Work In Progress
My son, Shay Holt, was two years old the first time he ever called a cop a “fat cunt” to their face. What’s that? You didn’t know I had a kid? I have two, actually, despite the fact that I have failed to mention them in the dozen or more articles I’ve written for Rank and Revue. All told, I have two kids, a common-law wife, a mistress, and numerous girlfriends. What can I say… I’m a very loving man.
Anyway, the fore mentioned incident took place three years ago as we were driving out in front of The Frank Erwin Center, moments before the tip-off of a Longhorn basketball game. Although it’s all the rage these days (if you think it’s bad now, wait until this season starts) only three short years ago community interest in Longhorn’s basketball was minimal at best. Despite this, parking for games at The Erwin Center always has been, and always will be, an absolute bitch. My sister, Ashley, who I have also failed to mention in an article up to this point, was riding shotgun. My kids, Shay and his sister, Jessica Burnie, were in the backseat. (Don’t let Jessica’s different last name alarm you folks, last names change like the weather in my family. I myself was Chad Jeremy Janecek at one point.)
Rather than forcing Ashley and the kids into walking the half-mile from our parking spot back to the arena, I had opted to drop them off up close and then meet them at our seats. In order to do so, I pulled into a parking lot located right out in front of The Erwin Center. This lot was of course reserved for illuminati and whatnot, so it came equipped with its own uniformed police officer to keep out the riff-raff. Upon seeing said riff-raff pull in, the officer jumped into action. Convinced I was trying to snag a spot meant for the Board of Regents, he started gesticulating wildly and shining his flashlight at us. I still had to pull in a little more to get out of traffic on Red River, and the cop ran up and started to beat on the roof of my car. “Hold on you fat cunt!” This is what I yelled, out of earshot of course. (I would like to make it clear that this guy was a fat cunt because he was beating on the roof of my car while my family was in it, not because he had chosen law enforcement as a profession. I’m sure that Shay feels the same way.)
So, I told Ashley to go ahead and take the kids inside while I talked to this guy, and rolled down my window. As I was explaining my intentions to the cop, Ashley took Shay out of his car seat. He was pissed! When Ash got him out of the car, he was pointing at the officer and yelling, “You fat cunt! You fat cunt!” I can’t imagine where he had heard such language. The cop seemed genuinely hurt, and looked at me as if to say, “Hey, your baby is calling me a fat cunt.” I just kind of shrugged, like, “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?” Realizing that even the police were powerless in this situation, I briefly considered having Shay commit all of my crimes for me, at least until he became an adult. Perhaps this wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
This is the second time, by the way, that I have typed everything up until this point. Lisa Burnie, common law wife earlier mentioned, found my first version and deleted it while crying and telling me that I am “From Hell”.
While I’m on the subject of hell, I would also like to tell you that as far as I’m concerned, a fart is wasted if it isn’t expelled directly on a small child, or at least a household pet. Although taboo in many circles, farting on children is commonplace in my family, the action being first introduced to me by my Uncle Bubba, who can fart on command. Around here, when you’re on the receiving end of such treachery, you are said to have taken a “fartbath.” Sometimes while I’m watching television, Shay will feign interest in me and crawl up into my lap for a minute, only to fart on me and squirm off giggling, “Chad took a fartbath. Chad took a fartbath.” (For some odd reason, my children have taken to calling me by my first name, rather than the more respectable title of Daddy or Father.) Jessica, being a girl, suffers from only a small fraction of the assaults, and, quite frankly doesn’t seem very fond of the ruse. Truth be told, both of the kids are getting too big to fart on, and it may be time to have another. Anyone interested in having a child with me can contact me through Rank and Revue’s email. The insemination process alone would be well worth your time, I assure you.
Is it just me, or has Larry Stern been running entirely too many photos of me in the last several issues of the magazine? I’m sure many of you are wondering when I am going to make an honest woman out of Larry, but I promise that our personal relationship has in no way influenced his decisions as to which pictures he chooses to submit. I think it’s more the result of us doing so much tandem work together, being the most talented reporter/ photographer duo that this city, this state even, has ever seen. Nonetheless, I still think there are too many pictures of me in the magazine these days, and I am tired of people telling me that I look like Mr. Bean.
There is still a lot of space to fill ladies and gentlemen, and I have absolutely nothing more to say of any importance, as odd as that may seem. I’m going to take this opportunity to go back and tell you more of Jaturon Chattrattichatt, my first college roommate. Before I tell you about Jaturon Chattrattichatt, however, I must to tell you of the worst marketing decision ever made by a convenience store chain on the Texas Gulf Coast.
In the summer of 1991, I was on road trip from Lake Jackson, Texas to Orlando, Florida with Mike and Will of Affordable Sound. We were celebrating our graduation from Brazoswood High School, where, as you know, I reigned as Student Body President. (You didn’t think Affordable Sound has been running all those back page ads for the hell of it, did you?) I remember this summer distinctly; not because I haven’t completely destroyed my brain since then, but because of Stop and Go’s historic blunder. It came at a point where it was almost impossible to tell the difference between a Stop and Go and a 7-11, as there was some kind of hostile takeover in effect. Do you remember these confusing times?
Stop and Go launched their summer campaign by selling a quasi-permanent fountain drink cup that changed psychedelic colors when you filled it up. I think it was called The Super Shocker. Costing roughly seven dollars, the cup’s ability to make any acid trip ten times as fun was in and of itself worth your money. The fact that you got to fill the motherfucker up at ANY Stop and Go for FREE for the ENTIRE summer made it the work of madmen. The effects of this promotion struck Stop and Go like a plague.
Stage One: Every man, woman and child in Brazoria County buys a Super Shocker within 48 hours of infection.
Stage Two: Mad with the euphoria of walking into a store, taking something of value, and walking out without paying, hundreds of screaming citizens mob every Stop and Go in town, day or night. Panic sets in.
Stage Three: The fountain drink sections and surrounding merchandise of all Stop and Gos are completely ransacked within one week of infection. Fanta and Diet Sprite are only flavors in stock.
Stage Four: Death. Every Stop and Go on coast has a Sorry, No Fountain Drinks sign posted on front door.
When Will, Mike and I left on out trip to The Epcot Center, each of us had a Super Shocker in tow, convinced that we were going to cut a swath of free drink violence across the Southeastern United States. I shit you not when I tell you that, with the exception of the Stop and Go at the intersection of “Old” 288 and Hwy. 2004 in Richwood, Texas, which was less than a mile from my house, we didn’t pass a single one on our entire trip. By the end, we were just using the Super Shockers to piss in, being too paranoid to pull the car over for anything but gas.
We were somewhere in Mississippi when I contacted my parents by telephone. They were here in Austin, securing a roommate for the condo I was going to be living in on and off for the eight years it was going to take me to secure a BA in sociology from the University of Texas. When talking to Bo, I could tell things were a little weird. He handed the phone off to my mom and I asked her what they were doing. “Well, we’re talking with your new roommate,” she said. “His name is Jat.” (I remember thinking to myself, Strike One.) “He’s from Thailand.” (Strike Two!) “And, today is his first day in America.” (Steeeeeeeeerike Three!!!!)
As I’m sure you can imagine, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, (or Jat, as he came to prefer) and I weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. I’m reminded of a Gary Larson cartoon depicting aliens shaped like a man’s ass coming off a spaceship into a field full of goats. The caption read: When worlds collide. That poor bastard…
Let me just say this. The best it ever got was during our first couple of weeks together, when I would introduce him to my friends from the coast. Regardless of which friend I was talking to, the conversation always went exactly like this; “Hey dude, this is my roommate, Jat.” “Jap!! Jesus Christ, his name’s Jap??” “No, it’s Jat, with a T.” “Oh. Hi Jat.” “Ha-loooo.”
At the lowest point of our relationship, Jat was completely horrified by my friends, my lifestyle, and me in general. If he was in the house when I got home, he would hide when he heard me approaching. If I was already home when Jat arrived at his Hell in the West, he wouldn’t even look at me, bee-lining in terror straight to his room. Only venturing out at night, he lived like the Vietcong. Since he had stopped speaking to me for the last eight months we lived together, the only way I would know he was home was by looking to see if his sandals were in front of his bedroom door. (He had these sandals, see, and he would take them off before going into his room.)
Once, there were about ten of us still awake downstairs all fucked up on acid, among other things, at about eight o’clock in the morning on Super Bowl Sunday (Redskins/Bills). Greg Pearce and I were sitting against a wall, facing out the window on Jat’s side of the house. We both witnessed a flash in front of the window that appeared to be a small man scrambling down the drainpipe. Initially dismissing this as a hallucination, we both came to realize that it had indeed been Jat. Apparently, rather than encountering the maniacs who had been hooting and hollering in his living room all night, Jaturon Chattrattichatt had chosen the more honorable and face saving option of climbing out his second story bedroom window to begin his busy day. I remember, with our emotions being heightened by LSD, Greg and I found this both tragically sad enough and hilariously funny enough to cry about.
Fuck it, I’m done. Forgive me Jaturon Chattrattichatt, wherever you are.
Actually, it was a pretty lazy day, today. Our gracious host, Jesse Blanco, took us out to see Venice Beach at night, and then later I had a date so Bob and I went to The Frolic Room. I frolicked. From there on out, this was one of the many things that happened on this trip that we have neglected to write about because you simply aren’t ready to read it. What I can tell you though, is that this and many other events just like it over the L.A. leg of our tour has led us to agree that if someone were to make a porno based on this particular part of our trip, it would be called, One Flew Over the Cuckold’s Nest.
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