Brad Pitt, Cima CA, 2005. “Ya know, we should ride together sometime” was something I never knew I’d hear from Brad Pitt himself. We set off on Route 66, and all through the Mojave desert, smirking with the high of the open road and Los Angeles behind us. When Brad’s bike disappeared into the darkness and off the road, all I could think was: Fuck. I just killed Brad Pitt. But with just some scrapes and bruises, Brad was okay - the only real damage was to the bike. I knew of a shop in Vegas that could fix it. Afterward the guys asked if they could ride with us. Before we set off on the road again, one of the guys threw out an idea: “What about going to the Chicken Ranch? My old lady works there.”The Chicken Ranch was a legal brothel in Pahrump, Nevada about 60 miles away. We went. Several women, dressed in lingerie, greeted us at the bar, donned with cheesy velvet banquettes and cherry wood tables. Brad walked into the hallway in a suit and tie, and leaned against the wall. The two women stood behind Brad, naked, lost in their own world. It was like a vortex. Brad looked off to the side while they looked into the camera. The next week, a new fictitious headline joined the tabloids along with Brangelina - “Brad’s Brothel: All I had on was my shoes when I got naked.”
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