February 6, 2014 by Cowboys and Crossbones

How to Get Down a Girl’s Pants

Getting to second and third base with a lady is an easy feat….if you’re a camera dude.

Rough, rough job. But somebody’s got to mic me.

While filming a sizzle reel for a potential reality TV show a few weeks ago, I got immediately intimate with the camera guy on day one. I think our initial meeting went something like this:

“Hi, I’m Ian. I need to put this mic down your shirt.”

Never one to be shy, I responded with, “Bring it.”

So if you find yourself timid with lackluster skills around the ladies, allow me to suggest a career move to the film industry.

No game required to be this guy and still score with ladies.

Being a camera dude (the correct term for this job is Director of Photography but that doesn’t have as good of a ring to it, ya dig?), not only do you get to put your creative thinking cap on, hiding mics in weirdo places like tiny disco balls (yes, only in my mini manse would this problem arise)…

NOt only do you need to put your thinking cap on...and get creative in where to hide mics,

Microphone hider extraordinaire.

…you also get to touch ladies from the tip tops of their heads…

Can you please not palm me?

…down lovely their backsides…

Even married ladies let you go in for the kill.

…and up the other.

As you can see, Ian loathes his line of work.

While he was nothing but professional, I couldn’t help but blow Ian shit whenever he was carrying a mic pack toward me.

You want to do what to me where?

I gotta feeling you don't hate your job.

This kind of touching usually requires at least $800 worth of liquor, you lucky devil you.

You dropped the tiny mic down my shirt? *Awkward*

By the end of filming I was all kinds of professionally appropriate and barely noticed when Ian had his hand down my shirt.

Hey-Oh!

As you can see, I hated every second.

CBXB

January 16, 2014 by Cowboys and Crossbones

How to Make an Ass of Yourself Ziplining

Squeezing in all of the wrong places.

While shooting a sizzle reel this past weekend, one of the scenes required yours truly to zipline, which I had never done before. Being a virgin to this activity, I was more concerned with which color of cowboy boot to adorn (naturally), rather than mentally prepping for the hours of hanging by a harness from a rope.

The anguish of important decisions.

Upon our arrival to the site, two zip instructors gussied my friend K-bell and I up in their finest attire.

Sexiness not included with harness.

While I had no trouble cruising into my adorable harness that made my already ample ass triple three sizes, I made myself vocal (one of my shining qualities) about messing up my ‘do when it came time to wearing the non-fabulous head ornament.

Bitching for one minute…

…and moaning and groaning two more.

I was wondering if my instructor, Charlie wouldn’t have to wear a helmet because his hair created one for him.

Already had a helmet on. Natural helmet head.

Helmet head au natural.

When I’d gotten complaining out of my system (for the time being), we were ready to conquer this ziplining shit.

As you can see, Charlie was not at all excited about devirginizing two celibate zippers.

Then it was time to make the trek to our first destination, which was far enough away that I had to squint to see the platform. And of course I had something to say about it.

You want me to walk where?

I’m out of breath. My feet hurt. Anyone bring a flask?

Once we arrived to the top of the shortest mountain in Tennessee, I was beyond ready to swing from the sky like Tarzan.

Bring it, Bitch.

In case we needed to know how not to land, there was a handy diagram on our equipment.

If you love your knee function, don’t do this.

Once I’d zipped 42 times (which therefore made me an expert on the sport) I had wise words of wisdom in how to accomplish a first attempt for my gal pal…

“Don’t be a pussy.”

Upon us both conquering the bunny hill of zipping, it was time for different camera angles. And while Ian, my camera dude, was placing the camera just so, I’m pretty sure he was thinking that working with me was a dream come true as I talked at him…

My feet hurt, can I sit down?

That’s too tight on my head.

Watch the aviator shades, Son!

When it came time to zip while wearing the lovely head apparatus, Charlie apparently thought I’d be able to hook myself up to the line all by my lonesome since I’d watched him do it for me 926 other times. It was then that I had to clue him in on my fingernail mantra, “Jewels, not tools.”

I’ll just stand here and not break a nail while you hook me up again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

After zipping for four hours straight, not only were my thighs screaming due to overuse, my crotch was numb from being the sole bearer of my body weight.

Take 1,479. Ice pack, please.

It’s a wrap! Hallelujah. Do you think we’ll ever be able to have babies after this?

Making it back down the hill and posing with our studly instructors, Forest and Charlie, I ripped my harness off faster than a dress hits the floor on prom night.

Mission accomplished.

We made it.

We did it.

I made an ass out of myself and it’s captured on film.

But, I survived.

Wish I could say the same for my shit kickers…

Casualties of ziplining.

Oh, and my crotch is still numb if you were wondering.

CBXB

January 15, 2014 by Cowboys and Crossbones

The Real Housewives of Nashville

You know those reality TV shows where women do nothing but get drunk on cocktails and drama? Well, my gal pals and I recently had an evening full of booze and filming minus the screaming.

After being contacted by a producer to shoot a sizzle reel for a potential reality TV show, I wondered how laborious it really is to be a ‘housewife’ (insert any reality character here). Shooting footage this past weekend I found out first hand that it’s no joke.

For instance, you have to stand and smile with perfect lighting…