Cloris Leachman. Kids in the Hall comedians Dave Foley and Kevin McDonald added their own loopiness to the proceedings. But the anchor of the movie was a solid crew of young actors, led by Michael Angarano, Danielle Panabaker and Mary Elizabeth Winstead.
Disney bought Marvel, so how come this never happened?
One of the most unusual aspects of filming Sky High was that the young actors did a huge amount of their own stunts – and I’m not talking about general roughhousing; I’m talking about pulling kids through walls. It must have been something director Mike Mitchell was interested in pursuing, so all of the applicable actors went to a sort of “stunt school” to train for harnesses and flying rigs. The end result is very effective, with actors seamlessly blending into the stunts and special effects.
Overall, I enjoyed the movie and I think a lot of kids did too. I meet a lot of young adults who saw Sky High when they were little. One of the perks of my job is that I get to go from watching movies like that to being in movies like that.
7
LOVEMAKING
When the first editions of If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor came out, my publisher printed five thousand copies, which meant they didn’t have a tremendous amount of confidence in sales. I hadn’t appeared on the radar of St. Martin’s Press yet. They weren’t convinced I was actually a celebrity. No promotional calendar had been set up, so I had to finagle a tour schedule on my own.
Fortunately, the first edition sold out quickly and the publishers ordered additional printings. The book took off and became a New York Times bestseller within two months.
It turns out the publishing business is no different from the movie business. If you have a success, everyone scrambles quickly to get the next one out.
“You k
now, Bruce,” my editor explained, “booksellers like writers who write. Writers who crank out book after book, year after year.”
“Like a literary metronome,” I added.
“Exactly. You gotta write another book.”
When a career author cultivates that reliable rhythm, publishers, distributors and bookstores can plan ahead for next year’s release. Relationships with retailers develop and they do their part to promote you. Along with all the love comes the pressure to deliver. Hilariously, for a guy who had never written a single book, I now was under pressure to write another – and fast.
Therein lay the rub. A book about my career as a B movie actor seemed like a one-off – and a “cultish” one at best. Like a slow-growing oak, it could take fifteen years for me to amass enough anecdotes for another autobiography.
FOREPLAY
Like Hollywood, publishing believes in formulas. If something worked before, it’ll work again. My first book was non-fiction told from my point of view, so that formula should work again.
We started kicking around the idea of something called The Manual (aka The Man Book). It was intended to be a book of advice for men, a satirical vehicle for me to “play” a macho, know-it-all smart-ass, who felt entitled to dispense manly man advice. Despite whipping up an outline and a few proofs for the cover, no one really got excited about the concept. The rapid development of my second book entered a glacial funk.
My sketch for the cover.
An editor named Barry Neville was brought in to reinvigorate the deal and guide me though the development. We spitballed concepts and bounced ideas off of each other in a very free-form way, still leaning heavily toward a guidebook for relationships. A few more outlines were hashed out about different aspects of relationships and we started thinking of some funny story lines. Finally, I said, “Wait, Barry, do you realize if we keep going in this direction, we’re going to end up with a novel instead?”
Hail to the Chin Page 6