Monthly Archives: April 2013

N is for Night Nurse

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 14th so the letter of the day is N.

N is for Night Nurse


They say the food sucks in England. They are not wrong. Not sure why that is. Surely there are people there who know how to cook, right? Might just be shit ingredients. But who has time to even think about eating when you can get Night Nurse??

Night Nurse is the UK’s equivalent to NyQuil. Except that they keep it behind the counter and give you the third degree when you try and buy some. This is a country where you can buy codeine over the counter. I got turned on to it during Tragedy’s 2nd UK tour, in Cardiff, Wales, by our tour manager Paul “The Cat” Catten. He took me to the pharmacy and we tried to buy 4 bottles but were told it was 2 per customer. The pharmacist was counting us as a single customer and would only sell us 2 because we had walked in together. Bullshit. With a little NYC pushiness I was able to persuade him that “we didn’t know each other, we just happened to walk in at the same time and need the same thing.”

I’m not sure what’s in the Night Nurse but it sure does make you feel nice. The best part is that you can buy it at Heathrow at the Boots pharmacy after you go through security, so you can take a few swigs for the flight and then stuff it in your carry on. Bliss. Try some the next time you’re there. And since I hipped you to it, please bring back a bottle for me. And one for Stauds.

M is for Maria Lopez. Judge Maria Lopez.

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 13th so the letter of the day is M.

M if for Maria Lopez. Judge Maria Lopez. And How I ended up as a defendant in her courtroom.

So this one time I had this kid named Bucky working for me and we made a ridiculous bet and then I fired him before the bet was done and then he went and got drunk in the daytime and then he met another drunk who’s roommate was a producer on Judge Maria Lopez and then the producer asked Bucky if he wanted to be on the show, and then he had someone call me to ask me because he was too mad at me for firing him to talk to me himself and then I had to hire my own lawyer to file a lawsuit against me because Bucky was too inept to do it himself but they wouldn’t have us on the show unless there was an actual lawsuit filed and then this happened.

L is for Lazy

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 12th so the letter of the day is L.

L is for Lazy

Im on vacation this weekend in Park City, Utah. My friend Sara is on a year-long house sitting assignment for a 7 bedroom 5 bathroom mansion and the owner told her to invite friends because he likes the house to be used. So we’re using the fuck out of it. None of those uses involve blogging today. But I’m sure Ill get some good stories out of the weekend. Now Im going to enjoy myself. Have a nice day.

K is for Kid Rock

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 11th so the letter of the day is K.

K is for Kid Rock. And the story of how we fell in love.

Peter Shapiro called me and said “The U2 3D Concert Film that I produced is having it’s world premiere next week at the Cannes Film Festival. Saturday night at 8 pm at the Palais des Festivals. The biggest and most prestigious theater in Cannes. U2 is going to give a surprise concert on the stairs of the theater. Because we have a new baby my wife is bailing. You wanna come as my date? Just get yourself a tuxedo and get to Cannes next weekend.” No way was I gonna pass on that.

Cannes is in the South of France – there aren’t a ton of flights going there. And since every rich asshole who fancies himself a film producer just *needs* to be there that week the flights are ridiculously expensive. Especially on short notice. I pulled out a map and picked a few major cities within a reasonable driving distance, and then googled motorcycle rentals in those places. About 20 minutes later I had a flight booked to Milan and a reservation made for a BMW R1200 GS motorcycle. I went to Saks Fifth Avenue and bought a fancy tux on the cheap thanks to a friend and an employee only 60% off sale and was prepped to turn myself into Jake Bond for the weekend. I stuffed that tuxedo, a few t-shirts and some changes of socks and underwear into a backpack and headed for the airport.

When I landed in Milan I went straight to the bike rental joint and picked up my partner in crime for the weekend. I somehow managed to explain to the rental agent that I was trying to get to Genoa, which was due south of Milan and on the Mediterranean. He directed me towards the motorway and off I went. A few miles down I stopped at a services station and took a look at a roadmap encased in plexiglass. It looked pretty simple to me. Keep south on the motorway til I got to the Mediterranean and and then make a right and hug the coast until I made it to Cannes. I had 3 days to make that happen. No need to buy a map. No sweat.

My Ride

My Ride

The ride was gorgeous. I spent three days just cruising at a leisurely pace, stopping every hour or so for a glass of wine and a few scraps of food. This was 2006 – the dark Bush years – so I just told everyone I met I was from Toronto and had no problem making friends. On my 2nd night I pulled up to a hotel in a small seaside town and got a room. I inquired about where to find some fun and they pointed me towards a Casino, and warned that I would not be welcome looking as I did…. How convenient, then, that I had a tuxedo. I wasn’t yet in Monaco but this place was straight out of a 007 film. This was nothing like Vegas, Atlantic City or Indian Casinos. This was a full on palace stocked with white haired men in black tuxedos and their trophy wives in gowns and gloves. Even in my tuxedo I was pretty sure they would smell the staunch of my pauper’s underpants. I played a few hands of blackjack before I realized this wasn’t the kind of place where I was gonna find the sort of mediterranean magic I was looking for, so I wandered through the town until I found the Italian Riviera equivalent of a “dive bar” and got to drinking.

I’ve never really had a problem finding trouble. I’ve had a nose for it ever since I was a kid. Or maybe trouble just found me? Either way we are like the north and south ends of magnets, always being drawn towards one another. After a few drinks the bartender clued me in to the fact that there was a ‘secret’ strip club upstairs. Normally titty bars aren’t my thing, and the only titties I like to touch are the ones I use my brain and booze to barter for, not the ones I buy my way onto, but, well, being in Italy I wasn’t about to pass up on this kind stranger’s invite to their exclusive flesh fiesta. The scene was more like a brothel and less a typical strip club… I went upstairs and it was just me and a gaggle of disinterested gals sitting around and listening to some lousy space age funk… I ordered a drink and the girls approached me one by one to ask if I would like to go to a private room for some “dancing.” I picked the girl who spoke the most English…which wasn’t much at all. We went to the back room and she told me it was 50 euros for 3 songs of “dancing” in this room. When in Itlay, right? I pulled out some cash… then came the hard sell… 100 euros for a handjob, 150 for a blowjob and 200 euros to fuck her… I’m all for rewarding hard working members of the service industry, and have been known to be a pretty good tipper, yet having this girl service me for cash just didn’t feel right… buuuuut, I had been drinking all day. I had to have some sort of fun, right? That’s when I noticed the string peeking out of her panties, and my mind went into overdrive. After a heated negotiation that found me trying to use every variation of “yes, Im serious” we struck up a deal. 50 euros for her to take her panties off and dance in front of me while I slowly removed the tampon from her body. To this day, it stands as one of the most erotic encounters I’ve ever had with a woman in a foreign country who barely spoke English. I felt naughty at the time. But when I woke up the next morning and found the tampon wrapped in a napkin in my tuxedo pocket, well then I just felt dirty. And I love feeling dirty.

I hit the road early that morning so I wouldn’t be in rush to get to Cannes, and had one simple instruction: get to this specific hotel NO LATER THAN 5pm to pick up my credentials for the film premiere. There’s no feeling like piloting a world class motorcyle over the rolling seaside hills along the mediterranean. Part of me wished the road would just go on forever, but knowing I had such an intriguing destination made me savor every piece of pavement as In rolled over it. When I got to Monaco I had to make a detour and ride through that city / state / country? They were preparing for the Grand Prix so I just followed the grandstands and imagined ripping up those roads at 200+ MPH with all the spectators and could almost hear their cheers over the revving of my engine. That was a great side trip, but it was getting late and I needed to made a dash for Cannes. That’s the great thing about motorcycles – they are perfect for leisurely rides, but can transform into rockets when you need to make up time… I wasn’t too stressed. Before long I saw Cannes in the distance… it’s pretty built up compared to the rest of the coast in that area, which was lucky for me since I didn’t have a map, a GPS or even a cell phone. All I had was the name of a hotel that Shappy had told me was “right in downtown Cannes – you can’t miss it. Just be SURE to be there by 5pm before they close the office for the day and you won’t be able to get into the screening.”

Things were going fine til I snaked my way to downtown Cannes and the flow of cars turned into gridlock. I started maneuvering the bike through the tight tufts of traffic and towards downtown, feeling like a champ for renting a bike instead of a car. It was 430pm and I could see the hotel off in the distance so I wasn’t worried at all. Til I saw the police had closed off the main road into Downtown Cannes and were diverting the traffic up into the hills. Shit. Fuck. This wasn’t good. I revved up the bike up and zipped up into the hills hoping my sense of direction would bring me back down close to the hotel… I was up at the crest of the hill and moving really slowly in traffic on a super narrow 2 lane street. Too narrow to snake the bike around so I just idled and crept along and got anxious. Super fucking anxious. Surely I didn’t fly and ride all this way to miss the…. BANG!!!!!!! WHAT THE…..?!?!?!?!

Fuck. I’m on the ground. And not feeling too good. The bike is layed out next to me. There’s a black SUV behind me. And a few confused french pedestrians just staring at me. Once I ascertained that I could move all of my limbs I got up and dusted myself off. Then tried to pick the bike up. Shit was mad heavy. One of the pedestrians helped get it upright. I stared down the driver of the SUV. He hit the locks on his doors. I must have looked a tad pit upset. I started banging on his window and he rolled it down a little bit. I started screaming at him “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?!?!? Don’t you open your fucking eyes?!?!?!” He was just replying in flustered french. Traffic had started moving again but I sure as shit wasn’t going to let him go anywhere until surveyed the damage to my bike. Other than a few scratches and broken mirror and turn signal cover, it was in decent shape. I hit the starter and it fired right up. So I shut it down and went back to yelling at the Frenchy. I had taken my helmet off by this time and was hoping he would step out of the car so I could smash him in the face with it. It was quite obvious that he didn’t need to speak English to figure out what the fuck I was thinking. That’s when the helpful pedestrian pointed down the road a couple hundred yards to a policeman that was making his way towards us… I weighed my options quickly, and figured that even though I was totally in the right, I wasn’t so sure a french policeman would see it that way… and I didn’t have any time to waste as I needed to get to this god damned hotel. Still totally shell shocked I fired up the bike, hopped on and tore off down the sidewalk to skirt the traffic… A clean getaway!

I managed to navigate the bike within 2 blocks of the hotel, parked and sprinted past the doormen and busted into the swank lobby, a big blur of tattoos and tattered threads. And my helmet was still on. Just your everyday average American tourist in France, amirite??

I pulled the helmet off and breathlessly shouted to everyone and no one in particular “Where’s the U2 3D PR office?!?!?!” They directed me to the third for so I vaulted the stairs and sprung into their suite just as the women working there were putting their bags over their shoulders preparing to close up shop for the day. They took one look at me and the gorgeous one, Diane, said “You must be Peter Shaprio’s friend” with a big smile… “He told us to expect a guy on a motorcycle to arrive at the last possible minute.” I had been so amped up to find this hotel that the weight of the crash hadn’t even set in as I rushed to the hotel, and once I realized everything was going to be alright and I was going to make it to the premiere, all the pent up shock, grief and disbelief came pouring out of me in a river of tears. I was yelping and shaking like a dog passing a peach pit. Diane asked what happened and I managed to stammer “I…I… I… just got hit by a car and thrown off my motorcyle about 10 minutes ago…” She took her bag of and brought me over to a couch and demanded I lay down. She certainly was an angel… She sat with me for about 45 minutes and got me a blanket and some water and aspirin, and stayed til I was calm and composed enough to get back on my bike. After thanking and thanking and thanking her she drew me a crude map to Peter’s hotel and I was on my way to drop my stuff, press my tux and giddy on up to the pre-screening cocktail party… You know how a confirmed bachelor “presses” a tux right? You put it on a hanger and leave it in the bathroom while you take a long hot shower. I learned that trick in an old issue of “I Guess That’ll Do Housekeeping”

The Handsome Twins

The Handsome Twins

Looking like a billion bucks now, me and Peter headed to the cocktail reception. It was in a tent on the quay by the sea, just a stones throw from the Grand Palais. Peter’s brother and producing partner John were there, as were the Shapiro parents. And one of the owners of the NY Giants. I resisted my urge to tackle him. But I did strike up a conversation with a striking blonde Australian who happened to be a dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. She was seeing the movie solo and as the party wound down we decided to walk the red carpet together. Before we could, though, we had to wait for U2 to make their big arrival. The main boulevard in Cannes outside the Palais was lined with bleachers for spectators to watch the stars arrive at all the big premieres. When U2 arrived, the crowd went predictably nuts. It took the 4 of them quite some time to traverse the entire red carpet and make it to the grand staircase outside the theater, but once they did, the stagehands went into overdrive and rolled out risers with all of the band’s gear and U2 delivered an “impromptu” set for their “fans.” It was quite a treat to see a U2 concert in the original 3D that God invented, before going inside to see them on screen in a 3D process that the Shapiro brothers had pioneered.

The movie really was a sight to behold. It was shot in a couple of of soccer stadiums in South America so the crowd energy was absolutely insane, and I guess I gotta admit that U2 puts on a hell of a show! The whole time all I could think was “How amazing would this be if it was a band I really loved!”

After the screening there was another quick cocktail reception in the lobby, and a few black vans waiting to take us to an “exclusive” afterparty. My instinct was to follow Ms Moulin Rouge who was off to some other party, but Peter assured me there would be free booze, so I was stoked. When we got to the club there was a mob scene outside trying to get in, which didn’t give me a good feeling. We were ushered right inside though and shit was CRAY. A gorgeous huge nightclub and lounge and only about 40 people inside. U2 were all posing in one corner, but then I spotted Bob Richie straight maxin and relaxin on a couch with a supermodel looking lady. Instantly I was giddy as a school girl. I grabbed Peter and said “I know you gotta go hobnob with U2 and be a big movie producer and shit but if you could just PLEASE introduce me to Kid rock I promise not to embarrass you or bother you for the rest of the night.” Peter had previously made an IMAX concert film called All Access that featured Kid Rock, so I knew he could make that happen. And of course he did. Kid Rock invited me to take a seat on the couch with him and offered me a drink from his bottle of vodka. We were just hanging out talking about the movie, Cannes, girls, all sorts of shit for a good long while. Of course I never let on that I “knew who he was”. We were just two dudes on a couch ignoring the fact that U2 was on the other side of the room getting all the attention.

After a while he asked me “So, what do you do for work?” I told him I owned a concert promotion business in NYC called Rocks Off and he said “Like the first song off Exile On Main Street… NICE!” I saw my opening and I took it and said “No, more like ‘I gotta get my rocks off / cuz my wrangler’s won’t fit unless my cock’s soft!'” Which is a line from his little known and long out of print first full length called the “POLYFUZE METHOD” He looked at me like I was crazy and said “How the fuck do you know the Polyfuze Method?? NODOBY knows the Polyfuze Method. We only made 1,000 copies of that thing.” I just grinned and said “Im a huge fucking fan, man.” He put his arm around my neck and said “Well you’re alright, me and you, we’re hangin out all night!” And hang out we did. We just took over that couch and got on like long lost brothers all night. Girls came and went, but all we were interested in was shooting the shit. I was in heaven. At one point the onwer of the club took us into his back office and poured out the biggest mound of cocaine I had EVER SEEN. Not that I had seen too many mounds of cocaine in my lifetime. Just a few molehills… This shit was straight outta Scarface and he told us all to roll up a bill and just sniff up as much as we wanted. We did, and it wasn’t til later on that I learned that the busted chick who I had wondered how she made her way into that room with us was Mischa Barton. A few weeks later all the gossip sites were saying she had been hospitalized for “exhaustion.”

After that party started to die down, Kid Rock said he was gonna have an after party at his place and asked if me and Peter wanted to come with. We said fuck yeah and we all headed outside where there was STILL a huge crowd of people trying to get into this club. I guess it really was exclusive. I’m still wondering how I got in.

Kid Rock had a limo waiting for him so me and Peter and Kid Rock and his ladyfriend all piled in. The ladyfriend I later learned was May Anderson, who he wrote “She’s Half Your Age And Twice As Hot” about in reference to her and his ex-wife Pamela Anderson. Half her age, yeah. Twice as hot? Maybe 1.5 times. But that lyric wouldn’t really flow so well… “His place” turned out to be a 3 story Yacht that was moored in the Mediterranean. When we boarded the yacht there was already a party in full swing. I say “Party” because there was an open bar with a bartender in a bow ties and two waiters walking around with trays of appetizers. And only 8 people there. We made it a perfect dozen. I went to the bar to get a drink and standing next to me was James Blunt. I didn’t have too much to say to him, but on the other side of me was a fabulous gay dude so I started chatting him up. His name was Ken and he was from Texas. I told him about how much I love Teas, especially Austin and that I had been there a dozen times. He said “You should meet my friend Jessica! JESSICA, this is Jake – he loves Texas – Jake, Jessica is from Texas too!” I turned towards Jessica and sitting right next to me was Jessica Simpson – IN A BATH ROBE!!! Seemed like maybe it was the end of a long night for her – but we chatted politely for a while and then I took this photo

Chicken of the Sea!

Chicken of the Sea!

A friend of mine saw this and to this day does not believe I didn’t fuck Jessica Simpson. He actually still tells people I did even after all of my refusals. Good thing I never told him about the tampon!

The rest of the night was spent hanging and chilling with Kid Rock, Peter and May Anderson. We were up way past the morning light. Waaaay past. Ill just let these pics speak for themselves…

Friends support Friends

Friends support Friends

Dolphins and Unicorns Foreva!

Dolphins and Unicorns Foreva!

The gang's all here!

The gang’s all here!

After sleeping off the party for a few hours, I got back on my bike and spent the next three days winding my way back to Milan. That ride is the first time I ever topped 200 KiIometers Per Hour on a motorcycle. When I came home I ended up buying that same model motorcycle. I’ve run into Kid Rock a few more times over the years, and whenever I do he remembers me as “that crazy guy from Cannes!” I’d much rather be remembered for that than fucking Jessica Simpson. Respect. And Condiche. Vaya Condiche.

Long after sunrise.  Photo by Kid Rock.

Long after sunrise. Photo by Kid Rock.

J is for Juggalo Beatdown

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 10th so the letter of the day is J.

J is for Juggalo Beatdown. The story of how I got my ass beat at the Gathering of the Juggalos.


For those who have been following my Insane Clown Adventures, or even just reading this blog, you’ll know that I went all in, balls deep down into the rabbit hole of Juggalo culture the day I got my first taste. I didn’t go online and buy a t-shirt. I marched right down to Tasha at Inborn Ink and got hatchetman tattoo and dropped $13,000 to charter a bus for 6 days to shuttle a bunch of literal maniacs to Cave in Rock, Illinois for the Gathering of the Juggalos. And yes, I absolutely count myself as one of those maniacs. You wanna get an idea of where on earth Cave-In-Rock Illinois is? Get out a map of “NOWHERE” – unfold that motherfucker, and stick a pin deep in the heart of the middle of it and you’ll have an idea. That trip was somewhat chronicled in a previous post “G is For Gathering of the Juggalos” Something I forgot to mention in that post though is that the trip ended up losing me about $5,000 because I grossly miscalculated how many Juggalos would pay for that service. Most “promoters” I know woulda cut bait and cancelled the trip. Not me, I went and had a great fucking time, and after it was all said and done, and realising that it might just be a flawed business model, for the 2012 Gathering I rented an RV to take me and a just a select group of maniacs this time around. As much fun as I had camping for 5 nights the last time, I wasn’t about to do that again. I’ve never understood sleeping in a tent. I’ve worked way too fucking hard to be able to afford a halfway decent shithole in New York City to then go out to the woods and pretend to be homeless.

I set about trying to recruit some assholes to help split the cost of this thing with me, and of course I had less luck than a parolee violating a restraining order… Sure everybody SAID they were down. Sean Dunne, my homie who shot and directed and the phenomenal American Juggalo at the 2011 Gathering said he was in and bought a plane ticket to Nashville where we were gonna get the RV. About 2 weeks before we were set to go he got a paying film gig too sweet to pass up and had to bail. That left us with me and Sugar Shane who couldn’t back out because he works for me so I told him the trip was compulsory. Didn’t even count it as vacation time so technically this dude had an all expense paid trip to the madness. Not that he minded of course, as at the 2011 Gathering he set the record for “quickest profit turned on the drug bridge”! Things were looking rosy for Sugar Shane. Drew Rabbitclub aka 2DRU was my rock though. No way he would let me down. A few weeks before the Gathering I went to meet Drew and our buddy Lucas for a margarita at Niagra. That whole episode is gonna be written up on another day. Probably on S is for Shitfaced. But that night Lucas agreed to come with us so we bought him a ticket. A couple days later he called asking how to cancel. Something about his girlfriend persuading him to come to his senses. But at least Drew was still in. Til he wasn’t.

The day before we were set to leave Drew called me and said that he had come down with a nasty tooth infection and wasn’t going to be able to make it to the Gathering. Said his face was mad swollen. I knew he wasn’t lying cuz he had already found a sucker to take care of his hyperactive team of pit bulls. The morning we were going to leave I went out to pick up some last minute supplies. I knew I needed a sweet outfit to wear all weekend, and inspired by a recent pic I had seen of Lemmy, I went to the Levi store and bought a pair of jeans and a matching denim jacket.

This is what Lemmy looked like:

The King of Cool

The King of Cool

And here’s what I looked like:

The Author At Home With his Lemmy Pants

The Author At Home With his Lemmy Pants

With that mission accomplished I went by Drew’s house to pick up a T-Shirt he had custom made… He said since he couldn’t wear it at least I should take it and rep it at the gathering. When I got there he showed me his shirt. It was black print on a white shirt. It said “WOOP WOOP” If you know anything about Juggalos it’s that we have a sort of rallying cry / mating call. And it’s “WHOOP WHOOP” with the 2nd WHOOP being a little more drawn out and rising in pitch as it’s spoken / said / slurred / shouted / screamed. Sorta like the new siren of the NYPD cars – coincidence? I don’t think so… #WHOOPWHOOP! I laughed my as off and told Drew what a fucken idiot he was for misspelling Whoop Whoop. He wasn’t amused at me pointing out what a shithead he was so I decided not to push it. I told him I would take his shirt with me and rep it in honor of him. I just couldn’t bring myself to really fuck with him, cuz he was in serous pain. I mentioned his tooth infection but didn’t it justice. The entire left side of his face was SWOLLEN AS FUCK. Once he explained that he needed to be on antibiotics because of said infection and that would preclude him from drinking at the Gathering, I of course let him off the hook. No booze = no Gathering as far as I was concerned. Hell even the pharmecuticals you can buy on the drug bridge don’t achieve the required affect without a little alcohol mixed in.

We were down Drew, so now it was 2 and 2. We had picked up Jessica Cross, former longtime Rocks Off employee who happened to be in Nashville for some meetings that ended the morning we needed to pick up the RV, and a somewhat random Jersey Juggalette named Patricia who I had met at an ICP show at Hammerstein and didn’t know anything about really other than she replied to my Facebook post asking who wanted to ride in our RV and split the cost with us. I knew from facebook that she worked as a stenographer for court proceedings so figured she wasn’t a fellon and that was good enough for me. What could possibly go wrong??

We went and picked up the RV and got a little bit of a crash course in how to operate this thing. Im pretty sure none of us really paid attention to the instructions delivered to us by the guy from Deliverance. But no matter, I was full of that blind faith you have that nothing can go wrong when you simply fail to grasp the scope of exactly what can go wrong. We set off for the Gathering and after a 5 hour drive from Nashville and a nice long wait for the ferry to get us over the Fuckee River from Kentucky to Illinois we arrived at Hatchet Landings aka Cave-In-Rock, IL.

We quickly parked the RV and found our way to drug bridge. We weren’t gonna waste any time getting back into the swing of things. But we also weren’t looking to get loaded. Just wanted to feel back at home amongst our people. With a buncha provisons procured, we reconvened at the RV to start testing the waters, so to speak… Once our buzzes were buzzin we headed over to the main stage to see the Geto Boyz.. One thing people don’t realize is that the Gathering actually brings together a lot real hip hop groups. In fact the Geto Boys were making their first appearance together in over 10 years. We were getting down to Scarface, Wilie D and Bushwick Motherfucking Bill, when a guy came by and offered to sell us some mushrooms that he just swore were amazing. Jesscia did some negotiating and before we knew it we were all lip-deep in the caps of some funky ass fungus. The mushrooms hit the three of us all at once, and as soon as they did we realized we needed to get back to the RV, like, uh, IMMEDIATELY!!!! We got back there as quickly as we could and proceeded to TRIP THE FUCK OUT for a few hours. And when I say trip, I mean fucking TRIP. We were all pretty sure that we were seeing aliens and UFOs out in the night sky, and we weren’t at all worried, au contraire, we were EXCITED! We spent a few hours just laying in the grass and rolling around and talking about how comfortable it was. It wasn’t until we went back into the RV and turned the lights on that what we learned avery important lesson about the power of those mushrooms. WE WERE ALL COMPLETELY COVERED IN DIRT!!!! I went back outide with a flashlight and found that that luxurious grass that we had been rolling around in simply did not exist. Yup, the mushrooms were just THAT GOOD!

We had the perfect buzz to go check out some wrassling! We put on our special outfits for the matches, or at least I did. Lemmy Pants (aka Daisy Dukes) and Drew’s WOOP WOOPP shirt. And a buncha silver stripper glitter. What could go wrong?

Me and Sugar Shane and Jessica headed to the wrassling tent and posted up near the guard rail to take it all in. People were flipping and twisting and punching and selling. It was wrassling at it’s best. Until it wasn’t. Last thing I remember Sugar Shane and Jess were standing in front of me and we were Whoop Whooping it up! And then the next thing I knew I was staring straight up at the sky with the Cave-In-Rock dirt seemingly the only thing that had my back. As I tired to wrap my now swollen head around what the fuck had just happened, I was peering into the faces of some strange yet friendly Juggalos informing me that I had just gotten knocked the fuck out. I had no idea what the fuck they were talking about, And then it hit me. I HAD just gotten knocked the fuck out!! But from where? And by who?? According to the group of ‘Los some fucking scumbag had run up on me from behind and smashed me in the side of the face and then run right away. My clock had been cleaned. Because Sugar Shane and Jess had been standing in front of me they hadn’t seen what happened and only turned around when they hear my body lose it’s fight with gravity and attack the Illinois soil. By then it was too late for anyone to do anything as the cowardly perpetrator was already sprinting away to the safety of darkness. Without hesitation, the friendly Juggalos picked me up and shepherded me away to the relative safety of a patch of actual grass about 100 yards from the wrassling tent. One of my guarding angels brought me a bottle of water while the others propped me up on a fluffy patchy of earth to let me regain what little of my senses I had left. I was stunned. Stunned at how something like this could happen at an event so ruled by FAMILY! But no matter – I was regaining my composure and happy to be resting on the grass and still able to be enjoying the wrassling event from afar. I may have been an unknowing participant in Bloodymania, but at least I was able to still be spectating.

As I was laying back in the grass and finally starting to wrap my rapidly swelling head around what had just happened, I heard a bit of commotion… As my eyes trained on the blur coming toward me I snapped to attention just as a body launched through the air at my prone figured and a fist came smashing down upon my face. With what little coherence I had left I was able to ascertain that said fist was attached to the body of a man with murderous intent. Like it was in slow motion I could see his whole body flying through the air like a FUCK YOU projectile and kept it in focus until, with one resounding CRASH, there was no focus left. FUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKK. I was under attack. Again. This time the fucker had brought reinforcements, and as soon as the first guy hit me, I was the recipient of a barrage of blows from a battalion of bastards that were in the midst of a full strength attack on my very being. I only recall bits and peices of what happened next, as it was mostly me covering up and struggling for survival, but I can still see a few frames clear as day. I can see Sugar Shane perched up on a guy’s back trying to put him in a sleeper hold. I can see Jess punching a guy from behind with little effectiveness… and I can clearly remember the distinct sound of cheap K-Mart cotton ripping against my flesh and the fibers peeling away form each other as this piece of shit was screaming “TAKE THAT FUCKING SHIRT OFF!” Before I even had a grasp of what was happening, the fucking cowards were off again for the sprint to the spot in hell reserved for cheap shot artists. Unfortunately it’s a place that Sugar Shane and Jess couldn’t follow them to… As all this was happening my guardian angels from earlier had noticed the commotion and come back to help run these bastards off. When the dust settled, Jess went to a security guard and said “Aren’t you gonna DO anything??” to which he replied “Man, it gets worse here every year”, shrugged, and sulked away. Security my ass. My badly beaten ass.

Night 1

When relative calm was restored, I was once again surrounded by the friendly Juggalos, and they picked me up and formed a circle around me and told me “You are not OK. That was fucked up, and we are going to take you to the medical tent. We are going to form a circle around you so that if those assholes try and come back to get you again we WILL NOT let them get to you.” As badly beaten down as I was at that point, both mentally and physically, I remember a sense of relief washing over me that YES, I was surrounded by FAMILY, and that now I was finally going to be OKAY. Or so I hoped. When we arrived at the medical tent… I realized that we weren’t at NY Presbyterian, or even Bellevue. We were at an overwhelmed, understaffed and undersupplied festival medical tent in some ass backwards back woods county just on the outskirts of GoFuckYourselfVille.

When I was finally seen by a medical “professional” his exam consisted of him opening the conversation by asking “Man what did you do to get beaten up like this??” and then he shined a flashlight in each eye and asked if I knew where I was. OF COURSE I knew where I was. I had travelled more than 24 hours to be here. I might have been a fucking retard for being here in Cave-In-Rock but I wasn’t STUPID I told him. Just after our conversation I looked over and they were wheeling in a guy who was having a seizure. Then a moment later a helicopter landed by the medical tent and when I asked what was happening the dude told me “This Ninja is going into cardiac arrest so we need to airlift him to the medical center.” It suddenly dawned on me that I was the least of their problems so I grabbed a bag of Ice and me and Sugar Shane and Jess made our way back to the RV. I spent the rest of the night chugging beers and holding an ice pack to my head while Shane and Jessica went off to watch the Miss Juggalette contest. I passed out long before they got back, but when I finally woke up they told me they had at least checked to make sure I was still breathing before they went to sleep. Probably more than I would have remembered to do if the roles were reversed.

That morning, which was Saturday, we discussed leaving, but I was adamant that we stay. I hadn’t driven all that fucking way to NOT see Insane Clown Posse who were headlining that night. I also wasn’t about to let those fuckers run me out of town. They might have ruined my face for the weekend but they weren’t going to ruin my whole trip!

I went to work and created some fun t shirts… my favorite was the one that said “DON’T FUCK WITH ME” on the front And “I ALREADY GOT BEAT UP TWICE LAST NIGHT” on the back and we went out and made the rounds of the Gathering.

Clear as day, the author thought!

Clear as day, the author thought!

The worst part about wandering around that day was that I had no idea what those douche canoes looked like, so every time somebody was walking directly towards me I wondered if I was about to get attacked again. That got old quick so we returned to the RV and spent most of the day just hanging out with each other and trying to make a dent into the gallons and gallons of booze we had brought. I’m no doctor but in retrospect, I bet it’s not a good idea to drink alcohol after a concussion. But boy it sure did make me feel better.

As the midnight hour drew near and we were getting ready to head to the main stage to see ICP I came up with a good disguise. I put on a hoodie and and tied a bandana over my face all bandito style which let me move throughout the grounds with anonymity and greatly reduced my fears of a third beatdown.

That day I had sent a pic of my face to my friend Kodi who worked for ICP and her response was “What the fuck did you do!!!?” Of course she thought I instigated it. She knew me well. Maybe I did. Maybe Jugaglos were allergic to glitter. And tight daisy dukes on men. OR maybe they were just a couple of bad kernels in an otherwise wonderful family-filled field of corn. I prefer the latter. But I did manage to elicit enough sympathy from Kodi for her to let me onstage at the end of the ICP set to take part in Faygo Armageddon. If you’ve ever seen ICP you know exactly what that is. If not, well then you gotta go see it for yourself. During the last song they bring out multiple pallates full of diet root beer Faygo. Diet because it doesn’t have sugar so won’t leave you all sticky. And root beer cuz it’s got the best smell. And they let 40 or 50 fans onstage to crack em all open and spray them all over the crowd. It’s sublime. And it made the whole trip, beatdown included, worth it to take part in that. It was as joyous an occasion as I’ve ever felt. And it happened while they played one of my favorite ICP songs – BANG! POW! BOOM!

The maniacal author onstage during Faygo Armageddon - photo Courtesy

The maniacal author onstage during Faygo Armageddon – photo Courtesy

After the show, elated but soaked to the bones in midwestern budget pop, we were freezing so we made a bee line back to the RV. I decided to leave well enough alone and let that cap of my Gathering of the Juggalos experience. The next morning as soon as I woke up I started driving us back to Nashville, one massive headache-accentuated mile after the the other.

I’m not sure Ill be going back to the Gathering of the Juggalos this year, or ever again for that matter. But it’s not because my love of ICP has waned. And it’s not because I no longer consider myself a Juggalo. I do. I am. But I’m a lot of things. And one of the things I most certainly am not is repetitive in my travels. There’s still a lot of places I want to see and things I want to do in this world. If I’m going to rent an RV for a week and travel through the heartland, I’m probably going to focus it around a NASCAR Race, and try and find a demolition derby nearby. Or go to Branson and see Tony Orlando perform in the Tony Orlando theater. That’s a lifelong dream. Or I’ll gonna go spend a couple weeks in Thailand. Or go to Peru and hike to Machu Pichu. Maybe see what living in Botswana without any electricity or running water is like. Or maybe try something really fun like attempting to get my picture taken with a cannibal tribe in Papa New Guinea. If there’s one thing I do NOT like to do on vacation, it’s go to music festivals. I just don’t like seeing music in the sunlight. But I still love me some ICP. Im going to travel to Hartford to see them on their next tour. A few months after all this shit went down I traveled to Detroit for Hallowicked – the annual ICP hometown Halloween concert. And I got to take part in Faygo Armageddon yet again, thanks to my main mahfukka Kevin Gill moving literal mountains of security guards to get me up there. I also tracked down the address of the lawyer who is suing the FBI on behalf of ICP because of the FBI’s official categorization of Juagglos as a street gang. I lietrally showed up unannounced at his fancy law office Bloomfield Hills, MI in a denim jacket with a huge hatchet man on the back and asked the front desk lady if I could just shake his hand and say thank you. And you know what? It worked. Dude came down from his office to meet me and talked to me. People have no reason to be scared of Juggalos. But people DO have reason to be scared of closed-minded assholes. They are everywhere. There’s a few in every church and more than a few at every sporting event. I’ve seen so many more fights at Yankees and Giants games or on a single night out at the bars than I’ve seen at two whole Gatherings of the Juggalos. Just because I was an unwitting participant in one of them doesn’t scare me away from going and hanging out with a buncha fucking wackos who love being around one another. I just hope that the next time someone wants to punch me in the face they have the balls to let me know first. Then I’m certain there will be a completely different fucking ending. As long as my friend Drew is there. Cuz he’s really really really good at fighting.

#WhoopWhoops The 4 stages of grief

#WhoopWhoops The 4 Stages of Grief

I is for Iridescent Pink

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge. Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month. Neat right? Today is April 9th so the letter of the day is I.

I is for Iridescent Pink

As in the color I just had my motorcycle painted. After my last two motorcycles got stolen a combined 3 times, I decide to go all in and buy a Ducati. At the shop in SoHo the only version of the Streetfighter model I wanted that they had in stock was Yellow. I didn’t want a Yellow bike but when my buddy Erich told me they would give me $1,000 off and it would only cost about $1,000 to get it painted whatever color I wanted, I figured I had a deal. I agreed to buy it and Erich laughed when I said “Im gonna paint this shit pink, bro.” I didn’t actually get around to sending it off to the painter til the winter, because I wasn’t gonna go without my brand new super fast motorcycle for upwards of a month while the weather was nice. In February when it was finally too cold (and snowy) for me to safely ride around the city I finally sent it up to Robbie Nigl at Peach Pit in New Hampshire, who is considered by everyone I asked to be THE GUY to go to in the Northeast. After 6 weeks she just came back to me today. And she looks so sweet! So I was faced with a dilemma. Stay in on this first gorgeous day of the spring season and write a long blog post about the letter I. Or go and ride my glorious pink motorcycle. Her name is Bronxy. At least I think it’s a her. Not sure how I can find out. I guess I’ll just have to stick my dick in the tail pipe and fuck it. If I cum inside that I’ll know it’s a she. If I feel a little bit weird and vaguely ashamed, then I’ll have to assume it’s a dude. #NoBruno.

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