I’ve asked around quite extensively and it would seem that precious few sixteen year olds can say that they’ve been chased down by helicopters, handcuffed and thrown in the back of a cop car. However god, the petty and vindictive son of a bitch that he is found it best to bestow me with such an experience.

It was another average night for my friends and I. We had played a show for some five-hundred ravenous undergarment tossing fans and planned to round out the evening with a sound dose of drugs, drink and debauchery. The only thing different about this night as opposed to any other was where we chose to perform the latter of these tasks. More often than not our elicit activities were confined within the soundly constructed walls of one of out Carmichael homes. It would seem that this night however we were full of youthful defiance and a well honed belief that we were invincible. We had decided that the best arena for the under aged consumption of mass amount of drugs and alcohol was Star King Middle School. Nestled safely within one of the many sub-suburbs Star King was not unlike any other middle school found in Carmichael. Unfortunately unlike many of the other houses of education found in the area Star King had recently experienced a rash of vandalism. It was this unknown fact that would prove to be our undoing.

In a decision that we at the time found to incredibly wise we chose to set up shop at the far end of the property. On the bleachers where hundreds perhaps thousands of parents had sat to watch their children play soccer we set out to become thoroughly inebriated. Even then we knew it to be impossible to have an acceptably good time without the proper music to awaken the slumbering soul. A boom box was brought forth to amplify what we found to be the great music of our era. I’m sure now that any house within earshot (of which there were quite a few) found their quiet bedrooms filled with the less than soothing voices of Ben Weasel, Fat Mike and Joe Queer. However the assurance of a sound nights sleep for a few squares was the least of our concerns.

We were sixteen year old gods rollicking on the field of battle that is adolescence. For almost three hours we worshipped at the throne of hedonism and all were welcome to the plunder. Stacks of Natural Ice piled chest high, uncountable bottles of Boones Farm representing every color of the rainbow and sandwich baggies that in grade school had once housed peanut butter sandwiches were now overflowing with the finest marijuana a high school campus could provide. We had made ourselves kings and even went so far as to provide the court with crowns. For as anyone who has wasted a respectable amount of their lives drink cheap booze knows that a twelve pack box fits perfectly over ones head. However it would seem that our reign was not meant to last. Perhaps we had grown too vain with power. Perhaps we hadn’t offered the gods proper tribute. Regardless of what brought about our fate, in the end our empire would be inexplicably crushed.

Like a specter of doom a helicopter rose on the horizon and adorned with an empty twelve pack box on my head I mused,

“Wouldn’t it be funny… If that helicopter was here for us?”

Before the quip could complete its escape from my lips the heavens broke open and the light of judgment shown upon us. In simpler terms the cops wrecked our fucking party. The ensuing moments were absolute chaos. Perhaps it is because I was thoroughly fucking hammered but all I remember are glimpses of moments, flashes and Oliver Stone jump cuts. Although I do recall vividly that the officer manning the helicopter’s loud speaker was a godless condescending cocksucker. From the height and perspective of the helicopter it was undoubtedly a ridiculous site. Within seconds all twenty of us has scattered like so many pieces of drunken shrapnel. I now understand the vague and primal concept of fight or flight. The moment that spotlight dropped down upon us it was every man and woman for themselves. Like very one of my friends I chose to run like hell. Had I chosen fight what would I have done? Should I have thrown my beer can skyward in an attempt to bring down the helicopter? Ultimately, running was most likely the best choice. Eleven years later I now realize that there was a third option open to us. We could have, I suppose, stayed right where we were and waited to receive our fair and just punishment. However there was no way I was going out like that. Outside of running my first instinct was to hide. Although it seemed logical at the time I now know that you can not hide from a helicopter under a tree. I pressed myself against the nearest trunk certain that the canopy of leaves would offer me the cover I so desperately needed. 

As I looked out on the seen before me I witnessed Mac perform an act I will forever admire him for. He had been caught dead to rights in the unforgiving glow of the spotlight. In one hand he held a half drained bottle of Boones Farm, in the other a cigarette. He looked up directly into the light. He then looked over to his bottle of Boones Farm and then his cigarette. He finally turned his eyes to me and then in complete silence, without a single word being spoken we had a conversation.

“What should I do?” his eyes pleaded.

My eyes told him to run.

“What about the Boones. And the cigarette!?”

As I shot him the glare that told him to forget about it I could tell he had already made his decision. He turned his head skyward for but a second assessing the situation. Then while bathed in light with determination the likes of which I had never seen he proceeded to chug the rest of his Boones Farm, take one last drag of his cigarette, toss them both and run. It was a bold and defiant move. One that unmistakably declared,

“I paid three dollars for this booze and I’m not letting it go to waste!”

Upon Mac’s departure the helicopter turned its attention to me. The tree which I was certain would provide my solace was immediately awash in light. A smug voice came through the loud speaker,

“I can see you down there smart guy! DO NOT RUN!”

I hadn’t run far enough or fast enough. I knew I had been beaten. I was instructed to return to my vehicle and I did so. Upon my arrival I was greeted by Mac and Rorick, their faces drenched with sweat and fear. Police cruisers descended upon us. Out of twenty they had brought down only the three of us but we would be made to know who was in charge. We were bullied threatened and ultimately cuffed and thrown in the back of a cop car. As we departed an officer leaned in and asked,

“Do you know what happens to soft little suburban boys like you in prison?”

Ever the defiant little son of a bitch I responded,

“No, what happens to soft little suburban boys like us in prison?”

I’ve already told this story to quite a few times but now that I have the intraweb on my side I’ll never have to tell it again.

“Look it up on my blog…Jerk.”

The Background: In October The Helpermonkeys went on our first full scale tour. 30 some odd shows in thirty some odd days. Needless to say it was fucking amazing. It just so happened that my birthday fell somewhere in the middle of our tour and because I have awesome friends my roommate offered to book us a hotel whenever we wanted as a birthday present. This is fucking invaluable when you’ve been crashing in “stanky-ass” punk houses for a few days.

The Story: So it was our first day back in the states from Canada. We played in St. Cloud Minnesota. It was a great show and the kids were helpful, amazing, and grateful for the bands they were getting in their fairly small town. We met Ben and his wife who had put together an amazing co-op style venue which was not only a place for kids to see shows but also a safe place to hang out, play video games and even go thrift shopping. Aside from being a great host and soundguy Ben had told us he could hook us up with some pot. It had been a few days since our last smoke so this was greatly appreciated. By the end of the night it was apparent that we wouldn’t be able to find a place to crash so I put in a call to my roommate.
“Hey dude, this is Jaz we cant find a place to crash tonight so it would be awesome if you could book that hotel room for us.”
“Sure dude, let me call you back.”
A few minutes later.
“Hey dude, all the rooms were booked at the Motel Sicks So I had to book you a room at the Best Western. They were pretty well booked up too so the room might be kinda crappy.”
“Hey man, a bed and a shower is more than we’ve had in few days so whatever it is we’ll be happy.”
Instinctively we cruise over to the crappy looking Best Western down the street where we find out we have no room booked in our name.
“Oookay I guess we’ll try that fancy looking one down by the club.”
We pull into the parking lot of the “fancy” Best Western and that’s when we realize that this is the hotel where that godawful excuse for a band “A Simple Plan” is stayin for three days till they play their huge arena show. The huge tour bus is parked right in front and even more nauseating than that is the Scion they’ve got parked next to the bus which is totally plastered with there faces and pictures of the newest and most technologically advanced Nokia cell phones on the market. If that’s not what punk rock is all about I don’t know what is.
I head into the office to claim our room and come to find out that we did NOT have a crappy room at all. That sneaky son-of-a-bitch had booked us a 2 story, 4 bed suite. Now, had that been the coolest thing that happened all night we would have been fucking stoked…..But, it only got better from there. We grabbed our bags and went to our room. Craig and Jeff hit the showers and Mac and I thought it best to hit the bar and have some drinks….Like gentlemen. On the way down to the bar Mac turns to me and makes a brilliant point.
“Ya know, I bet they don’t get alot of ‘rockers’ in this hotel. Just watch, they’re gonna think we’re A Simple Plan.”
HHhhmmmm
The bar is pretty much dead. A few glassy eyed traveling execs but certainly no “rockers”. Mac and I sit down and order two whiskeys. The bartender was disarmingly friendly. Usually, our “look” doesn’t exactly garner that kind of service in a “normal” bar. What in definitely doesnt do is get us free drinks but this night it did. A few moments after buying our first round of shots our friendly bartender brings out another round and places the bottle between the two of us. At this point Mac and I looked at eachother knowing full well what was going on. So we sat there a while smoking, drinking and reveling in our new found “star status”. Were working our way toward a nice healthy buzz when the bartender comes back over with two giant beers.
“Hey guys I just ‘accidentally’ poured these, you want em?”
You learn real quick to NEVER say no to anything free on tour. So we accepted the offer from our gracious if not slightly confused host. As we chatted with the bartender Mac, ever so subtly dropped the hint that he might be hungy.
“Well the kitchen’s closed, but Ill see what I can do for you guys.”
This is TOO fucking good.
About this time Jeff made his way down to the bar and was made aware of the con we had somewhat unwittingly stumbled into. Expecting some peanuts and pretzels we knew without a doubt what and who he thought we were when the food came out. A stunning spread (considering the kitchen was closed). A bread bowl with spinach dip, vegetables, a huge plate of nachos, oh and pretzels. More food than we had eaten in the last 3 days. Ben, his wife and a few of there friends showed up and were briefed on the situation.
“Help yourself to some dip.”
I then realized we could ride this fucking gravy-train all night if we played our cards right. I borrowed Jeff’s cell phone and stepped out of the bar for a moment. We couldn’t keep this all for ourselves. I needed to contact the two bands we were on tour with and get them down there ASAP. In the few moments I was out Mac blew our cover.
It went something like this…

Bartender: So, does it cost alot to drive that big tour bus around?

Mac: Uhh, actually….. That’s not us. Were in that little van over there.

The bartender surveys the veritable buffet he had laid before us, the empty pint glasses, the bottle of whiskey and walks away. Mere moment later he steps back over to us and curtly informs us that its last call and he needed to get out of there. The gravy train had been derailed. However, making our way back to our fucking suite drunk and full I couldn’t complain…..Much.

Upon returning to our room Mac was schooled in the fine art of lying.

“Actually… I have no idea how much it costs to keep that bus on the road. Our tour manager handles all that.”

Ive been rubbing filthy things all over it for too long now. Its taking its toll. Dipping it in experimental drugs, marijuana, alchohol, ungodly amounts of caffeine and cigarettes cant forget the cigarettes. Cheap ones that burn.