On the Rocks
My Lowest Bottom — Voodoo Fest 2009
“Baby, Please Don’t Go Down to New Orleans.”
Halloween weekend, 2009, I brought my girlfriend at the time, “Fiona,” a snowbird to Destin and a pleasure worker, a big, sweet, beautiful African American woman. She was one of many things I lost that weekend. I also lost my mind. I did not lose my convertible red Mercedes 420 CLK that we drove out to New Orleans.
We arrived in New Orleans on Thursday, October 29, 2009. I immediately arranged to meet with “Fat Freddy,” one of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers. He “hooked me up” for the weekend. Ten hits of acid, 7g of cocaine powder, and an ounce of excellent weed. He also gave me a hospitality wristband to the Miller Lite tent, guaranteeing me MGD all weekend long. Headliners on Friday included Eminem, Ween, and Justice. I remember the Ween show as I had not seen them since 2005 at another Halloween show (my second Halloween with Ween!). They were fun and crazy like usual. I would do blow when they were singing “Bananas and Blow.”
Headliners on Saturday Halloween night included KISS, Jane’s Addiction, and George Clinton and Parliament-Funkadelic. I was free at this point to hang out with whomever, and I had a lot of weed. I was making friends right and left with the “kids” at the show. I weighed close to 300 pounds, wore bright tie-dye, and was an old guy with a big, bushy beard. The kids would take all sorts of selfies with me. I was wearing an oversized robe and a walking stick on Halloween night, and I kind of looked like a freaky Jesus.
Headliners on Sunday included Lenny Kravitz, The Flaming Lips, and The Pogues. I spent the day in the hospitality tent. I remember dancing to The Pogues. In other words, while it was a hell of a show, I remember some of the great moments, but I only have fragments of memories of the whole thing.
At the show on Friday, I lost my mind. My date was not a big concertgoer, especially in the mud. I was going bipolar because I threw the hotel phone at the wall, scaring her uncharacteristically. That was a low point in my life. I broke up with her and gave her my car keys to drive home. She was lovely, despite me being a total ass, and took it to my place.
The theme continued later that day. I got a call that the Louisiana Supreme Court had just thrown out the products liability case we had tried to a million-dollar verdict. There went my most significant chance to earn millions — down the drain. I got so upset, I dramatically slammed my iPhone 3 in the ground, smashed it with my walking stick, and left it in the mud. This was mainly dramatic because I had an iPhone 4 at home waiting for me, but I was so high I did not realize I was cutting myself off from everyone.
My typical routine was to stay on the fairgrounds for the festival, which generally ended right after sunset or around 8pm. The night was still young, so I walked to the nearby tiki bar and even got drunker on tropical drinks. Then I would wander “home” through the French Quarter to the International House Hotel, stopping at bars along the way. I knew there was a 24-hour sports bar from staying at that hotel before, I also knew the bartender, and I could always get a drink. I’d watch the sunrise, go back to the hotel, and sleep until noon. Lather, rinse, repeat.
On Sunday night, November 1, after the last concert, I made it back to the hotel (I later learned), where I had a seizure in the lobby. All I remember is that everyone in the lobby and bar turned around to watch me fall. The hotel called an ambulance. I was taken to Charity Hospital because I had no health insurance. I later learned that my blood alcohol was .386% — almost five times the legal limit for driving in most states, which is .08%. Only half the people who get that drunk live tell about it. Drinking my blood would have been like drinking most NA beers at that point.
Of course, I “came to” in the hospital and immediately yanked the catheter out of my dick, dressed, and left. I went to a restaurant and got a drink. I called the lawyer I worked with, who flew out to New Orleans in his plane, and asked for a ride back. He and his wife were going to the Monday Night Football game and would come to get me afterward. I went back to my sports bar to watch the game.
The bartender was so friendly he let me fall asleep with my head down on the bar without bothering me. Very nice of him, but I didn’t “come to” this time until 2 am. By then, the lawyer had already flown back. I went back to the hotel. I finished off my drugs and drinks. I totally blacked out and did not remember what happened that week. Around November 6, I finally found my way to a Greyhound Bus. On the ride from New Orleans, I was that guy nobody would sit next to on the Greyhound Bus. I had fallen a long way from being a lawyer.
When I got to Destin, in addition to my car, I found my best friend, “Gonzo,” had been calling all the jails, hospitals, and morgues in South Louisiana looking for me. He had also been talking to my mom. I had put my loved ones through some severe worry.
That, more than nearly dying, was my bottom — the day that I first started thinking I needed to get sober. I saw my psychiatrist, who had received the records from Charity Hospital. She tricked me by giving me a list of AA and NA meetings and saying it was “group therapy.” I had a spiritual experience I will describe later, and ended up in the rooms of recovery, where I have remained until this day.
Thank you for reading my article. If you join Medium through this link, you can get all of my stories, as well as millions more. Please join my readers’ list at https://CaliforniaSoberJoe.com for earliest information about my forthcoming book.
