The Boots Story
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So, I was officially given my nickname in the Spring of 1995, but "The Boots Story" actually begins a few years prior, in the bustling metropolis of Dallas, TX. It starts with a burned-out headlight, a bad decision, and one very questionable pair of velvet boots. I swear, this is a true story.
That stupid ticket
In 1990, I was driving home from my job at the Shirts & Ties counter of the Foley's at Valley View Mall, when I was stopped by a cop for having a burned out headlight. I had no idea my headlight was out, so I was really pissed when he gave me a ticket for it, instead of a warning so I could get it replaced. My 21 year old brain thought...
Man, SCREW him! I'm not paying this stupid ticket! Take THAT, The Man™!
Because we all know 21-year-olds are famous for their excellent long-term decisions.
Fast forward a year later... I was on my way to a show with my band when a cop pulled me over after sitting behind me at a stoplight. Apparently that "stupid ticket" I didn't pay ($82.50, BTW) became a warrant for my arrest, and I was now being pulled out of my car - with guns drawn - handcuffed and thrown in the back of a squad car (they said they didn't know what the warrant was for, only that I had a warrant). All in front of the crowded outdoor patio of a Tex-Mex restaurant. On the way downtown, the cop in the passenger seat was at least nice enough to hold his phone up to my ear so that I could call my band and let them know I wasn't going to make it.
That electro-pop band
Speaking of my band... At the time, I was in a Dallas band called Interface. We were primarily a late-80s/early-90s electro-pop cover band - Depeche Mode, Erasure, New Order, etc. - and pretty well known in the local scene. Our singer had convinced us that we needed a new look, so we all went to a wildly eclectic clothing store in Deep Ellum, called Moda (IYKYK). It wasn't really my thing, but I was going to trust him. The outfit I bought consisted of:
- a black pirate shirt
- a purple-and-gold iridescent floral vest
- skin-tight black jeans
- a huge gothic cross necklace
- a very BDSM-looking black belt with spikes and big silver hoops
And finally... A pair of obnoxious black velvet boots with elaborate silver tips, heels, and buckles (#foreshadowing).
The gig I missed that night was at a club in Deep Ellum, where on top of being the entertainment, we were to be the house band in the nightclub scene of a motion picture being filmed that night. It was a very big deal. So I was dressed to impress. Hair. Makeup. The whole thing.
Which is how I ended up sitting in the back of a police car, in full electro-pop pirate regalia, on a Friday night. What could possibly go wrong?
Hello, Lew Sterret!
We arrive at the very-busy Lew Sterret Justice Center around 8pm, I think. For the next 45 minutes or so, I was processed and eventually placed in a holding cell. They took my belt and necklace, but I kept everything else on. Needless to say, I stood out.
Friday nights at Lew Sterret are pretty busy, so they have to keep inmates moving through the building as more arrive. When it's time to move, they group all of the inmates up in sets of 10, handcuff and shackle you, then attach all your handcuffs to a long chain, so you have to stay together. That happened several times throughout the night. Oh yeah, good news... I was booked too late to have a judge hear my case, so I had to stay the night and see a judge in the morning. Yay.
One stop was a courtroom where about 40 of us were formally charged. One by one, people stood as the judge read their cases. It was a wide range of things, mostly small crimes and domestic abuse. Until the very plain-looking inmate next to me on my chain (For no particular reason, I'll call him "Hannibal"). He stood up and the judge charged him with 1st degree murder - to which he without hesitation pleaded "guilty" - with a bail set at $140,000. He then sat down as if everything was fine.
NO, dude... Everything is NOT fine.
Soon after, it was my turn. I stood up and the judge read me my charge, which was whatever the legalese way of saying "failing to pay a ticket for a burned-out headlight". I pleaded "guilty", which sparked a round of giggles amongst the more seasoned inmates. Then the judge announced my bail was set at $82.50 (plus $200 in admin fines for non-payment), and again... more giggles. Then I sat back down next to Hannibal. That was the moment it really hit me that I was wildly out of my depth.
On the way to the next holding cell, where we would finally have our "one phone call", Hannibal decided to befriend me. I guess finally getting to plead guilty relieved some pressure for him. He told me how he just hopes he doesn't get the death penalty, because he thought he could probably make a pretty good life in prison, all considered. My 22 year old self had NO clue how to engage this conversation. I think I dissociated a little.
I called and left a message for my roommate (who was the drummer in my band, therefore was at the show I was supposed to be at), asking for him to coordinate with my dad to pick up my car (which still had all my equipment in it!) and come bail me out in the morning. Then I just had to wait. All. Night.
"Hey, man... Nice outfit"
The rest of the night was better than I expected. A couple of guys in my cell had heard of my band, which gave me a strange little bit of credibility. They teased me about my outfit but mostly asked about music. When they found out I was there over a traffic ticket, a couple of them actually tried to tell the guard I shouldn't be locked up (I agreed). The guard was unimpressed.
At some point in the night, one of the guys started calling me "Boots", making fun of my ridiculous footwear. Everyone laughed. I laughed too. It felt friendly.
Now wait... You might be thinking this is when I officially became "Boots". Patience, dear reader.
Hello? Is this thing on?!?
In the morning, I had my hearing. Because I'd spent the night in jail, my fine was reduced to $182.50. Progress. I called my roommate and asked him to coordinate with my dad to bail me out. Then they put me alone in a holding cell in the basement of the jail until my bail was paid, where it was time to wait for the slow gears of the municipal court to release me.
After a couple hours of waiting in silence, I called for the guard and told him that my bail should have been paid by now, and asked him to go check. He told me not to worry, and that when it's paid they'll let him know to release me.
Finally around noon, they entered my cell and told me to stand up. Of course, I assumed my bail had been paid, and they were finally letting me out. To my shock, they put me in the full handcuffs and shackles again, and told me I was being transferred to the University Park jail to await release. What?!?
Would someone PLEASE just check upstairs first?!?
You see, the ticket I got was actually in University Park, a tiny independent enclave within the City of Dallas. Dallas has a deal with UP to handle arrests for them, if need be, but eventually inmates will be transferred there after a certain period of time. So I guess my "certain period of time" was up. As you can expect, I was pretty upset that no one was checking to see if my bail was paid. They just kept telling me that they would have been notified (again... #foreshadowing).
The UP Chief of Police - a super nice man, in a cowboy hat, western-style polyester suit, and cowboy boots - was actually the one who was transferring me to their jail. Turns out he was even a bass player, so we got to talk shop a bit on the way. I told him my story, and he said he would call the Dallas jail as soon as we got to the station.
At the station, they took my lunch order for McDonald's, and put me in a cell. The Chief was told that my bail had been paid (!!!), but since I had been transferred, the University Park police now needed whoever paid it to bring the receipt to them to get me released. That would be my roommate, who apparently got tired of waiting for me at the Dallas jail, and was now out somewhere else. This was before cell phones were a thing, so I had to just leave messages for him to let him know I was in UP and needed him to bring the receipt.
FINALLY, at about 6pm the day after I was picked up, my roommate picked me up from the jail and I got to go home... JUST IN TIME to get ready to load in for the show my band had THAT night. Needless to say, they were pretty pissed about the night before (the club decided to have a DJ play, instead of the band, so we didn't get paid), and after getting an earful from them, my pay was docked for that night. At least the nightmare was over.
"Do you have a nickname?"
The story was pretty much left on the shelf for a few years, until in 1995, when I joined a band called Passing Strangers. The lead singer of Passing Strangers was John Boyd. Since my name was also John, the band felt it was a bit confusing now having two Johns, so they asked me if I had any nicknames I could use instead. I was like...
Well, there was this one time a few years ago, when I spent the night in jail...
It's such a ridiculous story, and they thought it was really funny, so it was decided right then and there that I was to be known as "Boots".
About a month or so later, we went on tour with a techno group from LA, called Fem2Fem. Throughout the tour, I was introduced to everyone as "Boots", which stood out enough to where people remembered it. From that point on, it just stuck. Eventually, I embraced it. And now, decades later, it's kinda part of who I am. A reminder that sometimes identity can come from one ridiculous night you never planned on having.
You don't really get to choose your nicknames.
They choose you.