The movie tour of  ‘I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL’:  week 1

Recently, and against the advice of the more sober contingent of friends and family, I agreed to be the MC for a series of 30 screenings in 30 cities for a movie called ‘I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL.’

Since my precise duties as the tour ‘MC’ were nebulous, the project was at once terrifying and impossible to say ‘no’ to.  Tucker Max has been a friend of mine for years, and even though the idea of spending hundreds of hours with him and his crew on a claustrophobic tour bus full of testosterone and toe cheese was indubitably daunting, the sheer scope and originality of it was intriguing – I mean, a city by city rollout of an independent movie for the sole purpose of creating grassroots word of mouth?  What could be better that than the idea that everyone involved would be directly responsible for the success or failure of creating this movement.  I mean, what could be more freakin’ ballsy?

The fear that it could be a colossal train wreck only served as fodder to make me want to participate.  The die was cast and I packed a messy month of toiletries and underwear in a worn-out Samsonite for my circumlocuitous cross-country journey.   How hard could a month be?

Well, even getting to the starting point of the tour bus proved difficult.  I took a 70 dollar cab ride to Newark Airport (as Jeffrey Ross calls it – “it’s like the Newark of Airports!”) and waited for 2 and ½ hours with Starbucks and stolen gossip rags until my Delta flight was finally called.

Right as I was putting my stuff down on my emergency row seat, a distinctly focused finger jabbed my shoulder.  I turned to see a 5’9” ginger man, with a white button-down shirt, a tie, and an official-looking lanyard.  He was staring at me like I just ate his last packet of Pop Tarts.

“Come with me,” he muttered, with a cocksure finger wag.  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the ginger-headed man  briskly marched towards the rear of the plane.

“Ok,” I said after him.  Then a familiar emotion crept in and flushed my cheeks.  It was the feeling that I was in trouble conflated with the dubious terror of not knowing why – the same  “oh-you-going-to-the-principaaaaaalsssss office!” feeling I used to get throughout my public school tenure.  Heartbeat accelerating, I furtively followed the angry red-head man back to the hinter rows.  Why was I being summoned to the principal’s office?!

Suddenly it dawned on me – my t-shirt!  I’d been in the same t-shirt from the night before  (I would love to say ‘don’t ask’ but it really amounted to nothing short of laziness) which had displayed, prominently on the front, a graphic design emblazoned with the following words in large white letters:  FUCK SKULLS.

The tee is the design of a friend of mine, Bryden Lando, for his company called Future Heretics.  Although he and his clientele have the sense to wear it at night in shi-shi Hollywood hot spots (i.e. clubs that haven’t been completely overrun by Persians ), for some reason, like a dummy, I threw it on at 7am before my half-caf soy caramel macchiato.  Don’t get me wrong – I love the f-word and appreciate all the double and triple entendre the FUCK SKULLS phrase can engender; but I guess I was a little daft wearing it in public during the day… in front of impressionable children.

“Come here!” the ginger-headed fireplug whisper-barked as he turned into the stewardess alcove to have our little meeting.  As I pensively approached ginger balls, I suppinated my hands.  Right away, I decided to cut him off at the pass:

“Oh, I’m sorry – the tee shirt.  I totally forgot, I’ll turn it inside out.”

With that, ginger balls took a step towards me with a hot breath cocktail of coffee and Marlboro light.

“Okay, here are your options,” he said, accenting his proposal with a stiff karate chop hand.

“I’ll just –“ I attempted.

“ONE!” he shot back.  “You can change shirts right now.  TWO:  you can turn it inside out.  And THREE, you can get the hell off of my plane!”

“Yeah, I already said, I’ll turn my tee shirt inside out, no problem.”

Ginger balls stopped in his tracks and glared at me.  A telltale forehead vein began to swell and connected his hairline with his eyebrows , pulsating rage rivulet.

“Are you giving me attitude, boy?”

Oh my God, I AM back in high school, I thought.  I had to fight back every fiber in my petulant body urging me to treat him like a heckler at the Hollywood Laugh Factory.  “What is this, Officer and a Gentleman?  I’m not an elisted soldier –  I actually got good grades in high school, asshole!”

Instead of this, I opted for the more palatable “No,” and I walked towards the bathroom to flip my tee around, hands still up like a hostage negotiator.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Ginger balls seethed.

“I’m just going.  To change.  My shirt.”   I punctuated my sentence politely, albiet passive-aggressively, as I Samurai-stepped backwards towards the lavatory.  My eyebrows raised in a commensurate ‘cool it buddy’ arch.

I got into the lavatory, slid the lock shut, and silently cursed at ginger balls for 35 seconds.  I even gave him the finger vis a vis the mirror above the sink.  After I flipped my shirt inside out, I walked back out into the aisle to see Ginger Balls still there, shaking his head at me like I just struck out in the little league championship game and he was the shitty dad.  He looked like an angry ginger Hobbit.

“What’s wrong?”  I said, unable to help myself.  “I turned the shirt inside out, why are you so upset?”

For some reason, I was obsessed over getting to the root of his antipathy towards me and my hilarious tee shirt.

“What did you say?” he said, eyes squeezing into a Clint squint.

“I don’t get it – I turned it around and you’re shaking your head at me.  What did I do to you?”

“Buddy, if you say one more word I’m throwing you off the plane….”

My brain offered several words in a mental buckshot of venomous retorts but somehow my mouth stayed shut.  I furrowed my brow and lowered my head in abject defeat.  I should have just said, ‘lo ciento.’

When ginger balls stormed off, I asked the stewardess exactly who the angry man was, and she said it was the pilot.

“What, that guy is emotionally unstable?  I don’t want a guy with Napolean Complex and anger management issues flying a plane – he’s gonna have an aneuyrism and wreck it!” I said, sincerely upset.  “I read the new Malcolm Gladwell book – those are the pilots that fly into mountains!”

I contemplated waiting for the next flight but finally settled down.

When he got on the PA with that soothing, smooth jazz voice, all I could think was, “What a fucking LIAR!  He’s not that calm, I’m never going to believe that voice again!”

Coincidentally or not, it was one of the most awful, turbulent flights of my life.  We flew right into Hurricane Bill but I was convinced he did it intentionally.  Freakin’ Ginger!

When we finally landed, I was greeted with the sight of the tour bus waiting to start the trip.  It was all worth it…. That shit was PEEEMP!!!

Touring and Road Sex

I’m too old.

Well, at least too old to go on a tour bus to promote a movie for 35 days;  much less a movie aptly entitled I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

It’s a decent film and all, and I’m getting paid American dollars, but I’m not in my early twenties anymore, and the potential PTSD  experienced by my bowels alone is enough to make me reconsider.  Let’s face it, the American heartland is beautiful (arguably) but a constant intake of dairy, wheat, and corn by-product — after 6 months of holistic colon pampering by a healthy LA diet – is going to wreak havoc on my asshole and Usher’s former tour bus.

Even if my small intestine survives the ordeal, there are other factors which make me trepidant about the whole concept of ‘touring.’

I mean, ten years ago, I could get away with a baseball cap wedged all wiggity-wiggity-wiggity-wack, askance with an attitude, onto my cranial area.  I could even do jager bombs without feeling the instantaneous fizzle of brain cells and I could survive solely on the laughs of getting busmates to smell my finger after trysts with co-eds in Whattownwasthatagain?, Illinois .  I would probably switch it up sometimes and make them smell the wrong finger when I got bored (see previous paragraph on shitting).

If I was 21 on a tour bus for a movie about drinking and debauchery, I would commit with the abandon of Daniel Day Lewis method act.  Thoughts coming within the stratosphere of love would skip like stones across my synapses.  I would focus on ‘the game’ and probably even smuggle dog-eared literature about procuring poontang under my pillow.  I would manufacture empty Cheshire Cat grins and lie to girls to lure them into my 2.5 star Hampton Inn.

“Yeah, the lead character Drew in the movie is based on me.”

“Really?”

“Sure, I would have played him instead of Jesse Bradford, but I wanted to focus onproducing instead.”

“Wow, producing, what’s that like?”

I might say something that sounds erudite in response to this (and I might even say it with a British accent), instead of the crass truth:  producing is just a license to print pu$$y.

At some point during the tour – hey, I just turned 21! — I would get black-out drunk and either get arrested or destroy public and/or personal property.  I might possibly even do something a little rape-y.  That sounds creepy and harsh.  Okay – rape-adjacent.

“Just drink, come on.  There’s hardly any alcohol in it….”

The next day, over continental breakfast of Frosted Flakes and whole milk and tablespoonfuls of Jiffy’s peanut butter  — like I would need to worry about being bloated at all! Pshaw! – I would regale everyone with embellished stories of both my idiocy and my prowess.  I would do this while putting on the charade of pretending to care about other people’s stories.  My intestines would noisily announce the brewing process of a batch of post-wood liquor diarrhea as I slurped the dregs of my sugar broth cremy.  However, most importantly — at the free! breakfast in the Hampton Inn — I would high five a lot of white people.

But, alas, the road is lonely to me.

As soon as the green rectangle lights up on the lock and I enter the hotel room, I feel empty.  The cyclical chirring sound of mildewed Freon being circulated within the hermetically sealed room triggers a Pavlovian response of depression.  It makes me want to have sex with something, anything.  “Housekeeping?”  You betcha – who cares if you’re 220 with a lazy eye and mastery of four Englisss words, I wanna make a mess in your mouth or your hair.

Of course, that’s hypothetical.  In truth, the only words I’ve ever said, or ever will say, to housekeeping are, when they knock on my door in the morning to clean, and I scream:  “Could you come back in an hour!!?”  I usually repeat this request an hour later… for the next 4-5 hours.

Usually, my mind desperately begs my body to get up and place the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob, but I’m overcome with inertia.   Instead, I make a mental note to put on the Do Not Disturb sign for the next morning (but I never do).  Sometimes, I think about the more provocative Spanish version of ‘NO MOLESTARE’ and giggle.  I think about putting something about that in my standup act (again, I never do).

Before I go to sleep, the silent ambition of the wide book on the coffee table seems to mock me as I watch Sportscenter, seemingly on a loop in the wee hours of the night.  “Tomorrow I will read about ‘Buzzmarketing,’” I tell myself as I drift off to the muted reaction of the Yankees celebrating another walk-off homerun….

This Tuesday begins my first day on the tour bus (http://www.ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com/tour/) and my first day on ANY tour bus.

There is a quantum dilemma which has defined all of theoretical science in the past 30 years, and that is the conundrum of non-locality.  According to the latest quantum theory, one particle can be in two places in space at the same time, verily confirming the existence of alternate universes.

I feel like this trip represents that enigma for me in a more personal way.  In one universe, I am partying without regret, beer bongs and errant thongs.   In the other simultaneous universe, I am a responsible working adult, focusing on my career and work.

I will probably pass through both realities at the same time… or at least I’m going to tell myself that when I’m wasted.   Stay tuned for the tour stories….

After my bad breakup with bad reception, I found myself single again in LA. Normally the idea of being single fills me with euphoria, but not when it comes to dating in West Hollywood. I find that I’m not very good at it. As a matter of fact, if it were an SAT analogy, it might be Bill is to LA dater as Scott Peterson is to Marriage Counselor.

 

Last week, I met up with a woman on a first date. The minute she entered the restaurant, before we even sat down for the appetizer, she launched into a tirade about the drama that is her life:

 

“What is the universe trying to tell me? First my cat died, then my friend gets a divorce, it’s snowing heavily, AND I ripped my pants getting into a taxi tonight! What does it mean?”

 

I looked at her and tried my best to contain the obvious answer.

 

“Um, that you’re actually a size eight?”

 

I couldn’t resist, people! Needless to say, the dated ended before the calamari got cold.

 

Although many women apparently need to see the “deeper meaning” in all things pointless and poppycock, it seems that this condition is exacerbated in Hollywood because of the cornucopia of a certain type of woman; and that is, the ’spiritual actress.’

 

If you don’t know WHAT a spiritual actress is, let me explain it as succinctly as possible: A ’spiritual actress’ is an actress who doesn’t work as an actress.

 

Because this ‘actress’ doesn’t work, she has hundreds upon thousands of hours to think about ways to ‘improve’ her life. This means she will read ‘The Secret,’ Eckhart Tolle, and every other self-help/new age/personal development book in the clearance bin at Borders in between sips of her sugar-free half-caf vanilla soy chai latte while waiting for her 6pm free yoga class in Runyon Canyon.

 

Then she will re-read them.

 

While I think self-improvement is a valid and worthwhile goal, I find it odd that NONE of the spiritual actresses I’ve dated have ever found the hilarious irony in the fact that they continually justify their needy, selfish, actress insecurities with the eternal, selfless, gentle platitudes of generosity and worth.

 

‘Spiritual actresses’ have become one of those Hollywood clichés where the truth is always stranger than fiction. The image of two actresses in a casting office trying to out-’Secret’ each other for a role before either has even auditioned would be funny if it weren’t 100 percent accurate and observable on a daily basis.

 

If they’re not reading the latest self-proclaimed bestselling guru, they are praying to God or Buddha or the universe: “Dear Lord, please help me fulfill the life that I live… and help me book that recurring role on ‘ONE LIFE TO LIVE’… over that other bitch… I mean, she’s totally not that cute anyway! And now, let me chant the universal actress mantra… I-M-D-B, I-M-D-B, I-M-D-B…”

 

Although this sounds absurd, I was actually on a date with a woman who loved to chant and mediate using her third eye — the imaginary fixed spot between the eyeballs in the middle of the forehead — but was literally worried that it might be hindered because of her recent BOTOX injection (although you couldn’t tell she was worried because her face had no expression).

 

“How can I be spiritual when my third eye is full of BOTOX!” she cried.

 

“How can I still be listening to you when I have full use of my legs!” I responded (okay, not really, but I wish I had).

 

And the botox-cyclops wasn’t the worst of the lot of women I’ve met in my LA singledom.

 

Just a few days ago, I went on a date with an actress who wanted to show off her new tattoo. She stated, proudly, that it was a tat which signified her incredible spiritual growth over the past year. Then she showed it to me. It was on the small of her lower back. Since I live on the planet Earth, I laughed out loud.

 

“Why the hell are you laughing?” she snapped.

 

“I don’t know,” I said. “But don’t you think that’s a pretty slutty place to chart your metaphysical journey?”

 

“This tattoo is Chinese for ‘Enlightenment’!” she yelled.

 

“Maybe so, but it’s also American for ‘Daddy Issues.’”

 

Again, I couldn’t resist and, again, the date didn’t last til dessert.

 

Last night I was about to hang out with a girl until, over the phone, she asked me what my sign was. Click. This time, I wasn’t even going to make it to the restaurant.

 

I hate that zodiac crap! And yes, it’s possible that I’m just bitter because I’m a goddamned Capricorn, which is basically a goat. Some people astrologically get to be Leo the Lion, the mighty king of the jungle, while I’m stuck being a smelly creature at a petting zoo. Lions rule over the entire African food chain. I eat cans and pull things. The ‘universe’ is telling me it hates me by making me a smelly, shit-matted, sheep-wannabe!
Regardless, I am single again in LA… which means a lot more nights naked watching Sports Center with myriad Doritos crumbs stuck to my skin like a bad arts and crafts project. And, of course, a lot more nights looking at my phone trying not to call the girl I blew it with…

Audition. No word in the English language tightens my taint quicker. If you’ve never had the pleasure of ‘auditioning’ for anything before, I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the process, in general:

 

You get a call from your agent/manager telling you that you have an audition in three days time. He or she will subtly tell you to make sure you don’t suck during it. You will work all week on the audition until you are completely ‘off book’ (code for memorized). You will arrive to the casting director’s office early and see a plethora of younger, better looking versions of you with flatter stomachs. You will make a note to do crunches every morning (but you won’t). Then you will start to feel panic and do weird shit to not feel panic, including bizarre breathing exercises and stretching and praying to Jesus and Buddha and the ghost of Karl Malden. As you do this, you will wait by a door until an assistant comes out to get you. She will announce your name to the group of bored decision-makers in the room. Upon hearing your name, they will decide not to cast you. Unperturbed, you will read your lines directly from the page in your hand (because your brain forgot you were ‘off book’) and notice that your handing is shaking like Michael J. Fox after a hit of crack and 6 hours on a Jetblue middle seat. Finally, you will stumble on the last sentence of the scene and then smile fakely like Miss South Carolina after an explanation of ‘maps.’ In turn, they will smile fakely-ier and you will walk out, convinced that they are all looking at your ass, because it is tingling. The end.

 

Of course, it’s not the end in your pesky, overactive, and annoying cerebellum which is conjuring up permutations of infinitely fractal alternate universes where you left the room to applause and a certain offer! Little do you know that the second you exit, the executive producer said, “Let’s make this character Asian.” All your worry, usually, is for naught.

 

Sometimes, however, you really do just blow it…

 

Recently I went in to audition for an MTV pilot. The role was perfect for me. Late twenties, early thirties, good looking, but not TOO good looking, blonde, surfer-y burn out with strong comedic skills. As a stand up comic, your thought is usually ‘Pfft, I tell dick jokes to strangers on a Tuesday, this is a piece of cake!’

 

When I got to MTV, I felt pretty good. I had my hair all spiky and my ‘outfit,’ sponsored by the Urban Outfitters clearance section, couldn’t be more perfect. Dan Faustino from ‘Married with Children’ was at the audition too. “Wait, he’s going in for my role?,” I thought. He was wearing a black tank top (a al surfer/gay modern expressionist dancer) and I couldn’t help but notice he was effing ripped! I looked down at my stomach and noticed the smallest of bumps between my navel and my kit-and-caboodle. If I was pregnant, I’d be ’showing.’ What the hell? Bud Bundy has better abs than me? Doubt crept in on silent haunches. The casting director came out to get me just as all of the saliva in my mouth decided to dry up.

 

I walked into the audition and was amazed to see 15 people crowded into a tiny space – it was more cramped than a Mexican pickup truck.

 

“Hey everbody. Wow, there’s a lot of you,” I said, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

 

Since I am a veteran auditioner, I kept my smile on and my eyes darting between all the expectant faces as I walked backwards. There was NO WAY I was going to turn around and let them look at my ass and feel it all tingly. Screw that. I was going to slowly and gracefully walk backwards until I could feel the presence of the chair behind and then I was going to sit down. So I kept walking backwards slowly… no chair… more backwards walking… where’s the chair?… Should I stop? Should I turn around an look?… no, Bill, just take a few more steps back. CRASH!

 

Alas, there was no chair. Instead, there was a round stage or some kind of orb-like structure elevated at about one foot high that clipped my ankles like a DB for the Dallas Cowboys.

 

My knees buckled and I wheeled around with my arms flailing. My script flew into the sky. Some distant part of my brain yelled at my body to turn the whole thing into some Jim Carrey-esque dance, which I’m sure only served to make me look more ridiculous.

 

‘Whoa!’ I announced in my best Keanu Reeves impersonation as I landed. Nobody laughed. Even worse, out of the corner of eye, I couldn’t help but notice a couple of people making notes on a notepad. Great, I thought, what were they writing? ‘This guy has epilepsy.’

 

I picked up my pages and faced the casting director and camera with a nod as if to say, ‘Okay, I’m good, let’s do this!’

 

“Slate for the camera,” the cd said dryly. “Just say your name and height.”

 

“Okay,” I said, looking at the camera. “My name is Bill Dawes and I’m 6 feet with tube socks on.” What DID I JUST SAY??? Is there a language in which that comment is actually funny? No one even seemed to register the dumb remark. I felt like saying, “Oh, trust me, that expression is hilarious in its original Japanese!”

 

Instead, I waited a beat for the cd to give me the go-ahead cue and I launched into the actual audition. In the awkwardness of my arrival, I had completely forgotten that my saliva had morphed into sandpaper. I felt myself swallowing and audibly smacking my lips in the beginning and then, about halfway through the first scene, my upper lip completely desiccated, curled up, and stuck onto the enamel of my two front teeth. So, the “burnout surfer dude” did the rest of the hilarious comedy scene in a twisted True Blood snarl.

 

Somehow, I managed to get through the first scene, even with my Fire Marshall Bill face in full effect.

 

They didn’t ask me to do the second scene.

 

Instead, one of the producers said, “You might want to check out your ankle after this.” I looked down and, sure enough, noticed that the mysterious orb-stage had nicked my Achilles tendon and it was bleeding slightly. Since I am a comic genius and make my living on quick comebacks, I said, “Oh shit.”

 

I walked out of the room, my ass feeling tingly the whole time.