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 II of III.

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

This is a True Story. ..Continued.

Part II of III (2 of 3)


So I hear this thunderous “clip, clop, clap” and a “whoosh” and I’m waking up face first in the sand and a man is running right at me and leaping OVER me. WTF! Seriously, what just happened? Why did he do that? Did he not see me? Was it a jailbreak? Was he being pursued by an ex-wife or possibly training for the Warrior Dash? Anyway, it startled me awake and after spitting tiny rocks and what appeared to be hermit crab afterbirth out of my mouth, I looked around and was thinking, “Where the HOLY HELL am I?” I collected myself and quickly assessed that I was on a beach. Genius. But there were no signs of life, other than the escapee jogger and something that looked eerily like a UFO on the cliff behind me.

Artist’s rendering

As I roused Coolio-G it started to come back to me. We had traveled several miles, on foot, up the beach, around pointy pieces of land, in the twilight and once we were a safe distance from the local authorities, we passed out. It sounded totally plausible in my head…but two things remained unclear…where was the beer and why was there a flying saucer hovering above me?

What’s wrong with this picture?

It’s an understatement to say that things weren’t going as planned. But we were young and brave and stupid and just knew that better days laid ahead for us. And then Coolio-G realized we weren’t crazy for being optimistic. He remembered why our lives were about to become super awesome again! Why? We were at “Black’s Beach” is why, the world renowned gathering spot for clothing optional, buck naked sun worshippers and a few hippies. That’s right…fantastic and freaky, let it fly, fabric-free frolicking for all! We had front row seats to a daily carnivale of bare boobs, butts and bush. How sweeeeeet is that? Free porn for FOUR DAYS! Four days later, we packed up our stuff and walked back down the beach to La Jolla. Black’s wasn’t a nude beach, it wasn’t even popular. There were no breasts, no bums, no beavers and no aliens. A total rip-off! Honestly, after Day 3, I was praying that a prison fugitive would leap over me again. But I got NOTHING! And you know what; I don’t think we were at Black’s Beach.

Life’s Ambition; Anal Probe Administration

Upon returning to Oasis-Oasis, I was determined to jump into the public fountain/shower but the beach park was filled with a bunch of mouth breathing non extraterrestrial nose blowers. And it totally registered in my head that what I wanted to do would draw considerable attention and not the good kind. But it was so tempting. I mean really, I figured so long as I could resist my stomach’s constant cry to “eat the koi, “eat the koi”, I would be in and out in a few seconds. I was really hungry, so I didn’t risk it.

Sushi anyone?

So we got in the car and got the hell out of there. Wait a second…where did the fucking car go? Oh, sorry…correction, we hitched a ride and picked up Coolio-G’s car at the shop. Needless to say, we were stoked! Who the shit did we think we were, not needing a car? Cars are what give you real freedom, not anal probes, congress, city buses or…feet. So as we sat in the newly repaired, totally badass Coolio-G mobile, it was immediately apparent what we had to do next. Take a bath. I kid; we were so ripe I think we had come full circle to freshly scented again. But you could almost smell what we were thinking and Coolio-G had this look on his face that I had seen before. As I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw myself (or the homeless, street dweller version of myself) staring back at me, I had the same look on my face too.

Tijuana or bust?

Forget the past, live for the future; we were born to be wild! We still had five fucking days left in California and it was time to party like a runaway jackhammer…in TIJUANA! (it’s in Mexico).

What could possibly go wrong?

To be continued…(Part III)