The Culinary Addict

I’m half way through my life, and about where I expected to be on a personal, professional, and emotional level. The paths I have taken to arrive at this point in time, however, are vastly different than my youthful premonitions of what my journey would entail. Most people can look back and pinpoint a fateful decision, relationship, promotion or an event that had a major influence on their present state. For me, and my one claim to infamous fame arrived when I had to make my fateful decision- “Should I grab a burrito or take a shit?”

I decided to take a shit.

I co-owned a backstage catering business in Seattle in the 90’s named Eat This Catering. We catered every mid-level to high-end band that travelled through the Northwest. Each summer we had the exclusive contract at the Gorge amphitheater in George Washington (The Gorge). The Gorge sits atop an amazing plateau that peers down onto the Columbia River located in the high desert of central Washington three hours east of Seattle. It has a Grand Canyon feel. It is a spectacular venue, however, my world revolved around figuring out how to shop, transport, properly store, and cook for hundreds if not thousands of rock stars and crews on a weekly basis inside a 40 foot trailer with 1 small coca-cola fridge, 1 6-burner oven, and a large deck. The trailer and deck were connected to the catering yurt where the hordes of musicians and back stage folks would converge for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

On July 1st, 1995 we had a 4 day contract to caterer breakfast, lunch, dinner and provide all dressing room food, liquor and amenities for Lollapalooza (approximately 250 for breakfast, 400 for lunch, and 600 for dinner as well as servicing 15 dressing rooms daily, go here for backstage post). The bands were to arrive during the three days and sound check prior to the opening day of the tour on the 4th of July. Needless to say this was quite an undertaking. We rented a fleet of vans, a portable fridge unit for all cold items, and a semi-truck container for the hundreds of cases of water, beer, and booze which was accessible 10 yards off the backside of our trailer deck opposite the dining yurt. On one corner of our trailer sat the ill fated Port-o-let which was snuggled up to a large ice-storage cooler (with 1000 lbs of ice in it) which was next to the propane tank that fueled our stove.

I had been on site for 3 days prior to the opening breakfast working 16-hour days and we were ready to go. I awoke a bit hung-over ( I was a daily drinker at this point of my life) at 5:30 am to roll out breakfast by 7 am. I wore my favorite shirt at the time- Dinosaur Jr. Green with a girl smoking a cigarette that looks exactly like J Mascis, my board shorts, and Tevas. At the time, I believed we were a professional outfit, but many healthand safety violations were par for the course. It typically was over 100 degrees so open-toed footwear was essential for comfort. More over one of our main cook would smoke and drink beer while he barbecued on the back deck from 9 am-6 pm. With little refrigeration we jerked, smoked, and barbecued just about all meats and fish.

Things were pumping along. Typically we would get hit hard right when we opened by the stage hands which were comprised of a surly dirty bunch of union workers that off loaded all the equipment and built the stages- on a whole very nice grunge laden workers that wore black. Similar to us, they were the first ones in and the last to leave. The next wave was the production people. The local production company employees, in this case MCA concerts as well as all of the touring production people such as: production assistants, personal assistants, record people, tour managers, accountants, site managers, wardrobe managers, image managers (only in the case of Yanni and Michael Bolton…he also had a fucking hair manager, but obviously they weren’t at this show), etc. If any of the musicians were to eat breakfast they would roll in at the last 10 minutes, but most were still sleeping on their buses.

Meanwhile we had a whole crew spearheaded by Heather to deal with the 15+ dressing rooms and buses (there weren’t enough rooms to house all of the musicians so some had to stay on their buses). Each group faxed in what is termed a rider that gave specific food, beverage, and personal requirements weeks early. Thus we had to shop for each item, prep then organize them accordingly and for daily delivery to their dressing room or bus (Go here to see the backstage post). Logistically this is a pain in the ass in the middle of the dessert because of the terrain. One couldn’t use a cart due to unpaved roads so every item hand to be hand carried to multiple locations throughout the backstage property.

Once satisfied with the dressing room progress, I focused on the Latin lunch buffet when were putting out. I was confined to the kitchen with my partner Christine who was finishing the rice and beans while I dealt with the salsas, condiments, and meat. Meanwhile Shawn was smoking and grilling on the deck. We started to put lunch out around 10:30. Once completed, I took a moment and peered down over the beautiful gorge view and took a deep breath. Okay, that’s done, I thought and realized I hadn’t eaten anything and a burrito would comfort my sour stomach. However, I had some intestinal rumblings and it was starting to get hot so decided to step of the deck into the Port-O-let before the bucket became to toasty and stinky.

The funny thing about a portable toilet is there is only a thin piece of plastic separating the world from your personal business. I had clocked some time in this particular toilet so I was familiar with voices and sounds around me, which arguably saved my life. I was just finishing up when I heard an unfamiliar fierce sound that quickly became frightful. Instinctually, I jumped up off the toilet seat as the wall came crashing onto me.

This is when time stood still.

The volcanic-like force of the collision sent me skyward to my left up and out of the frayed plastic toilet. I came out on top of the airborne ice storage unit. I vividly remember telling myself I better push off of this heavy unit or I will be crushed. I pushed myself off of the unit doing a full midair rotation, which resulted in me landing directly on my right scapula about 30 feet from the point of impact. I came to rest a few feet from the edge of the cliff. My first thought was, “I think I’m alive” my second was, “I better pull up my shorts.” Everything was hazy due to the chemicals and debris in my eyes, but I quickly jumped to my feet realizing my right leg was dragging. Adrenaline took over at this point. Balancing on my left leg I pulled my right thigh upward. Below my right knee I observed splintered grey bones that protruded out of my flesh towards me. Below the fracture my ankle and foot were circled freely like a rubber band that was going around in circles. That particular site and thought brought me back to the ground. My next thought was, “I’m pretty fucked up.”

Shock is an interesting place to be. It surfaced from a deep internal zone located in the depths of my brain that attempted to flood my body with an unnerving psychological sense of fear. A couple of factors helped me get through the next hour and half without going into major shock. Firstly, an EMT trained stagehand by the name of Jon was by my side providing me with a realistic viewpoint of the next hour, which went something like this:

“Dude, we are in the middle of nowhere. It is going to take some time for the EMT’s to get here as well as the fire department. They are going to stabilize you and probably move you to the nearest town. You are pretty fucked up, but nothing appears to be life threatening. I am going to stay by your side the whole time and talk you through it. It is hot as shit right now so we are going to try and get a sheet and have people hold all four corners so your not directly in the heat.”

Secondly, I had been in some intense situations before such as breaking a collar bone, leg, and a really intense mushroom trip where I perceived all of the grass around me as angled module units that were bleeding which evolved into a really bad trip for 3 hours of psychologically hell where I was convinced I was the anti-Christ. Odd that experience should surface, but if I could get through that experience I could get through this.

The chemicals and debris from the toilet began to irritate my whole body. Plus, the crap was in my nose and mouth which became the driest area on the planet, but Jon was adamant not to give me any water due to the fear of because surgery. He finally agreed to wipe my face clean and give me a few ice chips. The next 30 minutes involved focused breathing to keep the shock and pain manageable. Meanwhile, Jon filled me in on what happened.

“Dude, I’m not exactly sure but Jose was driving a large front end loader down the hill and the brakes went out (he came over after the initial shock to make sure I was alive). He attempted to steer it clear of the catering trailer and ram it into the huge metal container but clipped the Port-O-Let before he made contact. Dude, the Port-O-Let is directly under the front loader and the first 1/4 of that container is pierced and crushed from the collision. You’re fucking lucky.” Approximately 50 minutes after the initial accident the volunteer EMT’s and volunteer fire chief arrived.

George is a very rural place, and although I’m sure this crew had seen a fair share of farming accidents I’m not quite sure they were confident securing a half naked long hair man covered in shit that was just shot out of a Port-O-Let. They stabilized my neck and shoulder first with a brace and sling. What proposed the biggest problem was the leg. Protocol was to secure it with an air splint, which is what they ultimately did, however, a lot of debate ensued due to the protruding bones in conjunction with being heavily contaminated with the contents of the toilet.

“Okay, here is what we are going to do,” said the ringleader. “First we are going to cut off your shirt, shoes, and shorts off.” Shit, my favorite shirt, I thought. “Then, we are going to splint your leg then get you into the emergency vehicle and take you to a small town 10 miles away. There is a small medical outpost there where you can get some medical attention by a doctor. Then a paramedic will take from there to Wenatchee Washington which is an hour or so away. Unfortunately, we can’t administer drugs so you’re just going have to hang in there for a little while longer.

I have experienced a lot of pleasure and pain in my life, but when they put the air into that splint my core was pierced with a flash of bright fluorescent white pain and I began to scream and gag. When the compound fracture broke through the skin no resistance existed so the muscles contracted diagonally pulling the lower busted bones upward outside of the skin. Meanwhile the internal frayed bones were pulled downward by the opposing muscles into the bones being pulled outward. So, when the splint was tightened the splintered bones rubbed violently and unnaturally together. Next they attempted to remove chunks of debris and gravel from my sweaty back and ass before they moved me onto a board and ultimately into an emergency vehicle. I felt every bump of road for those ten miles, and it was a gravel road.

Once on the cold metal table in what was a medical facility/post office, my adrenaline and mental focus began to fade, and the gravity and reality of the situation began to take hold- I began to moan, scream, and curse. The on-call volunteer doctor that appeared to be 80 greeted me. He looked me straight in the eyes and said,

“Son! I’m doctor Snelling! I was a doctor in the Navy for a number of years and I haven’t heard a mouth like yours since that time. I know your pretty beat up and your covered with crap, but your going be okay. I’m going to get you some morphine to help with the pain. Then I’m going to take some basic X-rays why we are waiting for the paramedics to get here to take you to Wenatchee.”

Three shots of morphine later the intense pain and psychological trauma were eased but didn’t subside my angst. I focused on the breath while the paramedics transferred me onto a gurney and into the ambulance.

“He man, I’m Greg, and I’m going to be by your side for the ride to talk you through it. I can see you’re in pain so here is another shot of morphine.”

Bam, ten minutes passed. With every sway or bump in the road the bones of my leg would grate together.

“I can see your still in pain. Here is another shot.”

Bam, ten minutes passed, and I still couldn’t get on top of the pain.

“Okay man, I can tell your still hurting. You’re doing a fantastic job of breathing, but I’m going to give you a shot of Demerol.

Wha-Bam. The Demerol hit my veins and shot straight to my brain that blanketed me with nurturing warmth that was tender, calming, and utterly euphoric. It provided an endearing confidence at the core of my soul as to say, I was not only going to be all right, but every part of me mattered. It was a spiritual revelation- For the first time in my life all of the inhibitions and fears I had of myself, people, places, and things including my present position were removed.

“That appears to have given you some relief?” Greg commented

“Oh yes, my friend.” I said with a hazy-eyed grin.

Although the euphoric clarity lasted a mere 10 minutes, it was that internal fortitude of comfort, strength, and sense of a higher power I would seek out over the next eight years through my alcohol and drug addiction.

Notes From The Culinary Addict

Yogism from James (my teacher): “Allow this moment to be a moment.”

Recent 12-step meeting quote: “It feels great to wake up and not be pissed off.”

***There are so many side notes and aftermath to this story that I will cover in next week post. However, I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for the love and caring of my sister Meredith, my mom and dad, as well as a number of friends- two in particular- Heather M. and Mark G. Thank you.

-The chemical smell and taste of a port-o-let will never be forgotten.

-Sometimes I wonder where I would be if I decided to get a burrito.

-I celebrated 6 years of sobriety this week! I am eternally grateful for my family, friends, strangers, and those that I will come to know in the fateful future.

Kitchen Quotes:

-Jamie, my sous chef that left a few months ago has decided to go to school to become a medical assistant then become a nurse. In the interim he is going to work part-time. I asked him how his program was and this was his response: “There are really hot woman in this program. Not like the independent industry-restaurant-ink-type ladies, more like the nurturing or maternal type that want to take care of their man. Plus, the secretaries that work at the school wear those hot business suits and smile.”

Randy:”They had this thing on Fender guitars, and Joe Walsh can really play the guitar.”

Me: “Yeah, but he was in the Eagles.”

Randy: “Only for a few years.”

Me: “Once and Eagle always a fucking Eagle.”

Search Terms (words that directed someone to this blog for whatever reason): “kicked out of college for lsd”

Band Name of the Week: Run Over In a Shitter

Present Pandora Kitchen Selection: Midland

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Tags: port-o-let accidents