Last Monday, as part of a memorial for the late San Antonio actor Jonathan Joss, roughly 20 members of San Antonio’s budding film community gathered at the Brick at Blue Star to watch Season 9, Episode 10 of the cult TV series King of the Hill.
The particular episode revolves around Native American “licensed new age healer” John Redcorn, the minor character Joss voiced for the animated program. The plot revolves around Redcorn illegally opening a casino so his band Big Mountain Fudgecake has a place to play, since no other venue in the fictional town of Arlen, Texas, will hire them.
Even though Big Mountain Fudgecake — an “old age, new age” heavy metal band — was never going to make it big, Redcorn never gave up on the dream. Indeed, friends of Joss remembered him similarly, as someone who chased his dream for the sheer love of acting and entertaining.
“He was the kind of guy that would drive three-and-a-half hours out of his way to go be in a four-second clip in a movie and not get paid because he loved the craft of what he did more than anything,” Joss’ longtime friend Joshua Kelley told the Current.
When Joss was between small acting roles on TV shows such as Parks and Recreation and in movies including the Coen Brothers’ True Grit, he pulled in cash appearing at pop-culture conventions. For a while, he peddled spice rubs branded around his King of the Hill character.
Associates remember him as more than another struggling actor occupying the lower rungs of celebrity, though. Although he lived hand to mouth, he was generous with his time and friendship.
“He threw parties for his friend’s children. He fed you when you’re hungry,” Kelley said. “If you were alone, he came out and hung out with you. If you were a fan, he video-called you or gave you his phone number so he could call without asking for a monetary donation. He was a good guy.”
It didn’t hurt that King of the Hill, launched by Beavis and Butt-Head creator Mike Judge, had an enormous Texas following thanks to its spot-on satirical depiction of suburban life in the Lone Star State. The show won two Emmys and regularly turns up on media lists of the best TV shows of all time.
While Joss’ Redcorn was a relatively minor character, he was one of the few Native American roles on a contemporary TV show. Unlike the cardboard-cutout depictions of Indigenous people in generations of television programs, Redcorn felt complex and fully realized — and he was crafty enough pull off a 14-year affair with conspiracy theorist Dale Gribble’s wife.
“It was such a different show at the time,” said Paul McComas, a director and producer of the not-yet-released indie film Unplugged. “I reached out to him because of King of the Hill. It was really a unique character.”
Set to be released in 2027, McComas said Joss’ presence in his film, as a character who voices the healing wind in the badlands of South Dakota, would likely serve as the actor’s last onscreen appearance.
Joss died on Sunday, June 1, at age 59. According to police reports, he was gunned down by his neighbor, Sigfredo Alvarez Ceja, concluding what had been a years-long dispute between the two neighbors.
The reported confrontation with Ceja occurred after Joss and his husband, Tristan Kern de Gonzales, arrived at their South Side property to check the mail. A half hour before his death, a neighbor recorded video footage of Joss holding a pitchfork and walking up and down the street ranting.
Ups and downs
Activists have described Joss’ death — who had recently come out as bisexual — as a homophobic hate crime, prompting an apology from San Antonio Police Chief William McManus for approving a statement that he said too quickly ruled out anti-LGBTQ+ violence.
However, some of Joss’ friends have pushed back on those claims, blaming the confrontation with Ceja on the actor’s mental-health struggles.
The hatecrime narrative, which spread like wildfire online and in the media, stemmed from a series of Facebook posts from Kern de Gonzales, who maintained that Ceja yelled homophobic slurs before opening fire.
Yet, during last Sunday’s vigil at Crockett Park, Kern de Gonzales spoke not about the death as a hate crime but as a wake-up call about the nation’s mental health crisis and the lack of help for people in crisis.
“I wouldn’t characterize [Kern de Gonzales’ online posts] as misinformation as much as a perspective of a grieving person on the situation,” said Althea Delwiche, a Trinity University professor who studies online misinformation. “I think many of us who saw their post on social media were immediately outraged, and it wasn’t because it was the first day of Pride Month or Indigenous People’s Month, but because it sounded like a homophobic and violent attack and horrible claims were being made.
“But, it’s turned out to be a far more complicated situation,” added Delwiche, who is transgender.
Indeed, Joss had been fighting through a rough patch. In January, his South Side family home, which his father had built for his mother in the ’50s, burned down, killing his four dogs: Farah, Brittany, Christina and Miss Jackson.
“All of [the dogs] had a disability,” Kelley said. “One was blind, a couple were missing a leg, they were missing teeth… if you put all [the] dogs together, you may have had one whole dog. But, he loved them. Those dogs were his life.”
At the time of the fire, the home had no water or electricity, and Joss was struggling to find work, according to those who knew him. He sometimes posted videos on his social media feeds asking for employment opportunities.
Joss had also just emerged from a messy divorce at the time, friends said.
San Antonio actor and pianist Elmo Ramos said the tough circumstances all stacked up over a short period of time, taking a toll on Joss.
“He was always in a great mood and stuff,” Ramos said. “He just started spiraling. It’s unbelievable, but it happens to people.”
Character study
Joss was born on the South Side in 1965 to a family of Comanche and White Mountain Apache descent. His parents owned and operated El Diamante Mexican Restaurant, and he attended McCollum High School.
“I grew up in that restaurant, and I was around a lot of characters,” Joss said in a 2014 recorded interview at Our Lady of the Lake University. “A lot of times, to be an actor, you have to be a character or have character. … But that kind of started [my interest in acting] because I got to make fun of people that I met on a normal basis waiting tables and washing dishes.”
After high school, Joss enrolled at Texas State University, but dropped out because he couldn’t focus on his academic work. He took classes at San Antonio College before transferring to OLLU, where he graduated in 1990 with a degree in theatre and speech.
After graduating, he bounced between Austin and Dallas, working odd jobs before saving enough money to move to California to pursue his dream of becoming a Hollywood actor. Unlike many who pursue the craft in Tinseltown, Joss managed to break into the industry fairly quickly.
He credits his ability to get work in front of the camera to being one of the few Native American actors working in Southern California at the time.
“Hollywood is such a huge business, and show business is so large, that you’ve gotta find a niche somewhere, and I’ve been lucky enough to look the part, act the part and be the part,” Joss said in in the OLLU interview.
In 1994, he landed his first big role as the character Raymond Firewalker in an episode of hit TV series Walker, Texas Ranger. Two years later, he secured his most notable role, that of Redcorn, whom he voiced from seasons two to 13 of King of the Hill. Joss replaced the original actor, Victor Aaron, who died shortly into the program’s run.
Back to the South Side
However, nothing lasts forever, especially in La La Land, Joss’ friend and film and TV vet Cosmo Inserra told the Current.
“In Jonathan’s immortal words, the show must go on,” Inserra said. “But remember what that means. It means one minute you’re there on set, and the next minute you’re nobody, the next minute they pretend like you’re an outsider.”
After King of the Hill ended production in 2009, Joss attempted to break into the big screen with a role in the Warner Bros. Western comic book flick Jonah Hex. In the end, most of Joss’ screen time ended up on the cutting room floor, and the film was a flop despite its $100 million budget.
Joss’ farther also died around that time, and the actor did what many do when the credits stop rolling — he headed home.
Even though he’d appeared on TV and the big screen, Joss returned as an average Southsider, friends say. He was a regular at Arlan’s Market, where he would buy expired Easter candy, and at Fred’s Fish Fry, where friends say he would buy box dinners to feed five people and eat it all himself.
His wardrobe was as theatrical as his personality, Kelley told the Current.
“He dressed very flamboyantly,” Kelley said. “He wore earrings and turquoise bracelets everywhere. He loved silk pajamas and he loved colors. He wore parachute pants. He would wear all that shit, bro.”
He also loved grilling.
Spicing it up
Out of work and with free time on his hands, Joss’ then-girlfriend encouraged him to turn his love of flame-kissed meat into a business. After some phone calls and sourcing ingredients, John Redcorn’s King of the Grill meat rubs and spices was born.
“The South Side is a great place for spices, and I want to share where I came from,” Joss told MySA in 2011 about his business venture.
Indeed, Kelley, a fellow grilled meats enthusiast — reached out and befriended Joss, not because he was famous, but because “he was a dude making badass spices.”
Joss welcomed anyone and everyone in San Antonio into his circle, friends said — as long as they could keep up.
Whether it was an off-the-cuff wrestling gig on the St. Mary’s Strip, a last-minute audition or role in an obscure location or selling spices in the parking lot of North Star Mall, Joss was always on the go, often with his South Side pals in tow.
“One time, I had to drive him to a random sheriff’s office in West Texas for a four-second screen appearance,” Kelley said, recalling the marijuana-fueled trek. “So, we’re driving there hotboxing my VW Jetta all the way up there, and apparently, his role is as a judge. So, I asked him, ‘Are you sure we’re going to a movie set?’ We’re going to a sheriff’s office, right? So I asked him, ‘Are you sure this isn’t a warrant round-up?’”
The movie turned out to be real, and Joss even wore a real Texas judge’s robe for the scene.
“I’ll tell you what, that judge’s robe smelled loud after Jonathan wore it,” Kelley said.
Remembering a friend
Eventually, Joss did end up landing another significant TV role, this time as Chief Ken Hotate in the sitcom Parks and Recreation. The beloved, albeit minor, character is a casino-owning Native American chief with a son who sold bolo ties on Etsy and with whom he was “deeply disappointed.”
However, after that role ended, Joss was back to the struggle of landing acting work.
“I mean, being an out of work, unpaid actor … it just wasn’t beautiful,” Inserra said.
To be sure, Joss was so broke that the weekend he died, he had to hitch a ride back from Austin’s ATX TV Festival to San Antonio with a fan.
Joss managed to return for a revival of King of the Hill and recorded lines for four episodes before his death, according to multiple media reports. Still, it remains unclear how significant his role would have been for the rebooted series — and whether the work could help pay the bills.
Despite his fame and personal struggles, Joss was just a regular guy who valued friends, family and good cooking. And that’s how those close to the actor want him to be remembered.
“He was that kind of brother,” Kelley said. “We all have one of those friends in San Antonio. We all know those kinds of people, the Jonathan Joss that we can call upon. He was that kind of guy, the guy you called upon who would drop everything to make sure you were taken care of.”
San Antonio Current Editor-in-Chief Sanford Nowlin also contributed to this report.
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This article appears in May 29 – Jun 11, 2025.
