Continued from Part 1
I met JC, at a Webmaster gathering in San Diego, California. We hit it off right away. He suggested we skip the rest of the show to go up to LA for some porn star's birthday party. I said, “Fuck it, why not.” I checked out of the hotel and drove with him in his SUV. We started getting twisted at the club in Hollywood and went to an afterparty. I walked around the corner in the kitchen, and I ran into this guy Tony, who I'd hung out with in Atlanta, and we had roots that went all the way back to Connecticut. It's a small fucking world.
Tony asked, “Do you want to do some blow?”
“Hell yeah.”, I responded.
We went to the bathroom and snorted some lines; I asked him if I could buy some; he pulled out a Pablo Escobar sized sack of booger sugar. I purchased an 8-ball. JC was impressed at how quickly I could score drugs. He asked me if he could get some. The sun was already coming up, so I just handed him my bag and told him to “have at it.”
I've been doing cocaine since I was 16, my honeymoon days with blow were long past. I'm not a big fan of it other than as a tool to drink longer.
I wound up giving JC my whole bag, but he still insisted on buying another one, so I got it. By 10 in the morning, I was getting tired and bored, but JC just wanted to keep snorting. So I went to sleep in JC's truck while they kept partying. At around noon, he wakes me up and says they are going to ANOTHER party in a limo. I had my fill of partying for the night and was jetlagged as fuck. I was in my late 20s by then; three-day benders didn't interest me like the used to.
Stranded Somewhere in Canoga Park
He had the limo driver drop me back at his condo, which was in Canoga Park. I had no idea where the fuck that was, and I crashed out on the floor. I caught about five or six hours of sleep and noticed he hadn't returned, and his phone was off. I didn't know a lot of people in LA, so I called my surfer friend Scott in Huntington Beach. I told him I went out to a party but now was trapped somewhere up in the valley with no idea where the fuck I was. He suggested that I grab a piece of mail and look at the address which confirmed I was situated directly in the epicenter of “Porn Valley.” I asked him if he could come pick me up, he didn't want to drive all the way from Orange County, so I called a cab company to see how much a cab to Huntington Beach would be. They quoted me $400. I called him back, and he begrudgingly agreed to grab me.
I've spent the rest of that day in Huntington Beach, and I was sitting out on the pier when JC finally calls me back and asked me if I want to go to another party. By this time he's three days deep and probably should consider sleeping.
Despite the chaotic introduction, my mind was made up; I was going to move to California and become one of those Big-Baller program owners.
I had multiple conundrums I needed to deal with first:
1. I still had six years left on probation out of Georgia. Technically I wasn't supposed to be leaving the state. In my last few weeks in Atlanta, I set up a very elaborate series of fake voicemail boxes, bogus addresses, fake IDs, and phony employers — just in case probation came to call.
2. I had a girlfriend I lived with, to whom I hadn't mentioned any of my plans. We had a decent relationship, and she looked like Carmen Electra in her prime. As much as I would've liked to take her with me, I didn't feel like I could start a new life in California dragging my old life behind. I was a real douche bag because I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I didn't even tell her I was leaving until two days before the movers showed up. I guess I was chickenshit. Sorry about that Krissy.
3. So I got back to Atlanta only to find my girlfriend suspected she was pregnant. For a moment I was terrified. She was a cool chick, “Hell no, if I'm pregnant I want this thing out of my body is fast as possible.” She took a pregnancy test, it came up positive, and we were at the abortion clinic two days later.
Even in a big city like Atlanta, Georgia, it's still the Buckle of the Bible Belt; we were met outside by protesters that had babies covered with fake blood, signs indicating we were all on a path to eternal damnation. The protesters screaming “Don't do it for this man don't do it for this man.” I picked up all loose piece both the asphalt on the curb and threw it into the crowd which disbursed them a bit. We shoved our way into the clinic. The infirmary was a long room with glass windows on the back. The protesters moved from the front of the hospital to the glass windows and started reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over, each time louder. Someone from the clinic shut the blinds, but they still praying increased volumes. I found a piece of paper and wrote “Jesus knocked up my girlfriend” and shoved it between the screens and that seems to shut them up for a bit.
Business Partners Are The Root Of All Evil
Before my move, I got the lowdown on OCcash. It was three partners JC was the “president”, Morgan did graphic design (yet didn't know CSS), and there was a “money guy” named Rich, but he wasn't coming up with any cash. They wanted to replace him with me. I thought they had excellent content which was provided by TTboy and we would re-brand his DVDs and make them into porn sites. So, that was technically a fourth partner, even though nothing was in writing. I did an analysis of the program, and could see that there was a lot of room for improvement. So as long as this “money” guy agreed to step aside, it all made sense on paper.
My developer, Ryan, encouraged me to start up my affiliate program. However, I didn't see the need when you were making $3000 a day, but he said we should take the opportunity, and he would continue helping out with both companies to make the transition smoother.
Two weeks later June 15th, 2003, I am out in California full time, I had lived in urban areas for so long that I wanted to live by the beach. I picked Huntington because I had been there a lot before and I love skimboarding and surfing. All I took with me to California was 2 suitcases with two unconscious cats inside.
If I had been more aware of “Orange County Culture“, or lack thereof. I would've never moved there. I was out of place, but I thought it was best so we could all work together in an office.
But that wasn't even the case, in the two weeks, I hastily planned my exodus from Georgia. JC had already moved to Vegas a few days before. He didn't tell me he was thinking about it; didn't say he might, the prick just did it. He already had a house in escrow, so this was not just an impulsive move. What a selfish asshole!
Now, what is the fucking point of moving halfway across the country to make some worthless motherfucker rich? When they're just going to move out of State and go on to what they would later describe their first year of being in Vegas as “they can't remember any of it”? An extreme douche move in my opinion! Especially after I risked my freedom to be in LA to work as a company. I could've just stayed in Atlanta and saved myself a lot of trouble if I had to even an inkling that was the case.
Way to go, asshole!
I took up surfing and going to the beach, but I was not feeling the vibe. At least I would be able to work right next to Morgan, who lived in Newport Beach, and we'd be able to collaborate. But that didn't wind up happening either because Morgan was more distracted by his constant intake of marijuana, pills, his needy fiancé, and his dog Walter (who easily had the highest IQ in the house)
On top of that, I was yet to sign anything legally binding with them. So after about a month of being out there, and still working on a handshake deal, JC comes back from Vegas storming in a steroid rage about how the company would now be structured. They wanted a 10k buy-in, which I had no problem with, that was chump change at the time. We had a meeting at Morgan's house to replace Rich (who still have contributed a dime) and make me the new partner. JC also went on and on about how bankrupt the company was. By that time, I was already locked out of the bank accounts, and I'm sure that $1700 VIP bottle service in Vegas had been one of the many JC-sponsored. I gave them the $10,000 and rather than reinvesting in the company, they just split it amongst themselves. Smart business!
When Morgan and I expressed, our concerns about the fact that we were doing all of the work, JC just exploded into another steroid induced rage, screaming and yelling and threatening to beat Morgan and I. I seriously considered saying, “Fuck it, I’m going back to Atlanta.”, but I was pretty committed by that point.
It was also very early on I could see chinks in the armor. We had a gay reality site we owned 100% of (a big money maker at the time). Morgan was so high he accidentally told the host to delete the site and didn't have a backup. Not even locally.
With some help from my developer Ryan, I did exactly what I promised them I’d do. I blew it up from a small and struggling affiliate program to a major player in the porn game within a matter of three or four months. I already had enough leverage as an affiliate, that people would trust me, and I was the “face” of the program. Hence my reason for being so pissed off at their creative accounting.
To make matters worse, my developer Ryan couldn't stand JC or Morgan. JC in particular. He labeled them as being “clueless” and I couldn't say I disagreed. After a little bit more verbal abuse at the hands of JC, Ryan quit and said, “He would never work for us again no matter how much we paid him.”
And to be honest, I don't blame him.
Fact of the matter, having Ryan quit hurt my core business, which always made me a lot more money than the chump change OCCash produced.
If anyone would care to contribute, I don't make Donald Trump money writing this blog.
Just like him one of my last blogs, if you lay down with dogs you wake up with fleas.