I don't remember the 90's. It seems like such a simple sentence when it rolls off the tongue. When it rolls off of mine it stings. By the end of the Nineties I was nearly dead and in a 10 year blackout. I missed a lot of Bill Clinton, who I liked, and a lot more of Nirvana, whom I thought were overrated. Mother Love Bone, Pearl Jam, Alice-in-Chains and Soundgarden were the true pioneers of the "Seattle Sound," or "Grunge" as far as I'm concerned. Nirvana was at the right place at the right time. Sorry to my Seattle area mates, Ian McLennon Shipp and Angela Kirby, if you disagree. A Mick has an opinion or several of them on any subject.
One of the things I do to deflect feelings of discomfort is to tell a joke to redirect a conversation. When my emotions take a turn I don't like, or that create fear in me, a quick witted comeback or smart ass comment is immediate relief. It works great as a comedian and actor, but not so well when I am in a serious conversation with a friend or loved one. I use it as a defense mechanism. I would rather feel laughter than "feel" others pain because I get frustrated when I can't help solve their problem. By making them laugh I have given them a moment of relief...but I digress.
At the end of the 90's I was in my third failed marriage. Although married a year we never spent more than a few days together before my booze and her temper broke up the bliss. I was living in my car part time and in sleazy hotels the other half. New Year's Eve was on a Wednesday in 1997. My on and off wife and I went to a prepackaged dinner party. I drank, she yelled and the night was over before the prerequisite confetti, horns and warm hearted kisses.
I dropped her off at her apartment and should not have been driving. I headed back toward the strip of transient hotels on Lagrange Road in Stone Park. As I approached the corner of Grand Avenue to turn onto Lagrange I could see a police road block set up in the middle of the street about a quarter mile from where I had just turned. I was absolutely over the legal limit and switched into survival mode. Spotting a familiar dumpy motel I had stayed at before on my left, I pulled into the drive smooth as silk. I had out smarted the law and savored the familiar adrenalin rush one experiences knowing catastrophe had been averted.
I had little money but not enough for the innkeeper. He knew me well and in a pathetic nod said it was okay for me to sleep in the parking lot. I assured him I was going to get paid Friday and would check in respectably. I was instantly taken back to Wimpy from Popeye. "Can I borrow a quarter for a hamburger, for which I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?" I navigated my car into an empty spot, or two, and set out for the liquor store across the street. An addict always makes sure, that when choosing a place to rest his head, that there is liquor, an ATM, a laundry mat and fast food within stumbling distance. All of the necessities a gentleman of my station needed.
I bought enough booze to help me pass out quickly. It was well below zero and my car had no heat. I was dressed in a business suit with no coat. I recrossed the busy roadway laughing at the suckers getting hauled away by the coppers a few blocks down. Not me! It was party time. I had a pair of sweat pants in my car and a blue U-Haul blanket. I was cock sure that I wasn't a drunk. I was a SURVIVOR! I wasn't homeless. I was just camping in my car.
I guzzled the pint of Vodka in a few deep, burning gulps. I chased it with a grape soda for sophistication. The late night radio talk show host, who talks about aliens and UFOs, was a familiar companion. I slipped my sweat pants over my now wrinkly tailored suit pants, wrapped myself in the greasy blue blanket and wept in desperation that I couldn't take much more. I always thought I would die before 40. Now the horrifying realization that my madhouse life could continue infinitum was seeping into my fragile psyche.
As the windows frosted up inside, the warmth of my flammable breath was the only source of heat the car provided. I passed out for an hour, waking to more UFO talk. I slept another hour and awoke to a new voice. The third time I woke up the sun was cracking its way through the New Year dawn. It was now 1998 and I was sure things would be different.
1998 did begin a new twist in my alcohol abuse and chaotic existence. As I flipped the driver seat back to upright I scratched at the heavy frost to peer out at the New Year. My crotch was so cold. I felt as if I was naked. I leaned into the door to nudge it open and immediately discovered why I felt so naked. During the course of the night I had unknowingly pissed all over myself and it had frozen! As my head pounded I shivered uncontrollably I picked the yellow ice chunks from my once lovely suit. I tried to exit the car but was also frozen to the seat and couldn't move.
I had reached a new low in wetting myself. I would do it hundreds of times later. This first time horrified me. I hadn't peed myself since I was a kid! As I worked myself back and forth I could hear the sounds of carpet tearing, but it was my pantsicle unpeeling from my portable home. I was demoralized, broken and the Mr. Freeze of Piss! I had a solution though! It worked for me many times before and after that. I slithered back across the street and bought a bottle of booze and got some quarters for the laundry.
After downing my liquid potato breakfast I was ready for the new day. I slipped into a pair of gym shorts I had in the back seat and set my sails for the laundry mat. The disgust of my new bottom was gone. Denial was a welcomed mate. I had escaped the police and me again. I sat in the filthy laundry mat watching my clothes go around and around. My life was like that. I was just going around and around, but a dryer shuts off after a few minutes demanding another quarter. My body kept the cycle going and going, around and around. It didn't stop because I kept feeding it the booze it demanded.
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