Si Robertson is sitting on the couch facing the TV. Jep Robertson, age 35, the youngest son, curls up in a recliner in the corner with a pistol strapped to his waist. He barely speaks, like a countrified Silent Bob. Jase, 44, and Willie share a love seat while Phil lounges barefoot on a camo-patterned recliner in the far corner of the room. Two dogs share the recliner's footrest with Phil's heavily callused bare feet. He has severe bunions, so his big toes jut in at forty-five-degree angles. The main TV room is cluttered with mismatched furniture and photos hung haphazardly on the walls. And Phil looks like part of the clutter himself, as if he'd been wedged into that recliner a while back by some absentminded homeowner who didn't know where else to put him.
Would you want to be a superhero?
I mean, when it’s done the right way they have an interesting problem, or a scar that they’re dealing with. I don’t particularly want to diet. Or work out like crazy. That doesn’t sound fun. The problem now is whenever you do a movie they sign you to like, a three-picture deal, because if you play, you know, Condorman, you’re young, you’re just in from Ohio or whatever, you’re signing a 15-year contract, and they have the option to make three or four. That’s the weird thing about it — all these indentured-servitude contracts.