Three Years Ago Today: The Highlight of My Musical “Career”
I'm sticking with the Heinekens, but doing a few shots here and there.
– Jeff Hanneman
I did not have plans to add this post until I saw a memory from 3 years ago pop up in my Facebook feed. It was a scant three years ago when my friend, the better guitar player in Slayer, and notorious recluse Mr. Jeff Hanneman introduced Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles add a show in Spartanburg, South Carolina.
As I mentioned in other posts, some of the craziest stories still sitting in a Microsoft Word document. I have a lot of almost unbelievable stories involving Jeff, including but not limited to handing him his guitar (later became my guitar) right before he walked on stage at the Big 4 in Indio California (his last performance with Slayer.)
Because of my utmost respect for the man both as a human being and a personal hero, I have been holding these tales back (unlike Sebastian Bach or Charlie Sheen). There are a lot of people in heavy metal that claim to be “the real deal, ” but Jeff was true to the core.
There will be more about Mr. Hannemen in future posts.
Until we are again reunited…somewhere “South of Heaven.”
At the rate I'm going, it won't be long.
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!
I'm going back to Cali, Cali, Cali
I'm going back to Cali – no man I don't think so
– LL Cool J
Sorry, I haven't updated this blog in a while, but life has been more tumultuous than normal. I've promised many times that this blog would be a re-accounting of my past, and someday I'll get to that, but when your current life is more fucked up than the shit-show of the past 44 years: That's a bold statement!
Let's do a quick recap because I'm quite sure there's a lot I left out. While I was waiting for the short-sale on my house through Keller Williams. The house had been in short sale negotiations for a while but hadn't reached escrow (or so I was told). I figured I would have at least 60 days to figure out what I was going to do once it went into escrow.
On August 29, Kellar Williams called me and asked if I could be out by the 15th. I asked what happened to telling me about escrow? He made up some bullshit story, and I reminded him that wasn't giving me a hell a lot of time to figure out what I was going to do with my life. He said he would try to buy me some more time and then called me back a few minutes later and asked if I could be out by the 16th.
I've told him, “Jesus fucking Christ, what's the difference?”
So I had to make a plan and make it fast. I figured I would go back to Atlanta where I am more respected as a musician and get back into playing music, maybe even get Dick Delicious back together, and keep on doing the Internet marketing thing. Since I had stayed there many times in the past and for the next three years would not have enough credit to get an apartment I hastily called the Highland Inn in Atlanta to see if they have any rooms open. It's one of those extended stay hotels, it's in a pretty decent neighborhood, and they have free Wi-Fi.
I sold off most of my belongings except for some guitars, amps, computers and clothes. I had about $13,000. I figured I could live on that for a while. So come the 15th, I loaded up a U-Haul behind my 2002 Expedition and started the cross-country trek from Los Angeles to Atlanta which didn't go as smoothly as planned. The day I arrived in Atlanta I noticed I didn't have any feeling in two of my fingers on my left hand. It wound up I had a compressed ulnar nerve and would need surgery. To this day, this is the worst event of my entire life. I can no longer play guitar, and despite the surgery, the symptoms have not improved as of the writing of this blog.
Also, on the first day in Atlanta they have a big Black Lives Matter protest that blocked off the highway. Here is a picture I shot from my Bicycle off one of the bridges that wound up all over Twitter.
It was okay back in Atlanta. That is where all my real friends are anyways, of course, in the past 15 years everyone's gotten older and mellowed out quite a bit, and that really didn't bother me. I concentrated on getting my Internet marketing career going again.
After a few unsuccessful attempts at correcting my nerve damage with the chiropractor, I finally went into surgery, and they told me I might feel normal and 18 months to two years, But they couldn't even promise that.
Two days after leaving the hospital, I went to brush my teeth one morning and was trying to spit up a giant lugee. I couldn't understand why I couldn't spit it up, so after clearing my mouth of toothpaste, I noticed my tonsils were the size of golf balls. I immediately went to a nearby walk-in clinic, and they told me I had tonsillitis which I probably picked up in the hospital. If the swelling didn't go down, I would require another surgery. They gave me some steroids and antibiotics and fortunately they worked, and the swelling subsided, thus dodging going under the knife again.
Sometime over the next few days, I logged into my bank account and saw that it was at negative $888,888.00. My first thoughts were that the IRS had gotten me. I knew I owed them some money, but by doing the math there's no way it could've been not much, so I began the four-hour process of trying to contact Bank of America.
It wound up, in my haste to move, I left a checkbook because someone got a hold of it and started writing bad checks until they had completely drained my bank account. I was able to log into my online banking and find all the bad checks. After a week or so it was resolved, and the money was put back in my account.
Of course, I couldn't stay holed-up my room hacking away on my computer I had to get out and socialize occasionally. From time to time I would visit my favorite local bar the Highlander, but only once a week or so. After my operation and up to now I have not been able to go to the gym or ride a bike as it puts even more undue stress on my damaged nerve.
One day, my friend Juan hit me up and asked me if I wanted to go out and get a few drinks. We got drunk but not THAT DRUNK He was right around the corner, so I went and met him at the bar. We hit the Virginia Highlands and then I returned to the Highland Inn.
The Highland Inn his old school. They have these metal keys for your door. For the last week the metal had fatigued on my key and almost broke off a few times. I should've had it replaced, but I didn't want to be a pain in the balls. That night after returning from the bar I put my key in the door, and the metal on the key started to break. I managed to wiggle the key out of the door before it broke off completely and went down to the front desk to get a new key.
When I reached the front desk there was no one there, but I could hear some guy playing guitar and singing Bob Dylan songs in the back room, and I tried to yell to get his attention for a good 10 minutes to no avail. So I got aggravated and figured I would give it one more try.
I went back to my room and wiggled with the half broken key for a good 10 minutes fighting with the lock and couldn't get it to budge. Finally, out of exhaustion, I just sat down next to my door and said I would try it again or go back to the desk in a few minutes. I sat down, and I fell asleep in front of my door.
Eventually, somebody came by and let me in, and I finally got some sleep. When I woke up the next morning, a note had been slipped under my door saying that I must check out immediately. Of course, I didn't have a Plan B. So I called my friend Shane Morton, and he let me crash at his house for a few days.
It became apparent to me between the nerve damage, tonsillitis, bouncing checks, and forced evictions that Atlanta doesn't want me back. So I decided to move back to California. I have a friend who was kind enough to offer a place to stay if I moved back. She is the bartender at The Rainbow (my favorite bar in LA).
After staying at Shane's for a few nights, I caught a flight back to California. This time, I wouldn't be living in some 2.2M home, I am staying smack dab in the middle of a Mexican Ghetto in West Hollyhood. To be honest, it's no big deal (or at least not yet).
One thing I have learned about life: Material things is not that important. Because as soon as you start owning a lot of stuff, your stuff owns you.
They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues – Steely Dan
Thursday Was The Worst Day of My Life By A Long-Shot!
I've been through a lot of hard shit lately, but this week, by far, has been the most difficult pill to swallow: I am officially done as a guitar player, which has been my life lifelong ambition and one real passion.
After losing my house in California, I was forced to drive across the country with the few things that I wanted to keep: My guitars, amps, computers and other musical equipment.
One of my big reasons for coming to Atlanta was because, even though I was in bands in LA, I always just joined just to keep up my chops, not because I was particularly into what they were doing musically. I always had to be playing. Even if I wasn't jamming in a band, I would pick up the guitar for at least a half hour a day to practice. Despite all the craziness and my detour into porn, I have always considered myself (above all things) a guitar player. I think if you Google my name it even suggests it. I figured I could move to Atlanta, join a few bands, and slowly start piecing my life back together.
Of course, I would never have that kind of luck. My drive from Los Angeles to Atlanta was loaded with detours and road construction. I should've known I had bad luck in the mail when on the second day I went to adjust the driver's side mirror, and it just fell into the highway and smashed. The 35-hour drive turned into a 45-hour drive.
By the time I was on my third day, I was still west of the Mississippi. I decided that no matter how long I had to drive, I was going to reach Atlanta. I drove from 10 AM that morning until 1 AM the next day without stopping once, except to refuel and grab a coffee and gummy bears.
By the time I reached Atlanta, I was exhausted, but glad I finally made it. I immediately crashed out for a few hours and then when I woke up, I took my beloved ESP Guitar (which belonged to Jeff Hanneman) and tried to play a few notes. My ring finger was half numb, and I couldn't feel my pinky at all. I had lost all dexterity in both fingers and didn't even have the strength to push the strings down with my left hand.
I'm left-hand dominant; I just play guitar right-handed for some reason.
At first, I blew it off, thinking it was just my body tired from the drive, but after a few days, it didn't get better. I decided to go to a chiropractor, after a few adjustments, he told me if I hadn't seen any improvement at all I should see an orthopedist.
In the meantime, some asshole found one of my old checkbooks I left at my house in California and thoroughly emptied my bank account to $0 (-$500 actually). I am still trying to straighten that out with the bank.
You know you were in trouble when you go to the doctor, and the first thing he says is, “Oh shit!”
Apparently, I have some of “the worst Ulnar nerve damage” he's ever seen. Oddly enough, it was the driver's side door from Los Angeles to Atlanta that did me in. Too many hours of it bumping around on the door compressed something in my elbow and impinged the nerve.
I'm going in for surgery on Tuesday, but it's a “Hail Mary”, best case scenario 18 months to 2 years recovery time, but I'm likely never to recover because the nerve is already dead and the muscle in my hand has already begun to atrophy. I know, the same thing happened to Dave Mustaine, that was in 2002 when he could heal quicker as well.
Of a lot of hard days I've had lately, Thursday was by far the worst.
In case any of you motherfuckers thought I was a slouch on guitar: I could play even the best under the table. I was going to put together a compilation of guitar solos, but it is emotionally too much for me to handle right now. Here's just a taste, follow the link to the video for more:
The Despised:https://www.facebook.com/despisedatlanta/ – A Punk band featuring Atlanta comedy kingpin Rodney Leete. I wrote all the hit songs but got none of the credit. Now my music career is over, they say comedy comes from a place of pain, I have plenty of that.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with porn politics, “Dave from the Luxury Companion” is the quintessential “El Chapo” of pimping out porno bitches for illegal prostitution. If the Prince of Dubai wanted to order up the latest “it girl” in porn: Who is the guy to call? Want to obtain some hookers anywhere across state lines or internationally? Who did Sandra McCarthy go to when her rinky-dink porno agency couldn't make ends meet booking legitimate work?
Dwight Cunningham (aka “Dave From The Luxury Companion”) and is an accomplice “Karen”!<br/ >
Look, I am not some preachy Christian do-gooder motherfucker. I have no problem profiting from crime, in fact, that will be the subject of an upcoming blog post. From my late teens to my mid-20s, I openly admit I supplemented my income selling drugs.
That's my problem, I'm honest, even to a fault. I play in a “sex, drugs, and poop” comedy metal band.
As for prostitution, I have no problem with it. I think it should be legal. Where I do take issue is when the company that I am holding the bond for is pimping out bitches behind my back, and not reaping the monetary rewards. That's right, if I am unknowingly be taking part in a Rico-sized prostitution ring I should at least be receiving some of the proceeds?
Even though I was a partner in OC Modeling, one of the main reasons Sandra never wanted me at the office is because she would be forced to break bread and give up a some of that sweet tax-free money they have coming through their greedy hands.
And Sandra McCarthy likes to say, “that Jason Quinlan never held the bond for OC Modeling” and I would like to state on equivocally Sandra McCarthy is full of shit.
Most importantly, to keep the bond for a talent agency it is required that you own property in the state of California. John Baumgartner was a resident of Las Vegas Nevada. Sandra didn't own ANY property and as far as I know still doesn't.
How is OCModeling “bonded” anyway?
What would've happened if Sandra had gotten caught running her her illegal prostitution ring in the two years I held the bond? I would have been arrested and forfeited my two point two million dollar house, which wound up happening anyways because of you greedy motherfuckers.
And you know what's worse?
1. At the time I wasn't aware of I was at the head of a massive prostitution ring, but I suspected it.
2. I never received any profit from OCModeling's illegal activities.
I knew it was happening. Do you know how I know? On several occasions, I sent my friends up (gratis “pimp fees”) with hookers from OCM!
I know, (Jay) stop playing the victim and blaming everyone else: You are a drug addict!
Spare me the lecture.
If any of you OC Modeling, ATM LA, or LA Direct fuck-wads want to see a drug addict or complete slimeball you need not do more look in the fucking mirror!
And in closing, I gave the better part of a decade of my life to ensure you assholes success. Sandra and Nick Melillo, you didn't put down a fucking dime to ride the coattails and then had the unmitigated gall to sue me over a wet napkin! Make no mistake about it that's exactly what you fucking did. I take your confidentiality agreement and fart in your general direction.
Just like you don't give a fuck about throwing me under the bus because I was some kind of “liability”. For Christ sakes, we are talking about the fucking porn industry!
PS: I've read the blog comments and the GFY threads. I need to stop harping on this and move on with my life because karma will get you in the end.
Since the last few posts have been about how I am too much of a fuck-up for the porn business, that I might as well tell you how I got into it and let me add that it was never a dream of mine.
In 1978, my dad brought home a Rockwell computer. I remember instantly being fascinated. It was so Star Wars! That was in the days before there was software, so if you wanted a computer to do anything you had to write code. As a kid, I enjoyed writing lines of Basic and making the computer do things. As time went on, I got better at it. Eventually, my dad got an Atari 800. By the time I was 13, I could write pretty complicated code, I even develop full-fledged video games. Sometime around 14, I started playing guitar and forgot about computers altogether. Computers didn't get you, girls, but guitars certainly did. At least, at that time.
Growing up, I had a friend in my neighborhood, who's dad was a high school teacher and a huge porn enthusiast. He had a room in their basement filled up with adult magazines with pictures of naked women covering every wall and a shed next to the house filled up with thousands of porn VHS tapes. We were so young that we didn't realize that porn was fodder for masturbation. We’d watch porn when his parents were gone and were mostly confused by what was going on. We even wondered why girls would want to stick penises in their mouth.
One day when I was 12, I was home sick from school, and I broke into the shed and took some of the VHS tapes home to watch. I popped in the video cassette. I got a boner, roughed up the suspect for 2 minutes, and in two pumps shot the biggest wad of cum my body has ever produced to this day.
I was overwhelmed with Catholic guilt. I returned the demonic cassette to it shed and swore that I would never masturbate again. That promise was very short-lived, the next day I was whacking it like a spider monkey. I couldn't stop myself. At the risk of sounding like the old guy, that's how much trouble you had to go through to watch your porn. You had to break into sheds, hide your dirty magazines in the woods, and also look for clever spots in your room to hide your semen-encrusted porno mags.
Around 1990 I moved to Atlanta because I wanted to start a band.
In 1994 I was noticing people getting email addresses, there was a handful of websites popping up, and AOL commercials were everywhere. I could see that this Internet was going to be something,
Boy, was I right about that.
In 1994 I ordered a Mac with some money I had borrowed from my parents. Ironically one of the first things I did was get on newsgroups to download free porn. Porn had always been a weird thing to me; I can't imagine growing up today with the accessibility kids have to it through tubes and all that crap that ultimately killed the industry.
Once I saw bands were getting websites, I decided to teach myself HTML. Things were much tougher in those days there was no Dreamweaver or WYSIWYG editors. You had to know how to code the pages with Notepad if you had the patience to deal with the 28th K baud rates. I started researching how to build a website, my old instincts from coding as a kid kicked back in, and I figured it out fairly quickly. The principles of coding hadn't changed I just applied it to the web. It all came easily to me.
I’d help out a few of my friends and created their band pages for free to improve my chops. After a while, I become known, as the go-to guy in Atlanta for websites. Some of my friends bosses at their day jobs got wind of this and asked me if I could build websites for their business.
I started making a little money. Potential clients would ask me if I knew how to do things like building shopping carts and I would just tell them that I knew how to do it even though I was clueless. I banged out a bunch of websites for small businesses. I built a site for this one guy who sold custom auto parts. Pretty much every one of his orders was from a stolen credit card even though he shipped all of the orders. It did something like 250K in orders in the first month. 99% of them were fraud. Visa still has him blacklisted to this day.
In 1997 my friend Perry told me he knows a bunch of guys in porn that were looking for a website designer who could work in the ATL.
“Hell yeah I love porn!” and I signed up immediately with this guy John making free internet porn sites. When I first met John; he came down to Atlanta to meet me about taking the gig. He is one of the biggest scariest guys I have ever met in my life, but also very smart and my mentor in the porn business and SEO. I was starting to see there was a light at the end of the tunnel and that even if I didn't make it as a rockstar, I could be an awesome Webmaster.
When I first started working for them, I was mostly doing design and building sites; John taught me how to optimize the sites for traffic and SEO. I was always more interested in the traffic aspect. To me, I found it fascinating that there was some guy in Berlin looking at my band's website.
I worked for them for a few months and then I had an unfortunate debacle with the Georgia police after being arrested for LSD for personal use. This led to almost a year in jail. Before leaving for prison, I put two affiliate links on the front page of my band site. I doubted they would make any money at all, but when I finally got out of prison I had a check for almost $300, and I hadn't done a damn thing for it. I couldn't imagine what I could do if I applied myself.
When I got out, I continued working for them for nearly two years. They paid me $600 a week. I had full access to their stats and could see they were making about $6000 a minute. Also, as it came to the search engine thing, for whatever reason, I was in natural. I wound up giving them a lot of advice on how they could improve what they're doing and even read about “their” innovations in AVN magazine and others.
I figured after two years of busting asked for that company; I was at least eligible for a raise. I asked for one, and they refused, much to their chagrin, I quit.
Like every shitty employee does after leaving his job. I took everything I had learned and decided to go off on my own. It was a little bit scary at first because I was only making a few sales a week but within three months I was making around $600 a day.
One of my favorite tactics to make money was I started to notice that even really popular porn sites like BangBus only contained the meta-information “warning” in the code. So basically, the title of the site was just “warning.” I took advantage of this flaw and started making optimized pages that were out-ranking their pages for their own names. That meant if you wanted to get to some of the most popular porn sites on the Internet you had to go through my link. The sign-ups paid me an average of $30-$40 per join, and I had the number one listing for nearly every porn site that existed at the time.
It wasn't long before the $600 a day became $1200 a day. This was back in 2002. These days, they call it “launch jacking,” although I had never heard of that term until recently.
Back at that time, another common practice was to exchange links with other webmasters for inflating your Google rankings. Quite often, the webmaster who you swapped the link with would wind up dropping it, so managing link trades turned into a nightmare. I had the idea of getting different servers, with different domain hosting accounts, fake names and using them as my link network, that way I would never have to worry about dropped links. These days I guess they call that a “private blog network” (PBN for short).
It wasn't long before I was making about $3000 a day and I've finally decided to hire an employee. His name was Ryan and me could write PHP like nobody's business. From there we started buying up other networks and adding it to our own.
In those early years, I was living in the messiest Bachelor apartment that smelled like cat litter which cost $700 a month. I was easily pulling in $700,000 per year. I even topped out somewhere around 1 million in 2005.
Finally, I went out in bought an OK car, some decent furniture and moved into a slightly better apartment.
There was one program I was sending a small amount of traffic named OCCash. One day I checked my email, and it was from John Baumgardner, and he was asking for help growing his program because I was his top affiliate. I thought that was funny because I wasn't sending many joins at all.
About a month later there was a Webmaster conference in San Diego when I met him out there, and that was how the whole OCCash fiasco got started and if you read my blog posts previous to this you can see how it ended disastrously.
I'm going to break this blog into two parts because I was still living in Atlanta and on probation and wasn't supposed to leave the state but wanted to make the move to California because I thought it would be an excellent opportunity.
File Under DIY Tour Madness 1995: With Dick Delicious and Super X-13
If you've been a musician and booked your own tour, you already know they can be a string of catastrophes waiting to happen. We scheduled 3 shows with our longtime buddies Super X-13 in Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Panama City Beach (where Spring Break was that weekend). Knowing our debaucherous behavior at the time, I thought we'd be lucky to make it back to Atlanta outside of State or Federal confinement.
To lower expenses, both bands piled into my Ford Econoline with a trailer in tow. Astonishingly, this didn't wind up to be another crappy indie tour, this was some real Rockstar shit. Three nights in a row we had massive crowds, great shows, were overpaid, plus got free beer and random groupies!
On the last day of our glorious mini-tour. I awoke on Sunday morning on the floor of some chick’s house in Panama City to the sound of “Oh, fuck! It’s not going to start!” from outside the window.
My van had a ghetto starter switch. You needed to flip it quickly or the starter would keep running till it burned out. Scott (Hugh G. Rection) and Shane Morton, apparently went on an early morning quest for water-slides (water-slides?!) and forgot how to operate the switch correctly. The van was toast. One of our friends gave us a ride to the auto parts store. In the brutal heat of the Florida's sun. I crawled on the 120 degrees asphalt toiling to change the part. I am far from being mechanically inclined, so the repair took forever. I wrangle the new starter on, try to crank the van up: Nothing. Maybe the new starter could be defective? We go back to the auto shop, get another and after many hours of aggravation the 2nd starter actually worked. By late afternoon, we were finally on the road back to Atlanta.
The roads from Panama City to Atlanta are a mixed bag – consisting of backcountry roads that wind through Florida, Alabama, and South Georgia. Kelly Sanford (drummer of Super X-13) is driving and most of the other guys were passed out from roofies a fan gave us (yes, we roofied ourselves). In the cabin of the van were just the 6 of us, a giant stack of porno mags, and an axe handle inscribed with some racially insensitive remarks in sharpie we kept “for protection”. We mostly used it to bust open pinball machines to get quarters for gas money after some promoter screwed us, which frequently happened at the time.
We were driving through Dotham, Alabama when we run out of rolling papers, so we stopped at a convenience store. The redneck clerk sold us Zig Zags and then dropped dime to the police. As soon as we leave the parking lot a cop gets behind us with blue lights flashing. Our drummer, Dave (Phil A. Cunt), takes the weed and stuffs it down his pants. Shane and I try to wake up Scott and Timmy, who are thoroughly unconscious from the Rohiphinal.
Two precariously inbred redneckcops come up to the doors on either side of the van with guns drawn and transport Kelly into the back of the cop car. Scott finally comes to, but Timmy (guitarist for Super X-13) stays down for the count and we can't wake him up.
Next, we are asked to step out of the van, one by one.
Shane Morton got out first, with green hair and wearing a “Bitch Goddess” t-shirt. The chief redneck cop informs him, “Boy, you’ve already broken the obscenity laws here in Alabama by wearing that shirt. Why don’t you tell me where the acid is at!”
Next out is Scott, despite the beer gut, is told he fits the profile of an IV drug user.
Next in line is me, “Hey are you the guy who owns this van?’, the cop asks.
“Yes”, I say.
“When we find that dope you are hiding, we are going to confiscate your vehicle.”
Next was our drummer Dave, who was the most clean-cut looking, had the least number of tattoos, but was also the guy holding the drugs! They pull him aside and say, “Boy, you look like the straight shooter of this bunch. Why don’t you just tell us where the dope is?”
Timmy was so roofied out of his skull, we had to drag him out.
Guess what the cops say to the guy who is so passed out on narcotics that he can’t even walk or talk?
Once they have us all in a group, they tell us that the driver (Kelly Sandford) was already under arrest for DUI. We all knew Kelly hadn’t been drinking, that’s why he'd been chosen to drive.
Soon after, more police cars pull up. We are standing in a circle – this other dweeby looking cop is fidgeting nervously with a flashlight and a semi-automatic pistol drawn. The doughnut-bloated redneck Sergeant sends one of the cops to search the van.
Mind you that there was nothing in the van except a giant stack of porno and an axe handle. All of our gear, luggage, and any drugs that had survived that trip we're surely in the trailer, but they never even asked to search it!
The trailer could have been loaded with dead bodies stuffed with cocaine for all they knew.
The redneck sergeant starts his tirade, “Hey why are you boys so shifty? I bet you wanna beat me? Don’t you?”
We stand silently.
He continues, “I don’t like musicians. My best friend was killed by musicians.”
More silence follows from our group.
“Why don’t you boys just tell us where the fuckin’ dope is? We’ve already called for dogs to come out here. Tell us where the dope is?”
The cop repeats this mantra for the next forty-five minutes, acting like he was talking to the Manson family. Meanwhile, we haven’t heard a peep out of the other cop who is still in the van with the flashlight rummaging through all of the nothing.
Finally after the umpteenth “You boys wanna’ hurt me” comment, I finally break down, “Hey man, you are the only one talking about hurting anyone, we are just trying to make it home.”
My comment created some levity, the cop started to settle down a bit and asks “Which one of you is the lead singer? The lead singer gets all the girls.”
The respective singers raise their hands.
“You boys know any Molly Hatchet? If you are going to be playing down in Panama City, you had better know some Hatchet!”
“Sure, we know a little Molly Hatchet.”
“Well hell, yeah…ten four good buddies!”
An hour later, the other cop finally emerges from searching the van – his shirt is completely soaked in sweat, with a giant ring of wetness around his collar and dripping off his head.
“Hey Sarge, I checked the whole van – they’re clean…”
He could have finished the search in five minutes, but judging by the hour that had elapsed and the ring of sweat on his uniform. I’m about 99% certain he was in there doing the five knuckle shuffle to our collection of Hustler magazines.
“How do you boys ride in there? It must be damn hot.”, The Sargent says as he shines his flashlight into the empty van for the first time. He picks up the “racially insensitive ax handle” and looks at it with curiosity, smiles, and puts it back.
“Well hell yeah! You just some good old boys!”
After two hours on the side of the road, they finally let us go, and escort is out of town like the Beatles had just rolled through Dothan, Alabama.
By this time it is 3 AM and we still have four hours of travel ahead of us and day jobs in a few hours. We make it seventy miles outside of the ATL when the van’s engine cuts out and we are stranded on the side of the road: AGAIN!
We walked to the Waffle House off the next exit, get the van towed, and call our girlfriends to pick us up as the sun is coming up: How had such a glorious “tour” gone straight to hell?
That was just one of 1 million crazy and fun times we've had with those guys, but that story always sticks out for some reason.
That was the Dothan, Alabama incident with Super X-13.
In 1998, while I was out on bond from the Treutlen County debacle, it was the height of Springer-mania. Drummer #11 of Dick Delicious (Rick aka “Hardon Long”) helped book Jerry Springer guests on the side. When he played his first show with the band, we had never even met him in person. He was our booking agent. After the previous drummer quit, he said he knew the material good enough to play it, we took him at his word, he met us at a club in North Carolina and did a solid job considering we didn't have one rehearsal.
After a while, Rick moved from Raleigh to Atlanta, and made the suggestion “Jay, you are a ham – you should go on the Springer Show.” I said, “Sure.” Truth be told, I'm not a Jerry Springer fan. I just thought it would be a funny story to tell later and guess what? You're reading this blog.
Jerry Springer‘s people called and asked if I wanted to be a jealous boyfriend of a girl posing for Playboy. Since I had already been in the porn industry for a while, I explained I was the wrong guy, but if they wanted a pimp, a drug dealer, or any other kind of scumbag — I was their man. They asked me to send a headshot, so I faxed one (yes, I said “fax”) and they agreed I was indeed a despicable curmudgeon and booked me immediately.
10 minutes later, after and extensive plot writing session, Jerry's producers called me with a new show premise and asked if I wanted to be a pimp who will not let his hoes out of servitude “come rain, sleet, or snow” unless they coughed up the cash they owed. This role, I happily accepted. A few weeks later, I’m in a Motel 6 in downtown Chicago preparing to film the show with my friend Scott from the Spo-its, who agreed to play the part of the jealous boyfriend, along with a bunch of people we didn’t know who were other characters in the episode.
These were the years when Jerry was still showing all of the fights. Scott and I agreed that we would try to kick each other’s asses because we knew neither one of us would get many swings in before security stormed us. The show taped on Monday, and we were in Chicago from Thursday till then rehearsing for a few short hours per day in the hotel room with a producer. In truth, myself and the ensemble spent most of that time in Wicker Park getting hammered at hipster bars.
When Monday came around, we had to be at the studio at 9 AM. The previous night, we all drank until 5 AM and hadn’t slept. I think I had sex with one of the strippers who was one of my “prostitutes.” 7 AM the head producer shows up and the entire cast was still drunk. I recognized the producer as “Bud Green,” who was a fake marijuana advocate who's big schtick was smoking joints on talk shows and getting thrown off set.
He asked me, “Where Is Your Suit?”
I told him, “I don't have one. I thought you guys did.”
I didn't bring any decent clothes, so they rushed me to Nordstroms and bought me an Armani suit. The suit was supposed to be custom tailored, but in the green room, they managed to make it fit me via scotch tape, thumbtacks, and bobby pins.
Despite the disorganization, I looked pretty legit.
In the green room, reality kicked in: I’m not an actor, I’m not a pimp. What the fuck am I doing here? Here I am, 10 minutes away from going on the biggest show on daytime television and I knew I was a total sham.
To say the least, I was nervous.
As the show began, I sat backstage and watched from the monitor as “my prostitute” explained her tribulations to Jerry. A thunderous “boo” resounded from the audience. In real life Jerry recently lost his bid to be Governor because he was busted with hookers, in part for trying to pay one with a personal check. I asked if I could bring this up and was warned to not even try.
When Jerry was interviewing her, she started crying: She was great! After watching, I felt slightly emboldened. I was still quite anxious, but I went out, and acted like the biggest bastard I could. When I saw the horrified reaction from the audience, I fed off of it, and this pushed me to be an even bigger slimeball. Scott came out in the next segment, we exchanged a few blows, talked about slapping hoes, insulted the entire restaurant industry, and Scott expressed his displeasure about his girlfriend coming home “smelling like an open can of cat food”, just before proposing. The show culminated with my epic Shakespearean-like improvised monolog about “how pimping ain’t easy”.
It was classic. Here is a clip I found on Youtube:
The show aired on Friday the 13th 1998. When the ratings hit the following Monday, it was the first time Jerry had ever surpassed Oprah. Springer was now the #1 talk show on television. By Monday afternoon, I was getting calls to come back and film a follow-up. Two weeks later, Scott and I were back in Chicago playing the same parts.
On the second show, I had to be escorted through the back entrance because there was a huge line of people around the Studio. The producers explained, “We got a lot of mail based on your appearance. 50% of it was from outraged viewers that want to kill you, and the other half was from girls that want your number.”
I found this quite amusing.
The second Springer appearance was good, but the cast wasn't as strong as the first. I took a few good shots in the jaw that day, but nothing I couldn't handle. Even though I didn't feel it was as solid as the first episode, it still exploded in the ratings. Before I even left Chicago, they were making arrangements for a third appearance.
After filming, they shuffled us to the airport within ten minutes after wrapping. I remember one of the strippers was on the same flight as me, still dressed in her outfit from the show and we recognized Senator Paul Simon at our gate. She ran up and hung on him long enough so people could snap a bunch of pictures. To this day, I'm surprised they never surfaced.
While the third show was coming together, the producers cut out Rick and started calling me to recruit guests. In the next few months, half of my scumbag Atlanta friends had been on the show. Meanwhile, I was getting stalked 24/7 by news media from New York and undercover reporters trying to be the first to break the “Jerry Springer is fake story”. It was surreal. I had producers from various networks showing up at Dick Delicious shows trying to say they would feature the band if I would talk about the episode. Another time, the cheesy “undercover reporter” with the camera clearly hidden in his bowtie was waiting for me in my parking lot. I told him there's no way I'm going to talk to the guy whose claim to fame as he caught people pissing in coffee makers. I never went on record to them regarding the show, my Italian side would never allow me to “snitch”, plus I'd signed a contract with the Jerry Springer show holding me responsible for 40k production costs if “my story was not authentic”, which I found ironic.
Two weeks later, 20/20 broke the big story with another group of “fake” Springer guests. In a statement from the show, Bud Green became the “one rogue producer” and was fired. Everyone on the Springer staff, including Jerry, knew it was bogus! On the second show, in lieu of purchasing a second Armani suit, they lent me one of Jerry's! The guy was looking at me wearing his own clothes for Christ sake!
When I returned to Georgia, I was a low-rent George Clooney for two weeks. The day the show aired some of the guys from the band and I made the cultural misstep of going to a monster truck pull. The entire audience recognized me, and I remember wrapping a towel around my head, so I looked more like the Taliban and drew less attention. I got into a scuffle on the Marta train with a redneck who is trying to look tough for his girlfriend. I ended it by stepping outside of the train, waiting for the door to close, and hitting him with a solid right to the jaw, then then giving him the middle finger the train pulled away.
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 Testiclesevery 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.
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 email@example.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.
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.
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.
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!
“In the Beginning, God created the Heavens and the stars, and with one swift movement of his finger across the horizon, the Earth was born. Through millions of years, the Earth was in disarray. The Precambrian era brought about the first signs of life, followed by the Jurassic age and the rise of the dinosaur, Millions of Millennia pass, new species are born and experience life with great relish, and then as quickly as they came into existence, they pass into the great void known as extinction. Soon the first semblance of man (Zinzanthopus) arises in the Old Duvai gorge. Beijing man bestowed the gift of fire from Prometheus the Titan, soon the Gods of Olympus rise punishing Prothemeus for his betrayal by driving a stake through his torso embedding him into the Scythian cliffs with vultures ripping at his liver. Then, after eight years of Reaganomics, once again, God raised his lofty hand to the heavens to create, dare I say, his masterwork. Three raging wanton stallions from Atlanta, hitherto known to the people of these parts as the almighty, riveting, testosterone laden, shower knob masturbation fantasies of all women including dykes, lesbians, and clam-lappers, the majestic Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles, came into their magnificent being.”
– Hugh G. Rection 1998 (Scott Waldrop)
Well, it wasn't quite like that…
The year was 1992. I was jamming with an insanely talented drummer named Dave (later to become Phil A. Cunt). We were playing technical thrash metal for around a year that was so fast and complex; we could never find any musicians to complete the band.
I was introduced to our bass player, Scott Waldrup (a.k.a. Huge G. Rection) through my friend Mel. Mel was an excellent guitar player and always was banging the hottest chicks. Mel simply said, “You guys should jam.” Scott became my cohort of over 25 years in Dick Delicious.
We became best friends and had a lot in common. Many people even asked if we were brothers. We talked about starting a band but couldn't decide in a direction. It was 1992, and metal was in a sad state of affairs. All anyone cared about was grunge. It took months to figure out what kind of music we wanted to play. Regardless, we partied like madmen. We hung out at Charlie McGruder's (Atlanta's Rainbow Bar and Grill), lurked in strip clubs, took acid, mescaline, drank constantly, and did cocaine. I was 20 at the time, and Scott was 27. I could go to bars underage, because the state of Georgia took your license if you owed money on a speeding ticket. The paper ticket would become your “legal ID” until you paid the fine. I erased the “71” and turned in into a “70” with a pencil. The speeding ticket got me into bars for two years! I love how stupid The South can be!
Scott hit me up one night and asked if I wanted to go bungee jumping. I had never done it before, so I agreed. We went and then proceeded to Charlie McGruder's for some hair-farmer debauchery. We picked up these two strippers at the bar and took them back to Scott's condo and took some acid. Our friend “Stinky Mike”, a homeless drummer, hopped in the car with us when we left. When we got back to Scott's condo, the two girls started bickering, and it escalated into a strange confrontation. They began smacking each other with high heels and taking their clothes off in the parking lot. One of the girls called someone to pick her up, and the other fell asleep while we tripped our brains out.
We were messing around with guitars. Scott and I realized that we both had written a bunch of funny songs. In those first five hours, we had written over ten songs, with names like “Nuclear Beer Fart“, “WoodChipper,” “Waking Up In A Pool of Vomit and Dirty Needles“. Quite a few of those songs would comprise the first Dick Delicious album. So we decided to start a band with well-played music with funny lyrics (a la Frank Zappa). We hadn't thought of a band name yet. We didn't pick a specific musical genre either, because we didn't want to be pigeonholed as metal or associated with the grunge movement.
The girl that had fallen asleep woke up, wasn't too happy to be at Scott's condo, and insisted Scott drive her back to the boonies. We protested and informed her we were frying our faces off on acid, and it was a bad idea to drive. She wouldn't stop complaining and was killing our high. Just to get her to shut up. Scott finally gave in. Stinky Mike, who hadn't taken any acid, woke up and got in the car with us.
For some reason, Scott had a ski mask in his car. I donned it and kept repeating “this ski mask makes me feel invincible.” This annoyed the hell out of the chick we were driving home, so that made me do it more incessantly. I suggested, as an image, the band should play wearing ski masks. Scott thought that was a great idea. Again, another crucial band decision. Later, people would claim we were copying El Duce, but we didn't really listen to The Mentors at all.
By the time we dropped the girl off, it was well into the next day, and we decided to go back to the bungee jumping place. This time, we were higher than Marion Barry. The same guy was hooking the bungee lines from the night before, except I'm sure that he had slept. We were the previous evening’s back-wash.
We were trying to narrow down a name for our new project; I suggested “Macho Nonsense” and Scott’s pick was “Dick Delicious and The Tasty Testicles.” I thought Scott's idea was funnier, so we went with DDTT. We would probably have a platinum album now, had we not picked that name. As we mulled over our decision, we went to a Mexican restaurant for burritos, cheese dip, and margaritas along with Stinky Mike. Since Mike was a good drummer, we made him the first of many the band would have. We then picked stage names. I said I could sing, so I became “Dick Delicious,” Scott chose “Huge G Rection” and we dubbed Mike “Harry Scrotum.” As time went on, Scott and I began to share vocal duties. Having “no-fixed-lead-singer” later became a trademark of the Atlanta metal sound. You can see this in bands such as Mastodon.
We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering in the 90 degree Georgia heat in my apartment complex dressed in ski equipment, asking people if they where we could find “T-bone the sheep pimp”. Then we tried to hijack a bulldozer.
At some point, we finally slept.
In that 24-hour bender was exactly how Dick Delicious got started.