"Nothing spells N-E-W-S like a naked guy getting 'Tased' at a Demo Derby!"

By GIL BRADY, Staff ink-stained wretch

TETON COUNTY, Wyo. (CT) -- One year ago this week, a bare-assed young Yankee dashed across the rodeo grounds here—nude, fire extinguisher in hand, police and sheriff’s deputies in hot pursuit before about 3,000 screaming onlookers—and into Wyoming folklore when a sheriff’s deputy “Tased” him moments before the Demolition Derby winner-takes-all round at the 49th annual Teton County Fair.

The very next day Richard Anderson, my erstwhile editor, after inspecting the dramatic stop-action photos of “The Streaker,” a.k.a. John Rodgers, by Andrew Wyatt, republished here with his permission, grinned owlishly beneath his glasses and quipped: “Nothing spells news like a naked guy getting ‘tased’ at a demo derby.”

Andersons must be the Zen masters of understatement. For within days of publishing "The Streaker" tale on-line, illustrated by Wyatt’s outrageously sensational photos, a producer from The Daily Show e-mailed me wondering if I knew how to contact Mr. Rodgers. Apparently, within 24 hours of Rodgers' story being published on Aug. 1 last year, Planet Jackson Hole's web server recorded nearly 25,000 hits. Enough activity to generate buzz around the Planet's shrimpy office and disrupt our already helter-skelter workflow as no story beforehand had earned such intense public interest. To date, no other news event, save Vice-President Cheney's mysterious comings and goings, has drawn as much outside scrutiny and attention to Jackson Hole either.

Were it not for the combination of Andrew Wyatt’s photos and Planet Jackson Hole’s slick web design and growing presence—much of it courtesy of Danny Haworth’s many talents, including some early reporting on the streaker-taser story—and many other folks, from publisher Mary Grossman to art director Jeana Haarman--and other nameless contributors driving the story of Mr. Rodgers' bold decision, my non-pictorialized tale of one man’s dashing tail would have vanished into the never-ending maw of cyber news. To all involved: Gratis. And a special gratis to Andrew Wyatt for capturing a most indelibly bizarre and memorable moment in time that many of us won’t soon forget and are still grappling with to comprehend.

Since enough time has passed and all legal proceedings have run their course, a note on how Mr. Rodgers' notorious sprint was acquired is in order.

Twenty-four hours after getting shocked by Teton County Sheriff’s Deputy Todd Stanyon, a friend of Rodgers put us in touch and by 10 pm he stood before me, removed his shirt, and showed me two vampire-like nicks high on his shoulder blade, which he described as a still physically painful and personally humiliating experience. He also complained that one side of his body was half numb. Aside from the intial punishment of being tased to the ground and paraded out of the arena completely naked, Rodgers said that the cops treated him well and inflicted no additional hardships during his time in their custody.

Intially, “The Streaker” struck me as shy and very naïve about what he was getting into by courting the press. His reticence, however, could have simply been the natural result of all the hoopla now invading his formerly anonymous life as a rafting guide and understandable wariness of strangers in the aftermath of a night in jail with, as he said, little sleep and only Cheerios, eggs, orange juice, and a Sloppy Joe to tide him over until he was sprung the following day.

Soon, however, Rodgers was reveling in his newfound celebrity, improvising how he might parlay it all, his clinging buddies boasting of all the women they would now impress, as John characterized his very public display of nudity as a spontaneous act of creative self-expression and not one of premeditated and pornographic debauchery. Besides making interesting distinctions between "nakedness" and "nudity," Rodgers stuck by his freedom of expression philosophy for a day or two until he realized that the unrelenting, albeit generally sympathetic, media frenzy hounding him might compromise his plea negotiations with Sheriff Zimmer and the Teton County Prosecutor’s office.

Rodgers’ legal-political process ended with his charge of “misdemeanor interference with a peace officer” being dismissed last October, and his pleading guilty to a stuffy sounding town offense of “disturbing meetings” and paying a fine of $250 as well as being ordered to complete 25 hours of community service.

Rodgers and I met the Monday night following his release from jail in the converted upstairs condo-editorial suite of Planet Jackson Hole. Two of Rodger’s party-on guy friends escorted him and waited downstairs as we talked over Budweisers for the next hour or so with Rodgers vacillating between speaking frankly and vetting his words. Sensing he was a first-time newsmaker, I, rightly or wrongly, decided to grant him special consideration and win his guarded trust by advising him to think carefully before speaking, as once his words went to print they would likely stay with him forever.

Anderson and I debated my technique as well as my other suggestion that we delay identifying Rodgers right away. I was banking on Rodgers opening up more and explaining himself, and possibly giving us future exclusives, if we could protect his identity for a time. Sticking by his AP-style reporting ethos and knowing damn well that the daily JH News & Guide had already identified Rodgers in their reporting on the incident, Anderson insisted on running Rodgers' name and as editor prevailed.

Ironically, my assignment on the night of the demo derby was not to report but to photograph it. Arriving just as the qualifying first heat began, my ancient Pentax K-1000 over my shoulder as I tried to convince security I was an actual media type and not another half-baked drunk trying to hustle his way in for free, which we are so often and rightly confused for, I snapped some shots of the crowd in the setting sun and suped-up cars steaking in and spitting dirt.

After burning a few rolls from earlier races, toward sunset I noticed Planet photographer Andrew Wyatt, dressed in his famously exotic hippie threads—are they Guatemalan, Tibetan, Vesuvian?—in center ring taking mad close-ups of crunched cars and smoldering torn-to-hell heaps and knew I could kick back somewhat to enjoy the main event: The Winner-Takes-All Round.

Images and memories of the seconds before Rodgers sensational high-tailing-it appear as if warping dioramas: the white water truck circling the pit; people on top waving, water hoses dampening down the cloudy dirt; the faceless blur of the crowd on the far side; the hard to recall funk of petroleum, marijuana and burnt rubber; the weird hairy guy taking his shirt off and dancing unmolested under the spray of the water truck—then Rodgers’ streaking half-tanned body carrying some bulky red thing as the murmuring crowd gasped then applauded in collective amusement before loudly booing the determined deputies and police giving chase.

Without going into graphic detail or much more nostalgic self-indulgence, I will say that it took a few seconds to understand what exactly the hell was going on.

I had seen streakers before, knew pretty well what a naked man should look like, but for some reason I could not immediately put it all together. Maybe it was because streaking nudity juxtaposing so much raw, mechanized, demo derby violence just seemed too far out. I do remember leaning over the cattle chute, where some other photographers were shooting their greedy little brains out, and snapping off a few shots of "The Streaker" before realizing, as Rodgers approached us then did a half-turn before falling face down and writhing in the dirt about twenty feet before the press pit, electric juice convulsing his body and totally harshing my mellow, that Andrew had it covered and that maybe someone ought to start reporting on this crazy-ass story.

New to town, I remember meeting Teton County's iconic Sheriff Bob Zimmer for the first time the next day, a Monday, during follow-up on the incident. My introduction to the popular and wily Wyoming lawman over, he told me, in his faux-gruff way, that he knew perfectly well why I was here. “Your job is to find out what happened," Zimmer said, toying with his giant snow-white handlebar mustache. "And mine is to keep you from making us look like ass----s.”

Zimmer would strenuously defend his deputy’s use of the "taser," citing, among other reasons, Rodgers strange toting of a fire extinguisher, as well as vow to meet Mr. Rodgers in the middle of the rodeo arena this year and shake Wyoming's most highly publicized exhibitionist/90-day Wonder's hand. (Jesus, what if they both show up naked as jay birds?)

Navel-gazing editorials about streaking, community standards and public nudity having already been written by others more inspired than myself, I will wrap up this little stroll down memory lane here by saying: Like many people, truth be told, I am damn curious if someone or someones, as widely rumoured, will bare it all this year at the demo derby.

Somewhat guiltily, I confess that if they do I hope they get away with it without anyone getting hurt or "tased" or worse. And I doubt if even the tasers' most passionate defenders over at the T.C.S.O. would want to inflict 50,000 volts just to spare Johnny eating his snow cone a little naked flesh.

Perhaps the real questions to be asked amid all the hand-wringing about nakedness and nudity in public life and the many more cases of it sure to come: Is the media pandering to debased and lurid public fascination by hyping this crazy tale about a little errant tail, and, by doing so, encouraging more bothersome streakers? Or, is it merely serving the public interest by sensationalizing a story with nudity and violence at its center while also doing its job of informing people about law enforcement's latest advances in crowd control, tactical weapons usage and how, where, why and to whose ends these devices and methods are being applied?

Well, the simple answer, in my estimation, is both. 'cause, you see, it's real hard out there being a pimp, n'est-ce pas, mon amis?