Billy Blanks still owes me $150 (and other stories from my “acting” career)

Billy Blanks and me, on the set of Low Blow

Like most martial artists of my generation, I dreamt of being the next Bruce Lee. The difference is I went out and did something about it. I studied Bruce’s original style (Wing Chun) and then diligently branched out to learn a wide array of techniques from a wide array of NYC martial artists. In addition, I’ve actually appeared in a dozen or so “films” (yes, I use that term loosely). I’ve still got the movie posters and magazine covers to prove it:

The first chop-socky flick I ever did was called Low Blow and featured none other than a pre-Tae Bo Billy Blanks. He and I went out to Stockton, California, to work on a project with a lunch budget that rarely went above the peanut butter and jelly sandwich level. 

Regardless, I did have lots of fun with Billy. We trained together, got paid to give a seminar at a local karate school, and I even ended up lending him some cash when he ran out. FYI: Billy Blanks still owes me $150. 

In the Low Blow clip below, you see me for the first 3 seconds but, besides this, I actually had lots of scenes and even some dialogue:

Over the ensuing years, I did manage to move, um… laterally, I guess. All the other movies I worked on were filmed in the metropolitan area so at least I got to sleep at home after toiling all day as a muscular, celluloid ghoul or drug dealer or security guard.

The “celluloid ghoul” role was for a movie called Necropolis. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly an art film. I was subjected to two hours of special effects makeup to look like this:

Some of the filmings took place late at night in Central Park, during a time in Big Apple history when absolutely no one in their right mind walked around in there after midnight. Well, I checked that adventure off my bucket list. 

Another Necropolis location was a catacomb-like collection of dark, dusty rooms underneath and inside the Brooklyn Bridge. One late night culminated with the genius filmmakers setting off a smoke bomb in that tight, enclosed setting. We were all warned to evacuate as soon as we got the signal. 

The smoke was released. The signal was given. The entire cast and crew stampeded toward the doors, and I did my best to push past everyone. As I stood there, inhaling some “fresh” NYC air, I witnessed something I will never forget. A massive mischief (yes, that’s the technical term) of rats came rushing and clawing and squealing out behind us — dozens and dozens of them fleeing the smoke as we did. 

One particularly large specimen ran up a nearby grass hill. The huge rodent rose up on its rear legs and stayed that way, silhouetted by a nearly full moon. Suddenly, my zombie make-up felt appropriate.

One oppressively warm New York City summer day, I got the call to “act” in yet another super-low-budget classic, Robot Holocaust — produced by the same team that regurgitated Necropolis. This time, I got to work with my buddy, Fast Eddie.

Eddie and I lived in the same neighborhood and worked together as trainers at the Vertical Club, NYC’s poshest health club. On the set of Robot Holocaust, Eddie and I had dual roles. Yeah, we were so multi-talented that we played both “air slaves” and robots.

As air slaves, we fought to the death and that’s primarily why we were hired: we could fight and we looked good doing so in skimpy outfits. 

As robots, we were so thoroughly ensconced in rubber costumes, there was zero chance that any of the five people who ended up seeing Robot Holocaust would ever identify us as the same loin-clothed gladiators who had just gotten zapped by a ray gun in the previous scene. Watch the zapping here:

The air slave fight scene was filmed inside the squalid Brooklyn Navy Yard with minimal crash padding. By the time we finished (garnering a long round of applause, thank you), we were covered in both dirt and bruises. After considerable complaining, we gained access to the showers.

However, we were unaware of these two facts: the drains were clogged and the cats kept in the building to keep rats away appropriated those same showers as their community kitty litter pan. Within minutes, Eddie and I were standing naked in ankle-deep water with cat droppings floating by.

Back at the Navy Yard the next day, it was even hotter. The slightest motion initiated a gradual process of sweat drenching my frame. Eddie and I donned the aforementioned rubber ensemble and, well… there were problems: 

• The costumes allowed no air to get inside

• We had zero peripheral vision

• We had to scurry up and down many stairs for several takes

• At one point, Eddie was required to wield a real sword

The director, who I’m sure eventually found a new vocation, bellowed at us to proceed faster and look “more imposing” as we negotiated the steps, a pool of perspiration trailing behind us.

This provoked more grumbling and, when our scenes were wrapped, a very odd thing transpired: the producers of Robot Holocaust cut us a check right there on the set. This was unusual as both Fast Eddie and I normally had to pester producers for weeks or months to pay us for the work we did.

At that juncture, we ascertained we would not become part of their celluloid repertory company. So we headed back to Queens for (feline-free) showers and set out to meet friends at a Van Halen concert. You can be certain our movie set anecdotes that night omitted any allusion to our incessant whining or floating cat feces.

Of course, since those action movie days, I’ve steered my life in many diverse directions. As for Robot Holocaust, for as long as video stores were still a thing, both Fast Eddie and appeared on the VHS box (image above). Eat your heart out, Billy Blanks — but I still want my money (with interest)!