by Adam Carolla
I spent the weekend in Vegas getting drunk and laughing every time I thought about Ray. At a certain point it occurred to me that Chris’s truck was black, so it was going to go from 160 degrees to 183. I was perversely satisfied knowing Ray was going to fry like bacon in the back of that pickup. Come Sunday morning, we were getting ready to go and I told Ray it was time for his death ride. He said something I never expected: “No, I’m gonna fly.” I was dumbstruck. You should know by now that there’s no way any of us could have afforded a plane ticket. Ray proceeded to tell me he had run into a middle-aged guy we knew from the neighborhood who had some money, had taken pity on Ray, and bought him a plane ticket.
Some of my most dangerous and most exhilarating moments with Ray took place at the Mulholland Club. This is a high-end tennis club in the hills above L.A., in the aforementioned Hebrew Heights. Obviously we weren’t members, but on hot summer nights after an evening of partying, the only thing standing between us and a platinum pass was an eight-foot wall and a little something called grit.
The Mulholland Club had an Olympic-sized pool, a hot tub, and sometimes they’d even leave food out. There’d be leftover party trays from the bar mitzvah earlier in the day and we’d eat leftover cold cuts and/or throw them at each other. We were idiots. We had broken and entered and then spent the night hurling beer bottles and insults while skinny-dipping and trying to get chicks to take off their tops and make out with each other in the hot tub. We could have easily been arrested. We could have even more easily been injured, as you’ll soon read.
The club was at the top of a big hill. We would park our cars at the bottom, climb up the steep rocky embankment, hop the fence, and be on the grounds of the club. Typically Ray would do this barefoot. I don’t know why, but Ray refuses to wear shoes. At home, riding on the back of my motorcycle, or on construction sites with nails, splinters, and broken glass all around, it doesn’t matter. One night at the Mulholland Club, Ray got pissed off because he caught Chris making out with his girlfriend. He was heartbroken. The soles of his feet may be callused and tough, but his soul is sensitive. So he ran away. He dashed out of the pool area barefoot and ran down the rocky slope we had to scale to get in, onto the asphalt parking lot, cutting the shit out of his feet the whole time.
Just getting into the club wasn’t the end of the journey. There was a pool and we needed to jump into it … naked. But a diving board is not nearly dangerous or idiotic enough. We had to get onto the roof. In order not to end up operating a wheelchair with a crazy straw, you had to get a running start, jump off the three-story roof, and clear the fourteen feet of cement to splash down in the pool.
A quick safety tip for the kids out there. If you’re planning on jumping off a roof into a body of water that’s surrounded by concrete, make sure you either land in the water completely or miss it altogether and catch nothing but pavement. I know it doesn’t make sense, but half pool and half concrete will fuck you up more than full concrete.
Getting off the roof wasn’t the dangerous part. The only way to get onto the roof was to build a ladder. Not bring a ladder: build a ladder. If we walked up a flight of stairs to the upper patio, the roof was then in striking distance. From that base camp we would stack up two outdoor metal dining tables and top them off with a patio chair. I can’t begin to tell you how hairy this was. The tables were round and their three legs were bent and uneven. And remember this was under cover of darkness and we were usually drunk and always nude. Once we were on top of this rickety monstrosity, we’d have to stretch out and grab a piece of rigid conduit protruding from the stucco with a light attached. One of us would use that to pull himself up onto the roof. After that guy dragged his balls against the shitty sponged-on seventies stucco, he could reach down and do the fireman’s grip to pull the other jackasses up. More than once it was my balls being dragged across the stucco.
The first time we did it, we were all up on the gravel-topped roof, naked, and I remember that I, like always, was the voice of reason. I gave an impassioned speech about how dangerous this was and how we all needed to be careful, that there was a lot of concrete between the edge of the building and the beginning of the pool and that someone could easily end up spending the rest of their life being picked up by a special van. As I was saying this, a naked Snake flew past me, shouting, and jumped into the pool. He made it in safely and the other jack-offs quickly followed suit. (Except Rudy, who stood there with his legs quivering for a half hour until our taunts and his realization that getting down the makeshift patio-table ladder would be even more dangerous.)
A little addendum to this part of the story. Twenty years later, we were attending a wedding at the Mulholland Club for our friend Michelle. It was a very nice affair—a band, servers in bow ties, grandparents—the whole schlemiel. At a certain point, somebody asked where Ray was. The next thing we knew, his naked ass was sailing by the floor-to-ceiling glass window of the ballroom and landing in the pool. Someone attending the wedding who wasn’t part of our crew heard the old stories and paid him $50 to get naked and jump off the roof. The poor sap probably thought Ray wouldn’t do it. I suspect he would have done it for free.
Another time we left the club and started walking down the street. Ray was looking in people’s windows. Not in a Peeping Tom way, just glancing as he walked by. On this night, he saw a couple getting it on. They were doing it doggy-style with the curtains wide open. And like any guy his age, he got excited and went in for a closer look. The rest of us were hanging back and a moment later we heard Ray shout at the top of his lungs, “IT’S TWO DUDES! IT’S TWO DUDES!” They came out and they were pissed. And these guys weren’t your light-in-the-loafers variety of gay, either. They were big, rough-trade gays who could have probably kicked our ass. So we hauled ass. The irony that moments earlier the four dudes shouting, “THEY’RE FAGS!” were wrestling naked in a Jacuzzi together never dawned on us.
But the Ray story of all Ray stories starts at the Mulholland Club and ends at a Jack in the Box. If you’re squeamish, under eighteen, have a heart condition, are pregnant, or may become pregnant, you may want to skip this next story. As I’ve said, this was the eighties and we were broke. We didn’t have Xbox or iPads so we had to make our own fun. Also bear in mind as you read this story that it took place sixteen years before Jackass premiered on MTV. We weren’t copycat Johnny Knoxvilles and Steve-O’s. We were the Wright brothers of stupid stunts.
On one of his many dips in the Jacuzzi at the Mulholland Club, Ray felt the warm flow of the jet against his arse and had an epiphany. He discovered through the miracle of science that if he put his butthole up to it, he could fill his colon with water, hold it in, and release it later. And when I say release, I mean unleash at breakneck speed. Ray could propel the ass water over 125 psi. It would look like the stream that comes out of the back of a Jet Ski. He could shoot a rooster tail of shit water that would make the fountain at the Bellagio look an old-fashioned park bubbler.
The first time Ray did this he didn’t aim at us. And thank God, because on that initial shot you’re clearing yourself out. You’ll find a burrito from 1971 in there. But after five high-speed injection enemas you could drink what comes out. Ray probably had the cleanest colon in the state. For the inaugural launch, Ray went off somewhere distant and safe. It was like the Nevada nuclear-testing ground: He should have set up a fake town and mannequins. But that didn’t last long. Eventually he realized the power of the weapon he was packing, got bored, and shot it at a girl’s head. After that, no one was safe. Our friend Tom found himself drunk, tangled in a collapsed chaise longue with a rolled ankle. As he struggled to get out, Ray filled up. Tom gave the international distress signal of dumbo buddies fucking with each other—“I’m serious”—but Ray shot his ass cannon right on Tom’s head.
Ray, with my encouragement, became drunk with power and decided he needed to share this gift with the rest of the world, or at least the Valley. But how? The Carolla house and the Oldhafer apartment su
re as hell didn’t have Jacuzzis. But my mom did have a hose. We figured we could go to the hose bib on the front lawn, fill Ray up, and have him squirt on unsuspecting North Hollywooders.
It was a Saturday night. We pulled up to my mom’s house and grabbed the hose. I’m not sure where she was. Could you imagine being a parent and coming home to find that scene? You pull up the driveway and your son is on the front lawn watching a guy put a garden hose up his ass. I still wonder if my mom was watering the lawn the next day and caught a whiff of Ray’s colon.
Now that Ray was fully loaded with hose water, we hopped into a borrowed Toyota Celica hatchback. I had to drive. Ray’s got some range. There aren’t a lot of guys who will put a hose up their ass but can’t drive stick. The clock was ticking. He could go off at any time, like one of those blue dye packs banks put in moneybags. I drove like I was transporting a woman in labor to the hospital. We pulled into the drive-thru and ordered an apple pie and fries. It had to be cheap because we had no money and quick because Mount St. Ray could blow at any moment. We drove around to the pick-up window and I reclined the seat. Ray stuffed his ass out the window and …
Nothing. I don’t know if it was the emotional pressure or if he had waited too long, but Ray couldn’t let the levee break. The guy at the window was confused. When someone is going to moon they usually just do a quick flash, laugh, and then speed away, not let the ass linger while the guy in the driver’s seat shouts, “Go, go, go!”
I specifically remember how the guy slowly closed the window. The second it latched shut, Ray erupted like Old Fecal. The poor pimpled teenage Jack in the Box employee just sat there with a look on his face like had seen a UFO. I like to imagine him telling the story to his coworkers and loved ones the next day. “So a guy mooned you?” “No, water started flying.” “So he tried to piss on you?” “No, the water was shooting from his ass.” “Why don’t you take the afternoon off, and no more Robitussin.”
But the ass-water floodgates had opened. I’ll admit that I tried it, but I couldn’t quite accomplish the feat. Another friend did manage to pull it off, except instead of the safe out-of-doors this guy took the act inside my grandparents’ house. My grandparents were, thankfully, out of town. I, on the other hand, was lying on their floor when this guy shot an ass-geyser at my head. He filled up with the hose, walked into the den, and unleashed the torrent all over me. This was a home, the room where my grandfather watched Hollywood Squares.
There’s a certain irony to all of these shit-water shenanigans starting at the Mulholland Club, which was named for the man who brought water to Los Angeles. I’m sure if he knew what we were doing with it he would never stop vomiting.
Ray will figure into other stories later in this book, but you can see why he warranted his own chapter. As I said, I love Ray. Despite all of our fights, Ray and I continue to be friends, I’m often his employer, and strangely enough he still sees my dad in therapy. Yes, my dad is Ray’s therapist. After seventeen years of hard work, Ray has upgraded himself from a psychopath to a functional sociopath. And I appreciate Ray. There’s a beauty to his brutal honesty. I’ve often said everyone needs a Ray in their posse. There’s no way to get a big head if you do. Ray will tell you, without a second of hesitation or forethought, that you look stupid in those cowboy boots, you’re too old and too fat for those True Religion jeans, the ponytail makes you look like a fag, and that this chapter sucked.
WITH The Weez out of the apartment, Chris, who had been flopping there periodically, decided to become permanently entrenched. In exchange for The Weez’s futon he brought an even more pathetic option—his kid brother’s bunk bed.
A little bit after that, our buddy Umgad moved in. Umgad is a great guy, but that place was too fucking small to have a third roommate. When you’re on top of each other like that, small arguments appear much bigger and you want to murder each other. Fortunately, the building owner got wind of a third person crashing there and put his foot down. Even more fortunately, the letter he wrote was saved.
April 24, 1986
Adam,
Once again you are violating the terms of your rental agreement. There are more than two people living in your apartment. If this isn’t corrected immediately my lawyer will handle evicting you from the premises. I’ll give you one week—till 4-31-86 to correct this. I don’t want to evict you but you have left me no alternative. This can’t happen again. Call me if you want to discuss this, but there can’t be any extensions.
Jim
Here’s the real story behind the letter, and this has never been revealed until this book: I told Jim to write it. Sorry, Umgad. A mass-published book may not have been the best way to break this to you. But I thought being evicted would feel better coming from the landlord rather than your friends. In my defense, I just asked Jim to write the letter. I didn’t think it was going to be as harsh as it came out.
Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest let me regale you with another road trip story.
I rode my motorcycle to Isla Vista near Santa Barbara to visit our buddy Carl who was going to UCSB. For those who don’t know the geography, it’s probably a hundred-mile ride, my longest road trip on that bike. About five minutes after I entered the freeway, it started raining. And I mean monsoon-level rain. The trip was like riding a motorcycle through a five-hundred-thousand-foot-long car wash. And I didn’t have any rain gear, just a denim jacket, jeans, and a helmet. I didn’t even have gloves. After just a few miles I was soaked through. I was freezing and hypothermic like a guy who fell overboard on a crab boat. So I did the only thing I could think of to warm up. I pissed myself. I just let it flow. You’re grossed out right now, but I’ve got to tell you it was sweet relief for about two minutes. Until it froze. I’d had a generally uncomfortable life up to that point, but this was the jewel in the discomfort crown. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to ride up to Santa Barbara with the storm clouds gathering. I got to Carl’s at ten that night soaked to the bone with rain, piss, and tears. I sat in his bathtub and ran hot water over myself. My hands were purple and had the impression of my bike’s grips frozen into them.
It was probably worse for Snake. He went with me on his bike, which was having electrical problems. For the whole trip, sparks were flying out of wires connected to his bike’s battery. I’d continually see him reach down and adjust a wire and have some more sparks shoot out. His hand would fly back in pain and I’d hear him yelp. Again, all of this was happening at seventy miles an hour in a torrential downpour at night.
We rode motorcycles because you could fill up the tank for a buck eighty-nine, cut through L.A. traffic, and on the weekend carve up a canyon. All good reasons to purchase a motorcycle. Being seen, and especially being heard, were not part of the equation. That’s because we weren’t insecure narcissistic poseur douchebags. You fucksticks that pull the baffles out of your Harley exhaust so that people in surrounding neighborhoods, countries, and the unborn can celebrate the arrival of your preening ass and the Harley Softail it’s perched on rank just beneath pedophile clown and Nazi prison guard on the cosmic cocksucker list. How many times have you been awoken from a nap because one of these peacocks had to throw out a couple of revs as they were driving past your apartment? How many times have you had the shit scared out of you while walking back to your car after a satisfying dinner because one of these guys flew past you with the hammer down? It’s called noise pollution, and the chickenshit cops that are busily handing out tickets for no front license plates or illegal window tints should for once focus on something we give a fuck about. My fantasy is to follow one of these guys home some night and hide in the pantry until he’s finished beating off to a cardboard cut-out of himself and fallen asleep. Then I would sneak into his bedroom—past the Lucite box housing the cheap vinyl boxing glove that may or may not have been signed by Muhammad Ali, past the Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man poster—stand at the foot of his bed, and fire off one of those air horns they use to start boat regatta
s. When he popped up I’d yell, “How’s it feel, bitch?”
And just because The Weez had moved out didn’t mean the drugs stopped, either. Every now and again someone would get their hands on some mushrooms. They’re excellent, but they’re hard to regulate. Sometimes you’ll get really high. Other times you won’t but the guy next to you will and you’ll have to watch him freak out. I know from experience. Back when I was still living in the garage, The Weez was responsible for getting me high on mushrooms the first time. We were at a party and we did ’shrooms together, but his kicked in a while before mine did. I wasn’t getting my buzz so I decided to split. When I tried to leave, he freaked out because he didn’t want me to ride my motorcycle. He was afraid the mushrooms would start working while I was riding. He grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let me get on the bike. I shook him off, told him he was too high, and left. The Weez called my house and couldn’t find me and continued to freak until the next morning. He didn’t realize I had gone to another friend’s apartment where the mushrooms proceeded to take hold and I sat and tripped out for the night.