BILL HICKS AND I
several people have written and asked for stories from the TEXAS OUTLAW COMIC days, so here is one:
in 1984, bill hicks got a call for a "showcase" at the punchline in atlanta. he told them to give me one too or he wouldn't come. the reason he did that is because i had a vehicle that would make it to atlanta from houston and he didn't (but they didn't need to know that). bill and i had become pretty good friends by then and had already had an adventure together in lake charles, louisiana where we did acid at a red neck disco club and almost got killed for our troubles...but that is another story.
this trip was to have three objectives: one. to get bookings at the punchline for both of us. two, to find this guy who we had heard had stolen one of bill's routines and confront him. three, to get fucked up on lsd and drive back. noble goals all.
when we get to atlanta we check into the hotel and the next afternoon we set out to find the punchline. we smoked quite a bit of really good weed on the way over (bill very seldom did marijuana but he made an exception this day) and were totally baked...and lost...
we find ourselves driving around an upper middle class neighborhood and see a guy out mowing his lawn. i tell bill "let's ask this guy if he knows where the punchline is" and pull up along side the curb. bill rolls down the window and says, "can i ask you a question?" (so far so good) the man comes over and bill says, "pop quiz: who are we and where do we want to go and how do we get there from here?" well, so much for so far so good. the man is befuddled, bill is laughing, and i drive off.
finally we find the club and do our sets and get some future bookings and so we are now off to find the thief. we find him at a club in the atlanta underground and confront him in the back. bill says, "you stole such and such bit from me, you prick!" and the guy gives one of the all time classic answers; "no, honest to god, bill, i didn't steal that from you, I STOLE IT FROM A GUY IN DENVER." un-fucking-believable. what do you say to that? bill tells him to drop the bit (i mean, what else can he say?) and we go back to the hotel to rest up for goal number three.
next day, we haul ass out of atlanta and as we hit the alabama state line, we drop a tab each. by the time we get to the mississippi line, we are in another universe. once we have to stop the truck and get out because we are laughing so hard it's impossible to drive. we recover enough to get back in and hook it on, but then, we decide we are hungry... and now it is raining...
so there we are in jackson mississippi, fucked up, starving and, i might add, a little paranoid (it is mississippi after all, and they tend to be mean, stupid and not too fond of outsiders down there...especially a couple of completely blitzed comics from texas). but hunger wins out and we stop at a kfc on the west side of jackson. once inside, we begin staring at the menu on the wall which keeps moving and changing colors which makes ordering rather difficult. i am sure we looked as fucked up as we were and the counter girls are starting to get a little suspicious of the two guys who are laughing and pointing at the menu. i tell bill, "i've got to pee so go ahead and order for us."
leaving him to handle that, i stagger off to the bathroom. when i come out, bill is not in the restaurant but outside in the rain. he is holding SIX FUCKING BOXES OF CHICKEN and is just standing there in the middle of the parking lot, with the rain pouring down, drenched to the bone. i say, "what the hell, bill, did you get us enough chicken?" he tells me that he could not make up his mind as to what to get so he just kept ordering and ordering some more, mumbling that there is a party down the street. this looks so very strange we figure the girls in the shop must have called the police, so we hop in the truck and boogie on down the road, not stopping until we get to the state line. when we get back to houston we still have enough chicken to feed several other comics while we tell the story of the great atlanta trip, so to speak.
the moral to this story is: if you are going to do acid in mississippi, bring your own chicken.
in 1984, bill hicks got a call for a "showcase" at the punchline in atlanta. he told them to give me one too or he wouldn't come. the reason he did that is because i had a vehicle that would make it to atlanta from houston and he didn't (but they didn't need to know that). bill and i had become pretty good friends by then and had already had an adventure together in lake charles, louisiana where we did acid at a red neck disco club and almost got killed for our troubles...but that is another story.
this trip was to have three objectives: one. to get bookings at the punchline for both of us. two, to find this guy who we had heard had stolen one of bill's routines and confront him. three, to get fucked up on lsd and drive back. noble goals all.
when we get to atlanta we check into the hotel and the next afternoon we set out to find the punchline. we smoked quite a bit of really good weed on the way over (bill very seldom did marijuana but he made an exception this day) and were totally baked...and lost...
we find ourselves driving around an upper middle class neighborhood and see a guy out mowing his lawn. i tell bill "let's ask this guy if he knows where the punchline is" and pull up along side the curb. bill rolls down the window and says, "can i ask you a question?" (so far so good) the man comes over and bill says, "pop quiz: who are we and where do we want to go and how do we get there from here?" well, so much for so far so good. the man is befuddled, bill is laughing, and i drive off.
finally we find the club and do our sets and get some future bookings and so we are now off to find the thief. we find him at a club in the atlanta underground and confront him in the back. bill says, "you stole such and such bit from me, you prick!" and the guy gives one of the all time classic answers; "no, honest to god, bill, i didn't steal that from you, I STOLE IT FROM A GUY IN DENVER." un-fucking-believable. what do you say to that? bill tells him to drop the bit (i mean, what else can he say?) and we go back to the hotel to rest up for goal number three.
next day, we haul ass out of atlanta and as we hit the alabama state line, we drop a tab each. by the time we get to the mississippi line, we are in another universe. once we have to stop the truck and get out because we are laughing so hard it's impossible to drive. we recover enough to get back in and hook it on, but then, we decide we are hungry... and now it is raining...
so there we are in jackson mississippi, fucked up, starving and, i might add, a little paranoid (it is mississippi after all, and they tend to be mean, stupid and not too fond of outsiders down there...especially a couple of completely blitzed comics from texas). but hunger wins out and we stop at a kfc on the west side of jackson. once inside, we begin staring at the menu on the wall which keeps moving and changing colors which makes ordering rather difficult. i am sure we looked as fucked up as we were and the counter girls are starting to get a little suspicious of the two guys who are laughing and pointing at the menu. i tell bill, "i've got to pee so go ahead and order for us."
leaving him to handle that, i stagger off to the bathroom. when i come out, bill is not in the restaurant but outside in the rain. he is holding SIX FUCKING BOXES OF CHICKEN and is just standing there in the middle of the parking lot, with the rain pouring down, drenched to the bone. i say, "what the hell, bill, did you get us enough chicken?" he tells me that he could not make up his mind as to what to get so he just kept ordering and ordering some more, mumbling that there is a party down the street. this looks so very strange we figure the girls in the shop must have called the police, so we hop in the truck and boogie on down the road, not stopping until we get to the state line. when we get back to houston we still have enough chicken to feed several other comics while we tell the story of the great atlanta trip, so to speak.
the moral to this story is: if you are going to do acid in mississippi, bring your own chicken.
posted by Ron Shock | 7:48 PM
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