We were fifteen years old and creating our experience on a daily basis. Most involving the consumption of fist fulls of various drugs of varying effect. Gnashing at the bit desperate to feel the blood of life drip down our chest… But mostly we were just fucking high… Really fucking high. One of our closest friends of the time fancied himself a bit of a modern age Timothy Leary but mostly he was just high… Really fucking high. It was not entirely uncommon for him to call me at any given moment of the day requesting that I come over to his house so that I could closely watch as he swallowed/smoked/snorted some new experimental drug so that he could be sure he didn’t freak out or choke on his own tongue. Granted, a fairly heavy trip for a fifteen-year-old. At one point he had acquired a decent shipment of a new hallucinogen from some Swedish pharmaceutical lab. He described the drug as children’s chewable acid. We were children and we could chew and boy did we ever love acid. Around this time Nickelodeon was having puff-a-palooza marathons which consisted of full weekends of Sid and Marty Croft shows. I’m sure there were legions of kids all over the US dropping acid and taking the ride. We were not about to miss out on this. We locked ourselves in a friend’s bedroom strapped with bag loads of our new drug.  You may be assuming that this story is winding its way towards a good freak out. No, that comes later. Just hang in there.
As a child Mac was a kinetic beast. He rarely sat down and never stopped moving unless he was passed out or had dosed over. So sitting still to watch TV for 8 to 12 hours was quite a request. Needless to say it didn’t happen he was bouncing off the walls, literally. At one point Mac was perched atop the bed marveling at the feel of rice chex in his mouth when he threw himself full force back into the bed. Unfortunately, his head did not make it to the desired destination. The back of his skull made contact with the wall with a sickening crack. Everything froze and he stared at me in disbelief. Now maybe it was the hallucinogen but I’m fairly sure I could see the knot rising on the back of his head like a fucking cartoon. At full size it had grown to the size of a grapefruit. He shook as he daintily felt the new head growing out of the back of his own.
“Oh jesus… Oh fuck… This is bad… Really bad.”
He frantically looked around the room for help or assurance or more drugs. I had Mac turn around so that I could inspect the knot. It was freakish, insane, the largest knot I had EVER seen in my life. We should or could have taken him to the doctor but none of us were in any state to go on that sort of trip. So I did the only thing I could… I lied.
“Oh, shit that’s nothing. I’ve seen way bigger.”
Bullshit.
I slapped a band-aid in his hair and turned toward the TV.
“Shut up. I’m missing Land of the Lost here.”

So after that last post I figured I put up something a little more uplifting. It’s not for you, it’s for me.
Sacramento is lucky to have almost always had an incredibly lively punk rock scene. There are tons of bands playing tons of shows at tons of venues… Well, tons of bars. Look at it this way; you could live in Santa Cruz, which at any given moment has only a handful of viable punk bands. Granted there are problems with the scene in Sac. A painful lack of venues where anyone under 21 can go see a show and the city’s seemingly complete unwillingness to support the creation of said venues. I guess they would rather have their kids doing drugs and fucking rather than going to see live music… and doing drugs and fucking. The other thing which I believe holds us back as a scene is the disparate sects within our scene. We’re all friends we all see each other at shows, buy each other drinks and talk about what’s going on and what’s coming up. However, there is an unspoken and nearly unacknowledged gap between all of us. Nobody hates each other… I don’t think… but it’s still there. I think part of that comes from a lack of a central venue for everyone to rally around… The other part… I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s that as musicians/artists a lot of us are socially inept creatures who (albeit unwittingly) make themselves somewhat unapproachable. I know that it’s something that I do and its something that I’m always working on.
Now, regarding The Wu-Tang Clan. Here is rap group which set the standard for hip-hop for years to come. They worked as a unit. However, they were still very much individuals. They had a game plan and it worked incredibly well for them. They “formed like Voltron” and once the group had established their popularity they were free (and encouraged) to work individually. Then there was The Killer Bees. Again , once Wu Tang was at the peak of there popularity they were able to help their friends up the ladder.

Now I’m not saying that we don’t help each other out I know that it happens. What I’m saying is we’re lacking focus in regard success of the scene itself…. Maybe I’m just saying I’M lacking focus… Just thinking aloud here.

I don’t know how common it is amongst you “normals” out there but I have had and inexplicably high number of jobs for less than two days. I’ve never been fired from a job in that little amount of time. Every time I just walked away and never came back. They were all the kind of job I couldn’t possibly subject myself to for any amount of money. The kind of work no sane person could stand for any more than 16 hours. However because these jobs we’re so hellacious they are amongst my favorites. Allow me to regale you with the story of the worst job I ever had. It’s far and away the best job I’ve ever had.

I was seventeen years old I had just mad the incredibly wise decision to drop out of high school and I needed income. Grass doesn’t pay for itself you know. I was flipping through the paper looking for the perfect job when I saw it. It was an ad from a home audio company. It seemed too good to be true. They were looking for young men with a cursory knowledge of electronics for the installation of home audio equipment. They we’re willing to pay 15 dollars an hour to said individuals. I called Jeff who was also a high school drop out with no future and told him about the ad. We both agreed we were the right men for the job. We drove out to their warehouse for an interview. The office in front was starkly decorated almost as if they had just moved in. As far as job interviews go it was a breeze. We talked with boss for a few minutes.

“You guys know anything about home audio equipment?”

“Sure. We’re musicians.”

“You guys like people?”

I lied,

“Oh yeah.”

“Well you guys get the job. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”

Jeff and I drove home and celebrated by getting real damn high on that grass that doesn’t pay for it self. I picked Jeff up at seven the next morning and we drove out to our first day as well paid home audio installation experts. We parked around back and walked into the warehouse. What awaited us was amazing. There were probably about twenty guys running around jacked off on cheap dirty methanphetamines. Metallica’s Ride The Lightning was blasting from a stereo as they loaded speakers into a fleet of vans and minivans. Once the vans were all loaded we were split into teams of two. Each rookie was paired up with an “old pro” that would show us the ropes. My “pro” was Scott. He looked like Chris Penn with Jack Burton’s hair and was wound up like a meth fueled top.

“Alright bud! Let’s do this!”

We hopped in the van and we we’re off… Well kinda.

“Hey bud! I gotta make a stop first! You don’t mind do you!?”

“No I d…”

“Don’t answer that! Its doesn’t really matter if you mind does it!? HA HA HA!”

We stopped at shitty hotel near by and he jumped out of the van and ran inside. I listened to the radio. This was 96’ so that would probably put that god awful Cranberry’s song on while I waited for my “bud” to rail up in his hotel room. About ten minutes later Scott came twitching out of his hotel room rubbing his nose as if he was afraid it would jump off his face.

“Alright Bud! Let’s fucking rock!”

He cranked up the stereo and we pulled out of the parking lot with Linger pouring from the windows of our filthy little minivan.

“So… Where’s our first stop?” I asked assuming we would be making our way to a house where we would install speakers for a nice middle aged couple who would feed us cookies and lemonade.

“Where’s the Mexicans in this town!?”

“…What?”

“The Mexicans! Where are the Mexicans!?”

“…I… Uh… Well there are Hispanic people all over Sacramento.”

“Well where do they like to hang out!?”

“I don’t… I gue…”

“Shit this looks good!”

He wheeled the van into the parking lot of Tower Records and pulled up next to a young guy who was getting into his car.

“Hey bud! Hey bud!”

Then began a pauseless diatribe which almost sounded rehearsed.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment? Check it out bud! Look man me and my buddy here work for Apex Audio we we’re doing an install around the corner and our boss accidentally loaded an extra pair of speakers into the van. Where’s that invoice Jaz.”

This is where I learned the extent of my job for the rest of the day. It was my duty to produce the false paper work when my “bud” feigned not knowing where it went.

“Shit here it is! Check this out man! We were supposed to get four speakers but the guys in the warehouse fucked up and loaded up six! Here’s the deal bro these speakers are real fucking high quality! These things sell for fucking 1500 dollars each! Jaz! Where’s that brochure!?”

At this point I would produce a laminated brochure which clearly stated that these speakers we’re “really nice”.

“Check it out bud! Nobody knows we got these extra speakers I could sell em to you for dirt fucking cheap! Shit man I could give em to you for 600 bucks I mean fuck my boss right?! HA HA HA”

That was it. We did this all day. We never even stopped to eat. However “bud” did drink three or four bottles of Pepto Bismol. Some folks actually bought into this painfully transparent scam and threw down upwards of 800 dollars per speaker. How can one resist a deal THAT good!? One poor soul actually bought one speaker for 500 dollars.

“These speakers are so fucking good that one speaker sounds like four! You don’t even really need two of em!”

Some people tried to work their way out of the situation.

“Sorry man I don’t have any cash on me.”

“No prob bud! Where do you bank at!? We’ll follow you!”

At which point I would take the wheel of the van and “bud” would jump into the victim’s car uninvited and we would drive to the bank to get some cash to buy some “great speakers”.

I later found out the reason for “bud’s” affinity for Hispanic folks.

“Mira Mira! Amigo!”

He was a bilingual con man.

We drove around all day forcing “great speakers” on unsuspecting victims for a little extra cash. Cause “Fuck my boss right!?”

We actually sold every single speaker in the van that day. Jeff and his pro apparently didn’t do so good. They had actually driven all the way to San Francisco in an attempt to unload the “extra speakers” but didn’t sell one.

Jeff and I left that afternoon and never came back. When we got home I took a shower to wash off the filth of shame. We sat down and smoked some grass which still wasn’t paying for itself. As we relaxed on the couch a news report came on the TV warning viewers of a group of con men who had been working all over California selling speakers that didn’t even work out of the back of vans.

Every now and then I’ll be walking out of a record store and I’ll get stopped by a couple of guys in a van.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment!?”

(If you have not read the previous post you should do so before you read this.)

There are those moments in everyone’s lives where just as everything seems to be falling to pieces the world regains its composure and at very least offers you a slightly less fucked circumstance. Said moments are rare and magical and should be cherished. Not unlike the exceptional occasion where you drop your beer and by the grace of the gods you manage to catch it or it lands on the ground right side up. In a matter of moments our walls had come crumbling down upon us. Although I didn’t know it at the time I would escape this predicament relatively unscathed.

            The back of a police cruiser is not built to be comfortable. The hard plastic seats are constructed with purpose of reminding you that you have somehow managed to blow it so badly that you are no longer worthy of anything soft. The words of the officers who had taken us into custody seemed to be chosen by the same premise. Nothing soft here, only hard words meant to frighten. Declarations meant to inform you that you had chosen the wrong path and that there is heavy price to be paid for walking the road of the one percenter.

            We were taken to the parking lot of the nearest super market where we were made to wait for our parents who had been called at three in the morning and made aware of their children’s indiscretions. While we waited the officers did their best to instill the fear of god and prison in us. Unfortunately for them I did not believe in god. I did however believe in prison and despite my cool exterior I DID know what they did to soft little boys like us in prison. I prayed only that it would be my mother to come retrieve me. She would be understanding and comforting.

My heart sank as I watched my father pull into the parking lot. He was livid and only half awake. As far as my father’s disposition went this was a deadly combination. He had been woken at three in the morning out of a dead sleep and he was obviously not happy about it. It had been a long night it was apparently not ending any time soon. He stepped out of the truck, greeted the officers and proceeded to initiate a conversation which would solidify his place in my mind as the single coolest parent ever known. The officers made him aware of what had taken place in the soccer field at Star King. He stood stoic, silent, listening as the officers rambled. It was at this point that one of the officers dropped what he suspected to be the major bomb.

            “Did you know that you son is smoking marijuana?”

            “yeah.”

            “And don’t you think there’s something you should do about that?”

            There was a pause that seemed like an eternity of time and space spreading out before me. Then it happened.

            “My dad couldn’t have done anything to stop me from smoking grass and I suspect that I can’t do anything to stop him.”

I looked over at my dad flabbergasted at his response and then to the officer in charge who seemed to be more dumbfounded than I. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Upon being informed that your child has been consuming illicit drugs you are supposed to fly into a blind rage. The officer at this point was supposed to be restraining my father from brutally beating some sense into me. Things were not going according to plan. I folded my arms and smirked. Victory was mine. My dad did fly into a rage. However it was not of the physical variety and it was not directed at me. He launched into a long winded, high volume diatribe regarding being woken at three in the morning on a work day for “nothing”, tax dollars wasted and rapists and murderers that needed catching. I was right. My father was angry but not at me. Not for taking drugs, not for drinking booze, and certainly not for being picked up by the police. We drove home in silence which was only broken when he turned to offer me some advice.

            “Be more careful next time.”

            I later learned that the exchange between Roric’s dad and the police was not unlike ours. Unfortunately for Mac however his parent knew how to play the part properly and they played it well. They had taken the officer’s business card and for the next year or so would wave it front of Mac’s face for almost any reason. He was promptly checked into rehab and there he learned about more powerful effective drugs.

            I guess when it comes right down to it they really only caught one of us that night. We did learn some lessons that evening but despite the best efforts of the police they were not the lessons they had intended. We learned that cops really are dicks, Never let booze go to waste no matter how cheap and you can not hide from a helicopter under a tree.

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?”