I was reminded last night of a Secret Service misadventure I’d remarkably forgotten, where we drove around Los Angeles hitting bars, parking on sidewalks, assaulting people, and ultimately demanded the police escort us to our hotel, as we were too drunk to remember the way – excellent use of your taxpayer money. We’d roll up to a bar, park our rental car completely on the sidewalk, throw our Secret Service placard on the dash, and virtually raid these places. We eventually landed at the Viper Room and parked on the sidewalk where River Phoenix died the year before. Inside, they were slam dancing and it wasn’t long before our biggest man, Kurt Jackson got pissed at a local punk. I turned to find Kurt holding the guy behind the neck with one hand, and holding a spider knife against his throat with the other. I leapt forward yelling, “Ho there! Whoa! It’s all good!” Of course, the punk vanished, and the police magically appeared, but we all whipped out our Secret Service ID’s – and honest to God – it was true diplomatic immunity. As we left, we found the punk standing out front gloating, thinking we were off to jail. Nope! Instead, I ordered the police, “Lead the way to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and turn on your flashing lights so we don’t have to stop.” I will never forget the look on that kid’s face, although I did for almost twenty years.
END NOTE: That was the last time the cops EVER gave me a break:(