A showman, a charmer and, above all, a weirdo

3/5/2025

On Feb. 17, I lost a close friend named Barron Christian. Nearly all my professional decisions in my career were influenced by him in some way. When I met him, he was semi-retired from acting professionally. In the late 1990s, he was the “Built Ford Tough” voice. He was the spokesperson for the Rocky Mountain News. He spent nearly four decades in Hollywood where he lived in Greta Garbo’s mansion and appeared as a “walk on” cast member on shows like “Lassie,” “Highway Diary” and “Columbo.”

Four days after my high school graduation from Prairie High School in Cedar Rapids, I packed up all my belongings and moved to Golden, Colorado. This was my first time living on my own. My rent was $900 a month, which, after paying zero dollars a month for a roof over my head, was a lot. My first job there was working at a gas station on Old Golden Road. It was across the street from the King Sooper’s supermarket and a Sonic Drive-in. 

I made $7 an hour and worked from 5 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. In the early mornings, I would see the work release inmates from the jail up the road. They would come in and buy their scratch tickets and coffee before they caught the bus to wherever they were going. By 9 a.m., I would see the standard morning commuters coming in to get gas before they went to work. By 11 a.m., the retired folks would start to pop in. This was when I first met Barron Christian. He pulled up in a late 1970s maroon Cadillac Eldorado, which later I would learn originally belonged to Burt Reynolds because there was a plaque in the center console that read, “This was a gift from the Chrysler Corporation to Mr. Burt Reynolds.” 

He was a 6-foot, 5-inch burly man in his early 60s. He came in wanting a free refill of whatever soda he liked. Apparently, one of our other employees let him take whatever he wanted, but this time I was the new guy who didn’t want to lose the job he just got. (I had bills now.) But, he schmoozed his way through. It was a characteristic I grew to admire about him. We started talking, and he learned that I was in college for music, blah blah blah. Long story short, he asked if I had any interest in the movie and commercial business, and if I wanted to accompany him to a real voice over audition for a commercial. I just had to pick him up at 9 a.m., and we would drive in to the city for his 10 a.m. audition call. So, I picked him up, drove him into town and sat in the waiting room for 10 minutes while he did his audition. Then he came out and said, “Great, let’s go!” I got nothing out of it. Turns out his car was in the shop, and he couldn’t make it. But, on the ride back, we talked, and, even though he scammed more than PT Barnum, I didn’t care. He was a showman, a charmer and, above all, a weirdo — the first real one I had met in my life.

Over the years, my friends and I would spend hours at his apartment in Golden. While the complex itself was considered subsidized housing, Barron decorated his place like it was an old Hollywood penthouse. His colors were reds and blacks. Lots of maroons, dark wood and a few splashes of yellow. Everything inside the place felt warm. It was dimly lit with no overheads. He also had a view of the Rocky Mountain foothills from his living room. We piled in with beer in hand and maybe a movie or two. We would have some drinks, watch a film or just talk. After drinks, he would make coffee for us at 11:30 p.m.

Barron was someone who loved the working class but also encouraged creatives to pursue their ideas. I had no interest in the movie business before I met him. But, after hours of watching films together and him telling his stories from his days in Los Angeles, I slowly took a turn (maybe a turn for the worse, depending on the day). He encouraged me to live a life indulging in the things I was obsessed with — art, music, writing and the strange history of the world we live in.

He demystified the movie industry. He talked about going to John Lennon’s garage sales, having lunch at Frank Zappa’s house and throwing parties in his orchestra pit living room. Every week, he would work on some major television show as a day player, an actor who would show up, play a small role and walk away with a check at the end of the day. 

In 1994, he moved to Denver after a big earthquake in Los Angeles. It was there where he narrated the short documentary, “A Story of Healing,” which won an Oscar. He acted like it was nothing. Just pure circumstance.

I moved back to Iowa in 2007, and in 2008 I flew him to Des Moines from Denver. Every time I would pick him up from the airport, I would hear how he talked his way to first class. Probably not too different than the way he talked me into taking him to that audition years before. He loved Des Moines — Gray’s Lake, the Des Moines Art Center and (when it was open) lunch at Kwong Tung on Ingersoll.

Barron would say, “Des Moines is world class. I see why you want to be here now. We were all so afraid you made a mistake.”

People like Barron — weirdos who have lived very different lives than what we are used to — are a dying breed. He reprogrammed my brain to understand that, when ideas come, I should not brush them off. 

Barron was also a cautionary tale. In the end, he had nothing. I was legally his next of kin because he had no one else. I handled his final wishes and made sure that, when he passed, he did so with dignity. He wasn’t the best with money. I got the call that he passed while I was on a tech scout for a high-budget commercial. I was balancing a large-scale production while organizing his cremation and informing the mutual friends we had. I didn’t get to grieve the loss of my friend. But another close friend of mine said the best way to grieve is to keep telling his stories. ♦

Kristian Day is a filmmaker and writer based in Des Moines. He also hosts the syndicated Iowa Basement Tapes radio program on 98.9 FM KFMG. Instagram: @kristianday | Twitter: @kristianmday