A few years back, I wrote the first draft of a novel called badbadbad. Then I started writing songs derived from the narrative, and pretty soon a full-length album magically appeared. So now there was a traditional print book and a CD soundtrack, both called “badbadbad.” Since threesomes are trendy — and the art-making business is all about capitalizing on what’s hot — the natural next step for 3xbad was obvious: get out on the street and make a movie. ... Literature the Father, Music the Son, Film the Holy Spirit. Let’s call it a transmedia novel. I live in San Francisco, after all."
The novel is its own experiment in splicing together elements of religion, technology and 21st century personality crisis. The story of badbadbad (or 3xbad, in the author's own shorthand) is the age-old conflict between want and need, of the search for paradise and lunch, one man's sudden awakening to life's duality ...
The novel, the CD, the film: badbadbad is a total package of media immersion that beats corporate American culture to the punch.
... It started with a hamburger. Whopper, large fries, Diet Coke. No, something with more meat. A political exchange, at the bus stop outside Piggly Wiggly.
“You’re a fan,” I said, pointing at her badge, The President Is the Commander-in-Chief. It was pinned at quarter-thigh where the denim fringe of her Daisy Dukes peeked out like tendrils. This girl was live.
“The president know what good for us,” she said and I believed her. I gazed at her belly ring, a simple hoop, fake gold, then down to the button fly, unbuttoned, her candy cane triangle below. “We should trust every decision he make. He know right from wrong.”
“I’ll take your word,” I said. “Me, I’m not much into politics.”
“Me neither,” she whispered. “This for work.”
I zoomed in on the red-white stripes of her two-piece. “You’re a lifeguard.”
She poked me in the chest. “Yeah right.”
“Life’s a beach,” I said.
She had never been to the beach, if we’re to believe what she told me, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t. I talked big on my full tank of gas, tried to persuade her to get her feet wet. She insisted she was on the clock.
“You could call it training,” I said. She stared at me with anime eyes. “I’ll drown and you save me.”
“Shut up,” she said, taking my hand in hers.
I was fortune’s son. ...