November 23, 2010
12:21 PM – BOB
Chad fucked up the IFC meeting, so I ditched him in NYC and headed to Washington D.C. for our screening at the White House.
1:34 PM – CHAD
I took a bus down to Washington D.C. from New York for our screening. The bus ride down was the first time I got any real sleep on the entire trip. All other forms of rest up until this point have been more of a comatose state from partying too much. There is a big difference between actually falling asleep on your own terms and simply passing out because your brain no longer works. That being said, I don’t have much to report about the trip down.
5:17 PM – CHAD
Before I left New York, I looked at google maps to give myself a general idea of how to get from the bus stop to the movie theatre we are at tonight. It ended up being about an hour walk, most of it along feeder roads and industrial areas, but at least I got to check out Arlington. When the bus was pulling into town, I saw Marine One, the presidential helicopter take off and fly right over us. I would be posting you video of this, but I’m afraid I lose my video camera a couple days later in New York City, along with the videos stored on it. This was the same camera I used to shoot all of the hand held scenes in Total Badass, as well as everything on our West Coast tour last summer. It’s gone now. Here is a haunting video, one of the last ones taken on said model:
10:12 PM – BOB
The screening went pretty well. The DC Rollergirls were out in force:
To my surprise, Chad somehow made the trek from NYC to DC for the screening.
Q&A w/Bob and Chad
I saw Chad outside chatting it up with a drunk woman who was noting that the audience was kinda thin. “But it’s a documentary… I mean, it’s a Tuesday and all… but it’s a documentary… who watches documentaries at the theater? And on a Tuesday?”
10:30 – CHAD
I remember this was a Tuesday, because the theatre had burgers for about two or three dollars and really cheap beer. There was a little bar and grill in the front of the theatre. You could say it was a theatre/bar/grill. Brazoswood High School’s own Rita Rahm Barr was there, with her husband Brian. They’re the ones who turned me on to the cheap burgers and beer. After the movie, Dan Driskill kept the high school reunion going with an appearance of his own. He and I went out for a little bit after the movie, but I wasn’t much use to him. I actually remember thinking that at one point. We had gone to a bar and Dan was in the bathroom, I was fading in and out of consciousness, thinking “I’m not really much use to him, right now.” I just didn’t feel like I was being good company, but who knows? Turns out, Dan’s brother runs a hotel right down in the middle of all the shit in Washington D.C., only a couple blocks down from the White House. I got totally hooked up.
2:14 AM – BOB
After the screening I bolted back to NYC. We’ll see if Chad can catch back up. I’m heading out to Long Island tomorrow night, so I guess I’ll see Chad again on Friday when we screen at The Tank in Manhattan.
Balt Tunnel Toll
Drive Into NJ
Have I mentioned yet that it costs over $32 to drive from NYC to DC? And, you guessed it, 32 and change to drive back. Fucking toll roads.
November 17, 2010
Drive to Augusta, GA
2:27 PM – CHAD
We drove from Gainesville to Augusta today, apparently. Seems like something I would have remembered, but what am I, a fucking almanac?
Bob in Augusta
10:21PM – CHAD
We got into Augusta, Georgia and screened at The Sky Lounge. It was a pretty cool bar, and they have started showing some films in the back so they had a screen set up and everything. We met some cool people there, Coco Rubio, Alamo, Jordan… the whole thing was really made possible by my good friend Nick Snow from Brazoswood High School, who moved out to…. What’s that? You can’t hear me? Oh, that’s because Nick won’t shut the fuck up, he’s been talking for twenty-five years straight. No, but seriously, I remember when Nick moved out to Austin for a while back in the 90’s and as soon as he got to town, he rode down to Mexico with me on a pill run. Everybody on that trip remembers Nick because he got in the car, started talking, and never stopped, even after he’d lost his voice. He literally completely lost his voice and would still keep talking to you for hours, with no sound coming out. While the movie was playing tonight, I remember looking up in the front row and seeing Nick sitting there with like, five or six friends that he’d gotten to come out and I remember thinking it was cool that he had brought a crowd and shit, but I felt bad for them because I knew they couldn’t hear a goddamn thing, except Nick talking. For real though, Nick great to see you again. Hope we hook up with you on the way back south, as planned. I’ve included two videos of Nick here, for those of you back in Texas. It’s vintage Nick Snow material, trust me…
Nicks no Talk Black
5:14 AM – BOB:
The details are fuzzy. In reality, I’m at the Whole Foods in NYC (the library closed). I’m just acting like it’s Day 8 and I’m still awake in Augusta, hunting and pecking away at this tour journal. The truth is, the details are fuzzy. According to Google Maps, we probably drove for about five and three quarter hours today… unless we got lost.
I remember that Augusta was cool and that we hung out with the dude who used to drum for the Riverboat Gamblers. At some point there was either a swap or a mutual giving of goods to one another. Either way, we left with some kind bud and either parted ways with a DVD or some pills in the process. And the Soul City Sirens derby gals here were cool too. We had us a fun as fuck time. Chad’s pal Nick, who seems like a nice motherufkcer and might be crazy, likes to talk. It doesn’t matter if you are watching a movie or taking a dump in the stall next to him, Nick will chat you up good.
Film Tour Page: www.badassfilmtour.com
November 16, 2010
11:34 AM – CHAD:
I’m over at Anita HardOne’s (Jacksonville Rollergirls) place where we spent the night last night and Married to Rock is playing on television while I’m catching up on writing and she’s paying her bills and I just wanted to say something real quick to Perry Ferrell: “I always knew you were full of shit. You didn’t have me fooled for a fucking second and I knew you’d end up involved in something like this before it was all said and done.”
Now that we have that little bit of unpleasantness behind us, I have come to a realization. Over the course of this east coast film journal, I’ve mentioned Chef Boyardee Raviolis (Hop Sing in New Orleans) high school reunions (Woody Woodard in Panama City Beach Florida) and Darrell Maudlin (Santana Moss’ shade-tree tactics in Jacksonville). This is all shaping up just like an article I wrote for Rank and Revue way back in… 2004 or 2005. You can use the context clues in the outdated sports updates to figure the date exactly, but I’ve got pills to do and people to screw:
The Couch Trip
Have you ever come across a clitoris so big; you thought it was a dick? How did this make you feel? Were you scared, or did you like it? I am reminded of what has to be one of the tackiest, most tasteless nights of my life. Ah, who am I kidding? It was just another night out. Actually, it wasn’t just another night out; this was the night of my high school reunion, bringing Brazoswood High School’s Class of 1991 together to wallow in the mire once again. There were a shitload of us partying Brazoria County style at a river house just outside of Richwood, Texas. The house belonged to Darrell Evans, who is father to Will, of Affordable Sound fame. When I first moved up here to Austin from the coast to go to college, the last thing Mr. Evans told me was to have fun, but to call him if I ever got arrested. Since then, I’ve been arrested over a dozen times, and haven’t called him once.
Anyway, I was absolutely starving, hanging out in the kitchen with Will while he made me a huge pot of Chef Boyardee Ravioli. Over in the living room, the call was sounded. One of Brazoria County’s most beautiful and notorious women had finally had enough, screaming, “Fuck you, you motherfuckers, fuck me!” as she tore off her shirt, threw it across the room, and fell onto the couch in a passed out heap. What followed would have best been viewed in slow motion. Myself, in the kitchen, and Darrell Maudlin, out on the patio, both immediately sprung into action. As the shirt still hung in the air, we were both in a full sprint, me rounding the kitchen counter and Darrell barging in through the sliding glass door. We were on opposite sides of the house, heading to an equidistant point in the middle. As the shirt landed, I hurdled the coffee table and laid out in a swan dive for the spot on the couch next to our fallen angel. I could feel Darrell in the air, sailing towards me. We both crashed onto the same spot on the sofa like two linemen pouncing on a fumble, jockeying for position. I somehow outmaneuvered him and snuggled up next to my date, laughing hysterically in victory. She had passed out in a half laying, half sitting position at the end of the couch. As it was, she was way too drunk to be coaxed into lying out lengthwise, allowing me to lay beside her and thus filling the couch to capacity. “No, no you fucker, I’m not going anywhere.” Darrell announced, spooning up behind me. The siege had begun.
As the rest of our high school friends partied on into one of the best night of their lives, Darrell and I remained on the couch, opting for a high stakes battle of wills. We both knew that sooner or later, in the wee hours of the morning, the house would lay silent, allowing the victor of our deadly game at least a half hour’s pleasure with our quarry, who would be just waking from her stupor by then. To the loser… Nothing. Nothing but the lifelong knowledge of having blown off your high school reunion in some fucked up “One in the hand is better than two in the bush.” type of scenario. Neither of us realized how bad it would get.
Darrel struck the first blow. Having finished slaving over a huge pot of raviolis, Will came into the living room and made a disturbing announcement. Will was in love, you see. He and his fiancé were living together in sin up in Austin, and much of the furniture at the river house had been bequeathed to them, including the couch, which the missus had taken a particular liking to. She didn’t want anyone eating on the couch and Will, in a sickening display of weakness, was upholding the decree. In order to eat my raviolis, I was going to have to get up, relinquishing the upper hand to my opponent. Darrell, on the contrary, was free to come and go as he pleased, so long as I didn’t have enough time to lay out prostrate with my sweetheart. He got up, sat across the coffee table from me, and ate the whole pot right in my face. He kept saying shit like “Mmmm, these are the best fucking raviolis I’ve ever had in my life!” as he licked the sauce off the spoon. Upon finishing, Darrell snuggled back up behind me. Three dominoes, lying toppled over on each other, we looked like a love triangle gone bad. The party raged on around us.
Eventually, Darrell and I fell asleep. As the party dwindled, at about 4 A.M., we both awoke to find that our hostess had pissed her pants. Through the process of osmosis, everything was completely soaked in piss: her clothes, my clothes, Darrell’s clothes and, most importantly, the precious sofa. Shedding layers of clothing and flipping over couch cushions, Darrell and I tried to make ourselves as comfortable as possible. Even our little princess had begun to stir a little, stripping down to her g-string and smiling at us briefly. “Hey baby.” she cooed, right before falling back asleep. She probably thought she was seeing double. I don’t blame her for pissing herself; it had been a long night with lots of drinking. I myself had to piss so severely that I grabbed a Big Gulp cup within arm’s reach on the coffee table and filled it to capacity. There was no way I could surrender now… too much had been sacrificed. Too much had been lost.
About an hour later, violent pounding on the front door awakened all three of us. It was the type of knocking reserved only for police officers and maniacs, neither of whom you want to talk to at five in the morning. Everyone else in the house had finally passed out and the three of us, closest to the door, were default favorites to answer it. Lying on top of me, Darrell knew I wouldn’t be able to get up unless he got up anyway. Victory was mine.
Apparently, a drunken neighbor had shown up at the door, threatening to kick everyone’s asses. My lover and I giggled to one another; stretching out comfortably on the couch while listening to the slurry brow beating Darrell was taking out on the porch. “You sons-a-bishes, making goddamn racket all night, drinking and driving shit all around the goddamn shtreet….” It was a classic case of adding insult to injury. The two of us fell into a deep embrace.
Ok, before I continue, I must address the fact that I’ve taken quite a brow beating over the years for eating homegirl out after she pissed her pants. I have no regrets about this whatsoever, and feel like there is plenty to support my case. First of all, she had already pissed all over me anyway. Secondly, people seem to have the false impression that just because a girl gets up, goes to the restroom, takes off her pants and pisses in a commode, all of a sudden her pussy is as clean enough to eat off of, no pun intended. Most importantly, this girl is fine as all hell… always has been, always will be. She could have SHIT in her fucking pants, and I still would have gone down on her. In the end, we fucked and sweated and came all over the piss-stained couch that Will had tried so hard to protect while Darrell lay helplessly uninvolved on the living room floor. Revenge, indeed, was a dish best served cold.
Looking back on the article to this point, there’s one thing I would like to clear up. Because I opted not to use the lady-in-question’s name, I feel there is an overall tone of objectification taking place when I talk about her. The fact that she was passed out most of the night might also lead one to think she was taken advantage of. It’s important to me to point out that she is a very good friend of mine, one of my favorite women of all time in fact, and we’ve been close for about fifteen years. She was even married to one of my best friends at one point. I didn’t use her name because I never mention women’s names under these situations, not wanting to kiss and tell. Anything that came off as chauvinistic or rude towards women in general or towards this girl specifically was completely unintentional.
Thing is, she has this huge fucking clit. I mean the thing was gigantic… like three or four inches long. I was able to wrap my hand around it and suck it like a fag. When it swole up, I wanted to sit up on it and ride it. It was fucking great. After I got up, she used her clit like a mussel’s foot to dig her way down into the couch cushions.
Now that that little bit of unpleasantness is behind us, I’d like to take a look at the recent developments in the world of football, both high school and college. For starters, the High School Playoffs have begun, ushering in one of my favorite times of the year. Do I like the High School Playoffs? Well, instead of going to Slayer on Friday, I drove down to San Marcos by myself to see the San Marcos Rattlers play the Schertz Clemens Buffaloes in opening round action. On the heels of several red-zone turnovers, San Marcos suffered a disappointing loss in front of the home crowd, bringing an end to a season that had seen them go 9-1 up to that point. Far and away, the highpoint of the game was the Rattler band playing Breadfan. Can you believe it? BREADFAN!! Numerous perennial powerhouses, including Texas City, Denison, Duncanville, Euless Trinity, Grapevine and Sealy saw early exits from the playoffs this weekend. With The Longhorns being off next weekend, I expect to take in two, if not three second round games.
Speaking of The Longhorns, my Uncle Ronnie came up for the Texas Tech game this weekend. Couple of things here. First of all, Texas’ defense looked absolutely shitty against Tech. I don’t give a fuck about the “high powered” offence they’re running in Lubbock these days. Several teams, including Colorado, have managed to keep Tech in check this year and to let the Red Raiders come into Austin and go apeshit like that is truly despicable. Secondly, Mack Brown’s call to bench Vince Young for Chance Mock on the last drive of the game makes him one of three things; a genius, an idiot, or a maniac. Having never heard him called a coaching genius, and seeing him do too much for the program over the years to call him an idiot, I have to assume we have a maniac on our hands. As we speak, Mack Brown has gone completely fucking insane. Oh sure, his call won the game, but what does it say about the way he has handled the quarterback situation all season up until this point? I have no idea. Insane, I tell you! – Chad Holt
1:49 PM – CHAD:
We’re leaving Jacksonville for Gainesville today, but we’re going to stop along the way at St. Augustine Beach and check out the Atlantic Ocean.
2:22 PM – CHAD:
Someone left a butthole on the beach. I don’t think I can take it, because it took so long to bake it. I’ll never have that recipe again…. No, but seriously, I found a butthole on the beach. It was like Macarthur Park, Florida style. Someone must have left it there the night before, and it was reacting to stimuli. Go ahead and watch the clip if you don’t believe me. I also filmed a dead horseshoe crab.
9:00 PM – CHAD:
Gainesville’s shows were fucking awesome. A shitload of Gainesville Roller Rebels were out for Hell on Wheels and the better part of eighty people (mind you that could be anywhere from 41 and above) showed up for Total Badass. Easily one of the best back-to-back audiences we’ve had on either coast. Now granted, most of the people at Total Badass were students of Roger Beebe who teaches film out there at The University of Florida, but we’ll take them.
Q&A for Total Badass
2:17 AM – CHAD:
We ended up crashing at Adrienne Filardo’s house, and I made some great friends over there. I’d like you to meet them:
2:18 AM* – BOB:
*[really, it’s day 18 and I’m at the NYC library again… but if you’ve been reading these blogs with any bit of loyalty and pride, you already know this.]
Yes, what Chad says sounds true. I’m gonna go with that. Hanging with Gainesville Roller Rebels’ Stocky and Ragedrienne was fun. And thanks, Roger Bebee for forcing your students to watch our flick and giving us a nice li’l crowd. Oh yeah, I just remembered: I did two different interviews for journalism students. Weird, but true. I guess it’s slim pickings, story-wise in G’ville.
August 10, 2010
Well folks, you’re in for a special treat. In honor of our Thai friends we made last night in Los Angeles, I’m going to repost an old article of mine from Rank and Revue days. It starts out completely off topic (although it is eerily on topic as far as a back story for the movie Total Badass) but then at the end it has what I would consider my best “Thai Routine” to date, about my first college roommate, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, who had six T’s in his last name, alone. This was my thirteenth article I ever wrote:
Work In Progress
My son, Shay Holt, was two years old the first time he ever called a cop a “fat cunt” to their face. What’s that? You didn’t know I had a kid? I have two, actually, despite the fact that I have failed to mention them in the dozen or more articles I’ve written for Rank and Revue. All told, I have two kids, a common-law wife, a mistress, and numerous girlfriends. What can I say… I’m a very loving man.
Anyway, the fore mentioned incident took place three years ago as we were driving out in front of The Frank Erwin Center, moments before the tip-off of a Longhorn basketball game. Although it’s all the rage these days (if you think it’s bad now, wait until this season starts) only three short years ago community interest in Longhorn’s basketball was minimal at best. Despite this, parking for games at The Erwin Center always has been, and always will be, an absolute bitch. My sister, Ashley, who I have also failed to mention in an article up to this point, was riding shotgun. My kids, Shay and his sister, Jessica Burnie, were in the backseat. (Don’t let Jessica’s different last name alarm you folks, last names change like the weather in my family. I myself was Chad Jeremy Janecek at one point.)
Rather than forcing Ashley and the kids into walking the half-mile from our parking spot back to the arena, I had opted to drop them off up close and then meet them at our seats. In order to do so, I pulled into a parking lot located right out in front of The Erwin Center. This lot was of course reserved for illuminati and whatnot, so it came equipped with its own uniformed police officer to keep out the riff-raff. Upon seeing said riff-raff pull in, the officer jumped into action. Convinced I was trying to snag a spot meant for the Board of Regents, he started gesticulating wildly and shining his flashlight at us. I still had to pull in a little more to get out of traffic on Red River, and the cop ran up and started to beat on the roof of my car. “Hold on you fat cunt!” This is what I yelled, out of earshot of course. (I would like to make it clear that this guy was a fat cunt because he was beating on the roof of my car while my family was in it, not because he had chosen law enforcement as a profession. I’m sure that Shay feels the same way.)
So, I told Ashley to go ahead and take the kids inside while I talked to this guy, and rolled down my window. As I was explaining my intentions to the cop, Ashley took Shay out of his car seat. He was pissed! When Ash got him out of the car, he was pointing at the officer and yelling, “You fat cunt! You fat cunt!” I can’t imagine where he had heard such language. The cop seemed genuinely hurt, and looked at me as if to say, “Hey, your baby is calling me a fat cunt.” I just kind of shrugged, like, “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?” Realizing that even the police were powerless in this situation, I briefly considered having Shay commit all of my crimes for me, at least until he became an adult. Perhaps this wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.
This is the second time, by the way, that I have typed everything up until this point. Lisa Burnie, common law wife earlier mentioned, found my first version and deleted it while crying and telling me that I am “From Hell”.
While I’m on the subject of hell, I would also like to tell you that as far as I’m concerned, a fart is wasted if it isn’t expelled directly on a small child, or at least a household pet. Although taboo in many circles, farting on children is commonplace in my family, the action being first introduced to me by my Uncle Bubba, who can fart on command. Around here, when you’re on the receiving end of such treachery, you are said to have taken a “fartbath.” Sometimes while I’m watching television, Shay will feign interest in me and crawl up into my lap for a minute, only to fart on me and squirm off giggling, “Chad took a fartbath. Chad took a fartbath.” (For some odd reason, my children have taken to calling me by my first name, rather than the more respectable title of Daddy or Father.) Jessica, being a girl, suffers from only a small fraction of the assaults, and, quite frankly doesn’t seem very fond of the ruse. Truth be told, both of the kids are getting too big to fart on, and it may be time to have another. Anyone interested in having a child with me can contact me through Rank and Revue’s email. The insemination process alone would be well worth your time, I assure you.
Is it just me, or has Larry Stern been running entirely too many photos of me in the last several issues of the magazine? I’m sure many of you are wondering when I am going to make an honest woman out of Larry, but I promise that our personal relationship has in no way influenced his decisions as to which pictures he chooses to submit. I think it’s more the result of us doing so much tandem work together, being the most talented reporter/ photographer duo that this city, this state even, has ever seen. Nonetheless, I still think there are too many pictures of me in the magazine these days, and I am tired of people telling me that I look like Mr. Bean.
There is still a lot of space to fill ladies and gentlemen, and I have absolutely nothing more to say of any importance, as odd as that may seem. I’m going to take this opportunity to go back and tell you more of Jaturon Chattrattichatt, my first college roommate. Before I tell you about Jaturon Chattrattichatt, however, I must to tell you of the worst marketing decision ever made by a convenience store chain on the Texas Gulf Coast.
In the summer of 1991, I was on road trip from Lake Jackson, Texas to Orlando, Florida with Mike and Will of Affordable Sound. We were celebrating our graduation from Brazoswood High School, where, as you know, I reigned as Student Body President. (You didn’t think Affordable Sound has been running all those back page ads for the hell of it, did you?) I remember this summer distinctly; not because I haven’t completely destroyed my brain since then, but because of Stop and Go’s historic blunder. It came at a point where it was almost impossible to tell the difference between a Stop and Go and a 7-11, as there was some kind of hostile takeover in effect. Do you remember these confusing times?
Stop and Go launched their summer campaign by selling a quasi-permanent fountain drink cup that changed psychedelic colors when you filled it up. I think it was called The Super Shocker. Costing roughly seven dollars, the cup’s ability to make any acid trip ten times as fun was in and of itself worth your money. The fact that you got to fill the motherfucker up at ANY Stop and Go for FREE for the ENTIRE summer made it the work of madmen. The effects of this promotion struck Stop and Go like a plague.
Stage One: Every man, woman and child in Brazoria County buys a Super Shocker within 48 hours of infection.
Stage Two: Mad with the euphoria of walking into a store, taking something of value, and walking out without paying, hundreds of screaming citizens mob every Stop and Go in town, day or night. Panic sets in.
Stage Three: The fountain drink sections and surrounding merchandise of all Stop and Gos are completely ransacked within one week of infection. Fanta and Diet Sprite are only flavors in stock.
Stage Four: Death. Every Stop and Go on coast has a Sorry, No Fountain Drinks sign posted on front door.
When Will, Mike and I left on out trip to The Epcot Center, each of us had a Super Shocker in tow, convinced that we were going to cut a swath of free drink violence across the Southeastern United States. I shit you not when I tell you that, with the exception of the Stop and Go at the intersection of “Old” 288 and Hwy. 2004 in Richwood, Texas, which was less than a mile from my house, we didn’t pass a single one on our entire trip. By the end, we were just using the Super Shockers to piss in, being too paranoid to pull the car over for anything but gas.
We were somewhere in Mississippi when I contacted my parents by telephone. They were here in Austin, securing a roommate for the condo I was going to be living in on and off for the eight years it was going to take me to secure a BA in sociology from the University of Texas. When talking to Bo, I could tell things were a little weird. He handed the phone off to my mom and I asked her what they were doing. “Well, we’re talking with your new roommate,” she said. “His name is Jat.” (I remember thinking to myself, Strike One.) “He’s from Thailand.” (Strike Two!) “And, today is his first day in America.” (Steeeeeeeeerike Three!!!!)
As I’m sure you can imagine, Jaturon Chattrattichatt, (or Jat, as he came to prefer) and I weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. I’m reminded of a Gary Larson cartoon depicting aliens shaped like a man’s ass coming off a spaceship into a field full of goats. The caption read: When worlds collide. That poor bastard…
Let me just say this. The best it ever got was during our first couple of weeks together, when I would introduce him to my friends from the coast. Regardless of which friend I was talking to, the conversation always went exactly like this; “Hey dude, this is my roommate, Jat.” “Jap!! Jesus Christ, his name’s Jap??” “No, it’s Jat, with a T.” “Oh. Hi Jat.” “Ha-loooo.”
At the lowest point of our relationship, Jat was completely horrified by my friends, my lifestyle, and me in general. If he was in the house when I got home, he would hide when he heard me approaching. If I was already home when Jat arrived at his Hell in the West, he wouldn’t even look at me, bee-lining in terror straight to his room. Only venturing out at night, he lived like the Vietcong. Since he had stopped speaking to me for the last eight months we lived together, the only way I would know he was home was by looking to see if his sandals were in front of his bedroom door. (He had these sandals, see, and he would take them off before going into his room.)
Once, there were about ten of us still awake downstairs all fucked up on acid, among other things, at about eight o’clock in the morning on Super Bowl Sunday (Redskins/Bills). Greg Pearce and I were sitting against a wall, facing out the window on Jat’s side of the house. We both witnessed a flash in front of the window that appeared to be a small man scrambling down the drainpipe. Initially dismissing this as a hallucination, we both came to realize that it had indeed been Jat. Apparently, rather than encountering the maniacs who had been hooting and hollering in his living room all night, Jaturon Chattrattichatt had chosen the more honorable and face saving option of climbing out his second story bedroom window to begin his busy day. I remember, with our emotions being heightened by LSD, Greg and I found this both tragically sad enough and hilariously funny enough to cry about.
Fuck it, I’m done. Forgive me Jaturon Chattrattichatt, wherever you are.
Actually, it was a pretty lazy day, today. Our gracious host, Jesse Blanco, took us out to see Venice Beach at night, and then later I had a date so Bob and I went to The Frolic Room. I frolicked. From there on out, this was one of the many things that happened on this trip that we have neglected to write about because you simply aren’t ready to read it. What I can tell you though, is that this and many other events just like it over the L.A. leg of our tour has led us to agree that if someone were to make a porno based on this particular part of our trip, it would be called, One Flew Over the Cuckold’s Nest.