Full of drunken, depressed musicians, my car broke down on the way home from a horrible gig in Tallahassee. I can't remember if it was just before or just after Christmas '92 or '93, but the temperature was around 30 degrees — one of the coldest days in North Florida that year. After an hour or so of trying to tough it out by sleeping in the car, my guitarist and I started walking in the general direction of Gainesville, wearing thin fall-style jackets. A trucker eventually pulled over to pick us up, because our long hair led him to believe we were damsels in distress. When he discovered we were men, he wasn't going to let us into his rig. Once he saw how underdressed and shivering we were, however, he relented and gave us a ride to the nearest service station. Drunk, exhausted, dejected, humiliated and freezing — I can't remember being as cold since.
The Coldest I Ever Was
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