THE ATTACK OF JACK
Exactly 18 years ago today, I had the pleasure of carrying Jack Nicholson to a Laker game. The team was out making some mistakes with Dyan Carroll, Emilio Estevez and Martin Scorcese at some dive bar in Inglewood where Jack and I got into a dance off. That was the first time I ever did the worm and Jack, not to be outdone, tried doing it backwards. He almost pulled it off until Marty started filming and dropped the camera on him. Jack’s back went out and there he was, the star of Chinatown, laying on the beer stained floor of some filthy watering hole in total agony. Luckily we were only a few blocks from the Great Western Forum so me and the guys hoisted him off the ground and carried him all the way there. It was probably the most amazing entrance of my life as we crashed through the front gate like orcs storming Helm’s Deep using Jack as a battering ram. He was knocked unconscious and the game was about to start so we left him behind the soda stand. That was the last time I ever hung out with Jack Nicholson and to this day I occasionally feel him staring me down behind those dark sunglasses at the Staples Center. I still feel guilty sometimes, but then I remind myself that if the roles were reversed he would have done the same thing.
