“Adrienne and I met about a decade ago, after being fixed up by mutual friends who felt we’d be perfect for each other. And it didn’t take long for me to realize why their guts told them to try and get us together. Just minutes into that very sweet, romantic, and yet very innocent first date in Los Angeles (a town she hated even more than me), it felt like I didn’t have to keep my eyes on the road, my foot on the brake, or my hands on the wheel. It was like my car was driving itself, floating above the gridlock. Seriously, it was like a dream from the moment I picked her up for dinner, like I was stoned. We had so many things in common that it was frightening. And, for her, literally. I looked at all the connections we shared to be all signs from above, declarations that my seemingly never-ending and vain and naive search for the right woman could very well be over. But she told our aforementioned pals afterward that I seemed too perfect for her, that it almost seemed I like I’d been reading her private journals, and that she was spooked to her core. And, in the end, it was that same frustrating wariness about it all that doomed our ever having the chance to find out where we may have gone, and how far.

The last time I saw her was yet another freaky occurrence. We had both been cast in the same television pilot, but didn’t know that until we bumped into each other on the set on the first day of shooting in Atlanta. Once again, I took it as yet another gesture from God. And, once again, it scared the crap out of her. And our very last phone conversation had to do with that very same encounter. I was pissed that she was fucking us up before we even had a chance to be us, and she very humbly and sincerely agreed, and apologized for being a chicken-shit. Then she said wanted to make it up to me, and that she hoped we could somehow hook up again soon (she lived in her beloved New York, and I, unfortunately, in Hollywood), and just do what it seemed like we did best together - walk and talk... and talk, and talk, and talk. Sad to say, though, we never got the chance to see each other in person again. But that’s what I’ll always remember - those wide-ranging, rambling conversations, and that voice of hers... along with her stunning, strangelic face... and what a huge presence she had considering her rather diminutive stature... As well as, of course, the very first time I ever saw her and was cast under her spell, back in the late Eighties, in Hal Hartley’s ‘The Unbelievable Truth’ - a title which really does sum up everything we shared in the short time we were actually face to face, and absolutely describes this extremely disturbing, heartbreaking, and numbing news.”

“Adrienne and I met about a decade ago, after being fixed up by mutual friends who felt we’d be perfect for each other. And it didn’t take long for me to realize why their guts told them to try and get us together. Just minutes into that very sweet, romantic, and yet very innocent first date in Los Angeles (a town she hated even more than me), it felt like I didn’t have to keep my eyes on the road, my foot on the brake, or my hands on the wheel. It was like my car was driving itself, floating above the gridlock. Seriously, it was like a dream from the moment I picked her up for dinner, like I was stoned. We had so many things in common that it was frightening. And, for her, literally. I looked at all the connections we shared to be all signs from above, declarations that my seemingly never-ending and vain and naive search for the right woman could very well be over. But she told our aforementioned pals afterward that I seemed too perfect for her, that it almost seemed I like I’d been reading her private journals, and that she was spooked to her core. And, in the end, it was that same frustrating wariness about it all that doomed our ever having the chance to find out where we may have gone, and how far.

The last time I saw her was yet another freaky occurrence. We had both been cast in the same television pilot, but didn’t know that until we bumped into each other on the set on the first day of shooting in Atlanta. Once again, I took it as yet another gesture from God. And, once again, it scared the crap out of her. And our very last phone conversation had to do with that very same encounter. I was pissed that she was fucking us up before we even had a chance to be us, and she very humbly and sincerely agreed, and apologized for being a chicken-shit. Then she said wanted to make it up to me, and that she hoped we could somehow hook up again soon (she lived in her beloved New York, and I, unfortunately, in Hollywood), and just do what it seemed like we did best together - walk and talk... and talk, and talk, and talk. Sad to say, though, we never got the chance to see each other in person again. But that’s what I’ll always remember - those wide-ranging, rambling conversations, and that voice of hers... along with her stunning, strangelic face... and what a huge presence she had considering her rather diminutive stature... As well as, of course, the very first time I ever saw her and was cast under her spell, back in the late Eighties, in Hal Hartley’s ‘The Unbelievable Truth’ - a title which really does sum up everything we shared in the short time we were actually face to face, and absolutely describes this extremely disturbing, heartbreaking, and numbing news.”

Larry Holden

Interview by David Stephenson — Rogue Cinema, 2006

In what is doubtlessly the most profane and x-rated interview in Rogue Cinema history, our UK correspondent David “a bit tardy” Stephenson talks to Larry Holden about what it is to be a modern film-maker, his thoughts on the industry, the necessary evil of working in television, and what it’s like to work with Hollywood’s finest like Al Pacino and Christopher Nolan on films like Batman Begins, Insomnia and Memento. His stories about getting drunk with Johnny Knoxville alone make this an essential read.

Firstly, why not tell us a little about yourself for our readers who may be unfamiliar with your work?

Wow... not sure how to answer that one... I’m just a filmmaker and a “sometime actor” trying, as always, to raise money for the next film, “All Sun And Little White Flowers,” and emailing you these answers from the lovely yet nasty little floating piece of dirt in the Mediterranean called Gozo, where I’m listening to gunshots right outside my window... at six in the morning on a Sunday. Incredible.

They call themselves “bird hunters,” but I’ve got another name for them. Anyway, sorry, I’m a little grumpy and goofy at the same time because these fuckers woke me up. They tell me, “It’s part of our culture.” And I always say, “Oh, is this part of America now, too? You guys have small dicks, too, eh? Need a big gun to swing around and impress the ladies... and yourselves? Wow, those borders just keep growing and growing, don’t they?”

Alright, well, in the sole interest of publicizing our fundraiser in London on 10 November... I will carry on, and try and answer your questions, David. But be forewarned, I’m feeling a bit feisty and self-righteous today... But that can be fun, too, so... Alright, next question...

Could you tell us a little more about the fundraiser taking place in London, which aims at raising funds for All Sun And Little White Flowers?

All the details can be had at our website: http://www.holdenautomotive.com. Or at Gabrielle’s website: http://www.gabrielleamies.com.

This is all her fucking idea. She’s my UK producer and one of our actresses. She’s a gem, that one. The whole package. She put it all together. I’m just showing up and running my mouth, basically, and meeting a bunch of folks that we hope will both continue to support us, believe in us, and maybe join up with us in some capacity. We’re always looking for good people. And we’re also raffling off a role in the next film. As well as dinner with us the following night. And, hey, there’s free booze. Ought to be a fucking blast.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death to fly into London and do it. Speechify. Stand up there, and speak. Fuck. Probably make an ass out of myself, and have all the cynics throw tomatoes and cucumbers, but... What can I do? I said, yes, and tickets have been sold. I’m really nervous. I’m not too comfortable in public. Especially when I’m the main attraction, and I’m not sure why. I’ll talk your ears off, sure, but while we’re sitting around a living room, with a joint and a bottle of wine. Not on a fucking stage.

Obviously, I’ll do just about anything to make my films. This all started a few years ago in Hawaii. Another one of my producers, Adam Shea, who has now joined a cult in Oregon, I think - working with me will do that, they say – came up with an idea to auction a role away on eBay in 2004, when one of our investors had to pull out at the last minute due to being served divorce papers. He was only joking, though. But I was desperate. And that worked like a charm.

It’s great, though, because all our reviews are either full of love, or full of hate. And polarized reactions don’t bother me in the least. Quite the opposite. That’s success. I love it. I think it’s a good sign we’re working from our hearts and just making whatever we want to. We’re not caught in some vain popularity contest. And when people only love or hate your stuff, and there’s no middle-ground, vanilla reactions to it - well, I think that’s the best review you can get.

Alrighty then. You’re known both for your acting work, and your role as a filmmaker. Which of the two do you prefer and why?

Making my own films. I’ve never considered myself much of a performer of any sort. Acting or otherwise. Maybe only slightly better than average on my very best days. Even though I think I make up for any shortcomings with a very strong work ethic.

Shit, I’m rambling again. Fuck. Sorry. I try and write whatever words pop into my mind... comes from trying to write dialogue all the damn time... Every burp or fart makes it into the sentence sometimes... Uh, okay, acting, directing... Directing, because it’s very similar to writing, I guess. Which is my favourite thing to do. I’m a better writer than I am anything else, whatever that means.

My first mission, after being a rock star when I was a teenager was getting to write all the time if I wanted to. And I get to do that when I’m making my films. I talked with Quentin Tarantino a few times when Hanne and I were still living in Hollywood, and even though I’m not a fan of his films, I thought he nailed it when he was remembering aloud the time he was writing “Reservoir Dogs” and suddenly realized that Michael Madsen’s character had a knife in his boot. As in, “Shit, I didn’t even know he had a knife tucked in his boot...” That’s why I like to write.

There’s a lot of publicity surrounding your up-and-coming film “All Sun And Little White Flowers” – could you tell us more about that?

“Nope,” said the hero... We stopped saying much about them at all, a long time ago; other than maybe sharing the title and when and where we’re in-production. I know, I know, who the fuck do we think we are? I get it. But it’s just that we’re doing what we wished more people would do. Let us take our own trip with the art.

We don’t read reviews or the backs of the DVD covers. We take chances and try and discover new artists. And that’s why we’ve also recently decided to stop putting reviews on the dvd insert card. They say too much. They limit what the viewer might feel or think or respond to.

As well as being a noted filmmaker, you’re also very well known as an actor, especially your work with director Christopher Nolan. What’s he like to work with?

I love it. He doesn’t get in the way at all. He gives plenty of room to work, and that’s all you can ask. He’s very confident in himself, and feels very secure with his decisions. He casts you because he wants you, and believes in you. Or, in my case, because he likes fucking with you. Hurting you. And I have a blast breaking his balls, too. He has a great sense of humour.

But I felt bad the last time around, on “Batman Begins.” My best friend had recently died, and I was in bad shape. Real bad shape. I mean, I almost cut my wrists in my hotel room one night. Seriously. Literally. So, during that shoot... Well, I looked like shit, and I just didn’t feel like I gave him much to work with. But thank God for my buddy Richard Brake, who plays “Joe Chill” in that film. He kept a close tab on me there in London.

After Memento came Insomnia, starring Al Pacino – did you get much time together? What’s he like to work with?

Al and I got along great. He liked to keep it small, intimate. Just a few guys. He likes to just sit and talk, watch people. But he’s just too much of an icon to be able to do that. He’d always get bugged by people when we were just trying to hang out and shoot the shit. He loves to talk, too. Just like me. We played poker one night, and both won the biggest hand of the night.

Working with a guy who, if he wasn’t “Al Pacino,” would be putting on plays in his basement for people in the neighbourhood. That guy loves to act. He has to. Can’t get enough. Sweet guy, too. And funny. Has an addiction to Snickers bars. And, man, if you aren’t plugged in during a scene with him, big or small, he will zap you like a lightning bolt, with very little flare or drama.

Then, months later, he really made my day. He invited me to see this movie he directed, “Chinese Coffee,” with the late Jerry Orbach. And then, afterwards, he really wanted to know what I thought would make it better. And then he truly listened when I was arrogant enough to tell him. Like I know something, right? And that meant a lot to me. I like Al. Hope he’s well.

Who would you say is the best actor you’ve worked with to date?

Sorry, but I really don’t think in those terms. But, okay... I’ll go ahead and say that I had my “best” time overall making “Every Dog Has Its Day.” It was my first lead role, and I was there thirty out of thirty-one shooting days. Johnny Knoxville had a bit part in it. Good people. And funny as hell.

When I was off shooting “My Father’s House,” I walked into a store early one morning to get some coffee or something, and there he was, smack dab on the cover of Rolling Stone. Last time I’d seen him, we were getting drunk on Boone’s Farm in Marc Chiatt’s house, because that’s all Johnny could afford to pick up. Or else he just thought that would be funny. But I think he was broke as hell. He was married, and Madison was just a little girl. Strange business. But I’m really happy for Johnny. He’s good people. Really is.

As well as work in film you have an extensive background in TV work, including CSI and ER. What do you think of working in television?

Uh, television... it sucks. All aspects of it. But, having said that, I would have loved to be on the British series “The Office.” Or worked with Larry David and his gang during the first three seasons of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” But every TV gig I have ever done has been like watching a pony die slowly, to quote Mike Binder. That’s a brilliant way to describe how something feels. Brilliant.

What’s next for Larry Holden?

Four more films coming out in the next few months. Shooting “All Sun...” and prepping to shoot “On Kentucky Avenue” somewhere and somehow. And releasing my brother Hank’s book, “Happy As Hank.” And loving up my wife. And not necessarily in that order. Matter of fact, the last will be first if I have anything to say about it!

Is there any advice you could give to any budding filmmakers out there?

We all know everything we need to do it all already, in my opinion. Some of us have just forgotten what the answers are, or that part of our job is to ask the right questions, not answer a damn thing. Enough said.

Originally published in Rogue Cinema, 2006.

“Unlike so many of my so-called friends and comrades from the past, Bobby’s love and support for me, and for what we try to create and capture here at Holden Automotive, never wavered. Not at all. Not for a minute. Not for a second. And I’m sorry for putting it that way, but it’s the God’s honest truth. He never stopped being there for me since we first met in 1976. And he’s been there for this humble, little company since its inception, from day fucking one, long before we even thought about making films. And unlike so many of us, myself included, of course — especially myself — memories of who he was and what he was all about don’t need to be shined up or polished now that he’s left this world. Not in the slightest. He was truly one of the good ones, the great ones, the angels. And he blessed this wretched planet with his presence, plain and simple. He had a heart as big as a damn mountain, and he shared every bit of it with us poor souls. Period. And he had one helluva mind. So wise, so articulate. And one helluva wickedly dry sense of humor, too. Matter of fact, I can hear him now, saying, flatly, ‘Well, I guess since your little, white ass is back to grieving at full force again, Holden, it’ll soon be time for us to make another one of our bright and shiny epics, eh?’ Yep, you’re fucking right, ‘Cooldridge.’ It is. How’s next summer for ya? Oh, well, see you there in spirit again, I guess, eh? And you better be there, asshole. I couldn’t replace you if I wanted to. Until then, if you don’t tap me on the shoulder before then, know that Hanne and I, along with the rest of the gang here (especially Don Allen, John Baldwin, Michael Loren Donaldson, Susan Poulton, Steve Spikes, and the Van Horn twins), as well as all of the many others who loved you and just can’t get their heads and chests around the fact that you checked outta this dump already, will always do our very best to be there for Val and the kids.”

Larry Holden

Interview by Jett — Batman on Film, 2005

Larry Holden plays D.A. Finch in Batman Begins. Jett sat down to ask him a few questions.

Tell us a bit about your professional self. How you got into acting. Etcetera.

Well, as far as acting goes, I was first encouraged — or pushed — by an old friend, Juliette Lewis, on the set of a movie called That Night. I think 1992. Anyway, I had screen-tested for the male lead in that picture — with Juliette, who was already cast, fresh off Cape Fear. And I remember thinking, “shit, this is easy,” because it was actually one of my very first film auditions, ever.

I started out reading for some tiny part, then they kept asking me back to read for something bigger, and finally I was reading for the male lead in a ten million dollar film. I was mainly just a writer of short stories and poetry then. I wasn’t even really trying to be an actor. Matter of fact, I hated almost every actor I had ever met before in my life; except for Juliette, who I ended up having a little crush on while we were working. She was dating Brad Pitt at the time, so... Well, I never had a fucking chance. Ha.

They told me I had actually had the role for a few minutes until some big suit and tie back in LA said, “Who the hell is he?!” and I was replaced with just a week to go before shooting commenced with C. Thomas Howell. Sure, I was bummed a little, but not much, because at least I knew I could compete and maybe even get work down the road. If I wanted to, that is. And I wasn’t even sure of that.

Anyway, the whole time Juliette kept bugging me to move to LA to pursue acting, and by the time the film was finished, I reluctantly agreed. And I could fucking kill her for that now! Ha. I arrived in 1993, but then left for good in 2003, after ten very long years. I mean, I really think that city is basically hell with sunshine. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.

Well, now, I basically just act when Chris Nolan and Emma Thomas call and ask me to do something, because I love those two so much and have so much fun with them. But again, I have to eat and pay the bills like everybody else, and I use up all the money Chris and Emma pay me to make my own films. I have a production company, Holden Automotive, and we have five new films that will finally come out over the next year.

My little films, along with my wife Hanne, of course, are the only things that keep me alive these days. Literally. But they’re not meant to be seen at your local mall or cineplex. They’re better viewed at home... in the so-called feathery hours... three or four in the morning, with your feet up and the world asleep around you. At least that’s how I think they should be watched. They’re very quiet films.

You’ve worked for Chris Nolan now in three films. How did you both hook up?

We hooked up back in 1999 when I auditioned for Memento and got the gig somehow. Simple as that. My agent begged me not to even read for it, because the part was too small or whatever, but hell, it was the first script I had managed to even finish in a very long time. So I showed up with my usual mustache, the one my wife loves me to have all the time, and I think that landed me the job. Ha. Along with help from my old friend, John Papsidera, who cast that film. He pushed for me hard, I think. He’s a prince. So is Chris.

I still remember that day very well. In came Chris and Emma — they were late — and I read and they smiled. And John gave me a little thumbs up sign on the sly. Then I left. A month later, after C. Thomas Howell turned down the role, I guess — ha — I got the gig. But I seriously never thought it would ever get released. Not theatrically. But thank God for Aaron Ryder and his team over at Newmarket. Fucking amazing. Which reminds me... Aaron, give me a call if you see this, you bastard. You told me at Sundance that year you owed me a gig for working so cheap on Memento! So... well, here we are six years later... and I’m still waiting. What the fuck, man? Ha.

What’s it like working with a director like Chris Nolan?

Well, Chris just trusts you enough to let you come and do your thing. He gives actors “Brando respect,” if you know what I mean. Whether I or they actually deserve it or not. He still breaks my balls and teases me a good bit, and I do exactly the same to him and the gang when I see them, but you know he really cares, you know he really believes in you.

It’s hard to explain, really, because it just feels so easy to me on his sets. You show up, he says, “Hey, Golden Holden... you mind not sucking so bad this take?” And I laugh, and say, “Easy, young buck.” Then we laugh and hurl a few more jabs at each other, and off we go.

But I felt bad this time around on Batman Begins, though I didn’t tell him or Emma. My best friend had recently died, and I was in bad shape. Real bad shape. I mean, I almost cut my wrists in my hotel room one night. Seriously. Literally. So during that shoot... Well, I looked like shit, and I just didn’t feel like I gave him much to work with. But thank God for my buddy Richard Brake, who plays Joe Chill in that film. He kept a close tab on me there in London. As did my lovely Hanne — from long distance. But I didn’t tell Chris or Emma. Or Wally or Nathan. I didn’t want to freak them out. Matter of fact, this interview, if they see it, will be the first they’ve ever heard of it. I love them too much to add to their weight.

So, were you a Batman fan before the film?

I was a fucking huge Batman fan as a kid. Oh, big-time. I even have the original record album still. And man, I never ever thought him and Robin would ever get away. I always thought they were going to buy the farm. Each and every episode almost. I mean, and this was the Adam West show, the “Bop!” and the “Wham!” stuff... But at the end of each show it was: “No fucking way are they going to make it this time! Uh uh! No, Mom, I’m serious. They’re screwed this time.” Ha. Of course my language was much worse back then. Ha.

For a long time, many people thought you were actually playing Harvey Dent and that “Finch” was just to hide the truth. Did you know this?

Hmmm... Never heard that. No.

Did Finch die? We never saw a body...

Sorry, I can’t answer that one.

Would you like to simply direct films, or do both — act and direct?

Like Chris Nolan, I always knew that I would rather direct than act. Problem is, which is why I am nowhere near Chris’s talent level, I didn’t direct my first film until I was forty. I wasn’t like Nolan who was making gems at such a young age. Those guys always end up being the real good ones, don’t they? The ones that always knew exactly where they were heading. Fuck. I just loved too many other things at the same time — traveling, writing, taking all these weird odd jobs so I could get story ideas... music... coaching... I used to be a lacrosse coach, believe it or not, at both the high school and college levels.

I get pleasure from both, yes, but more from directing than acting. Always. Simple as that. I have always just loved creating stuff. Anything. So if I am getting a real chance to help create something, I am there — whether it is behind or in front of whatever.

Tell us about My Father’s House, which you wrote, produced, and directed.

It was hell to make. I could write a novel about how hard that movie was to make, and I am fucking serious. I try hard to keep my films a mystery — as ridiculous as that may sound. I want my audience to find the film in their own way, without much help from me. I don’t make movies that talk at people. I make movies that are, hopefully — and I’m sure I’m sounding like a pretentious fuck right now — more like good conversations. Open conversations for anybody that really wants to talk. About something, or about nothing. You’re invited. It’s your trip. My trip was making it. Your trip is watching it.

Anything you would like to say to the BOF readers?

Just a big thank you very much for all the kind words in all the emails I’ve gotten the past several weeks. It’s been fun. And they can always feel free to stay in touch. Glad everybody liked the film so much. I am honored to be a part of it, and honored to have worked with Chris Nolan and the gang yet again. Three fucking times, and three very magical times. But each fucking time... that bastard has to either hurt or kill me. And while we’re on the subject, I wonder what in the hell all that is all about??? What’s that young buck turned big Hollywood hotshot got against me? Ha.

Originally published at Batman on Film, 2005.

“I first met Howard Keel back in Ninety Nine, through his youngest daughter, Leslie, who worked for me at the time as an associate producer for my directorial debut, ‘My Father’s House,’ which I had been trying to get off the ground for three years at that point. She was also my art director and storyboard artist. Anyway, I had been desperately trying to cast the role of ‘Roy Mardis’ for quite awhile with no luck whatsoever; and Leslie, who I didn’t even know was related to Howard at the time, believe it or not, humbly suggested him near the tail end of a meeting one afternoon. But I calmly played it off at first, trying to be cool, saying something like, ‘Yeah...? Well... Sure, I’ve thought about him before, but...’ Etcetera. Inside, though, I was thrilled. One of my sisters had been in love with Howard practically all of her life.

Anyway, when I was a kid, she made me sit and watch every single one of them, everything he was in, and every other damn singalong she had in her collection. And man oh man I hate musicals. Still do. But, of course, I knew who he was and how valuable he could be to the story I was trying to tell. Okay, now, let’s see... Hanne was with me, of course, along with Kipling Rowe, who is an old friend and was another one of my other associate producers at the time. And Leslie and her mom — Howard’s wife, Judy. And the big guy himself. We met at his house first, I think, and then we all went and had lunch somewhere out there in Palm Desert. And before I even had a chance to order a fucking glass of water, he just turned to me and said, with that great voice of his, ‘Well, do I get the job or not?’ And I just cracked up and said, ‘Yeah. Yeah... Okay. Let’s do it.’ And that’s what I remember and respect the most about who he was — he was a tough old bird who said and did exactly what he wanted to when he wanted to, honestly and directly, regardless of where he was, who he was with, or what time it was. He listened to the ticking of his own clock, as they say.

The last time we ever spoke was right after his last day of shooting on that film, back in June two thousand. It had been a really rough shoot already, and we were only about halfway through it. And I went up to him to just thank him for his efforts, shake his hand, and say goodbye. But then I ended up saying something like, ‘Hey, Howard, even though I know I don’t really know what I’m doing here and all, directing-wise, I really do hope you had a good time, and that it was worth you getting involved, and that I was there for you in some small way.’ And he just looked me square in the eyes and said, ‘Yeah, well... Thanks for saying that, kid. You’ll be fine, probably. But let me give you some advice... You tend to over-direct. And that’s not good. Uh uh. Not good at all.’ And I wanted to just punch him right in his big, old mug, right then and there, because I didn’t agree with him at all. But now... I do. I really, really do.

For example, one day I tried to basically cut him pretty much out of a scene that I just didn’t think was working — twenty-odd takes later. It was a bummer, but he just didn’t have the goods that day. And when he got wind of it, he just screamed at me at the top of his lungs, ‘Hey! I’m not a damn quitter! And I’m not quitting this damn scene! Uh uh! Now, come on! Put down that fucking script of yours, and your little fucking red pen, and let’s do this sucker!’ Then he calmed down a little and kinda whispered something like, ‘You said you wanted to do this thing, right? Well, then let’s do it. Come on.’ And we eventually did. We got it. We got the scene. And he was as tall as a building, and still in fucking amazing shape. And he was eighty one fucking years old. Incredible. He was like one of the ancient redwood trees. I mean, what was I supposed to say back to him? Except, ‘Yes, sir. You’re right. Sorry about that. But I’m trying. I really am.’

And that’s why I’m not saying anything else about the man even though I have just found out that he’s gone from this world. Except — Thank you, Mr. Keel. I’ll never forget the experience of meeting and working with you.

My heart really does go out to Leslie and Judy, who I haven’t seen or spoke to in a long, long time, as well as the rest of his family. I mean, how do you ever replace a big guy like that? Just like Johnny Cash and Richard Farnsworth and Ray Charles and Charles Bronson. You can’t. You just can’t. God just doesn’t bless us with enough of that kinda stock.”