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!
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.
“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
Let me tell you how I wound up in Georgia, people ask me all the time. These numbers are no joke, my entire life has been riddled with strange numerical consequences:
I moved to Atlanta 6/15/1990.
I left for LA 6/15/2003.
I am returning to Atlanta (hopefully) 6/15/2016
–>> That's three moves, separated by exactly 13 years to the day! <<–
So, How The Fuck Did You Wind Up In Atlanta?
I never dreamed I'd be an Atlanta resident. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of Connecticut. My parents pressed me to go to college, but school was never my thing. Any skill I've acquired, I learned by trial and error. I am either obsessed with learning something or have zero interest; there is never any middle ground. As an excuse to get the hell out of CT I looked up some schools with decent music programs: the University of Georgia, Berkley School of Music in Boston and Atlanta Institute Of Music. I enrolled in all 3. Berkeley was too “jazz” for me and too close to CT, which leads to ATL. First stop was the Atlanta Institute of music, which was in Norcross (a redneck suburb of Atlanta). At AIM I saw one of the instructors named Jimmy Herring (who has now taken Jerry Garcia's place in the Grateful Dead). My jaw dropped. To this day: He's the best guitar player I've ever seen in my life and I HATE THE GREATFUL DEAD!
I was about to crash in our hotel room. I was 17 and my Mom made the trip with me; I felt the urge to go exploring Norcross a bit. I walked to the nearby convenience store. I could hear the din of thrash metal played very loudly and an observed bunch of kids around my age. They were drinking and smoking weed in the parking lot of the Hungry Howie's Pizza. Norcross was my kind of town (or so I thought).
I was wearing an Obituary shirt, and they gave me some “hell yeah!”, so I went over and talked to them. I had heard about Southern Hospitality; I guess that’s how I even got the nerve even to talk to strangers. They were cool as hell and invited me to get drunk with them. Between Jack Daniels shots, beer, and bowls I was coping a decent buzz. We metal-nerded out about the music scene, guitars, girls and weed. Crazy Chris (Henson), was one the guys and was super friendly. He gave me his number and said to call him if I ever moved down there. By the time I got back to the hotel; I was smashed. I'm pretty sure my mom knew.
I made the snap decision to relocate to Atlanta. Looking back, I should have traveled more. I would have never chosen Georgia. Not that I have regrets about living there. Atlanta is a cool place, but once you're outside of Atlanta, you're in Georgia — that's scary!
A month and a half later, I packed up my truck and drove from Connecticut to Atlanta. Before I left, I called up crazy Chris to tell him I was on the way. He said he was in the process of moving apartments. I asked him where. When he gave me the address, it was in the same apartment building. He wound up being my next-door neighbor. He lived in Unit D, and I was in B! Talk about a small world!
No sooner than, I pulled my trailer into Norcross I saw Crazy Chris walking out of the apartment with a guitar. His band, Distemper, was playing that night with this other band called Nihilist (old school Atlanta thrash band that are a huge country act now named Blackberry Smoke). Before unpacked the trailer, I was headed to a thrash concert somewhere on the outskirts of Atlanta. That night, I thought both bands were excellent, but I was especially impressed by the talents of the drummer in Distemper who was a kid named Dave, who was a little younger than me. He would later become the 3rd drummer in Dick Delicious.
He thought my northern Northern accent was hilarious, and we became fast friends. The night ended with Crazy Chris after driving to his bicycle off the balcony on the second floor of the apartments after consuming two handles of whiskey and spattering his cranium on the concrete.
Welcome to Georgia!
I lived in Atlanta for 13 years; I went through some pretty hard tribulations while I was there and some great times, I joked would come back was in a coffin.
Now, this cycle repeats itself for the third time. 13 years after leaving for Los Angeles I will be returning to Georgia. The first eight or nine years I lived here we're some of the best years of my life. The last 4 years have been a living hell so I need to make a change!
I won't be returning home the triumphant conqueror. My house was foreclosed on and I've lost everything, in a large part due to other people's greed. I will be basically homeless, taking up residence at the Highland Inn, until I figure out what's next.
It's common for people to move out West and then blame the city of Los Angeles for whatever problems they have. I'm not going to be one of those people.
Shit comes in all hues, so do states, cities, and people.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org. 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.
This saga goes back to 1990 when I first moved to Atlanta. I was in the midst of an on-again, off-again relationship with my first real girlfriend from Connecticut. We would break-up and get back together every three months, almost like clockwork. We had a crappy little apartment in the Atlanta suburb of Norcross, three cats, and not much else.
One day, I came home from my job at UPS and couldn’t find our cats. My girl having just graduated from Hooters (stripper training camp) to The Pink Pony (best strip-club in the ATL), said that they were outside when she left for work. I looked around forever with no luck. Finally, I called the leasing office and the bitch told me she had called Animal Control for letting them outside. I then drove to Lawrenceville (in the same courthouse where Larry Flint was shot) and sprung them out of Kitty Jail, and was issued a ticket along with a court date. Later that night, she thanked me for getting our animals and promised to take care of the ticket.
That was the last I thought about it.
Not long after, my girlfriend and I had our scheduled three-month break-up. I started hanging out with this busty blonde and one of our favorite pastimes was to drop acid and bang for hours. One night, I went to pick her up with four tabs in pocket. The plan was simple. Go back to my house, trip, and fuck like wildebeests. Romantic, no?
I had a stroke of genius, “Let's take these now and by the time we get to my place — we will be tripping balls and won't have to wait for it to kick in!”
It all worked on paper.
We ate the acid and started our 45-minute drive. En route, a police car starts tailing us. My tag was a few weeks expired, so this Asian cop pulls me over. I thought I'd just get a ticket. He returns to my window and says there is a warrant for failure to appear for the cats and arrests me. I guess my ex never did handle that ticket….
So, here I was headed for jail, not yet tripping, but knowing it was in the mail! I was driven to the police sub-station in Norcross (which is where they transferred prisoners to take them to jail in Lawrenceville) and they slammed me in the back into another police cruiser with the drunkest, fattest, sweaty black dude with no shirt on. It was summer and brutally hot. I was handcuffed. He was also handcuffed, thrashing about, sweating, and crushing me against the door. I could slowly feel the hallucinogens taking effect. He twisted psychotically in the narrow space screaming, “I don't care whose dick I have to suck, let me out of this God-damn car!”
Meanwhile, I see the Asian cop was chatting with a female cop, who is leaning against the car. She was the one that was supposed to take us to jail. The two pigs started kissing on the side of the car. She finally got in and starts to drive away, when the other cop runs up and knocks on the window. She exits. Now the two cops are tangled in an embrace, making out, and groping each other!
Meanwhile, the 400 lb. black man is becoming increasingly belligerent, pinning me further into the door and screaming his “fellatio for freedom” mantra.
I can't describe how terrified I was as I started to peak. Claustrophobia, panic, and suffocation were coursing through my brain. From my past experiences with “bad trips”, I was trying my hardest not to panic. By definition, “bad acid trips” are amplified panic attacks that 500 Xanax can't suppress. If you allow it to take hold of you, there is no coming back and you plunge into the psychedelic abyss for hours.
After another 30-minutes of frottage, she gets back in and starts to drive, but the Asian cop runs up and stops her, knocks on the window and the same shit is happening. I thought they were going to fuck on the side of the car! BY NOW I'M TRIPPING MY BRAINS OUT and I'm smashed farther beneath his sweaty fat as he continues his dick sucking tirade.
It took all of my mental stamina not to lose my mind. I knew everything could get worse if I did, they would know I was on drugs and charge me with a DUI. I was doing my best to remain calm. They hadn't figured out I was tripping and I was trying to keep it that way! My mental Kung-Fu must stay strong, or this would end very badly!
This process repeats over and over. The Asian cop must have been trying to bust a nut. I wished he had, because by this time I am nearly suffocating, dehydrated, smothered, and covered like Waffle House hashbrowns. Surely, the universe was playing a bad joke on me or this was a nightmare and I'd wake up soon.
Finally, after about an hour, she is back in the car and we drive to jail. Somehow, I arrive in Lawrenceville, I complete the entire intake process without the police recognizing that I'm higher than cotton in June!
Five more hours pass and they set my bail, which was only $85 for the tickets my ex didn't pay. My friend Scott, who would later become my bandmate in Dick Delicious, bails me out. The busty blonde had explained I was probably fucked from the beginning. I thought so too. Somehow I managed to keep it together until I was released….just as the drugs were wearing off!
That's how I went to jail on acid for cats while trying to have sex!