I was a Teenage Terrorist or: How I Survived Tijuana Jail – Part III of III.

To read Part I and Part II of this blog serial – highly recommended – click here (Part I) (Part II).

This is a True Story. ..Continued.

Part III of III (3 of 3)


Proceed with Caution

Where was I, oh yea, driving to my personal Tijuana, Mexico Jackass Festival (aka “Burro Bash”). We parked the killer Coolio-G mobile on the U.S. side of the border (the safe side), walked over the bridge to Mexico (the ridiculously dangerous side) and strolled right through customs, con no problema! (that’s Spanish for “chingoa tu pendejo!”).

Agave muy bueno!

Do not try this at home

We agreed that we should prioritize our activities in order to make best use of our time in this wonderfully, exotic, foreign land. I mean we weren’t hillbillies; we had both traveled before and still possessed most of our teeth. Therefore, we were well aware of the standard tourist checklist. First on the agenda was to get blind donkey drunk. Check. Second on the list, buy alcohol (Mezcal, of course). Check. Third, drink Mezcal. Check. Fourth, buy some dynamite. Check. Fifth, drink more Mezcal and swallow the worm. I don’t remember, let’s just say Check. Sixth, get arrested…NO wait, I left something out. Rewind. Sixth, attend the Jai Alai matches and gamble. Check. Now, get arrested. Here’s the deal, getting arrested was not on the agenda so it had no business going sixth.

Look at me!!!

And that’s my story. Oh…what is that…you want to know why we got arrested? Well, isn’t it obvious? OK, goddamnit you people are demanding! So for the audience members riding in the short bus, I will continue the tale.

as captured on YouTube

Coolio-G and I sat down in our “seats”, which were nothing but tiered concrete, in the Jai Alai stadium, which was the size of a high school gymnasium and was also 100% concrete. Just like a swimming pool but without lifeguards…or water. We had made our bets and my player was winning and then one of us (not saying who) decided to fire up a match (he needed to light something) and then casually toss it aside…through the air…still lit…into the shopping bag…containing the Mezcal…and the dynamite. Next thing I knew, there were several explosions – KaBOOM – and ensuing hysteria, but I had already jumped the turnstile and was headed out the front door. I escaped! But where was Coolio-G? Why wasn’t he running for his life somewhere close behind me? Maybe he pulled a hammy? And then he appeared at the stadium front door complete with two uniformed escorts armed with machine guns. S-H-I-T! Slow fucking asshole!

Tijuana Tobacco Lobbyist

So I turned myself in and they threw us in a squad car and drove around the city for hours whistling at hookers. Finally, we were introduced to the Chief of Police (mayor, dictator, tobacco lobbyist, whatever – he was powerful) and he questioned us while his goons searched our bodies. I’d never been searched before and all I can say is the next time I want a female. It’s mostly a blur, but after significant interrogation, water-boarding etc. we were thrown back in the squad car and then tossed into jail.

Say “Queso”!

“HOLY SHIT, I’m a TERRORIST!” I was thinking to myself, “Do they even give SCUM like me a trial in this god forsaken place?” I went to look out the window to see if they were building a gallows or sharpening a gigantic hatchet across the street…but there was no window. What there was plenty of in the cell though was shit-faced locals. Twenty-three of them to be exact. Keep in mind that this cell was about the size of a small walk-in closet but with more of an apocalyptic gas station bathroom (men’s, not women’s) flair about it. And not just because the cell contained an actual radioactive commode (which in the immortal words of Dave Barry, “would be a great name for a rock band”) . Anyway, my point is that as wonderful as all that sounds, it was definitely an undesirable situation because no one in the cell (I forget their names) could actually relieve themselves (properly) because two gentlemen were busy fighting over which one had firsties on using the toilet seat…as a pillow.


Did I mention that the entire time I was in the cell (4 hours?) Coolio-G was making his one allowed phone call. How could it possibly take four hours to dial a goddamn telephone? I started to get concerned that maybe they were brutally torturing him (again) and that I didn’t have keys to the car…so I started working on my story. “No hobo spanoli”; “What? Donda esta la bananno cocina”; “Huh? Quanto roja bibliotheca enchilada”. I was ready!!! But he finally returned unscathed and so I swear to this day that blond bastard spent the extra 3 hours 55 minutes of that time back at Carlos O’Briens. Anyway, we were released after one of his relatives in Cali paid our bribe…umm…bail and I hastily said “Adios milos mimagos” to my new friends, the twenty-one Julios, Chico and the Man (they were a couple). Half of them were passed out so they totally missed it.

I don’t remember much after that, except that we weren’t executed and were once again free to do something insanely asinine! Regretfully, I’m afraid there may have been several fatalities that day due to our unscheduled terrorism and I sincerely feel bad about it…after all, we lost our Jai Alai wagers and two bottles of Mezcal because of that stupid dynamite.

The End.

(Thanks for the bribe money, Dr. Nutz.)



I was a Teenage Terrorist or: How I Survived Tijuana Jail – Part I of III.

This is a True Story.

I was greatly saddened the other day when I found out that the infamous Tijuana Jail, “La Ocho”, was being closed down. How could they do that? There were hit songs written about it, including Adele’s latest release, “Chasing Pavements”, I think. It’s mere existence supported an entire industry of T-shirts, bumper stickers, beer bongs, vomit bags and other typical tourist crap. Couldn’t the Mexican Government designate it as a historical landmark or at least a coffee shop? But alas no, according to my crack research team (me), it’s gone. Regardless, I’m confident that it forever holds a special place in the clouded memories of its former guests, the mass of intoxicated civil dissidents who celebrated its sanctuary…and me, the terrorist.

But I get ahead of myself.

It all began when two law abiding, young men decided to travel to California, cruise up and down the coast and surf. We had recently graduated from high school and felt infused with maturity, adventure and freedom.  So we packed our surfboards, board shorts, a t-shirt, an ice chest, jam box and a tent and headed West.  And if my parents end up reading this I just want to emphasize that the cooler was filled with milk and lemonade and we definitely didn’t have any illegal substances because that would be, well, illegal. So this buddy of mine, we’ll call him “Coolio-G”, and I drove 26 straight (“consecutive” might be a better choice of words) hours from Houston to San Diego. We didn’t want to waste a minute on the road that we could otherwise spend on the beach. As we passed the “You are now entering the city of San Diego” sign, our pulses quickened, we cranked “the Doors” and our engine caught on fire.

Our car is on the left

OK, I never actually saw any flames but there was lots of smoke. So we raced to the nearest gas station and a few hours later were unloading the car and looking to hitch a ride to the ocean. We found a dude from La Jolla who offered to drop us off in that area. PERFECT! La Jolla was radical awesome. We were surf bums who wanted nothing but to taste the salt and sand and live among the waves. So fuck the car, it was just holding us back!

We arrived in La Jolla, thanked the driver dude, collected our stuff and headed to the water. On the way, we passed by a motel with its “vacancy” sign on. After traveling across the country non-stop we needed a shower and a good night’s rest. We checked the place out, but the rates were ridiculous. California was fucking expensive and we only brought Texas money. So we kept on walking and passed through a nice beachside park with soft, green grass, swaying palm trees and a fountain. A virtual oasis within an oasis. Coolio-G enthusiastically exclaimed “Let’s sleep here…under those palm trees!” “Brilliant” I thought. “Let’s get drunk on the beach first!”

We got a buzz and hung out at the beach. It started getting dark so we headed back to the oasis to crash for the night. We were just about to clean up and zonk out on the grass, when a police officer walked up and sternly said, “You know you’re not allowed in the park after dark. It’s against the law. Same goes for the beach.” We must have looked like vagrants (OK, we were vagrants) but at the time I was just thinking, “Officer, can I at least take a bath in the fountain before the sun sets?” I was about to get more stupid, when he kicked us to the curb. CRAP, CRAP, CRAP…now what?

The fun was just beginning.
To be continued…(Part II)