: “SUPERBOWL” JIM BRIDGES
If you will indulge me for a moment, I have an announcement
to make. If you are reading this before The Super Bowl, Rank
and Revue’s own Slander Bob and I plan to be broadcasting
live play-by-play action over the Internet during the game
on kaos959.com (possibly KAOS959.com) for your entertainment.
Be sure your computer has Real Player or WinAmp and feel free
to turn down the volume on your television at your Super Bowl
party and listen to us stumble through what promises to be
a huge setback for mankind, professional sports, and the civil
Now that that little bit of unpleasantness is behind us, I
would like to tell you about my favorite Super Bowl hero of
all times, Jim Bridges. Hailing from the humble beginnings
of the Clute Cougar football program, Jim went on to become
the MVP of Super Bowls XXVI and XXVII. This is his story.
You see, Jim has always been the flighty type. To give an
example, I just ran into him at a wedding down on the coast
during the holidays. I hadn’t seen him in several years
and we were doing some catching up. He told me he had actually
moved to Colorado for a while, and then returned to Texas.
I asked him if he went up there for a job, or a girl, and
he told me, “No, it just got really hot at work one
day, so I left and moved to Colorado.” This was particularly
funny for him, because he’d always had this fixation
with going to Alaska. For years and years, he’d always
tell us about how, someday, he was going to just up and go
to Alaska, leaving all of his troubles behind. One day, Jim
surprised us all and joined The Army. Guess where they stationed
him? Yes, in the frozen tundra of Alaska. In a matter of months
he went both stir crazy and AWOL, returning to Texas in triumph.
This was after his days of Super Bowl glory, which we will
examine at this time.
Everything started on the weekend of Super Bowl XXVI, Redskins/Bills.
Jim came up to Austin for the first time in his life with
Jesse Miller (Frunttbutt/Shutterbutt) and Melanie LaFleur.
Greg Pearce (long time crime partner and maniac previously
mentioned in other articles) had come into town from SWT and
we were all partying together, having an unusually hard time
finding weed. Things got so bad that we decided turn to harder
drugs for recreation. This was back in the days when you could
walk up outside any dance club downtown and just buy acid
from the first person you talked to. Have the times changed,
or have I? Hopefully both, probably neither. We bought acid
from this fine ass girl and absconded back to my condo on
campus to get fucked up. On the way back, right in front of
the State Capitol, this guy and his girlfriend pull up at
the light in a big muscle car. The guy stared us down for
a moment and then goes, “Hey, y’all want to buy
a bag?” This was back in the days when people would
just pull up to you at a red light in front of the Capitol
and sell you weed. (Hopefully both, probably neither.) We
returned to my place after what, needless to say, was quite
a productive trip downtown.
Ok, some of you may remember me writing about Jaturon Chattrattichatt,
the guy from Thailand who lived with me my freshman year in
college. For those of you unfamiliar, basically this guy emigrated
from Thailand and immediately moved in with me, sending us
both into terrible culture shock. Jaturon Chattrattichatt,
or Jat as he preferred to be called, was my roommate at the
time. Upon our arrival at the condo, he scurried upstairs
and hid in his room, as he was prone to do. Not giving him
another thought until early the next morning, we got down
Turns out, the acid was really good. It was the type that
fucks you up for like two days, you know? It was the type
that makes you cry and shit, then shit and cry. It was the
type that makes Jesse Miller wipe his ass with a towel instead
of toilet paper, that sick fuck. Sad thing is, I don’t
think you were even on the acid when you did that, were you
Jesse? Jesus Christ, we were fucked up. There are fragments
of my mind from which I can recapture the height of our trip.
I remember that I had scapegoated Melanie LaFleur for no reason
whatsoever. You know how sometimes on acid or mushrooms you’ll
just get so fucked up that you decide someone else is the
cause of all your problems, and freak out on them. I had chosen
Melanie for this role, and grew terrified of her, convinced
she was evil. Jim had adopted my toilet plunger, and absolutely
refused to put it down, or let anybody touch it. Greg was
crying about Chuck Smith (Frunttbutt/DKB) joining The Marines
and didn’t even realize it. He just thought he was talking
about it in a normal tone of voice, without tears running
down his face. Jesse was wiping his ass on the linens. Jat
was hiding in his room.
Somewhere along the way, Jim had enough and ran out the door
of the apartment into the neighborhoods of West Campus, toilet
plunger in hand. This proved to be a terrible mistake, seeing
how he had never been to Austin before and would be completely
lost in a strange city on acid for the next 18 hours. It wasn’t
until Greg and I saw Jaturon Chatrattichatt shinnying down
a drainpipe on the side of the building that we even started
to grasp the situation as a whole. (See, rather than walk
through his own house and face us, Jat had decided to leave
through the second story window in his bedroom.) Seeing this
gave Greg and I enough of a bad trip that we took the discovery
of Jim’s disappearance really hard. The last time I
had seen Jim, he was standing in the middle of my living room
with the plunger on his head. He had the top of the handle
dug into the sheetrock of the ceiling, and was spinning around
like a top.
across the street from our complex, we found my toilet plunger
in the neighbor’s yard. Days later Jim would recall
that he had walked around the streets for hours trying to
find the apartment, then finally gave up, threw the plunger
as far as he could, and then “headed for Alaska”
on foot. He must have been within fifty yards of the condo
when he lost all hope. Sometime in the hours of early dawn,
Greg and I heard sirens closing in on us, getting louder and
louder. We were convinced that these sirens were going to
lead us to the end of the mystery. This is where the story
takes a tragic turn, and I want to apologize ahead of time
for anyone who is personally familiar with the following events.
We tracked the sirens down to an apartment complex about a
block and a half from mine. Arriving on the scene, we saw
lots of emergency vehicles... cop cars, ambulances, fire trucks,
everything. I don’t have time right now to explain what
acid does to you, and how the smallest event can seem like
the biggest deal in the world, and even the most horrifying
of situations can seem like nothing at all. I’m going
to assume correctly that most of you are familiar with this
phenomenon, and hope that is enough to excuse Greg and I for
our following insensitivities.
There were a bunch of emergency personnel running into a unit
at the complex, which by then surrounded by neighbors who
had awaken to the sirens. We just walk right the fuck into
the apartment, and there is a team of paramedics trying to
revive a guy on the couch. We stood there in the doorway,
watching them doing CPR, trying to make sense of the situation
while paramedics and police ran in and out around us. I remember
Greg actually stopping a fireman and asking “Is that
guy ok?” Eventually, we went back out into the crowd
and started chatting with the neighbors who had gathered around
the scene. As far as we were concerned, we were at a keg party.
Granted, there was plenty to talk about going on inside, but
Greg and I were just out there “partying” with
the neighbors, hemming and hawing, laughing out loud, hitting
on girls and shit. Then, the roommate comes out. It may have
just been the acid, but I swear to God this guy was retarded.
He was obviously upset, sporting the Corky look from “Life
Goes On”, and if that wasn’t odd enough for Greg
and I, he starts beating his head on the apartment wall and
screaming. Quite inappropriately, Greg and I just bust the
fuck out laughing, and I mean acid induced hysterics. When
we came out of it, the reaction on the faces around us finally
broke the spell. Hey, assholes, you’re all fucked up,
and somebody just OD’d inside the apartment, get the
Anyway, that evening, the operator patches me an emergency
phone call from “I’m lost and I’m cold,
get me the fuck out of here!” Jim had made it as far
as Burnet and 2222, headed due northwest towards Alaska. We
finally get him back to my place and Jat is watching TV with
a couple of his slope buddies. They were watching the end
of the Super Bowl, which I had COMPLETELY forgotten about
up to that point.
Shit, I’m running out of room for the Super Bowl XXVII
(Bills/Cowboys) story. Ok, flash forwards a year later. Jaturon
Chattrattichatt has been replaced by lovable Bruce (who is
not, and I repeat, not to be confused with ex-Dallas County
Assistant District Attorney Bruce Garrison, whom I have mentioned
in a previous article). Both Bruce and Jim, incidentally,
are huge Cowboy fans. Being from the Houston area, I was raised
to hate The Cowboys, as well as several other groups of people.
Jim had just talked this poor, dear, friend of ours, bless
her heart, out of two thousand dollars to fund his new business
endeavor; selling weed. He had made a connection down on the
border, and would be hitting town in time for the Super Bowl
with enough weed to make us all rich. Well, about noon on
Super Bowl Sunday, Jim pulls into our driveway in a car that
dies right there on the spot. We unwrap the weed he bought
and it was so old, dry and moldy that from then on out it
was known as “World War II Dope”, because it looked
like it had been sitting in a bunker since the forties. On
top of that, we weigh it and it turns out to be four pounds.
Jim had bought four pounds of weed on the border for $500
apiece, and then smuggled them to Austin himself. Even the
lowliest of street dealers knows how funny that shit is.
Ok, there are two groups of people on the planet: Those who
saw the “Buffalo Bud” and those who didn’t.
If you didn’t, you just won’t understand. The
first bud Jim pulled off the brick looked ABSOLUTELY FUCKING
EXACTLY like the Buffalo logo that the Bills have on their
helmet. I’m talking the front legs were even curled
up in the charging position. It was a pristine replica, and
I mean in three dimensions.... this thing had depth. You could
see the fucking horns, ok. Had the Cowboys lost that Super
Bowl, it would have undoubtedly been blamed on this atrocity,
which hung on the wall over the television through the course
of the game. As it was, the Dallas won and it was taken down
and smoked by a pack of rabid Cowboy fans. Do yourself a favor
and ask somebody about this.
The following is a letter from Fed Up, a
buddy of Johnny Shoplifter, and latest participant in our
“Pen Pals” program, which allows prisoners to
reach out to the world through Rank and Revue Magazine. Feel
free to reply to our new friend, or suggest anyone you know
behind bars who would make a good pen pal.
Here I am in prison again. I just don’t seem to be able
to get that free world thing down. Things go well for a while
and then, well, to quote Keith Richards, “I don’t
have a problem with drugs, I have a problem with the police!”
So here I am in Mineral Wells, doing a 4-year sentence for
(another) victimless crime. I hope to go home in October 2004,
but they could deny my release and make me do another year.
I was born and raised in dirty ass Houston. Early on I was
into metal. In third grade, I got Black Sabbath “Paranoid”
and I was twisted for life. Also, by that time I had already
been taking piano, violin, and cello lessons 5 days a week.
In 5th Grade I took stand-up bass lessons for a year. Then,
in 7th Grade, I picked up my brother’s neglected Pan
Electric Guitar and Univox 50 Watt Amp. About that time, in
the early ‘80s, I discovered Houston’s Pacifica
Radio and the Funhouse Show- hosted by Chuck Roast. That was
the real turning point for me. Already a musician, but a beginner
on guitar, I was hearing those early ‘80s hardcore bands
on The Funhouse and realized that I didn’t have to be
as good as Tony Iommi to have a band, and more importantly,
to have fun. I soon traded in that old Pan Guitar for an Antares
Bass, and alas- I had found my calling. Bass came so easily
to me- I didn’t have to concentrate so much on fingering
when there’s only four strings!
I started going to shows at the old Axiom in, I guess, 1985.
Nothing else in my life was as exciting as going to a killer
hardcore show. I still feel that way. I remember, back then,
two of my favorite bands to go see were Dresden ’45
and Angkor Wat. Seeing those guys back then, I knew that that
was what I wanted to do. That shit was real. These weren’t
ASCAP card carrying professional musicians, untouchable beneath
studio production sheen, expert technique, and egotistical
attitudes. These were real guys, regular dudes doing what
they loved- not for money- but simply because they loved to
do it. It just struck me as honest. I knew I could do it,
too. It rendered all those mainstream, corporate rockers phony
in my mind. I still feel that way.
My mom made me take those piano & violin & cello lessons
for 7 years, and I hated it. But, because of the experience
I got from those lessons, picking up the bass guitar was a
cinch. I’m sure mom pictured her son playing piano in
some stuffy church service somewhere. Hah! Instead, partly
because of those lessons, her son became a punk rock bass
player, playing for drunken dirtbags and sleazy whores. I
Problem is, I’m a sucker for the instant feel good that
drugs offer, and by the early ‘90s, I was strung out
on heroin (and whatever else I could find) to the point where
I had pawned all my gear. Life was sucking harder than usual.
I started getting arrested. Repeatedly. I only plated music
sporadically for several years, then wound up in prison. Then
again. Then again. Now, I’m in prison for the fourth
Which brings me to where I am now, Mineral Wells. This place
isn’t too bad, I suppose. We get to wear free world
clothes, and get to move around fairly free on the unit.
I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing lately for a
number of publications. I met Johnny Shoplifter here on the
unit, and he turned me on to Rank and Revue. Cool publication.
So I figured I’d drop a line, say hey, maybe get a free
issue (hey, I can hope right?). you know, kick it for a minute.
I was talking to Johnny just today about my plans to move
to Austin when I get out. Houston is just shitty. I am so
ready for a change. It is really hard to keep a band together
there for some reason. Good drummers got you by the nuts in
Houston because they are so few. They won’t help out
with studio rehearsal rent, because they know somebody will
cover it. If I don’t, some other band will, and I’ll
have no drummer. And then of course the egotistical guitarists.
Even the most mediocre of guitarists seem to carry an air
of superiority. Jackasses. And it seems that a lot of active
musicians have moved to Austin, and Houston is just kinda
dead, punk rock-wise. The Axiom has reopened, but its nothing
like the original deal, when J.R. Delgado was running it.
I miss the old Axiom of the ‘80s, dank, dirty, and dangerous.
Now it’s all sterilized, painted, and furnished. They
have plays(?!) in the old back room, and bands play in the
front. It just ain’t right! So much in Houston has changed,
and maybe I’m just being obstinate, but I don’t
want to change with it. Well, ok, Lola’s is still the
same (bless Lola’s little heart) and I still love that
seedy joint. But I’d rather just move to Austin and
start from scratch. I still have a fender Precision Special
and a ’74 Fender Bassman. What else does a motherfucker
need in Austin? Please write and let me know. I’ll be
here for a while.
Shannon Parker # 1159797
759 Heintzleman Road
Mineral Wells, Texas