Tag Archive: Cops

12:11 PM – BOB
So yeah, basically we had three people for Hell on Wheels and five for Total Badass last night.  It was freezing tits cold, so there’s that excuse.  We also got zero press and had no derby support here.  I’m sure I could make more excuses for the lack of a turnout, but why bother?  However, all five stuck around for the Q&A. You might argue that they only stuck around out of fear of being rude by walking out or that they were just over-courteous, but all of them chatted it up with us after the screening. So, if you look at it this way, 100% of the crowd hung out and talked with us after the flicks.

Today, we split from Ally’s house (she had a badass quilt made up of old socks, btw (thanks, Ally!!)) and holed up in the downtown Providence library.   We’re uploading vids, emailing, promo-ing, taking shits, fielding questions from cinemas, etc… in short, we’re partying balls.

Library in Providence:

12:31 PM – CHAD
We woke up in Providence and went to what is bound to be the main library downtown and spent a couple hours working on our tour journal. I’m confident that the work we did there will have us caught up with everything in no time. The truth is, I think Bob and I both are in no hurry to get anywhere, because we have no idea where we are going to stay for the next two nights. We have a showing in Boston tomorrow, and know nobody there. We stayed here in Providence with a friend of a friend last night, but without even speaking with each other, Bob and I mutually concluded that we had probably imposed enough and asking to stay again would be simply… indulgent. Besides, whether we know anybody or not, we’re convinced Boston is going to be a blast and are eager to check it out.

8:49 PM – BOB
We made it to Boston.  We haven’t been here long and already I’ve done more u-turns in Boston in the last three hours than I did on the previous 20 days of the tour.

12:31 AM – CHAD
Boston Sucks. I might just now be typing that phrase for the first time in this journal, but you must believe me when I tell you that it eventually becomes our mantra over the entirety of our stay in the city. I don’t want any place to suck, ok? I’m a firm believer that you can go anywhere and it will all just be one big adventure and you’ll meet all these wonderful people and do all these amazing things but I’ve been to Boston twice now and it sucked both times. I want to apologize to all the good people of Boston too, and assure you that I’m certain that I’m wrong about this and the only reason I think Boston sucks is because I haven’t met you yet. I think part of the problem might be that both times I’ve gone to Boston, it has been straight from New York City, and maybe it just sucks by comparison. I’m fully aware that saying that might even be worse than simply saying “Boston Sucks” but I’m trying to offer explanations, so as to soothe the masses in Boston. I’ve got to tell you though; Bob and I seriously talked about printing up “Boston Sucks” t-shirts at one point.

Anyway, when we rolled into town, we went to this Irish bar that Davis Comeau suggested we go to, and told them that he sent us. I think our Texas accents may have been a big part of the problem, and maybe the folks at the bar thought I said “Albert DeSalvo” instead of “Davis Comeau” but we didn’t exactly end up pounding rounds of Irish Car Bombs into the night at this motherfucker, ok? On top of that, we had no idea where we were going to stay, and it was looking like we’d be sleeping in the car because we’re both too cheap to even split a hotel room. At some point I suggested to Bob that we place an ad on craigslist which would explain that we were two filmmakers on the road looking for a place to stay for a couple of days, promising free admission to the screening, tons of memorabilia, and just a great time, in general. I specifically posted the ad in the “men seeking women” and “strictly plutonic” sections of the site, and assured Bob that we’d be hearing from hordes of hyper-sexed gay men, in no time.

2:02 AM – BOB
It’s late.  Were driving from a bar to a dude’s house that we met on craigslist. The roads here are fucked. The signs are fucked.  The layout of the city is fucked.  If you wanna get riled up, drive in Boston. On top of that, there’s a fuck-ton of cops.  Those two elements came together in a fearful moment of dread followed by a momentary panic as I was making a weird turn at one of Boston’s finer seven-way intersections and bounced across some sort of bump/curb/train track thing in a weird fashion.  The cop was headed the other way, but he could pull a u-ey any minute, right?  And did he see what surely appeared to all civilized folk in the vicinity to be a drunken driving maneuver?  We didn’t know.  But we did panic. “Ditch the car?” Chad asked.  Let’s think: car full of drugs, Texas plates, beer in car, cops looming.  Answer: yes.  I swung the car over to an empty parking spot between two bigger cars and we bailed the fuck out. We strolled down the road a bit acting nonchalant.  After a few blocks, and nerves calmed by time, we made our way back to the car and headed over to the craigslist dude’s house.  His name was Jim, or James.  We took to calling him Jim James.

Upon arrival at Jim James’s pad, everything was weird. It would be wrong to assume that Jim James was a gay man intent on raping us, gutting us and replacing our vital juices with gallon upon gallon of Jello™, but the circumstantial evidence was mounting.

2:12 AM  CHAD
Had I written this journal on a day-to-day basis as planned, it probably would have been cool here to post some of the responses that Bob and I got from our craigslist advertisement. In reality though, this shit all happened back on about November 30th and it is now roughly February 8th of the next year, so I’m not going to go digging through my emails looking for the shit. You’ll have to make do with me assuring you that most of the replies were about dicks, and whether or not we sucked them. There was one guy, however, who rose above all the petty vulgarities and suggested that we could come crash at his place with no strings attached, though he did leave the door open for shenanigans if we decided that was the way shit was going to go down. His name was James.

We get over to James’ house and he lives in this really nice part of town and his “apartment” is like the third or fourth floor of a… I don’t even know what the hell you call this type of place; they don’t have them in Texas. It was like four houses stacked on top of each other with a stairwell running up the middle… one of those. We get up to his level, he lets us in and the when we walked through the doorway, the first thing I notice off to the left is that the living room is completely empty… no furniture, no pictures, no rugs, nothing. This was one of about four times in my life that I’ve walked into a situation and realized immediately that I’m likely to be killed. If you’ve seen Goodfellas, then you remember the part where Joe Pesci walks into the house with the old mobsters, thinking he is about to become a made-man and then he sees that the place is empty and almost has enough time to say “Oh No!” right before they blow his brains out. It was exactly that type of moment. I mean, I saw this shit and literally maneuvered myself away from Bob to where I felt like if there was some sort of attack, maybe at least one of us could react, fight back, or run while the other was being killed. Like I said, this is about the fourth time I’ve ever been in such a situation. Two of the other times were on drug deals, and I think I might have written about them in an old article that I pledge to post here in the journal sometime down the road on a slow news day (believe me, there are going to be a lot of slow news days coming up). There was one time though, that I’ve never told anyone about, so I’m going to go ahead and tell that story now before I carry on with this James in Boston situation.

Ok, about ten years ago, right around the time I started writing for Rank and Revue Magazine, I was online surfing yahoo chat and I run across this couple over on Riverside Drive who invite me over to come have a threesome with them. Now, I had pretty much grown out of threesomes involving men at that point in my life, but this was a really fine black girl and they swore that there would be no interaction between males… the girl just really liked getting fucked by two guys, or so the story went. I go over and meet them at a convenience store across the street from their apartments so we can all three make sure we’re comfortable with each other before we go to their place… this is all normal protocol when setting up threesomes over the internet, I assure you. It’s important that I mention this initial meet-up, because I think it lends credence to my theory that these two were planning to kill me, all along.

Anyway, I meet them at the store, and it’s a black girl like I said, with a white boyfriend. The funny thing is; they were a complete role reversal. She was a college student over at UT and was almost sorority-like in her speech and mannerisms while he was a ghetto-acting thug with a bad case of nigger-mouth. Not to be confused with trench-foot or pink-eye, nigger-mouth is an ailment that strikes one-in-four young Caucasians, causing them to insist on talking like a black person, and it bothers the shit out of me. In fact, I’m not ashamed to tell you that whenever I encounter this phenomenon, there is a little trigger in my brain that, the second I hear a word come out of the affected party’s mouth, it simply “switches off” and I never listen to or process a single fucking word they say for the rest of my life. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the way black people talk. In fact, I consider their command of the English language to be at the very least unique if not downright admirable. I don’t mind the way white people talk either… I’ve been talking like them for years. It’s just when a white person talks like a black person that I have an issue. The odd thing is, when a black person talks like a white person, it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I find it rather refreshing. Why is that, you figure?

Let’s not get hung up on semantics here, ok? The point is, I pass their initial inspection and am invited back over to the apartment. We get over there and all three walk in the door, and I can’t help but immediately notice that they have pulled up all of the carpet in every room, obviously in a bid to kill me without any of the troublesome bloodstains that are always getting people busted for murder on the TV shows. They tried to put me at ease by explaining that the carpet was all pulled up because of their dogs. You see, they had a whole bedroom full of pit bulls that they were going to chop me up and feed me to over time, in order to dispose of my body. We go back to their bedroom and begin watching Scary Movie 2… the one that starts off with James Woods spoofing The Exorcist. They started smoking crack, you know, to get themselves all amped up for the kill, but I respectfully declined because I’ve never smoked cocaine, only snorted it. Basically, I spent the next several hours trapped in their bedroom, trying to stay in their good graces so as we could either all fuck, or they at least would decide not to kill me. I was doing whatever it took to be charming… I even told homeboy that I was pretty sure I could get the magazine to publish some of the drawings that his friend had been mailing him from prison. The thing is; the issue of sex never came up. I mean, we were obviously not there to do anything of a sexual nature, so what else does that leave? I mean sure, maybe I just wasn’t their type, but the whole point of having an initial public meet-up before random internet sex is so that you can just tell the person right there on the spot not to waste their time or yours. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I was ninety-percent sure that these two intended to kill me, ok? But the girl was so fine; I was willing to risk my life for a ten-percent chance of fucking her. It actually got to the point where I had played out my own private screening of Forensic Files in my mind. In that particular episode, the police were able to go back and look at the archived conversations on my computer and that would lead them to the convenience store, and then eventually to the video surveillance footage of me and the last two people to see me alive. From there, it was simply a matter of sifting through dogshit to secure a conviction.

Anyway, obviously I escaped and went on to survive long enough to encounter this James in Boston situation, a decade later. Now, as I was saying about an hour ago… When Bob and I walked into James’ house, the bare-empty living room took what was already an awkward social situation and turned it into a potential double homicide. James ended up being a bit older than us, and not quite as in shape, so we weren’t in any danger of a bull-rush type situation, but that didn’t rule out treachery involving firearms, poisons, or sneak attacks in the darkness of night. Don’t think I didn’t have this in mind when I never drank a sip of the already-opened Heineken James gave me before I went to bed. Actually, since it was almost three in the morning, I was already so fucked up; I didn’t need a Heineken any more than James needed to drug me to make me pass out. I fell asleep on a couch within about ten minutes, leaving my life in Bob’s hands. The next morning when I woke up, Bob was curled up like a watchdog, sleeping on the floor next to my couch even though he had a bed available in another room. It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Incidentally, this might all seem like exaggeration and humor, with just a smidge of blatant homophobia mixed in, but when we woke up the next morning and did a thorough inspection of the premises, it became quite obvious that something was seriously amiss about our surroundings, so stay tuned for the next episode.

2:52 AM – BOB
I’ve seen enough war shows on the TV to be familiar with the divide and conquer technique.  I know Chad secretly wanted me to sleep in the other room so his fantasies of being molested after his death could finally come to pass, but we still have screenings to attend.  And I want to attend them not as a ghost.  For a man who intended to murder us, Jim James was quite nice and cordial.  So nice in fact, that he politely offered and re-offered to share his bed with me.  There’s plenty of room, he insisted.  No need to sleep on the hard floor, he pleaded.  Have more booze.  You have nice veins.  Don’t bother with the beer, have some of this whiskey, he offered as he dug out a bottle from way back in an empty cupboard.  My keen eye noticed that the half empty bottle had previously been opened and had bits of pills floating in the booze.  Well, potentially, anyway.  This is when I began to suspect that Jim James wanted not only to murder me, but to gay sex me as well.  I’m not sure if the sex or the murder was to be first, but later I realized that he’d also intended to pack my corpse full of Jello™.  Not to sound like a huge wuss or anything, but murder kinda scares me.  Have you seen Auto Focus? The movie where Bob Crane gets his head caved in with a tripod while he sleeps?  The shunned “group grope” got him killed, but good.  Group grope or not, gay sex just disinterests me.  Too much penis and not enough vagina for my tastes.  And I don’t think it makes me a homophobe just cuz the idea of a couple of dudes rolling around all sweaty and stabbing each other with their penises is not a turn on for me.  Hell, I don’t even get why hetero dudes get so riled up about lesbo sex porn.  I like the gays and the lezzies just fine and all, but sex-wise, I’m keen on the idea of cute, naked, sexy girls.  And if there’s a sexy naked gal having awesome sex with a penis (specifically, MY penis), all the better!  That’s exciting!  And if it’s porn with a hot gal having penis sex, at least I can imagine that it’s my penis and totally beat off to that.  But, having never tried the gay sex, maybe I’m being closed minded about it.  Actually, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Jim James never specifically offered gay sex, just a bed to sleep in alongside him.  And I was too much of a pussy to take the gentleman up on his offer. Fingers crossed he doesn’t murder me for being rude.  My apologies, Jim James.

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:


5:55 PM – BOB:
I drove for about four and three quarter hours today… I think. From day one to day 5 , it’s a blur. It’s like I’m playing an incredibly boring car racing video game from sunrise to sunset. It only livens up when I see, or think I see a cop and the fear shoots down my legs. It’s a nice pick-me-up and it breaks up the monotony of the road. But getting pulled over and busted for driving around with a small mound of weed and a pile of illegally obtained prescription drugs will give you the fear. Luckily we have this cloaking device known as a Prius. No one expects to find a pair of deviants in a Prius, right?

During the latter parts of the trip, Chad got a call from the cinema in NYC.  They are demanding a stunt:

6:49 PM – CHAD
The Theatre in Raleigh is actually a regular style theatre that you’d see at any mall, so it was cool to get to show the flick in one of those, for once. The guy running the place, Jerome, was really nice to us and they even had this big tray of meats and cheeses set up that Bob and I shamelessly packed up and took at the end of the night. At one point, they paraded Bob around the theatre like a cover-boy and took upwards of three hundred and fifty pictures of him. I was laughing to myself for at least forty-five minutes, thinking of how bad it must have been pissing him off, deep down inside. There were actually a shitload of people at the theatre that night. It’s just too bad that all of them were lined up to see the midnight showing of Harry Potter…

Harry Potter

6:55 PM – BOB:
The cinema printed up a bunch of posters and are playing the Hell on Wheels trailer on a loop in the lobby. They hired a photographer to capture the magic of the night for future generations to enjoy. It was really kind of weird. I posed for about 345 pics: next to posters, under the marquee, under the Hell on Wheels sign in the theater, working on my computer, watching the trailer, eating meats and cheeses, and even one where I was talking to a dude in a kilt. There was no logic in the kilt pic, I think the theater manager saw a dude in a kilt and thought it was worth documenting. Bob and kilt-dude at the Raleigh Grande! Timeless.

About three people enjoyed Total Badass. And by enjoyed, I mean sat through it. I really don’t know if they enjoyed it or not. One was Celia Fate, the founder of the Carolina Rollergirls. Celia and I were part of the Whiskey Livers scavenger hunt team at RollerCon a few years back. It was a fluke that I was on the Whiskey Livers to begin with, but that’s neither here nor there, I’m a fucking Whiskey Liver for life now. After eight hours of drinking screw drivers in a Las Vegas pool, the scavenger hunt was to kick off at the annual roller derby convention. Emma Geddon, an L. A. Derby Doll (and a very tall and very funny gal) had an injury that would keep her from the hunt.

This is kinda like those stories or movies where they pluck a scrappy fellow from obscurity and he wins the game. Except it’s not at all like that. In reality, I was just partying balls/ovaries/etc. with this gang of ass kickers: Celia Fate from Carolina Rollergirls, Chola from the Texas Rollergirls, and a group of L.A. Derby Dolls: Thora Zine, Kasey Bomber, Tawdry Tempest and Emma Gedden. Emma was down with an injury and they searched the room for a replacement. Sure, my anatomy was different, but they didn’t care. There was a swapping of jerseys. It was like that old Mean Joe Green commercial where he gives the kid his football jersey. Except this jersey swap involved naked titties. So it was waaaay better. In the long run, I was given a shirt, I squeezed into it like a hipster into tight pants and we set forth on the hunt. The first thing we bagged was booze. And lots of it. After that, I think there was some panties from a stripper, and … fuck. I don’t know. But It was fun. Sorry for the long build-up… what the fuck was I talking about? Somehow, over the course of this night, I was given my derby gal name: Boblong.

Oh yeah, so Celia Fate is a Whiskey Liver! She’ll always have that going for her. And she let us crash at her house. Thanks!!

7:48 PM – CHAD:
While we were in the lobby of the theatre and the movies were playing, all of our New York press hit the interwebs. There was shit about Total Badass in The New York Times, The Village Voice… you name it. Variety Magazine is talking about my dick nowadays, so I’ve got that going for me. Just about everything was a favorable review of the movie overall, but as far as what was written about me as a person is concerned… let’s just say that my parents won’t be cutting any of this shit out and hanging it on the refrigerator. I took a pretty good beating in the papers, rest assured. There were a couple of bright spots… Chuck Bowen from Slant Magazine seemed to get me. He said, “Holt is a Don Quixote…tortured artist…little-bit-of -everything kind of guy…kind of ingenious…sort of everyman who fights conventionality and keeps it real.” along with a lot of other flattering things. You can see the whole article at:

9:44 PM – BOB:
During the screening of Hell on Wheels, some fuckwad stole merch. The ass snatched three shirts and two posters from the merch table. Bastards and/or bitches! On top of that, the Total Badass screening was a bit of a wash. It started with zero people and ended up screening to three people. I believe this is our worst turnout to date.

Hell on Wheels fared better. After the screening we hung out with some of Carolina Rollergirls’ finest. Chad was swept off his feet by a local debutant. She hadn’t even seen the movie, but she was smitten with the boy nonetheless. Maybe she was smitten because she hadn’t seen the movie. Or maybe she read some of the reviews that just hit the wire.

Sport and Grim Reality
Published: November 18, 2010

There must be chief executives and millionaire athletes in Austin, Tex., whom Bob Ray could make documentaries about, but he doesn’t seem to be interested. “Hell on Wheels,” from 2007, and the new “Total Badass,” playing in repertory at the ReRun Gastropub Theater in Brooklyn, focus on a lower-middle-class world where drugs, beer and tattoos compete for attention with paying the rent and getting the kids to school.

Mr. Ray goes deep inside that world for his micro-budget films, devoting heroic amounts of his cheapest resource — his own time — to his subjects. For “Hell on Wheels,” that meant filming several years’ worth of meetings, in bars and living rooms, and matches, at skating rinks and warehouses, of a fledgling women’s roller-derby league that would eventually lead to a nationwide revival of the sport.

There’s an awful lot of grim reality on display, including a long and bitter fight over control of the league, some depressing financial and managerial ineptitude and several excruciating shots of dangling broken limbs. But “Hell on Wheels” is at heart an inspirational film, with a fairly conventional structure and a vivid, sometimes heroic cast of women.

“Total Badass” is something altogether more complicated, a working-poor man’s cross of Frederick Wiseman and Hunter S. Thompson. Mr. Ray embeds himself with his friend and former neighbor Chad Holt, an Austin character who manages to publish an alternative weekly and make a reasonably funny white-rap video when he isn’t in a drug-induced stupor or having sex on camera.

The film is both a portrait of life on the artistic and social fringe — a funnier and less pretentious place in Austin than it would be in New York — and a thriller: will Mr. Holt manage to emerge from probation and establish a living situation that could include his young son? The signs aren’t necessarily good, and a segment of the audience, perhaps a large one, will respond to “Total Badass” with anger and sadness at the scenes of Mr. Holt lighting up in the parking lot after his drug tests or getting high while driving. (That’s not to mention the explicit oral sex or the urinating in a cup at a movie theater.)

Mr. Ray is not impartial — he communicates some sadness of his own, particularly in the film’s last shot — but he’s admirably nonjudgmental. Any college town would be lucky to have someone willing to work as hard, and as skillfully, to document its working-class demimonde.

Or read the Village Voice

Total Badass/Hell on Wheels: In the Gutter and on the Roller Rink With Austin Double Feature
By Michael Atkinson Wednesday, Nov 17 2010

Bob Ray, Austin’s newish lowbrow Maysles brother, has taken his two latest features on the road, comprising the pro-am doc equivalent to being piss-drunk and lost in a tattoo alley in Texas. Most beguilingly, Total Badass (2010) chronicles the life of notorious Austin reprobate and chemical hog Chad Holt, who lives in a friend’s garage, sells weed (on camera), fronts punk bands, puts out a freebie magazine packed with his Hunter Thompson–esque memoirs of sexual sleaze and dope consumption, and generally lives as if he’s an artist pursuing a vision when in reality he’s the city’s most complete fuckup. Holt comes off charmingly as equal parts Texan Keith Moon and crispy Richard Benjamin, talking blue streaks and rolling joints in his probation officer’s parking lot, but Ray obviously foresaw the man’s spiral from gutter to abyss. Rubbernecking fun though it is, Holt’s trajectory becomes—big surprise—creepy and despairing. Ray’s second film, Hell on Wheels (2007), is by comparison an almost wholesome chronicle of the origins of the roller-derby renaissance, beginning with a single two-team league of bighearted redneck Austin broads, who quickly take over and must run the business themselves. Management compromises prove more demanding than the races; tough-talking Xenas that they are, the derby chicks still resort to oil-wrestling fundraisers.

12:12 PM – CHAD:
So, we all walked to this bar right next to the theatre after the movies were over, and I watched the Longhorn’s basketball team win an overtime game against Illinois, I believe. I was feeling kind of down because only three people had come to the fucking movie, shattering our previous all-time low of six, which we had set in Jacksonville only days earlier. That, plus the way my life had been pretty much summarized as big pile of shit in the national media earlier in the evening almost had me down in the dumps. Well, I’m sitting there at the bar and the bartender comes up and gives me a drink and tells me this lady across the bar had bought it for me. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before… this was like something out of 70’s movie. Anyway, it was this really pretty lady my age and I went over and talked to her and her friends. She had just gotten a divorce. I don’t know what it is, but every woman I get involved with these days has either just gotten a divorce, is going through a divorce, or is about to get a divorce and just doesn’t know it yet. Anyways, I talked to her for a while and we even went out to the parking lot and made out in Bob’s car. It was a total fucking pick-me-up, I assure you.

Film tour page: www.badassfilmtour.com

2:01 PM

We’re back in TEXAS!!!!  Party time!!!

11:11 PM

We never made it to Marfa.  We did manage to finally get arrested.  For those of you in the betting pool that wagered on our arrest on Day 35, you are the lucky winner!


Well, today was the day we finally get arrested. Before we get to any of that, I have a cautionary tale for you. The next time you’re driving down the interstate and see a cop hauling ass after someone to pull them over, so you pull out your camera and record it, singing, “Whoomp! There it is!” while the guy gets lit up, be sure and keep in mind that you may be next.

Basically, we drove up to a Border Patrol checkpoint. They had a dog sniffing every fucking car that passed through.

As we waited in line at the checkpoint, we stuffed the weed, the hash and the pipe in a ziplock bag inside another ziplock bag inside a jar inside a plastic container and jammed the fucker in the armrest compartment and hoped for the best.  Right as the car in front of us pulled up, the drug-dog had to take a shit. Luck was blessing us.  We waited for them to release the car and hurry us through.  But that was a stupid plan.  They held that car until the shitter finished up and proceeded to sniff not only that car, but us and every other fucking car that rolled through there.

I guess the dog winked at of gave some other secret, unidentifiable sign to his handler cuz the human component of the gang got excited and sent us across two lanes and over to the secondary inspection site. The agent pointed out where I was to pull up and I intentionally overshot the spot to buy us some time. “What the fuck do we do?” “I don’t think they can put the dogs on us.  They can sniff the car, but not us.  One of us needs to pocket the weed.”  “I don’t wanna.”  “I’ll do it.”  I hastily pulled the jar from the large plastic container and stuffed the jar in my pocket.  It wasn’t a big fucking jar, but it was none too small and made an oilcan size bulge in my shorts.  I did my best to assume a crooked posture that hid the lump.

So we’re standing there, about six agents surround us as the dog and another agent tear the car apart.  I’m feeling particularly cocky and smug as I know I have all the weed in my pocket.  That dog can hump every inch of that car and our belongings, and I couldn’t give two shits (I mean, other than the fact that my Fourth Amendment rights were being gang-raped).  The plan was working!  Fuck yes!  Hell, I was even small-talking the hell out of the lead agent.  I was prying from him cool stories of action that went down at the checkpoint.  On the inside, I was grinning like a possum eating shit.  I had a jar full of misdemeanors and felonies in my pocket and there wasn’t shit he could do about it.

Then, from the cop raping the car, I heard “We got marijuana.”

“No!” I thought.  I almost said it.  “There’s no weed in the car.  It’s in my fucking pocket!  This can’t be!”  I didn’t say that.  Not out loud.   I looked over to see the dog dry-humping Chad’s luggage, his shit strewn about.  I looked back and the agents had moved in and I was cuffed like greased lightning.  Fuck.

They had found Chad’s freezer bag of shwag. I guess he’d forgotten about it. Before we were arrested, as we were waiting in line to be sniffed, we did have an actual conversation and decided to consolidate all the weed.  All the weed.  We put the k.b., hash and pipe together.  That was ALL the weed we had.  Or so I thought.  I thought wrong.  Chad’s forgotten shwag brought us down, adding insult to shitty injury.

Once we were busted and cuffed, they found the jar of the good stuff in my pocket.  The gig was up.  My plan that was working so well went to shit in two shakes.  I was cocksure like a motherfucker only two seconds ago.  And now I’m eyeballing the possibility of a felony for the hash.  The fucking shwag is gonna get me busted for hash.  That is fucked up.  Did you know that possessing any amount of hash is a felony?  I learned that from Total Badass.  Even the smallest speck of hash is a felony.  Fucked up, huh?

I know you’re expecting the story of our arrest to be real knuckle-whitening finale to our tour journal, but it was really all a bit mundane. For one thing, I think Bob and I somehow both had the feeling all along that we weren’t going to get into that much trouble over the detainment, even after we had been handcuffed, searched, and put in a cell for about seven hours. I don’t know how to explain it, but there was an air of spring-breakishness to the whole affair. Sure, we’d been caught with marijuana and hashish at a federal checkpoint about an hour or so east of El Paso on I-10, but the hashish was so covered in marijuana, that it looked like marijuana, itself. This was working for us all along. Plus, from the minute we got arrested, there was just a parade of other detainees being led in after us, almost all of them two white dudes traveling together, obviously busted for their personal weed and obviously all about ten to fifteen years younger than me and Bob’s burntout asses. You see, the big drug runners, they don’t drive through the federal checkpoint about an hour or so east of El Paso on I-10, because the police stop every fucking car that comes through and run a dog across it.

Anyway, we probably would have gotten rid of all our weed, had we known about this dog on every car policy that the feds are running these days. It’s a lot like the chicken in every pot promise that the federal government made back in the Hoover administration, except instead of everybody getting something to eat and a feeling of financial stability passed down from the ruling class, everybody gets pulled over and sniffed down by a drug dog. I feel like this policy is very unfair to the average citizen, especially the ones carrying drugs, but who am I to complain? I’m not even allowed to vote… I’m just saying, after over two decades as a professional criminal, I’m all too familiar with the unspoken agreement between law enforcement and the average citizen that with a little bit of luck, you can get away with almost any crime because they’re not trying to catch EVERYBODY, just some people. What the fuck ever happened to that? How do you pull over every fucking person, and search them with a dog? How is anybody expected to get away with anything under these circumstances? It is an assault on The American Dream.

I’ll go ahead and step off the soapbox long enough to tell you what happened. We knew we were in line to go through the checkpoint for about 20 minutes, because it takes a long time to run a dog over every fucking car on the highway. We never did a goddamn thing to protect ourselves the whole time we were inching our way up to the inspection station. When we were about three cars from the front, Bob notices that hey, there’s a dog up there, and it’s sniffing every fucking car to go by. Well, we decide maybe it’s a good idea to at least get all the drugs together in one place, so they’re not just all over the car. I guess we thought the border patrol was going to give us credit for tidiness. Still, the idea of actually getting rid of the weed and hash never comes up… it was really, really good weed and hash and we weren’t about to let a couple of draconian drug laws deprive us of it. If they wanted our weed and hash, they were going to have to take it from us themselves, and that’s exactly what they did about seven minutes later, after arresting us for having it. Ok, so we’re seriously like two cars back in line, and Bob hatches his plan where if we have all the weed on our person, then they’ll take us out of the car, sniff the car down, and tell us sorry, false alarm and you can leave now. I’m still interested to see if this would have worked, but don’t worry, I fucked it all up, anyway. See, when we left Austin on the trip to begin with, I had brought like almost an ounce of shitty mexican weed for us to smoke because we had no idea how things would turn out on the drug front as the trip went along. Well, they turned out like this: People showered us in drugs in practically every city we went to, and the shitty mexican weed was soon completely forgotten… In my green suitcase, in the car, with the dog. While we were standing out on the tarmac with a couple officers, I realized all of this and took a nervous look over towards the car, where I knew my suitcase was sitting right on top of everything else in the backseat. I look over, and I swear the dog was just fucking the suitcase. Seriously, it had both front legs wrapped around it and its back all humped, and was just fucking it with its tongue out. The cops took the dog and the suitcase out of the car and were all like, good boy and shit, like they were proud of the dog for getting some pussy. Well, we were under arrest from that minute on, and when they searched us, they found the motherload that Bob had selflessly hidden in his pocket. It was all hispanics handling us at first, but when they got us back in the cells, they sent the white guy in as a liaison. He explained that we’d basically be sitting there until the local sheriff came along and gave us a ticket, and then we’d be on our way. Bob and I were in separate cells, and the guy did his best to suggest to us that only one of us should take credit for the weed so only one of us would get a ticket, but this all got lost in translation and we both ended up claiming it. After a couple of hours, they actually moved Bob and me in together. That was basically the most exciting thing to happen to us during our stay. That, and I had a couple pills in my pocket that I had to ferret out and eat while we were handcuffed to a bench in the processing station. It was a xanex and klonopin cocktail that normally wouldn’t have interested me, but seemed like a good idea at the time with an impending search and seizure. The only other thing worth mentioning was that after we had been released, and were about ten miles down the road, I realized that my green suitcase was gone. They had never given it back to us. I didn’t care; it had been fucked by a dog, anyway.

At first, I had my own cell.  Gray wall.  Bench.  Steel toilet. Cold.  So I did some push-ups.  That’s what you do in jail, right?  Then I saw a fly.  I almost killed him.  But then I realized that he was my only friend.  I took a shit so my new best friend would have something to sniff.

A few minutes later, they brought Chad into my cell.  They needed his for some gals they just busted.  Over the course of the next several hours, they brought in two more pairs of white dudes.  College-age looking kids who weren’t smart enough to ditch their weed either.

After about seven and a half hours of this kind of fun, they finally plucked us from the cell. We waited to see the outcome. What next?  What were the charges?  How much money and time would I be dumping into this West Texas county over the next several months of court appearances, probation and jail time?   This whole turn of events had me realizing that the tour was about to go from being in the black to being in the red.  The meager profits were about to evaporate and I’d be staring at a shitpile of financial and legal hassles.   Several months of work and five weeks of gigs on the road and all the little bits of chump-change we managed to squeeze out of this tour was about to be redirected to the Hudspeth County coffers.  I worked my ass off for that cash, I hope Hudspeth County spends it wisely.

The hermaphrodite-looking sheriff presented his/her citation pad and asked for a John Hancock.  In the end, they didn’t slap a possession charge or a hash charge on either of us.  They had us sign for a $537 “possession of paraphernalia” ticket. Gay.  And, fucking Ouch!  Aside from the financial fucking, I guess they figure I should be grateful for the slap on the wrist (it coulda been a felony, remember?), but fuck that.  The whole situation was shit.  It’s fucking wrong that they search every single fucking car without any probable fucking cause. And we never even left the country.  We’re over an hour east of El Paso in Texas.  That whole fucking thing is just plain wrong.

Inside the tin that used to hold my pipe and a small bag of the weed is stuffed this dollar bill:

I always hoped that it would help me weasel out of a bust.  I’ve talked my way out of a shitload of busts in the past.  And I never had George fucking Washington on my side.  I’ve had that bill in that tin for years and I always figured that I could play the patriotism / “our founding fathers grew weed” card if I ever got busted with it.  I never even had the chance to talk on this one.  No silver tongue a wagglin.’  In the moment, I had completely forgotten about the “I grew hemp” bill.  So it didn’t help a bit.  But at least they gave me my dollar back.

But on a more practical note, can someone explain it to me how it is legal for the cops to search every single fucking car that passes through?  Do we not have a Constitutional right to not be searched without probable cause?  Or am I mistaken?

I mean, “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.” WTF?

Apparently someone can explain that to me.  They are called the ACLU.  I guess they are quasi-famous or something.  Did you know this shit?  From the ACLU’s site (http://www.aclu.org/national-security_technology-and-liberty/are-you-living-constitution-free-zone):

“Using data provided by the U.S. Census Bureau, the ACLU has determined that nearly 2/3 of the entire US population (197.4 million people) live within 100 miles of the US land and coastal borders.

The government is assuming extraordinary powers to stop and search individuals within this zone. This is not just about the border: This “Constitution-Free Zone” includes most of the nation’s largest metropolitan areas.

We urge you to call on Congress to hold hearings on and pass legislation to end these egregious violations of Americans’ civil rights.”

Also from the ACLU (http://www.aclu.org/technology-and-liberty/fact-sheet-us-constitution-free-zone):

Fact Sheet on U.S. “Constitution Free Zone”

The problem

·      Normally under the Fourth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, the American people are not generally subject to random and arbitrary stops and searches.

·      The border, however, has always been an exception.  There, the longstanding view is that the normal rules do not apply.  For example the authorities do not need a warrant or probable cause to conduct a “routine search.”

·      But what is “the border”?  According to the government, it  is a 100-mile wide strip that wraps around the “external boundary” of the <?XML:NAMESPACE PREFIX = ST1 />United States.

·      As a result of this claimed authority, individuals who are far away from the border, American citizens traveling from one place in America to another, are being stopped and harassed in ways that our Constitution does not permit.

·      Border Patrol has been setting up checkpoints inland — on highways in states such as California, Texas and Arizona, and at ferry terminals in Washington State. Typically, the agents ask drivers and passengers about their citizenship.  Unfortunately, our courts so far have permitted these kinds of checkpoints – legally speaking, they are “administrative” stops that are permitted only for the specific purpose of protecting the nation’s borders.  They cannot become general drug-search or other law enforcement efforts.

·      However, these stops by Border Patrol agents are not remaining confined to that border security purpose. On the roads of California and elsewhere in the nation – places far removed from the actual border – agents are stopping, interrogating, and searching Americans on an everyday basis with absolutely no suspicion of wrongdoing.

·      The bottom line is that the extraordinary authorities that the government possesses at the border are spilling into regular American streets.

Much of U.S. population affected

·      Many Americans and Washington policymakers believe that this is a problem confined to the San Diego-Tijuana border or the dusty sands of Arizona or Texas, but these powers stretch far inland across the United States.

·      To calculate what proportion of the U.S. population is affected by these powers, the ACLU created a map and spreadsheet showing the population and population centers that lie within 100 miles of any “external boundary” of the United States.

·      The population estimates were calculated by examining the most recent US census numbers for all counties within 100 miles of these borders.  Using numbers from the Population Distribution Branch of the US Census Bureau, we were able to estimate both the total number and a state-by-state population breakdown.  The custom map was created with help from a map expert at World Sites Atlas.

·      What we found is that fully TWO-THIRDS of the United States’ population lives within this Constitution-free or Constitution-lite Zone.   That’s 197.4 million people who live within 100 miles of the US land and coastal borders.

·      Nine of the top 10 largest metropolitan areas as determined by the 2000 census, fall within the Constitution-free Zone.  (The only exception is #9, Dallas-Fort Worth.) Some states are considered to lie completely within the zone: Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Hawaii, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island and Vermont.

Part of a broader problem

·      The spread of border-search powers inland is part of a broad expansion of border powers with the potential to affect the lives of ordinary Americans who have never left their own country.

·      It coincides with the development of numerous border technologies, including watch list and database systems such as the Automated Targeting System (ATS) traveler risk assessment program, identity and tracking systems such as electronic (RFID) passports, the Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative (WHTI), and intrusive technological schemes such as the Secure Border Initiative Network (SBINet) or “virtual border fence” and unmanned aerial vehicles (aka “drone aircraft”).

·      This illegitimate expansion of the extraordinary powers of agents at the border is also part of a general trend we have seen over the past 8 years of an untrammeled, heedless expansion of police and national security powers without regard to the effect on innocent Americans.

·      This trend is also typical of the Bush Administration’s dragnet approach to law enforcement and national security.  Instead of intelligent, competent, targeted efforts to stop terrorism, illegal immigration, and other crimes, what we have been seeing in area after area is an approach that turns us all into suspects. This approach seeks to sift through the entire U.S. population in the hopes of encountering the rare individual whom the authorities have a legitimate interest in.

If the current generation of Americans does not challenge this creeping (and sometimes galloping) expansion of federal powers over the individual through the rationale of “border protection,” we are not doing our part to keep alive the rights and freedoms that we inherited, and will soon find that we have lost some or all of their right to go about their business, and travel around inside their own country, without interference from the authorities.

It was about 11 o’clock when we got out.  We never had a phone call, so no one had any clue as to our whereabouts.  Or even if we were alive.  We just vanished for a while.  Needless to say, we missed the Marfa screening.  So we made some phone calls and apologies and just drove the fuck home.  Sober.  Lame.

But honestly, who didn’t expect us to get busted, right?  We do aim to please around here.  Your welcome.


12:21 AM

The screening in Echo Park was great and we’re two-for-two so far in L.A. We went down to the screening with Laura Blanco, our other gracious host, and met up with a chunk of buddies. Chepo and Harvey Sid Fisher were there, Austin expatriates Valerie Aiello and Barron Gunter were there, not to mention our new friends, Cynthia, Julio and many others. The crowd seemed to really like the movie, even to the point of a guy who looked a hell of a lot like Sweet Tooth walking up with his girlfriend afterwards and both of them telling me it was awesome. We were very pleased with the crowd’s reaction. I was pleased with their reaction to me, in particular. Later on, we went out to The Drawing Room and drank the night away.

2:01 AM

Fuck.  L.A. has been nice to us.  Even the cops weren’t too dickish.  The USC screening was kick ass and was packed almost entirely with strangers: students still in town for the summer, old farts who pack into free screenings, local freaks from the ghettos that surround the campus, etc.  And they still loved the flick.  That was nice.

Tonight, we screened at Echo Park Film Center. EPFC is a home-made looking film group that screens films, teaches classes and is totally badass.  It reminds me of the old days of the Austin Cinemaker Co-op.  Back when I was shooting a shitload of Super 8, the Cinemaker was a home base for a group of filmmakers and we had fun screenings and taught classes as well. So EPFC felt like home to me. On top of that, Eve, who runs the joint, was super-cool.

Aside from a few friends, this screening was packed with strangers.  And the flick went over swell here too.  In fact, the vibe was killer and the energy was ramped-up. Another notch in our el lay belt.

Julian Nitzberg, the filmmaker behind The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia (the doc about the crazy hicks in the Jesco White clan) came out and was digging some Total Badass action.  We stood around and shot the bull for a bit. I have yet to see his doc, but it looks nuts.  Another filmmaker and old Austin pal, Jay Duplass came out.  Unfortunately, I told him the wrong time and he was there an hour early.  Either way, go see his little movie called Cyrus.  He can use all the help he can get.  And it’s funny as fuck.

Ex-Austinite Baron Gunter apparently came out just to make sure the movie sucked.  He needed to know that we were shit and that the movie was shit.  He dropped five bucks to see with his own eyes that we were wasting his time and dragging the good name of Austin through the mud.  But after the flick, he was sold.  He fucking loved it and showered us with praise and even invited us to a motorcycle party chock full of babes in school girl uniforms.  It was funny and refreshing to hear him admit that he came out to hate and he desperately wanted to hate the flick and us for making it.   But once he saw it, was on board as a fan.  Fuck yeah.

Earlier in the day, a friend who is a friend with one of the South Park boys had me swing by some DVDs of Total Badass and the cartoons I make called CrashToons (see them here: http://www.CrashToons.com). So I dumped some DVDs on Ted the intern.  If you are a friend of the South Park boys, please make them watch my shit.  So to speak.

After that, I ate some chow at Pho 86 in Chinatown, saw this cactus:


Well folks, you’re in for a special treat. In honor of our Thai friends we made last night in Los Angeles, I’m going to repost an old article of mine from Rank and Revue days. It starts out completely off topic (although it is eerily on topic as far as a back story for the movie Total Badass) but then at the end it has what I would consider my best “Thai Routine” to date, about my first college roommate, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, who had six T’s in his last name, alone. This was my thirteenth article I ever wrote:

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.

11:45 PM

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.