When In Rome-24 Hours with CHO

When in Rome
24 hours with CHO: LA, Tucson, a car accident, Brad Pitt, Paris Hilton, a private jet, two bottles of Wild Turkey, three pairs of underwear and one very pissed off Brahma bull
By Todd Umbridge, Rolling Stone

Nobu at 1:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon in March. Valet parking, sushi and sake, Hollywood stars and movie deals going down in person and via cell. I am nursing a Sapporo waiting for CHO. His publicist told me that she had set up lunch reservations for the two of us for noon, but told me not to bother getting there before 1:30 because "he's never on time." I got there at 11:30, reasoning that I didn't want to miss CHO if he got there on time. The waiter is clearly annoyed that I have taken up a prime lunch time table for more than two hours.
"I am waiting for CHO," I tell him as I guiltily order another Sapporo.
" Is he coming in again?" the waiter huffs. "Wonderful."
At 1:45 CHO comes through the door followed by his long-suffering assistant Raul Barrera, who was previously employed in the same capacity by Chris Farley until the actor/comedian's death in 1998 of a heroin overdose ("Chris Farley was a picnic compared to CHO," Raul will tell me privately later that day. "CHO pays me very well, but I am thinking of getting into something a little less stressful, like being a 7th grade math teacher or maybe a crab fisherman on 'The Deadliest Catch.'").
"Hey dude," CHO greets me as he slides across from me into the booth. "You got here early, hunh?" He is dressed in a brown Western shirt with red and yellow roses on the yoke, blue jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, his jaw lined by mutton chops and his shaggy hair curling out from under a white Stetson. He signals the waiter, who winces slightly as he comes over to our table.
"Hey chief, you still work here?" CHO says by way of a greeting. "Bring us some spicy tuna rolls, crab rolls, sashimi salad and a shitload of sake bombers. And I'd also like a grilled cheesed sandwich." After the waiter leaves I say, "They make a grilled cheese here?"
"Fuck no," CHO laughs. "But they'll make me one anyway. They'll get some shithead busboy to run out for bread and cheese and the chef will fire it up for me. I probably won't even eat the thing, but it's good to keep the chef back there in the kitchen on his toes. I mean, do people even know what a grilled cheese sandwich is in fucking Japan? He makes sushi all day back there. He probably welcomes the challenge of making a fucking grilled cheese sandwich. It's like me or you going back there and trying to deal with eels and seaweed and shit. Different deal altogether."
After a few minutes the sake arrives, followed by the sashimi salad and the sushi.
"It will be a few minutes on the grilled cheese sandwich," the waiter says.
CHO pumps his eyebrows at me.
"Told ya Chef Boyardee back there would have trouble with a fucking grilled cheese sandwich."
As the waiter leaves I spy a pimply-faced busboy rushing back to the kitchen with a loaf of Wonder bread and a block of cheddar cheese. CHO, chopsticking up a crab roll, is oblivious to the fuss.
"So, dude, we're supposed to hang for a day or some shit?" he asks me.
"My assignment is to spend 24 hours with you, a sort of 'Day in the Life' piece. We can do 12 and 12, split it into two days if you want."
"Fuck it, we'll do 24 in a row -- I've been up for 36 hours already, so no big deal," he says around a mouthful of spicy tuna roll. "After lunch, we'll roll over to Paris Hilton's pool party, then after that, who the fuck knows, right?"
The waiter brings CHO his grilled cheese sandwich. It sits on the table until the sushi and sake and sashimi salad is all gone. When the waiter brings the check, which tabs out at over $300, CHO says, "So dude, Rolling Stone puts this on their expense account right?"
I pick up the check. We slide out of the booth, the grilled cheese sandwich untouched, and head to the parking lot, where Raul sits waiting for us in a vintage robin's egg blue 1973 Cadillac El Dorado.

South to Santa Monica. Raul and I sit up front in the El Dorado while CHO is sprawled across the back, the dirty soles of his cowboy boots scuffing the Caddy's magnificent white leather backseat.
"Pull in here," CHO suddenly pipes up.
Raul steers into Santa Monica Liquors, u-turns in the lot and backs into a space right in front of the store. CHO gets out.
"You need anything, dude?" he asks me.
When I tell him no, he simply shrugs and tells Raul to keep the car running.
"Why are we backed in?" I ask Raul.
He sighs and says, "You'll see."
Less than a minute later CHO suddenly comes barreling out of the liquor store, a fifth of Wild Turkey in each fist, followed by an old gray-bearded Iraqi man with a huge turban who appears to be screaming obscenities in his own tongue. CHO dives into the backseat, pulls the door closed and tells Raul to "floor it!" as the Iraqi bangs on the rolled up back window with his tiny, old man fists.
Rubber squeals and we rocket back out onto Santa Monica Blvd. heading north.
CHO laughs, tearing at the label covering the cap on the Wild Turkey, then unscrews it for a mighty swig.
"That was fuckin' fun," he says and passes me the bottle. "When in Rome, dude."
I comply, the oaken burn sliding down my throat, and I ask, "What did you say to that guy back there to piss him off so bad?"
"I didn't say shit to him," CHO says. "I just walked in, went to the over to the Wild Turkey, grabbed a couple fuckin' bottles and hoofed it outta there."
"Wait a minute," I say, looking at the open bottle in my hand. "You didn't buy this?"
"Fuck no, dude," CHO chuckles incredulously, taking the bottle from me and pulling hard from it. "I am famous. I don't have to pay for anything."
"I think that guy back there expected you to pay for it," I say.
"Aw, that old ZZ Top-lookin' bastard knows who I am. He was just playing fucking dumb. All these old foreign dudes try to pretend they don't know me when I take shit from their store, like it's a crime or something. You believe that shit?"
He takes another big pull, the bottle now half gone. "That's my favorite liquor store, man," CHO laughs. "That old dude back there is slow as shit. I always beat him to the car. Every. Fucking. Time."
I look over at Raul. He stares straight ahead, pretending not to listen, piloting the big Caddy back toward Hollywood. In the back, CHO sucks on the Wild Turkey like a toddler with a bottle full of formula.

Malibu. The scent of salt water and eucalyptus on the warm breeze, palms lining the PCH. The first bottle of Wild Turkey is cashed and is rolling aimlessly around on the back floor of the Caddy. The second bottle, a quarter empty, is gripped in CHO's fist. "Raul, did you pack my swim trunks?" he asks. Despite drinking nearly the whole bottle of Wild Turkey, save for a few of my swigs, by himself, and all those sake bombers at Nobu, his speech shows no evidence of being slurred in the least. I feel hammered.
"Your swimsuit is in the trunk," Raul says.
"The red ones with the flowers or the lime green ones with the little boats?"
"I have packed them both, sir."
"Excellent. Todd here can wear the ones I don't wanna wear."
"Oh," I say, "I am not going to swim." "When in Rome, dude. It'll be fun."
CHO stares out the window, then suddenly laughs.
"That's where Neil Young lives," he says, pointing out a sprawling estate atop a grassy hill. "I egged his house every night for two weeks. His security staff is a bunch of bozos. They'd patrol the grounds every night waiting for the egg thrower to show up. I wore grease paint on my face and wore a full body camo suit. I'd lay under the creosote until they'd pass me, then I'd unload a carton at the house and crawl on my stomach off the property. They never saw me, man. I got bored after two weeks. I saw Neil in the studio a few weeks ago and asked him about the eggs. He pretended to be super pissed when I told him I did it, called me 'motherfucker' and 'asshole' and 'prick' and so forth, getting all up in my grill. It was hilarious."
Raul would later tell me that a bill from Neil Young for a new house paint job, totaling more than $58,000, arrived in CHO's mailbox a few days later. Raul paid it without CHO ever knowing it. "He doesn't keep track of his finances," Raul tells me. "I take care of all the messes he makes. That's the biggest part of my employ." We turn into an exclusive neighborhood and approach a gate. Raul rolls down his window and tells the gatekeeper "CHO has arrived for the Hilton swim party."
The gates open and we roll up a long driveway to a palatial estate nestled amongst towering eucalyptus and live oak trees. We hop out and Raul pops the trunk, extracting two swimsuits.
"I'll wear the red ones, Todd can have the green ones," CHO says, and we knock on the front door. A serious man dressed in a three piece suit with an earbud in his left ear lets us in.
"All right, let's get our suits on and mingle," CHO says.

The pool area is packed with movie stars, rock stars and teen idols, everybody from Vince Neil and Axl Rose to George Clooney to Zac Ephron, Vanessa Hudgens and Miley Cyrus. I am uncomfortable in CHO's green swim trunks. They are too short and too tight. I am embarrassed. I spy CHO at the bar nursing a whiskey sour and laughing with Ashton Kutcher, who has an arm snaked around his wife Demi Moore's waist. The couple does not look pleased and, after I see Kutcher stick his middle finger in CHO's face, they move away toward the pool. CHO spots me and waves me over.
"Dude," he says, "you should have been here. I just told Ashton Kutcher that I went home with Demi Moore once for a coke-fueled romp. We were at it for 48 hours, man. It was before he married her, so I don't know what he's so pissed about."
I hear a slight commotion by the pool. A red-faced Kutcher is inches from Moore's face, screaming something indecipherable over the music and laughter from the party.
"Dude needs to chill," CHO says, eying the fuss. "That shit was a long time ago. I mean, she was married to Bruce Willis at the time, so Asston should not be pissed at her at all. Bruce Willis? Sure. Asston? No."
"Ashton, you mean?"
"Yeah, Ashton. Asston. Whatever."
Paris Hilton comes over and kisses CHO on the cheek.
"Thanks for coming," she purrs. Then she sees me. "Who's is this?"
"It's Todd from Rolling Stone," he says. "He's following me around for a day or so for a cover story."
"That's hot," Paris says, not even looking at me. "I have a surprise for you in the bathroom, CHO."
"Awesome," CHO says, motioning to me to follow. "Todd, when in Rome."
"Oh, no thanks," I say. "I am gonna go to the bar and get a drink."
"Cool. Order me up a double whiskey sour, dude."
Paris takes CHO by the hand and leads him into the house.
Fifteen minutes later CHO comes back out to the pool. His swim trunks, I notice, are now on backwards and he is continuously wiping at his runny nose. He sees me at the bar and ambles over.
"That Paris, man, she is something else," CHO tells me with a laugh, wiping his nose. Then he winks. "Never leave me alone with her again, dude."
CHO surveys the party and says, "Hey, how old is Hannah Montana now? She come here with anybody?" then snorts, "Aw shit, man. There's Brad Pitt. I was at a party once and I was about ready to score Jennifer Aniston when Pitt totally cock blocked me. They got married and shit, like, 6 months later or something. Could have been me if not for that asshole."
Pitt sees CHO and waves. CHO does not wave back, just gives Pitt a slight nod.
"Dude actually wants to be friends with me, but friends don't cock block friends, man. I had to leave that party with Lisa Kudrow, which, dude, is a pale fucking substitute for Jennifer Aniston."
CHO suddenly seems bummed out. "Let's get out of here, man."

"Raul, we're out of Wild Turkey."
CHO, stretched out in the back of the Caddy and dressed back up in his Western duds, is cradling the empty bourbon bottle.
"Let's go back to Santa Monica Liquors for more," he laughs. "That old bastard is probably missing me by now."
Raul looks straight ahead through the windshield and says seriously, "This is not a good idea for today, sir."
"Sometimes you're a real fuckin' buzzkill, Raul," CHO says. He squirms in his seat. "I am going commando, man -- I think Paris Hilton stole my underwear. Couldn't find them anywhere. I'm always losing my fuckin' underwear. These Levi's are scratchy, man. Raul, let's go back to the house for dinner."

When he's in California, CHO lives in a cottage in Laurel Canyon, the lights of Hollywood and LA spread out below his redwood porch, which boasts a spa and huge gas grill, upon which Raul is grilling rib eyes for dinner. An old George Jones record, some real shitkicking stuff, is playing on the outside stereo. I notice Raul is wearing ear plugs. I wish I had some.
CHO comes out the sliding glass door still dressed in Levi's but looking noticeably more comfortable. He pulls an Igloo cooler behind him and sits beside me in a lawn chair overlooking LA. He pops the cooler and pulls out two icy Coors Originals and hands me one.
"When in Rome, dude."
I sip my beer. CHO chugs his, and in a mere 15 minutes, during which time he regales me his past exploits, there are eight empty Coors bottles ringing his boots. I am halfway through my first. "He Stopped Loving Her Today" comes over the speakers and CHO gets real quiet. He looks away and wipes at his eyes.
"This song, dude," he says. "So fuckin' sad. Dude finally stops loving this girl who broke his heart, but he has to die to stop loving her. Fuckin' A, man. Jennifer Fucking Aniston..."
His voice trails off.
"Hey," he rebounds suddenly. "I gotta take a whiz. Coors, you know? Guess who lives down there."
I look over the porch rail and right below us on the steep slope, partially covered by the outgrowth of a huge eucalyptus, is the roof of another cottage, close enough to drop an empty beer bottle on.
"Who?"
"Justin Timberlake. When I first moved in here about a year ago I was blasting some Buck Owens up here on the porch, killing some suds and taking in a beautiful day when I hear some yelling from down below. I look over the rail and there is Timberlake and Cameron Diaz staring up at me from his backyard, their fingers in their ears. Timberlake yells up, 'Hey, bro, can you turn that shit down?'
"I yell down 'No problem' and I have Raul turn it down, then when they go back inside I stand up on the railing like this," he says as he climbs up on the redwood railing, balancing in his cowboy boots, "and I unzip the fly, and then I let it fly."
CHO is suddenly pissing over the side of the railing. I faintly hear the steady stream splattering on Justin Timberlake's roof down below.
Finished, CHO jumps down and pops another Coors.
"So now," he says after a bottle draining swig, "Timberlake's roof is my own little personal Port-a-Potty. You gotta piss, dude? Be my guest."
"I'm good," I say. Then Raul tells us the steaks are ready.

"Raul, take us to Chino airport. I wanna show Todd my ranch."
An hour later we are taxiing in CHO's private Cessna, Raul at the controls. I have made notes throughout the day and, by my count, CHO has consumed 11 sake bombers with lunch, nearly two bottles of Wild Turkey, eight or nine whiskey sours at Paris Hilton's pool party, an untold amount of blow in the Hilton bathroom and a 22 bottles of Coors Original. It's enough booze and blow to kill a rampaging Indian elephant, but CHO is oddly unaffected. He keeps up an endless chatter, with no hint of slurring whatsoever, about his forthcoming Cartwheels album, a movie role or two he's been offered ("Clint Eastwood wants to give me a part in his new Western," he tells me. "I told the old bastard I'd fuckin' think about it. I am pretty busy, you know?") and his newest Fender Telecaster, which he tells me is one of the first ever to roll off the production line way back in 1949 ("It's serial number is 0009, the ninth fucking one ever made, dude. Keith Fucking Richards doesn't even have one."). The cooler, resting by CHO's boots, is restocked with Coors Original. He pops his 23rd of the evening. I sip my third.
Ninety minutes later we touch down at Tucson International Airport. CHO and I wait out in front of the airport while Raul pulls the car, a pristine, cherry red '66 GTO convertible, around to get us. Three people ask for CHO's autograph. He obliges, but clearly he's annoyed. "It's just my fuckin' signature, man, and people go apeshit when I give it to them. Crazy world full of crazy people, dude."
CHO's ranch is nestled in the Santa Catalina mountains east of Tucson. Paul McCartney owns a ranch next door, which is a good 10 acres away ("Yeah, I met him once when I rode Dusty, my Appaloosa, down by the property line we share. He was kind of snobby, meditating out in the desert. He didn't wanna talk to me about 'Abbey Road' or anything else I brought up. Just sat there with his eyes closed, pretending I wasn't fuckin' there, meditating like the fuckin' Maharishi and shit. I later found out Linda McCartney had died earlier that day, so I guess that's maybe why he was kind of a dick.").
It was dark now and I was exhausted. I'd been hanging out with CHO for about 10 hours and I was done for the day. Over CHO's objections -- he wanted me to hit Club Congress in Tuscon with him for beers and shots ("C'mon, dude, it'll be fun. The place is famous man! John Fucking Dillinger stayed in the place.") -- Raul shows me to the small guest house on the property.
I fall face first into bed and don't wake until the sun breaks over the Catalinas the next morning.

I find CHO and Raul in the garage, CHO still wearing his Western outfit from yesterday, like he hadn't been to bed. The front of the '66 GTO is caved in, steam wafting from beneath the hood.
"Dude, you totally missed it last night," CHO says when he sees me. "Good times. I met some UofA chicks and we went back to their dorm. There was a shitty acoustic guitar there and I played some tunes and somebody had a bottle of Herradura. I turned these chicks onto Merle Haggard, man. I sang "Mama Tried," "Silver Wings," "If We Make it Through December" -- not a fucking dry eye in the room. They used to listen to Fall Out Boy or some shit, but I betcha they go to Zia today to score Merle's box set. I changed their fucking lives, last night dude. And I lost my goddamm underwear again. Why does everybody always steal my underwear?"
CHO reaches into the passenger side of the wrecked GTO and pulls out the bottle of tequila. He swigs, then offers it to me. I decline.
"When in Rome, Hoss."
I reluctantly take a swig from the bottle and the slow burn roars down my throat and explodes with a squishy thud in my stomach. I choke back a gag.
"Atta boy!" he exhorts.
"What happened to the car?" I ask.
"Oh, that," CHO says. "Raul doesn't work nights, so I took the GTO into Tucson. I am not real good with roads that aren't straight, and there are some twisty fucking road in the Catalinas. Why the fuck are these roads around here all curvy? You figure it'd be easier on those road-building assholes to build a straight fucking road instead of ones that go all over the place without warning.
"But I guess I had to do a little off-roading with the GTO through part of the desert," he says, tapping the crumpled hood with the flat of his hand. "Fucking saguaros all over the place out there. Shit, I barely got back home this morning."
Raul says, "I will make breakfast."
"Good man, Raul," says CHO. "Pork chops and eggs with chorizo, and put some of the Cholula on the table -- I am bored with the Tapatio sauce."
"Yes sir."
"And later, Raul, we'll check Craig's List for a new GTO," CHO laughs. "This one here is totally fucked."
"Yes sir."
When Raul goes inside CHO says, "Come on, dude. I want to show you something."

"His name is Tabasco," CHO says.
We are standing in front of a circular pen, closed off with a heavy oaken rodeo fence. Inside, the biggest bull I have ever seen paces back and forth angrily.
"I got him from the Pro Bull Riders Association," CHO explains. "They retired him. He's fucking old now, but in his day, he could kick him some serious cowboy ass."
In the middle of the pen, Tabasco snorts and plows his left horn into an empty metal rodeo barrel, rocks his massive head upward and sends the barrel skyward. It lands with a ground-shaking, dust-puffing thump ten feet away from us.
"Look at that!" CHO laughs. "That's about two tons of pissed off beef, dude!"
"Why'd you get a bull?" I ask. CHO looks at me like I'm stupid.
"To ride him, dude," he says, admiring the bull. "What do you think, I wanna put a leash on that bastard, walk him around the ranch like a giant fucking chihauhau?"
Tabasco eyes us, wishing, I am sure, that there was no fence in between us and him.
"Let's go eat breakfast," CHO says. "Then me and Tabasco over there are gonna play."

A half hour after breakfast, during which time CHO downed a half bottle of Patron Silver with his chorizo and eggs, he opens the gate and steps into the pen.
His ranch hand, Jesse, is trying to load Tabasco into the chute, but the bull is putting up a fuss. "C'mon, you goddamm bastard," Jesse says, tugging on the rope around Tabasco's neck. As if the massive bull can understand English and takes grievous offense to the the ranch hand's insult, Tabasco promptly kicks out his back feet, pulls away from Jesse and charges CHO, who hops over the fence out of danger. The dust kicked up by the charging bull glides past us like the ghost of a dead gunfighter.
"Quit fuckin' around Jesse!" CHO yells to the beleaguered ranch hand. "I wanna ride that fucker, then get back to L.A. for lunch at Nobu."
The ranch hand approaches Tabasco cautiously, grabs the rope and slowly begins walking the bull back toward the chute. After a little more wrassling, the bull is finally loaded into the chute. CHO stands on the fence, ready to jump on the animal's back.
"You sure you wanna do this, sir?" Jesse asks him. "This bull is fuckin' crazy."
"This fuckin' bull is, like, a hundred years old, Jesse," says CHO, who is fitting a leather glove on his right hand. "Help me tighten down the rope."
The ranch hand gets the rope tight and CHO settles onto the bull's back. The bull snorts and rocks in the small chute. I hear a board snap.
"This fucker is pissed off," CHO laughs. "OK, Jesse, when I say go, open the chute."
The bull rocks harder and I hear another wooden snap, then suddenly the bull charges through the side of the chute, splintering boards and freeing himself from his small confinement. With CHO desperately clinging to the rope, the bull rockets into the middle of the pen, but instead of trying to bounce CHO off, Tabasco rumbles toward the fence and smashes through it. CHO and Tabasco bound into the desert in a cloud of Sonoran dust, CHO holding on for dear life.
We pile into Jesse's dusty Ford F-150 and give chase, but the bull has a good fifteen minutes on us. "I told him that bull was fuckin' crazy," Jesse keeps repeating, like a Buddhist mantra. "I told him that bull was fuckin' crazy."
We roll through deep ruts caused by monsoon rains, past purple arroyos and countless saguaros, the majestic green cacti rising into the sky like crosses on the adobe roofs of the old Catholic missions.
"I told him that bull was fuckin' crazy," Jesse says again. Suddenly we spy CHO trying to extract himself from a huge cholla patch. Jesse pulls the truck over and we hop out.
"Shit, dude," CHO laughs. "Those badass rodeo bull riders just have to ride a bull for eight fuckin' seconds? I rode that asshole bull for, like, ten minutes. Help me outta here."

It took Raul the better part of three hours, using a small set of tweezers, to pull every cholla needle out of CHO. They were in his ass, his legs, his arms, his chest. There were even a few clumps of needles in his forehead. His white Stetson was missing ("It flew off somewhere down by McCartney's ranch," CHO said. "I'll send Jesse to go find it.") Raul rubbed alcohol over just about every inch of CHO to ward off infection. Every time it seemed Raul was done, CHO would sit up and howl in pain and Raul would find another sticker in his ass.
"That was a rush, man," CHO says, nursing a tumbler of tequila on ice in the kitchen after Raul had finished with him. "I think next time I wanna get a cooler bull, though. Tabasco was an asshole. He was too old and cranky. I am gonna tell Jesse that if Tabasco ever comes back home to make steaks out of him. He was a dick.
"Hey, I wonder if I can get a bull that's on the PBR tour, like, right now. Get a fucker that's in his prime, you know? That'd be fun. Hey Todd, when's you're deadline? Maybe you can come back in a week or so when I have a new bull and you can have a turn?"
I shook my head.
'C'mon, dude," CHO exhorts, passing me a fresh tumbler of tequila on ice. "When in Rome, you know?" CHO winces and wiggles his hips.
"Hey Raul," he yells over his shoulder into the living room, "did you steal my fuckin' underwear?"