1MERCY
“Hey, Uncle Jesse, pull over, you’re fucked-up!”
Tourists. They’re not angry, they’re just starstruck and sweet, worried about my safety. A car pulls up next to me, the window rolls down, and they start snapping pictures with their phones. I pray to God they delete them.
It’s June 12, 2015. I am a fifty-one-year-old man behind the wheel of my silver Mercedes S 550 Coupe. I have no right to be behind any wheel.
The guy they see in the driver’s seat is Jesse Katsopolis, the hair-obsessed, bad boy, rocker-with-a-heart-of-gold from Full House careening erratically through the 90210.
He also looks a little like Blackie Parrish, the street urchin, bad boy, rebel-with-a-heart-of-gold from General Hospital swerving down Rodeo Drive past Tom Ford, Louis Vuitton, Dolce & the other guy.
Or is it Tony Gates, the hotheaded bad boy, doctor-with-a-heart-of-gold from ER driving the Golden Triangle of Beverly Hills, over and over?
Those faces are familiar to passengers pleading, “Pull over!” One of these hopped-up lunatics is gonna get someone killed.
It can’t be John Stamos. That guy is gone, gone, gone.
Something I took or drank earlier kicks in when I pass the iconic BEVERLY HILLS sign. These one-way streets are confusing enough when you’re stone-cold sober, but if you’re loaded, they become a maze of mayhem.
The last time I saw myself before sliding into the driver’s seat was in my bathroom mirror. Not bad. I’ve got my dad’s rough and rugged features softened up by some of my mom’s natural beauty. Right now, I don’t want either of them staring back at me. They would want me to be better than this. I’m letting them down tonight.
I’m living in a 1940s Rat Pack bachelor pad in Beverly Hills with Spanish-style architecture, a big stone fireplace, porn star shag carpeting in the bedroom, and a large Lovesac beanbag chair slumped seductively in the corner.
Sinatra had a cool place next to mine in the 1960s. Each wrought iron gate protecting his fortress was emblazoned with a large S. I tried to buy them during his estate sale. Why not? We share last initials, started our careers as teen idols, and both had good taste in music. I look at my wall-size Warholian pop art print featuring a repeating pattern of Frank Sinatra’s mug shot and lift my glass in a toast.
The house is full of homages to the Casino Gods: Sinatra, Elvis, and my spirit animal Don Rickles, but there are also innocent tokens from an earlier time: my very first drum set, a Tony the Tiger kit I got for Christmas when I was five. I have a wall of fame, eight-by-tens of me and icons Frank, Sammy, Jimmy Page, and Bette Midler, but what sticks out is a framed note from my mother:
Anyone driving on Mulholland from Laurel to Coldwater Canyon could look out their window and see my first piece of Disney memorabilia in the backyard. It’s the big D from the original DISNEYLAND sign that had sat on Harbor Boulevard letting you know you had arrived at the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH.
My house hasn’t been the happiest place on earth recently. I’m restless, joyless, and the wonderful world of Disney has lost its magic. I’m as free as can be but pacing the place like a prisoner, back and forth, purposeless. I’ve gotta get out of here.
I’m heading to The Palm to meet one of my closest friends, Bob Saget. This classic surf and turf steakhouse is a Los Angeles landmark. I’m a regular; it’s kind of like my personal Cheers where everybody knows my name. After about fifteen minutes of glad-handing agents, managers, and whatever celebs happen to be there, I’ll finally get to my booth for a power lunch or dinner.
The walls are covered with caricatures of celebrity customers. When the restaurant moved from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills, all those depicted in the illustrations were invited to take theirs home. I never did. There are only two caricatures that made it into the new Beverly Hills spot: me and Frank Sinatra.
There’s something that reminds me of my dad there: old-school, generous portions, no bullshit. My dad, William John Stamos, was the coolest guy in any room he walked into. Although he never knew it. Most kids get to a point of disillusionment with their fathers, but I never got there. He was always bigger than life to me.
I’m missing my dad, and my marriage has busted up, but it’s the loss of my mom, Loretta, who died nine months ago, that has me spiraling. She kept me anchored, solid, and straightened out for most of my life. I’m feeling adrift and alone without her. Empty. She loved me so much that I didn’t have to learn how to love myself. Now all that’s left of her guidance and grace are little notes in pretty penmanship.
Where are my loves? What laughter? What am I doing with my blessed life?
I’m managing my emotions like a chemist. A little of this to get happy, a little of this to give me confidence, some of this to sleep, and some of that to get back up and do it all over again the next day. For most of my life, I avoided the stuff, but in 2015 I go off the rails. I’m burning my throat with liquor, burning bridges with arrogance, and burning the candle at both ends.
I’m doing a hell of a job processing the five stages of grief:
1. Denial: Gamma-hydroxybutyrate (or GHB) to stay lean and deny time the way Hollywood likes it.
2. Anger: An antidepressant to take the mad away.
3. Bargaining: Please, please, please let me sleep, Ambien.
4. Depression: Women to take the sad away.
5. Acceptance: When all else fails, pour a stiff drink, set sail for nowhere, fall overboard, drown.
Saget will get it. I just need to head to The Palm, have a few drinks, and shoot the shit with my pal. He’s the closest thing to the brother I always wanted. He riles me up and evens me out like no one else. He often phones me, tells me he’s too busy to talk, and before I can say, “But you called me…” he hangs up. I love him so much.
I want to hear one of his rambling stories where he interrupts himself, to make a point about himself, then dives right back into where he left off. I can forget about myself for a while when I’m with Bob.
We plan to have dinner and head out to a big Hollywood party. I was invited and Bob wants to go. He’ll be my plus-one. We would often be each other’s “date.” We’re both single. We talk about how we want to find someone good and kind to spend the rest of our lives with.
Back at my pad, I slide into my Benz, fumbling around to turn on the radio. Paul Revere & the Raiders are playing my song, the one about kicks gettin’ harder to find. Getting loaded allows me to numb out and be comforted by people I have no business being around. People who don’t get me. “Who’s Paul Revere? Did he play football for the Raiders?”
Copyright © 2023, 2024 by John Stamos
Foreword copyright © 2023 by Jamie Lee Curtis
