How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

Preamble: Quick note before I get started. Mom, Dad or anyone in my family reading this, please exit the browser now. The events detailed in this post were a long, long time ago. Sandra McCarthy don't get excited and try to drop dime again because I can hardly afford my own drugs these days, much less sell them.

As I had mentioned in my previous post, in moving back and forth across the country, coupled with a computer crash, and nerve damage, I thought I lost the raw 180 pages of “my glory days” from the first draft of the book.

Luckily, I searched my Gmail and found an email I had sent to myself from July of 2016, so I'm fairly sure, I have the whole thing again.

Bad old days, here we come!

Chapter 4: How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

“People don't sell drugs, drugs sell themselves.” – Chris Rock


Like porn, drug dealing was never anything I had considered doing for a living. It found me. Drugs were my chief source of income from the early to late 1990's.

I've always been a stoner. I smoked pot five or six times when I was 13 before I ever got high, but I loved it. When I lived in Connecticut, we'd get our parents to dp us off roller skating, then we would sneak out to the graveyard, smoke joints and play ice hockey. I can remember the first time I actually felt the effects and have been a committed stoner since.

At 18, one of the things I was looking forward to in Georgia was the vast difference in weed prices. In Connecticut, a quarter was $60 and not high quality. In Atlanta, a quarter of weed was $40 and slightly better.

There was a hitch, every year during the end of summer ATL would “go dry, ” and marijuana would be impossible to find. That July I moved there was the worst drought on record. Finding a nug would be like finding a brick of gold.

It was that bad.

Once I had my truck unpacked, my next order of business was scoring a bag. Crazy Chris called a few of his pot dealers, but everyone was out. That year, I can remember the police erecting billboards on the interstate stating, “you think it's dry this year, wait till next year” with a big marijuana leaf and international no sign.

I was frustrated and sober.

One of the first days in Atlanta, I was going to see where my mailbox was in my apartments, this older black guy in a car drove up and asked me if I was looking for weed. I responded, “Hell, yeah.” I had the cash; he took off his hat with a bunch of 1/8th bags rolled up in it and I bought one. He lived in my same apartment complex, gave me his number and said call him if I need more. I strutted back to my building with my first half-price Georgia dirt-weed. Everyone was dumbfounded “the new guy” could find weed, where the locals had failed.

Within an hour I am back at his apartment scoring a bag for Crazy Chris and then a few hours later, for Chris's friends, who I didn't even know. I started making 3 or 4 runs per day to the dealers' place. For a few days, I got the sacks for people without making a profit other than they'd smoke me out or give me a joint. As the week went on, people kept calling, so I proactively bought an ounce. I figured I could sell three-quarters and get my weed free. After another week I started making a lot of “new friends” because I was the only guy who could score weed. Eventually, knowing that business was incoming. I bought 2 ounces, 2 became 3, and soon I'd moved up to a “QP” (quarter pound).


Without knowing it, I had become a drug dealer.

I had a few “regular” quote jobs too. I worked at UPS for a while unloading trucks. I also used to work for my friend “Johnny Cold Beer” installing carpet. I will save those debacles for another chapter, as they were adventures in themselves.

Between working, selling drugs, partying and my girlfriend Beverly that had just moved up from Connecticut, I had my hands full. I never went to many classes at school and dropped out in the first quarter. I already knew some pretty advanced music theory just from years of reading guitar magazines, so everything at school was a refresher.

While I was working at UPS, I met this guy Spencer who had a similar side hustle. He had a better connection than the guy at my apartment building, so together, we graduated from “QPs” to pounds.

Some guys from Kentucky tried to stick us with a few pounds of really moldy dirt weed with maggots and it during the dry spell the second summer. We told them we didn't want this shit, and they could have it back. They refused, Spencer knew one of them had a big grow operation in the back of his house, so one October morning after work, just as it was time for harvest, we went to his greenhouse and chopped down all the flowering weed. We cruised down Peachtree Industrial Highway in rush hour traffic with marijuana plants darting out of every orifice and Spencer's compact car. Keep in mind; this was long before the tolerant medical marijuana years; this was 1991 Georgia: In the eyes of the law we were carrying a life sentence in Reidsville State Penitentiary.

Not long after I quit UPS.

Besides from working with Johnny a bit from time to time, I never had a “real job” again.

After a while, I lost touch with Spencer and was introduced to “Hippy John.” John was involved at a higher-level than Spencer. He was arranging shipments of hundreds of pounds of weed from Mexico. He became my new connection, and I was his right-hand man. We dominated the ATL pot market by having “mids,” which was HQ weed but not as expensive as hydroponic, and far better than the cheaper Mexican dirt weed. The best thing about “mids” was they had the highest profit margin and demand.

By 1995, Dick Delicious wanted to play a lot more shows out-of-town, so I wanted to solidify my income. I had a truck that I barely drove so I sold it for $3000 and picked up 3 ounces of the blow. I didn't know if I'd have any luck selling it, but within 48 hours the cocaine was gone, and I was re-upping. I don't like cocaine that much, so I made for a good coke dealer.

Say what you want about the morality of dealing drugs, but many people have asked me how I got so “good at business.”

I learned it by selling drugs.

From my stint as a drug dealer, I can do even relatively complex math calculations in my head. For example, if I bought X per ounce of blow then I could Break it up into to X, Y and Z at know what the profits were from each. Selling drugs is a service industry, and a big part of it was just being available and in stock.

For a brief time, I tried to sell ecstasy because coke clients often wanted ecstasy as well. What I've noticed is cocaine cancels ecstasy out. You just stopped rolling (that's no fun). I found myself buying a hundred pills and giving 80 of them away to chicks at parties when I was rolling my face-off. I was a shitty ecstasy dealer, so I didn't mess with it long.

The funny thing was for all the drugs I've dealt the only trouble I ever got into was for personal possession. While I was in jail, Hippy John kept supplying my girlfriend with the mids, so I never missed a beat.


When I got out of prison, I briefly considered going straight and getting a real job, but the problem with being a convicted felon on probation is no one wants to hire you. So I jumped back into drugs with both feet, this time with the threat of probation looming over my head.

I went another two years or so slanging hard, during this period that my Internet porn career was starting to take flight. I eventually approached my suppliers and told them that I wanted to get out of the game because I was making more money legally. Because I had always been trustworthy, paid cash, and could move product — they didn't want me to leave. So they made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

No, it wasn't a death threat.

They offered to make my life easier! They set me up so all I would have to was pick up an enormous amount about once per month. I had three guys, I could trust, so I immediately split it up between them. When 30 days or so would pass I would collect my money, restock, rinse and repeat.

Finally, I decided to move to California. I went to my suppliers and told them I was out of the business and this time I meant it. To placate them I made the introduction to the two guys that I had distributing for me, thereby cutting myself out as the middleman. To this day, they are still in the game, as far as I know.


Now with that out-of-the-way, I had a few more loose ends to tie up. I had this big envelope full of cash in my room. To be honest, I never counted it, but I assumed it contained something like $2000 or $3000. My girlfriend and I had mostly used it as drinking money when we went out to bars. The night before I counting it and my estimate was way off! There was over $20,000 that envelope. I had heard of the crime of structuring deposits (anything over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS). So we took the money and deposited it $5000 at a time into separate ATMS.

I never got caught.

Ever since then, I've been a buyer, not a retailer.

And that was how I got into dealing drugs.

JQ

If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

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Join the discussion on Reddit:

How I Got Into Dealing Drugs from Drugs

The Secret Google Algorithm: Explained Exactly (Webmaster Excess 1)

“Being a webmaster is like being a rock star without having to know an instrument.” – Steve Lightspeed (in the Philippines)

The Phoenix forum at Hooters
I remember my first porn convention. “Big John” and I  attended the New Orleans snow . Among the highlights when John sleepwalked into the elevator naked, being told to stand outside wall John pulverized some guys and walked out with a suitcase full of blood and later John pulled some dude's head through the window of a bus. I'm not sure why that happened, but I'm sure he had his reasons.

The conventions are still going, at a much smaller level, there was something known as a “webmaster gathering” that was where two porn webmasters or more would meet anywhere in the world to talk about “business opportunities.” What it boiled down to was a lot of going to whorehouses, drinking and getting more smashed than Lindsay Lohan on New Year's Eve. Although any proposed business could have more easily handled via IM or phone, it seemed better in exotic locations. The “gatherings” started in the US: Los Angeles, Phoenix, New Orleans, Miami, Tampa, etc., but as time went on, and our passports became thicker we would travel to Panama (Cuba), Colombia, Prague, Budapest, Curacao, Mexico, and the Philippines.

Included in “webmaster Excess” are highlights or lowlights of the many years of attending Webmaster gatherings. It seemed that during the boom years of porn which (which were from around 1999 to 2008) I'm not even sure which tale to tell be until I found what I'm about to show you.

Here is a little-known fact. Many may not know. The most important seminars at conventions are held at around 5AM to exclusive private groups.

During this workshop, I accidentally spilled the beans on the entire Google algorithm to a small select group of webmasters.

(you might want to enlarge this)

The real secret behind the Google algorithm
The real secret behind the Google algorithm

FIGURE A: Represents the highly guarded Google search technology in action.

FIGURE B: Represents my nuts doing the windmill to the left. The workings of FIGURE A are determined by which way my nuts are doing the windmill at the time. Many in the SEO community believe that when my nuts are windmilling to the left; highly optimized search terms tend to get better ranking.

FIGURE C: Represents the SERPs (Search Engine Result Pages) – you will notice in FIGURE B that my nuts are windmilling to the left and highly sought after search terms have been pushed to the top.

FIGURE D: Represents the rest of the SEO community speculating on the direction of my nuts and optimizing their pages accordingly.

There you have it – the secret Google algorithm explained. Who says you can never find the good shit on blogs?

I am leaving this link to my PayPal as I do with every blog. I am not seeking sympathy, If you want to support or enjoy my writing my Amazon affiliate links have generated a grand total of about $3. 🙁 That being said, donations are always appreciated.

jason quinlan paypalJQ

 

The Good ‘Ole Boy Network 2016

jason-quinlan

“Penalties against possession of a drug should not be more damaging to an individual than the use of the drug itself; and where they are, they should be changed. ” – Jimmy Carter

“The Good Ole' BoysNetwork” was the most transformative portion of my life and makes a lot of things I've done after seem sensible. As guitar players, there was guitar before Eddie Van Halen and after.

The Good Ole' Boy Network was my Van Halen moment.

I've been listening to Grant Cardone's self-help books. He describes a lady who gets hit from behind by a car. That's not her fault, right? Maybe if she left earlier, took a different street, it would've never happened? It sounds crass, but I think there's some truth to it.

My case was much simpler, I shouldn't have had the drugs in my pocket in South Georgia, but it didn't have to get this bad.

It's everybody's fault but mine, I mean nobody's fault but mine.

For better or worse, here it goes…

It all started 9/11/1997.

I was driving from Atlanta to Savannah, to play with a band I performed with occasionally called “The Spo-its“, who was about to embark on a tour of the East Coast to New York. I had a quarter of weed and four hits of acid for personal use.

treutlen county
On a barren stretch of I16 in the town of Soperton (yes, it was actually called Soperton) in Treutlen County, GA. I looked in my rearview mirror to see a police car with hidden flashing lights mounted in the grill signaling me to pull over. I thought, “This is going to be one short vacation.”

I crotched the drugs, but the cop must have had some sugar in his tank since he put his hand down my pants on the side of the highway, because, as he would later say in court “I had a noticeable bulge.”

It wasn't long before the big-bad-ass sheriff, Wayne “Gator” Hooks sped up in a second police car and left me handcuffed in the brütal Georgia heat for two hours while they searched my truck, including removing the tires.

They took me to the police station, charged me with felony possession of LSD, possession of marijuana, speeding, and DUI even though I was sober.

After spending the first night in jail. The sheriff introduced me to his bondsman buddy, who is more than happy to get me out of jail if I could raise the cash ($4000 on a $6000 bail – the max allowed by law is 10%). I called a buddy in Atlanta, and he brought the money down. I spent the night in jail, they confiscated my truck, took the 4k, gave me no paperwork, and let me out the next day. I only wanted to get the fuck out of there, so I paid the bond and left the truck.

1997 to 1998 go by without ever hearing from law-enforcement in South Georgia.

I start thinking: Was this a payoff? If so, that's cool.

Boy, was I wrong!

jay quinlan 1999
Late at night in March 1998, I get a call from the bondsman asking if I would be in court the next day. I tell him this is the first I’ve heard in two years, he then tells me he will call me back, and 10 minutes later he says “it was a mistake”, but I needed to come to sign some “continuance forms”.

I went there a few days later, took two steps in the police station, and got locked up for failure to appear, “forfeited” my 4k bail and my truck. I didn't get a phone call until a week later. I would spend the next month in the Treutlen County Jail.

 BooOn a referral from one of the inmates, I hired some local lawyer. He goes to the post office and finds the letter sent summoning me to court was still in the outbox stamped “not deliverable to this address”.

Sherriff Wayne Hooks had been running this scam for years. They would arrest people, charge outrageous bail bonds, their cousin at the post office would tamper with the mail, you’d miss court, they’d keep your money, and THEN run you through the meat grinder of justice! To which end, you would wind up doing slave labor picking up trash for the county!

Slavery is still alive and well in the Deep South.

It's called the prison system.

After another month in jail, I finally get a court appearance, and my lawyer showed the envelope to the judge. The judge sets me free on another $10,000 bail. Despite the protest of Wayne “Gator” Hooks, who was doing more talking than the District Attorney.

That day, the DA offered me a plea “bargain” of 10 years probation and 7000 dollars in fines just for the LSD. Even though that was a long stretch of probation, I was cool with it because it didn't involve going to prison. My lawyer advised me to plead “not guilty” because so much fucked up shit had happened, that I might be able to get off on a technicality.

While awaiting my next court date, my lawyer sends a letter to the bondsman reminding him of his math, and the maximum he's allowed to charge for a bond is 10%. All of a sudden, out of the blue my truck and money are returned, less 10%.

After some legal wrangling, it’s time to go back to court, and I’ve realized that there is no way to do anything to defend yourself legally in Soperton’s “Good Ole Boy Network” so I ought to accept the ten-year plea. Oddly enough, after getting my money back, all of a sudden the prosecutor has changed and (according to them) the plea deal never existed.

The new DA wants to “give me five years” or except his “new plea agreement” of ten years of probation, $8,000 in fines and a year in prison. I pleaded guilty and was handed over to the Georgia Department of Corrections on February 2, 1999.

I began my stint in Twin City, GA and started working on the chain gang.

I never understood the concept. How does it serve the interest of public safety to send 12 pissed off felons back into the community armed with sickles and axes? Only being supervised by unarmed correction officer? I seriously considered cutting his head off and going home more than once.

On my fourth week there I broke my right foot. It was so bad other inmates helped carry me inside, the next morning I couldn't even stand up. I went to medical and after a brief examination, the nurse said “I was faking it” and sent me back to work.

I was the Mel Gibson of South Georgia. Pushing a heavy lawn mower eight hours a day with a broken foot, with poisonous water moccasins sliding across my boots, while sadistic corrections officers sat in the shade, chewing tobacco, and threatening “to send me to the hole” if I didn’t pick up the pace.

The next day my foot had swollen so severely put on my shoe. Again I went to medical, only to be told that there was nothing wrong with me. This repeated for a week until they excused me from work detail. Instead, each day, I was forced to sit in a chair facing a wall for nine hours a day – no reading, no sleeping. It was Chinese water torture. Honestly, I preferred the chain gang.

Three weeks later they finally sent me for an X-Ray at Reidsville Maximum Security Prison (death row), and it confirmed every one of my metatarsal bones in my foot was split in half. To this day, I walk with the pronounced limp, thanks to the Georgia Department of Corrections.

After a few weeks, disaster struck again, because someone left a burning cigarette in the trash. I was the first to spot it, so I was attempting to put the fire out. The room was still blue with smoke when the corrections officers made the whole dorm line up and explained everyone would get punished unless someone came forward. A group of the black inmates decided to finger the white guy and offered written statements that I started the fire with a cigarette. The funny thing is, I absolutely HATE cigarettes!

After the warden read the accounts, I was sent to 24-hour solitary lockdown for starting the fire. While in the hole, the director came in and explained that he was planning on revoking the remainder of my probation and sending me to prison for destruction of state property.

In spite of my mounting troubles, I liked “the hole”. I got caught up on my masturbation, and I didn't have to deal with the other idiots. I found the key to doing prison time was keeping to yourself and not interacting with anyone, so this was perfect. After about a week in the hole, you begin to forget if it’s night or day. You are in a room with a steel bed, a toilet, a sink, and an intercom that would go to the main control room just in case you tried to commit suicide. Occasionally, I would get on the intercom, in what I thought was the middle of the night and did my best radio announcer voice:

“Good evening and thanks for listening to H-O-L-E Radio being broadcast from lovely segregation unit #2 here in scenic Twin Cities. Today in the news: well, we have no idea what happened. In sports: who cares? Today’s weather: I have no idea because I haven’t been outside. The weather in the hole is a balmy 90 degrees and will remain that way for the rest of today, next week, and next year and now for a brief selection from Kenny G doing ‘Just the Two of Us’.”

Then a voice would blare back through the intercom “Shut the fuck up”, but what the hell are they going to do? Throw me in the hole? After a week and a half, some of the white inmates finally came forward and signed statements that I wasn’t the one who started the fire, and I was let out. I spent the last month of my sentence dealing with usual daily slavery.

dickd
In July of 1999, I got out of prison and was picked up by my girlfriend. I returned to ATL life as normal, only now under the looming threat of probation. That meant: no drinking, no drugs, no leaving the state, no arrests, no fights, no bars, and keep an average job – none of which I was willing to do.

It made life pretty complicated. In the weeks that passed, a strain in my relationship with my girlfriend seemed to develop. We weren’t getting along. When one of my best friends came over to tell me he’d been fucking her the whole time I was incarcerated, I realized why!

I was outraged. I couldn’t get past the hatred I had for the world. By my admission, I had turned into a raging psychopath. Even my friends were scared of me, but I couldn’t they would stab me in the back. Now are was living in a place I despised, but unable to move because of probation.

I've learned since; hate is like a bag of bricks, all you need to do is put it down. It took me a minute, but I forgave them both. I am friends with them to this very day.

The only positive thing that happened during that time was I started to get more involved as an affiliate with the adult Internet, which was in its infancy at the time. There will be more on that later. When I went to prison, I had placed two links to porn sites on my band's website and had a check for $140 when I got out. I figured if I could make money while imprisoned, imagine what I could do if I applied myself!

To be candid, during this period my chief source of income was selling drugs. If you lived in Atlanta and needed weed, coke, or ecstasy – I was your man. That's the thing about being a convicted felon. You are no longer suitable for a proper job, so your only option is a life of crime. Over time, the money from online porn started to rise, so I stopped selling drugs. After two years of completing the “administrative” part of my probation, I was switched to “unsupervised” probation, meaning: No more visits, fines, or drug tests – just don’t get arrested.

That was all dandy until July of 2002.

During this period, I had kept my story of Treutlen County posted on the Internet, hoping somebody with power would read it and finally bring some heat down on those corrupt rednecks. That never happened, but someone was reading: Sheriff Wayne Hooks himself.

Unbeknownst to me, Sheriff Hooks had problems too. He'd been charged criminally with a Federal violation of civil rights for almost beating some guys to death in front of a crowd of townies at a Waffle House. Wayne needed to get anything off the Internet that would make his case worse. Some clever prosecutor managed to move the trial venue to the county next to Treutlen County were Sheriff Hooks didn't operate in a power vacuum.

In July of 2001, I get a summons from Treutlen County in the mail telling me I need there in 3 days. I had no idea why they would want to fuck with me after this much time. I knew one thing I couldn’t do in three days: Pass A Drug Test! Ironically, marijuana which is the least harmful drug takes the longest to metabolize.

Knowing I would surely be pissing in a cup, I tried to get it postponed to no avail. I wanted to have a lawyer with me, as I already know these cretins in South Georgia don’t play fair! I sought the advice of an Atlanta lawyer. He told me it would be better not to show up at all, if the test would be dirty, which made sense to me.

The day I was supposed to go there, I drug tested myself, which came back clean (surprisingly). I went on the lam because there was now a warrant out for my arrest. I spent the next six weeks sleeping in my van, stripper’s apartments, bars, and offices.

I finally heard back from my lawyer. He tells me that he spoke with the judge and that it was fine to reschedule the probation. I go back to my apartment for the first time in six weeks. That night, the Atlanta police busted my backdoor in to serve the warrant for probation violation. They haul me off to the Dekalb County jail.

The next morning, Sheriff Hooks himself picks me up to take me on the 300-mile drive back to Soperton. He was facing his trial that week. Needless to say, that 4-hour drive was surreal. I was preparing for him to pull the car to the side of the road and beat me to death.

As soon as I get to the Treutlen County Jail, the probation officer piss tests me, but I am clean. On August 22nd, Wayne Hooks is convicted on felony federal deprivation of human rights charges, gets house arrest and has to resign from law enforcement. Ironically I am watching the court proceedings on the news from the television set at his jail.

After six weeks, I got to go to court for probation violation. They charged me with refusal to submit to a drug test and failure to report. My lawyers asked why Treutlen Probation felt compelled to call. They produced a printed page of what I'd written about the corrupt sheriff and a picture of the “Bigger Than Ron Jeremy” CD, which depicts me doing a line of sugar off our drummer's head as reasons to think I've been violating my probation.

I manage to get the refusal to take a drug test dropped, but they stuck me on the failure to report. The judge sentenced me to a year of supervised probation back in Atlanta.

In big city Atlanta, the probation officers have better things to do. When I first met with my new probation officer, she couldn’t believe that I had been given ten years to start with and placed me on write-in probation.

By this time, my Internet affiliate career was flourishing. I was making more money than I knew how to spend. The band had broken up, I wasn’t selling drugs and didn’t have a girlfriend. Other than probation; there wasn’t anything tying me to Atlanta.

I needed to go.

Durning those next few months, I was offered a chance to be a partner in an affiliate program in Califonia. I flew out to LA and accepted the offer. I flew back to pack up and leave. Keep in mind, I still have five years of probation, and I’m not supposed to leave the state!

In my last few weeks in Atlanta, I set up an elaborate series of fake voicemail boxes, bogus addresses, fake IDs, and phony employers — just in case probation ever comes to call.

Spring, 2003 I am out in California full time.

Now, every time I go to the DMV, get a traffic ticket, or leave the country – I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, and get dragged back to Soperton! Yes, I knew I was breaking the law, but if a man's average lifespan is seventy years, there is no way I am giving these rednecks one out of every seven days on Earth over a stupid drug charge!

You have got to live! Damnit!

In spite of everything, on February 7th, 2009, I finished ten years of probation! I couldn’t believe it. I had beat the system. In March 2008, I had my official “Off Probation” party, and I was free — finally free!

Or was I?

Citations:
https://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=348&dat=20030823&id=–oyAAAAIBAJ&sjid=FTwDAAAAIBAJ&pg=5541,8331399&hl=en

http://www.justice.gov/sites/default/files/crt/legacy/2010/12/14/hooks_supp.pdf#page=8&zoom=auto,-338,601

The Howard Stern Incident

dick-delicious-howard-stren

This tale began soon after Y2K. I was living in Atlanta. For a series of weeks, my phone rang off the hook every morning around 6 AM. I figured it was a bill collector or something, so I never picked it up. If you knew me back then, the only way I would be awake is if I hadn't gone to sleep from the previous night. That went on for a few months; I finally had the decent sense to check my answering machine, to see what all these calls were.

As the tape ran, it was message after message from friends that still lived on the East Coast saying “Dude, turn on the radio Howard Stern is playing Dick Delicious and a Tasty Testicles every morning!”

Back then Howard Stern was on terrestrial radio, and because of my location in the buckle of the Bible Belt, we didn't have him on the FM dial. Finally, in a feat of technology, somebody was able to capture a few MP3s of Howard commenting on the band and playing our songs.

Howard Stern on Dick Delicious:

On a side note, it's amazing how much the world has changed in the last 16 years. The Internet was in it's dial-up days, a lot of people (including myself) didn't have cell phones, and if you wanted your music heard you had to snail mail a CD. Funny, it doesn't seem like that long ago.

“While technology will progress at geometric rates, socially we remain belligerent neonates.” – Peter Steel

Howard Stern started playing one of our songs “Diarrhea“. It was getting decent feedback from listeners. Even though everyone encouraged us, we never sent material to the show because we figured our CDs would wind up in the garbage with 50,000 other wannabe joke-metal bands.


The odd thing about “Diarrhea” it was one of our songs that we didn't like. Even stranger, the version of the song he was playing was the demo that we had never released. We later re-recorded “Diarrhea” for our second album, and it sucked even worse. Not that it's even the same stratosphere, but “Paranoid” and “Smoke On The Water” were both filler material and became bigger-than-life rock classics.

I guess”Diarrhea” was our “Ace of Spades“, or our Waterloo… I'm not sure which.

We asked the band's “manager” (which wound up to be nothing more than a telemarketing scam run by a convicted felon from Austin) if he could get a hold of Howard Stern. As with many of our former managers, he completely dropped the ball.

After much aggravation, I wrote an email to howard@howardstern.com. I didn't know if that was the correct e-mail address or if anyone would get it at all. I wrote that I knew that he'd been playing our music, but we never got a chance to hear it because we lived in Atlanta. I wasn't respecting a response.

To my surprise, the next day Howard Stern read my email on the air. Again, I didn't hear it, but I got calls from at thousands of people that did. It took me a little bit of digging, but I found that MP3.

Here is the MP# of Howard reading my e-mail:

I called into the show because I knew this could be a big break. Howard's staff was super cool and said, “Just let us know when you'll be in the area, and we will have you on the show.” We would be on tour not far from there in just a few months, so we set a date to appear.

A few months later, we're leaving for tour. After we had finished our 9 to 5's, we packed ourselves and our dancers like sardines into our brown child-molester-looking Ford Econoline and with the aid of some printed MapQuest directions drove 17-hours up to NYC. It was only a few months after September 11th, I remember driving by the Pentagon they were still repairing a giant hole, and there was scaffolding all over the place.

Shortly before our arrival in New York, I got a call from one of the show's producers and feared that it would be to cancel us because maybe Beetlejuice (RIP) would bring bigger ratings. The producer asked some preliminary questions, and I was surprised how much he knew about the history of the band. We finally got to New York City at 2 PM after driving all night.

DSC00674

I slept two or three hours in our hotel room, and we all went out for “a drink”. At some point, I am going to write “Jason's Big
Book of Lies” and in the top 3 will be:

1. “Let's get a (singular) drink” (like you'd stop after one).

2. “The check is in the mail…”

3. “I won't cum in your mouth…” (self-explanatory).

We hit a couple of bars and then the BIG question came up? The Howard Stern show tapes early. We needed to be at the Studios in Manhattan at 7 AM. Do we go back to the hotel and sleep or keep it going? We talked about it, and we thought the band would be boring if we went on the air sober and convinced ourselves that we were funnier wasted.

Back then, Howard was a lot more hard-core on his guests, and we suspected he was going to roast us, so HELL NO – we decided to stay out and show up as the previous evenings backwash.

The night continued, venturing through various bars in Manhattan, we lingered at Manitoba's until the last call, and made the financially irresponsible decision to go to Howard Stern's favorite strip club “Scores”.


A friend of mine from Atlanta that moved to New York met us there. He is the “token Jew” you here in the interview. He had a box full of Graham crackers doused in LSD. By this time it's 3 AM and the alcohol is starting to make us tired. We thought it would be stupid to go on Howard Stern tripping, but…

After a brief debate, we made the executive decision to take “half-a-hit” to “stay awake”. We bought a bunch of beer and Jägermeister, to our hotel room, accelerated drinking, and we didn't feel like the LSD was kicking in at all. So we just kept eating more Graham crackers.

Shortly after 7 AM, we caught a cab to the studio on 57th, took the elevator up with all of the beer, and Jägermeister still in tow. After a few minutes, an intern came out to the lobby. She presented us with some papers explaining that we would be searched. They weren't interested in illicit substances; I'm sure with beer, Jager and acid we paled to Joe Walsh. They explain, they didn't want some Christian asshole sneaking in a gun and assassinating Howard.

It's a sad world in which we live.

However, at the mention of a “search”, my buddy with the graham crackers got paranoid and ran outside and stashed a tin in the bushes outside the studio. I went back outside and retrieved him and said they weren't worried about drugs; he should go back, and get the tin or we'd be forced to sober up.

stupaul

6:45 the debauchery continued in the infamous “Green Room”, we kept drinking like maniacs and taking more acid because we didn't think it was “working” and had written the drugs off as “bunk.” We looked at the scenic daybreak of the NYC skyline; it seemed extra brilliant. The pictures on the wall of the leering faces of Beetlejuice and Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf started to look real, and it was about that time that I realized we hadn't tripped yet, but it was definitely in the mail.

Just minutes from doing the show we still didn't know what they would do. Then, one of the interns came in, tossed us all headphones, escorted us into the studio and explained to us Howard was about to give us some award.

This is the audio of the interview with some video about the band:

Upon walking in that room, as I feared, all of that acid started hitting hard. Not just me, everyone in our group. By the time we on air, I was peaking. Howard was sitting in his booth not from far across the room probably looking pretty healthy, but to my drug-frazzled mind, he resembled a combination between the Daleks from Dr. Who and the Crypt Keeper.

I was tripping my fucking face off, but (for the most part) I held it together (a few slurred words aside). Honestly, looking back, I wish we hadn't got that fucked up. The interview could've been funnier if we had more of our wits about us.

Book

Howard gave us the first and only Howard Stern Award for excellence in music. Something I treasure to this day.

As I said, this was in the era when Howard regularly brutalized his guests, and we didn't expect to get treated any differently. To our surprise, he took it pretty easy on us. The whole segment was rather quick. I think Artie Lange would've came with us if he could.

As Soon as the interview was over, it was into the streets frying our brains out as the regular people of Manhattan were walking to their jobs. Our friend with the graham crackers pissed in a phone booth while I tossed my cookies all over the sidewalk of the banking district.

At that time, we were between record deals, and distributing our albums. Even as fried out as I was, I was curious how many people had ordered stuff. When got back to our hotel, I used the Internet kiosk and in that 20-minute walk, we had sold almost $4000 of T-shirts and CDs all over the country.

Where do we go from there? That's a lot of national exposure for a little comedy metal band out of Atlanta.

We now had 20 million targeted listeners eating from our hands!

So what is our band do with our big opportunity?

We broke up three weeks later.

True story.

JQ

Recommended listening…


My Friend Lemmy

Jason Quinlan and lemmy 69th birthday

Ammended: I year later:

I was one of the first people to find out about the tragic death of Lemmy Kilmister this past Monday.

I was expecting it. A lot of people were. Last I saw of “Lem” was at his 70th birthday at The Whiskey. It was a Hollywood shit show. He didn’t seem to be himself. He was supposed to perform that night, but never took the stage. Despite what is told about the drugs or the Jack n’ Coke permanently affixed to his right hand: Lemmy was one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, even if you couldn’t understand his thick British accent. Something was different that night, as if he’d already left us.

His 70th birthday was a stark contrast to his 69th, which I was also at. It was a relatively low-key event with about 10 people. One was this girl I thought was flirting with me. I didn’t realize utill after she left it was my dream woman: Carmen Electra.

I could say Lemmy was a friend. He knew my name. For a man constantly bombarded by strangers, that’s more than most people can say. Over the past dozen years, we spent hundreds of nights elbow-to-elbow drinking at The Rainbow.

I’ve always been a huge Motorhead fan. My first album was the leather-bound double LP of “No Remorse” which Lemmy later told me “is worth some money” and “he wished he had a copy,” so I gave him mine.


For all of the “Cult-Of-Lemmy”, it didn’t translate into much financially, until much later in his career after being ripped off by countless managers and record labels. It wasn’t until the early 90s that he secured the royalties for many of the songs he’s best known for.

Lemmy was pleasant to everyone even though I felt he was treated like an object of curiosity. If you wanted to get on his bad side, you could be that douchebag jock screaming the “The Ace Of Spades.” He wasn’t too fond of that.

Our paths first crossed almost 20 years ago, backstage at the AVN Awards. I was surrounded by porn stars, but I was most awestruck when Lemmy came strolling through the room.

“Oh my God, you are Lemmy!! What are you doing here?”

He replied, “I love Vegas” and kept walking.

A few years later, I was formally introduced to him by Cory Parks of the band Nashville Pussy, who is about to tour with Motörhead. I was roommates with their drummer Jeremy “Remo” Thompson. I asked him if I could be a groupie and go with them to a few shows in Florida.

After a few days on the road, I got to know the Motörhead guys a bit. After the shows, we would always go on their bus and drink until the sun came up. Lemmy took me aside one night, “Hey mate, I want you to hear the kind of music I really like.” Then he brought me to the front of the bus and played some demo tracks of him doing Chuck Berry songs. The music sounded exactly like the classic 50s, just with Lemmy’s trademark snarl over the top. To be honest, I didn’t really like it.

The next night, while drinking on the bus, he did the exact same thing and took be up to the front of the bus and had me listen to the same songs as if the previous night had never happened. I wasn’t sure if Lemmy didn’t remember or was just fucking with me.

I’m inclined to think the latter.

After a few nights of hanging out with Motörhead, I was hung over as fuck. I was staying at the same hotel as them. The next morning, Lemmy walked through the lobby looking quite spry, probably hadn’t slept, Jack N’ Coke in hand, and asked me, “What are you drinking mate?”

I was drinking a Snapple, but I was kind of embarrassed. I held it up to him.

He quipped, “A Snapple?”

I said, “Yeah, but there’s vodka in it.”

He took it out of my hand, sniffed it, and laughed “There is no vodka in that, it’s just a Snapple!”

I have so many other great Lemmy stories, but that’s my favorite for some reason.

Lemmy packed 7000 years of living into his 70 years on this planet, enriched the lives of millions through his music, and single-handedly invented modern speed metal, whether he’ll take credit for or not.

That all being said, he will be sadly missed.

Valhalla, you have a new bass player.

Hail Lemmy!!

JQ


PS: I’ve said for years that Lemmy’s autobiography “White Line Fever” is the best rock book ever written. For a guy whose career stretches back to being a roadie for Jimi Hendrix, at less than 200 pages, it’s a quick and easy read. I am not just saying that because I’m sponsored by Amazon. Seriously, you should check it out.  JQ PS: I’ve said for years that Lemmy’s autobiography “White Line Fever” is the best rock book ever written. For a guy whose career stretches back to being a roadie for Jimi Hendrix, at less than 200 pages, it’s a quick and easy read. I am not just saying that because I’m sponsored by Amazon. Seriously, you should check it out.

My 9/11 – More Proof Life Begins At 30!

9/11/2001 (the day of the 9/11 attacks) was my 30th birthday. Thirty is a pivotal age in people's lives. You aren't old, but you're young either. As a teenager I clearly thought, “If I’m ever thirty, the world will be a fucked up place.”

For better or worse, I nailed that one!

A picture of the $20 bill trick for September 11

Let me set the scene…

Atlanta, September 10th around 6 PM: I'm mountain biking as it slowly turned to dusk. I was in the middle of breaking up with a girlfriend. She was hot, petite, very stylish, and barely ever raised her voice. Unbeknownst to me, she had developed a vicious speed habit. She wasn't the same girl I'd met just months before. She was making my life a living hell. In weeks earlier, she'd overdosed on Xanax, got in a hit-and-run, and tried to stab herself in my apartment. In the latter incident, she knocked a stone gargoyle off of my refrigerator and rendered herself unconscious.

At my advanced age and still a single man, I shouldn't be doling out relationship advice, but I will say this: If you're going to break up with someone, just be done! No “letting them down easy” or “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit. Just break things off. You may seem like the asshole at first, but trying not to break a heart doesn't help anyone. Drop your jealousy, possessiveness and accept the fact relationships are like parking spaces: As soon as you pull out, someone else will be looking to pull in. They won't be lonely for long.

Stringing someone along makes them psycho. Here's proof…

That day, my cell phone rang relentlessly. I had over 50 missed calls. In 2001, cell phone batteries weren't as forgiving as they are today. I was riding close to her house, so I answered and (ignoring my own advice) told her I would come over.

Like an idiot I tell her “everything is going to be alright… blah, blah, blah”. She seems OK until I remind her I had to leave because it was getting dark and I was on my bike.

This is where everything goes sideways.


She becomes enraged, screaming, and throwing plates. So, I left and rode up the hill. It's around 8 PM and the sun was setting. I sense headlights behind me, turn my head, and see her face peering from behind the steering wheel as SHE RUNS ME OVER WITH HER CAR!!!

Fortunately, she knocked the bike out from underneath me, I spider-webbed her windshield and wound up behind the car on the ground.

As I lay in the street, trying to her account for all of my limbs, the reverse lights light up and now SHE IS TRYING TO BACK OVER ME!!! I barely manage to roll out of harms way into the neighbor's front yard. I left my mountain bike for dead. Rather than face the perils of the street, I decided to make my way home by zigzagging from backyard to backyard.

I climb my first fence and immediately had a German Rottweiler gnawing off a chunk of my calf muscle.

Time to reconsider my plan.

The midnight hour was drawing near. Here I was at the predawn of my 30's: Bleeding, mangled, hiding in random people’s backyards, and getting eaten by dogs.

I wondered how my “more mature” 30s would be any different from the mayhem of my of 20s?

It was shortly after midnight of 9/11/2001 when finally made it back to my apartment. I planned to bandage up, take a shower, get some beers, and try to forget this ever happened. When I get to my building, she is at my door doodling with a crayon and a coloring book!

That is psycho!


I thought I could sneak past her, go inside, lock her out and flee out the back. Being the petite little girl, as soon as I cracked the door, she slips through and draws a pocketknife. Not knowing if it was intended for her or me, I tried to pry it from her hand. In pulling it away, the knife slices deep into my first finger and my thumb and then cuts up my arm. To this day, there is still a visible scar, which I had tattooed over to read “Scar #1.”

Jason Quinlan scar number one tattoo

Now, my thumb just dangles from a piece of skin, as she runs into my bedroom and lays on my bed with her arms crossed.

I never involve law enforcement in anything, but this had gone too far. “I’ll call the cops if you don't stop this shit! I used to feel sorry for you, but I don’t anymore!”

“Go ahead. Call the cops!” She screams, “I will beat myself up and tell them you did it! Who are they going to believe? The 6'2 convicted felon on probation or a 90-pound girl?”

To be fair, this was a brilliant (yet devious) response to my threats. So, I spend the next five hours trying to “reason with her” just to get her out of my apartment. After hours of tense negotiations, I finally convinced her to leave as the sun was coming up.

She gets in her car begins a demolition derby in my parking lot. Not wanting more attention from my neighbors, I stop her, take her keys and drive her home.

When we arrived, she asks, “Baby, you are going to stay here with me tonight?” almost as if nothing ever happened.

Not to provoke another incident, I agree “Yeah, sure, but I have to pee.” In the bathroom, I open the window, crawled out, and high-tailed it to my friend's nearby apartment. By now, it's nearing 7 AM EST (about an hour and a half before the attacks), the sun was fully up, my cell phone is dead and (without notice) I'm knocking at my buddy's door looking like I'd just lost a fight to Anderson Silva.

“Dude can I crash on your couch for a couple of hours? I’ve had a fucked up night. I don't want to go back to my house, I'll explain later.”

“Yeah, sure man.” and lets me in.

I lay down, exhausted, and barely fall asleep when I'm awakened by, “HOLY SHIT – THEY JUST FLEW A PLANE INTO THE TWIN TOWER!!” – then watched on TV as a second plane hit, followed by the Pentagon.


Like many people, 9/11 was one of the most fucked up days of my life – I'd been run over, stabbed, gnawed by dogs, held hostage in my home, and our country was now changed forever.

Maybe I was right as a teenager?

I was now 30 and the world was a fucked up place!

That was my 9/11.

JQ