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 drop 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 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, two 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.


dave from distemper


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 spot 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 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 was counting it and my estimate were 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.


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The Springer Incident


Don't Tell Me How To Ruin The Springers Show

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 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.

You Better Fax Somebody!

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 an 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. Everyone else was people we didn’t know who were other characters in the episode.

Are The Jerry Sringer Fights Real? Questions Are Answered

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 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.

jerry spinger with jason quinlan

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 not even to 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 greater 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”.

The Episode Was The Highest Rated Spriger Episode Ever, Surpassing Opera

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.

Jerry Spring Is Fake,And There Is No Easter Bunny

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.

About a year later “The Best of Jerry Springer DVD” came out and I was the first scene on it.

There were my 15 minutes of fame.

Or so I thought.


The Good ‘Ole Boy Network 2016


“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 Boy Network 2016


“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”.

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.

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?