Jack Black Whacked

He was just sitting there. At Freebird’s World Burrito on South Congress. What happened next is anybody’s guess. Really.
I had seen him in Austin before. Last Fall at ACL Fest I was sitting in front of Chuy’s and he hopped out of a cab and into a pedicab to drive him up to the entrance. Most people were leaving but Arcade Fire wasn’t finished so I assume he was trying to catch the end of that. I thought if I saw him again I would talk to him.So here he was. By himself. Done eating. I hopped out of line and over the rail and just as I was about to introduce myself, he grabs my arm with urgency and spits out a harsh whisper: “Dude, you gotta help me!” He looks frantically out the window and asks: “Do you have a car?” Jack Black
I had barely muttered my affirmation when he reached up and put his hand on the back of my neck and pushed me down into a crouching position and hustled me toward the exit. I glanced around and nobody seemed to notice our very suspicious-looking shuffle out the door. We climbed into my car with Jack snarling ‘Hurry!’ over and over again. It’s a beautiful sunny day and pleasant Austin people are milling about; Jack’s anxiousness could not be more out of place. I was beginning to think he had lost it. Or maybe he was trippin’. I decided right then and there I would be his guardian through whatever trip he was on. I pull out onto Riverside and suddenly there was a sound like a gunshot; my car became hard to control and started bouncing around. I knew what it was, though – a blowout. I pulled over as far as I could.

“Don’t stop! What are you doing!?” Jack was in a full-blown panic.

Suddenly, a big black SUV screeched to a stop cross-ways in front of us and another smacked our bumper from behind. Guys in black suits jumped out, guns in hand. It was a bullet that blew my tire! From across the street a fat, old, naked man that looked a little like St. Nicholas came running across the street towards us. The only thing he was wearing was a knee-high fireman’s rubber boot – upside-down on the top of his head, like a hat. He ran up, shaking his arms above his head and babbling incoherently. Arms of Liberty
Jack decided we should use Santa Boothead Streaker as a distraction and he yelled “Come on!”. We ran up the side street into Travis Heights. As we are scrambling through the hilly neighborhood, I can see that Jack is totally whacked out of his mind; continually muttering about needing to find the Werewolf Fiddler. We rounded a corner and temporarily lost sight of the gunmen. The assumption would be that we went left since the only other option was straight and we would be easily seen. But I saw a fenceless yard on the right and dashed us through. I worked our way back west and we slipped across Congress near the Continental Club. We snaked past Threadgill’s and crossed the street to the RunTex. We blended into the crowd waiting to cross South 1st. Someone in the crowd turned and recognized Jack; he tried to give them the ‘Shhh’ sign but they were about to speak so he reached up and gave them the Vulcan pinch. They dropped to the ground like a wet sack of laundry. The light changed and we hustled across the street.There was a huge concert going on at Auditorium Shores, but Jack didn’t want to go in the front entrance, so we slid along the bridge down to the river’s edge and started heading west. Without warning, Jack stops cold.

“Of course! SRV!”

I look and see he is transfixed by the statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Jack spins on his heel and bolts for the double-high, fabric-covered chain link fence surrounding the concert. He scrambles up and over, lacerating himself severely on the way, and lands in a spy crouch on the other side, looking wildly about in all directions.

“Jack! Jack!,” I yelled, “It’s a free concert! You don’t have to climb the …” but he was gone, and I had to keep up with him, so over the fence I went.

Werewolf Fiddler I simply could not believe what we encountered next. Over by the souvenir stands was none other than … the Werewolf Fiddler! I now had complete and total faith in Jack; he wasn’t crazy! He had been right about the gunmen and right about the Werewolf Fiddler. I watched as Jack had a frenetic conversation with the werewolf who eventually lifted his bow and pointed southeast. There was something eerie and grim-reaperish about the motion but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Jack ran off in the designated direction. I followed.


The Shins stopped singing right in the middle of the “king of the eyesores” line and the entire crowd of thousands went silent.

I watched the gunmen scurry away through the crowd. I saw a circle of people form around what I feared was Jack’s lifeless body. I felt terrible. Despite my best effort, Jack Black was still whacked at SxSW… but not before I got this spiffy little snapshot! 

In Memoriam

Jack Black

Aug. 28, 1969 – Mar. 15, 2012

KT and Jack Black


  1. Good one!

  2. Dustin Kronemeyer says:

    Sounds like there could be an animated series of outlandish Jack Black adventures . . . perhaps in print, like children’s books, but rated R. Great story. He sounds much cooler in person.

  3. The Scoo says:

    Um, yeah. I don’t think this is true. I know for a fact that JB doesn’t like burritos.

    • Some, but not all, of the true things in this story include:
      (1) Jack Black’s love of burritos (he apparently visits FreeBird’s on every Austin trip)
      (2) a fat, old, ((but not naked) man that looked like Santa Claus wearing was a knee-high fireman’s rubber boot – upside-down on the top of his head, like a hat.
      (3) Werewolf Fiddler, who I just learned tonight actually calls himself the Violin Monster

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