Yesterday afternoon, I attended the rally outside the Mormon temple on Santa Monica Blvd and Overland, in order to protest the Mormon church's involvement in helping to pass Proposition 8 here in California. My co-worker, Richard Flores, biked with me from the Buzznet office in Hollywood to the rally in West LA.

In the interest of avoiding any legal implications (since I do not have or have not seen a lawyer), I am not going to describe the events leading up to my arrest.  Please watch the arrest video for that; I think it speaks for itself. I think it is more important to describe what happened afterwards.

The arresting officer's name is Officer Lawrence. After being handcuffed, we were placed in the back of an umarked police car that immediately headed to the "field jail" near the Veterans Center on Wilshire Blvd. On the ride over, the two officers up front chatted us up about the protest and the similar one that took place the night before. Nearly 25 minutes after being arrested, we were finally read our Miranda rights while sitting in the car. We were not told definitively why we were being arrested. The two officers who transported us (Officer Stoughton and Officer Whitney) were kind of left in the dark about why we were detained. We were told, "It looks like you're being held for 'unruly behavior' for now." We were not told anything else.

After arriving at the field jail, we never left the car. Instead, we were diverted to the LAPD's West LA division to be processed. We arrived sometime after 5pm. We were held inside, on benches, before we were each placed in separate 'tanks,' or holding rooms, maybe 6 x8 feet each. We were each alone in our rooms, and it stayed that way for roughly an hour and a half, except for the moment I was allowed out to use the restroom.

While I was being led to the restroom, I saw the man who assaulted Maurice Carriere for tearing down part of the Yes on 8 poster he had on his truck. (Full story here.) I told the officer escorting me that I had seen the assault and had photos of the attacker in his truck, as well as the bloodied protester, but I was ignored. I did hear the man who had been driving the truck say something to an officer at the station's front desk about a "hippie faggot" assaulting him. I did not hear anything else.


This is a photo I snapped of him about a minute prior to me being arrested.

It was nearly an hour later that I was finally told what I was being charged with: battery on a peace officer. I was told that we needed to be transfered to the Pacific Station, because the West LA station had no jail (just the holding tanks). Richard and I were placed back in the patrol car and taken to the Pacific Station. This next car ride was a much more sober experience; the idea that I was being charged with battery on a police officer, quite a serious charge, sort of set a damper on my mood. We weren't as talkative this time around, even though both the officers attempted to make small talk with us.

After waiting at the Pacific Station for over an hour, Richard was booked in first. I was next, about 20-30 minutes later. While being booked in to jail, I was able to make this Twitter while they were logging in my possessions:



At that point, it was nearly 9pm. Almost 6 hours later, I still was not given the chance to make a phone call, contact a lawyer, or notify anyone that I was arrested. I actually had no idea if anyone knew where I was.

I finally made my first phone call after 9pm. My brother didn't answer, my mom didn't answer, and I was forced to leave messages. I attempted to call the Bail Review hotline (to see if I could get my bail reduced or eliminated), but the line did not work at all. I was instructed to leave a message after a tone, but was then immediately told that the mailbox was full. I told this to the officer who had taken my fingerprints; he told me to try again. I did and got the same result. He told me it wasn't his problem.

I finally got ahold of my brother to bail me out. I then was directed to my own cell -- complete with a bunk bed, a small sink, and a small toilet close to the ground. And bars.

At this point, I had no access to a lawyer. I was not asked if I needed or wanted one. No one arraigned me, no one took any sort of statement. In fact, I was literally ignored until my brother posted bail just after 11:30pm.

Jail itself? Equal parts terrifying and hilarious. I was given a sheet that looked like a body-length pillowcase and a charcoal blanket that smelled like....charcoal. (HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE.) I tried to go to sleep, but it was rough for the first hour for a quite a few reasons. (Yes, you're getting a bullet-point list.)

• The guy in the cell next to me refused to flush his toilet. Now, that's his own prerogative, but the officer in charge of checking in on us every 15 minutes was getting increasingly angry that the guy would not flush his "epic bowel movement." (His words, not mine.) The conversation went something like this:

Officer: "Sir, I need you to flush the toilet."
Guy: "NO. I CAN'T FUCKING DO IT. I AM TOO WEAK."
Officer: "Sir, just press the button."
Guy: "NO. STOP YELLING AT ME. MY ARM IS TOO WEAK."
Officer: "Sir, I need you to flush your epic bowel movement."
Guy: "STOP HARASSING ME. DO IT YOUR FUCKING SELF."
Officer: [Reaches into the cell and flushes the toilet.]
Guy: "OH. THAT LOOKED EASY."

• There were three cholos who were detained about an hour after I got there. Somehow, the officer in charge gave them a deck of cards and they were gambling (WITH WHAT MONEY???) while having a conversation that was so frighteningly stereotypical and absurd, I felt that at any moment, Peter Funt was going to pop out of the cell across from me with a camera. An example?

Cholo 1: Man, I fucked the hottest bitch the other night.
Cholo 2: No shit, dawg? Forrealz?
Cholo 1: Fuck yeah, dawg. You know that bust I almost got caught by? Well, I ran from that shit and I ran down some street and there was this fine-ass white girl standin' outside her car. And she called at me, "What you doin' boo?" So I straight up said, "Lookin' for you, heina." And she said she wanted to get all up on my dick, and I was drunk and she was drunk as fuck and I thought to myself, "Do I really want to do this?" Then I was like, "Fuck that. I need to get off." So I jumped in the car and she took me home and I banged the shit out of that bitch.
Cholo 2: No shit, dawg?
Cholo 1: Hell yeah, can you imagine if I didn't get off before coming here?
Cholo 3: Yeah man, you'd have to bust a nut in here with us.
[Cue the most awkward round of silence I have ever heard in my entire life. 10 seconds later...]
Cholo 1: Yeah, dawg, that's da truth.

• Even though I was only in a small jail with about 10 cells, it's still frightening. No sense of time, having to use the restroom IN FULL VIEW OF EVERYONE OMG THE HUMANITY, incredibly uncomfortable beds, and an ongoing sense of disorientation. I fell asleep for maybe 20 minutes and was woken up by someone yelling, "HOLY FUCK I LOVE DRUGS." I had no context for this statement; I don't think I'll ever get it.
  

Oh, jail.

I was bailed out around 11:30 or so. The officer in charge of releasing me was incredibly helpful and slightly flabbergasted by a few things. I signed for my property and was told I'd have to come the next day to pick up my messenger bag. He returned my piercing jewelry to me and when he dumped it out on the counter, my tongue ring slid across the counter and fell on the floor. I instantly surmised that there was not enough Bactine or an autoclave hot enough to ever make me feel that my jewelry was clean enough to put back in my mouth. I took a loss.

I asked the officer if I needed to -- or could?? -- make any sort of statement or if I need to see a lawyer before I left. His response: "You haven't done that yet????" I said no and he said there wasn't anything he could do. He was just supposed to let me out.

I was escorted out into the lobby where my brother, his fiance, and my friends Bianca, Rachel, Karen, and Ramon were waiting for me. I ran to my brother and gave him a hug and started crying. Because I am emotional and a wuss. Whatever. Also, Bianca had come from make-up school to the police station, so half her face looked like an aging tranny. Amazing.

The whole experience? Terrifying. Dehumanizing. Humiliating. Depressing. But I'm glad to know that there are thousands of you out there who supported Richard and I, who came to our aid to find us and help us get out of jail.

THANK YOU TO TWITTER. Oh man, what an amazing piece of technology. This wouldn't have happened the way it did without it. Someone tell Evan and Biz that I love them.

I've posted photos on my page. Please visit them and if you can at all help get in contact with Maurice Carriere, I would appreciate it.



As it stands, Richard and I are now $4,000 in debt. ($2,000 to my friend Ramon, $2,000 to my brother.) I do not have a lawyer. My initial court date is set for December 3. While Buzznet pays me a fine salary, I have no money for legal charges and I am not even going to attempt to be humble and refuse money. I have no idea what the future holds except a lot of expenses.

My email is xpanasonicyouthx at gmail dot com and that is what my PayPal account is linked to. If you can help with anything--donations for Rich and I, legal advice, legal help, news organizations to talk to, ANYTHING--feel free to drop me a line there or here on this blog.

I marched yesterday to fight for my rights as a gay citizen of California. If anything, this experience has cemented the importance of this movement. It is not a gay rights movement; it is a civil rights movement. I am flattered by the outpouring of support and love. But we absolutely cannot let these emotions die down. The fight for LGBT rights and for full equality begins right now. We cannot let our anger die down; we cannot lose our hope.

We just elected a President who changed American history and who promises to change it for us in the future. Well, now is our chance to take power and change it ourselves. This is our time.