In 1984, I was the middle act for John Fox in Lexington, Kentucky. After the show, John was going out with the club manager, a third rate Linda Evans, a poor man's Jane Fonda. She had that aerodynamically shaped hair; it looked like a good gust of wind might lift the little woman off the ground. I was about forty-five days off alcohol and drugs. So there was no way I was going out with John, who at the time was moonlighting as Satan's drug taster.

After the show, I stopped by the store where I bought a box of Wheat-Chex and a quart of milk. John and the manager drove me back to the condo, where they handed me the keys to the front door before kicking me to the curb. Off they went to distract each other from life's miseries. In the throes of my detox, I preferred that explanation for their activities rather than "fucking each other's brains out."

I climbed the steps—just a long enough walk for them to drive out of shouting distance—and quickly discovered the keys didn't work. It was the dawn of the cell phone era, where only world leaders, Hollywood agents and Columbian drug lords carried those fifteen pound, gasoline-powered phones. There was no way for me to get in touch with John.

There I was, standing outside a condo on the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky at two in the morning with no money. It was the moment when I first realized that I needed to plan my life a little better.

To be continued...