I see where Minnesota is putting an end to no knock warrants. I always thought every warrant was a no-knock warrant. I did not know that police were required to announce themselves before entering.
I found out one night in 1974 after I returned to my apartment in Winslow, Arizona, where I was on loan to help a Sambo’s restaurant out through their busiest time of the year—when Grand Canyon tourism peaks. This restaurant had to deal with bus after bus of hungry tourists pretty much all day and night for weeks on end. I was “based” out of Tucson and would eventually return there before taking my show on the road to Las Vegas.
But we had been to Flagstaff and the cuties in the female dorms of Northern Arizona University. We were gulping down pitchers of Miller beer and chasing the beers down with shots of Seagram’s VO at Bozo’s Bus Stop, one of the closest bars to the university.
I was there with my friend Dennis and we were befriended by two very healthy Arizona girls. They looked like some California blondes I had met, with blue or green eyes, and what else? Ruby red lips. We ended up losing the girls when we started dancing.
Back in those days I was a dancing fool (Karen says I’m half-right.)
So we leave Bozo’s and head over to a bar over in East Flagstaff called appropriately enough, Zig-Zags.
My girlfriend had dropped us off hours earlier, and now we needed assistance. Our speech was slurred, our vision was bleary, our thoughts impure, and we needed a ride. I guess we were too drunk to attract any girls that weren’t all fucked up themselves.
My girlfriend showed up just as we were stepping out the double doors of the noisy bar.
She drove us over to Shakey Drake’s, the absolute rockingest, loudest, drinkingest place to meet NAU girls who were only maybe 1000 yards away.
I was home.
We kept ordering pitcher after pitcher and shot after shot and meanwhile Dennis and I started getting froggy and started challenging guys to arm wrestling matches.
I have never had huge arms, but I was only months away from being at college and working out in the Rockne Center, and they were about as big and strong as they ever got. I won match after match until this monster of a Samoan almost ripped my arm from its socket.
The best thing that came from that night was I was able to talk the manager into letting us come back and have my band audition to play there.
We would end up playing there the whole summer.
Drugs, sex, and rock and roll.
One night, after driving back to Winslow, we received a big surprise.
Evidently, the police had been called because they thought we had committed some sort of crime. Talk about a redneck, country hick town back then.
So this burly buzz-cut cop knocks on the door.
I am dead asleep.
My girl goes to the door.
“We are looking for Mark Diaz. Is he here?”
My girlfriend says “He’s sleeping now and a little drunk. Can you come back after he’s had some sleep?”
I was immediately rousted from my wonderful dreams.
Long story short, I was exonerated, but left town for another adventure.
Here’s some music: