The Jackals began in Fresno, back when we were baby-faced teenagers. A group of ruthless, artistic renegades and degenerates who did not belong there — who knew that hot, flat, vapid land was not and would not EVER be enough for any of us. Over time, the group has expanded to include others of our ilk — those who don’t just blindly believe that something exists; we gotta taste it, touch it, film it, sculpt it, write it, act it, drink it, snort it, smoke it, or fuck it. But first, always…WE BELLY LAUGH AT IT.
In the past week, we have lost two of our beloved Jackal brethren: Bob MacDonald and Jimmy Rosenthal. UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE. I shan’t crack a bottle of Don Julio just so that I might pour the first pull onto their graves, like some sort of teary-eyed scooter snatch named Starla. I shall instead drop my white cotton granny panties and, like the Jackal that I am and always will be…SQUAT, AND PISS ON THEM — because that’s how we fucking do it. See you at The Jackalfest, my brothers. I love you. xoxo