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Travel For Love

 

TBT ’95

His girl had been gone for three weeks. He was going out of his mind…

 

His psychiatrist called it a female dependency. He called it loneliness coupled with horniness.  He spoke to her often. She usually called while he was asleep. The strange thing is when she called, he was usually dreaming about her. She would wake him out of a dead sleep at 3:00 AM, The Witching Hour. He would be in a deep sleep dreaming about her. Her lithe sexy body, her porcelain skin, smooth as silk. Her lips and soft touch. Her cute voice. They went through so much together. Their bond was unbreakable. They could just look at each other and know, that they both knew. She was a brilliant artist, funny and clever and an amazing chef.

That morning she called and told him she’d be gone another three weeks! That meant a month and three weeks altogether. “No fuckin’ way man!” he said to her. He had a week of paid vacation left, but still owed rent, the IRS, unemployment and disability overpayments. He found a reasonable fight. And was on a plane to Japan five days later. “When the going gets unmanageable, the unmanageable go to Japan,” he told his mother. His sweet mother. She bailed him out of so many problems. She helped him through more than he would ever know. She got up at 7:00 AM to pick him up at 8:00 for his flight at 12:30 PM.

So now he’s on the plane with a thirst. He hadn’t had a drink in months. Trying the sobriety thing. But a thirst, a vodka thirst came over him, an obsession that he was warned about and experienced so many times in the same fucking untreated state. He drinks and reads.

He dozes off and dreams a horrifying dream.

He’s on the same plane but now every other passenger is a sumo wrestler. They’re all arguing and screaming. Two start wrestling right in front of him. They’re grunting and smell like Roquefort cheese and garlic, big balls of garlic. One throws another against the emergency door and it flies open. Sumo wrestlers are getting sucked out of the plane. At one point, three are jammed in the door and the cabin repressurizes. A sigh of relief of all the wrestlers seems to happen at once, it’s operatic, it’s soothing. But then one of the three farts, it’s loud like there’s an oboe in his ass, and the three sumo get sucked out.

Everyone is screaming again. He sits in his seat, horrified and amazed all at once, he has NO idea he’s dreaming. Suddenly his belt snaps and he gets sucked out too. There are hundreds of sumo wrestlers in the sky like babies with diapers dropped from a wayward stork. He grabs a sumo wrestler and uses him as a makeshift airbag, to break his fall. Before hitting the ground he awakens suddenly, sweating, so happy to be on a plane without sumo wrestlers. He eats, drinks, and converses with the other passengers.

He thinks about seeing his girl. He’s never traveled this far. Christ. Arizona, San Diego, and New York tops. But Japan…man oh man, he got the bite. He would travel to a cave in outer Mongolia for this girl. She was special. She was touched, a depressed manic-depressive alcoholic drug addict. She called it ‘the double overhead dual diagnosis.’  Pop Tarts and Prozac were her primary diet. He obsessively thought about her, he read and drank and drank, straight vodka, so many little bottles. Then made the mistake of eating. He sat and sweated and fell back to sleep.

He woke up dry heaving, ran to the lavatories but they were all occupied. “Jesus Christ, is there an open fucking toilet?” he cried. Finally one opened. Once in the lavatory, the decisions had to be quick. He has to shit, but he had to puke, could he do all that and piss too? He sat on the toilet and shit and pukes so quickly it didn’t make it into the sink. The vomit was in his underwear and pants. “Oh god, what a fucking mess,” he said aloud. He stripped, attempted to wash out his boxers. “Oh screw this”, he said as he threw the chunky chicken and broccoli multicolored drawers into the garbage. He washed his jeans out, cleaned off his shoes, and actually felt good.

A flight attendant approached him. “You need something…water, juice?” “Yes, ice water,” he said. She walked away. He had been on the plane 8 hours now. He spent twice that in factories and meaningless jobs, 12 hours of travel to see his girl in another country? Sure, why not.

The Inspiration Behind My Book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’. Available Now On Amazon.

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I spent most of my life hustling or making ill-gotten funds from rippin’ and running, scamming and stealing and wheeling and dealing stocks, drugs, or receiving stolen goods.

 

      After I sobered up and got off of cornucopia of opiates, copious amounts of crack and vicious amounts of vodka, I still tried to do felonious activities. But my consciousness just wouldn’t allow it anymore. I felt every lie. I felt it every time I stole and with every little stupid manipulation for a little more love, money or validation. I was locked into that behavior,  filled with guilt and shame, as a result, I kept relapsing.

     I was hard-wired for a criminal lifestyle. I’m not gonna’ blame my father, my mother, my stepfathers (2) or any of my stepmother’s (4). The fact of the matter is I grew up watching people steal, deal drugs, cheat on their taxes, profit from bullshit insurance claims, and just general felonious quick money scams and ideas.

     I saw that continuous acts of dishonesty, stealing, lying or cheating was completely connected to the getting drunk or high again. I’ve had to learn to live a life of honesty and pursue my creative dreams which were drowned out for so many years by drugs alcohol and a completely low self-opinion. I’ve had to take jobs and make humiliating low pay. All of this has helped me continue to pursue the creative passions and ideas that I just didn’t have access to before.

This is all in my book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’ available now on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0999614185/

Untitled In Progress

 

     He puts on an Affliction exercise outfit, with matching workout gloves, high heel Chucks and grabs a stopwatch. Before we leave he asks me if I like his outfit? I say yeah it’s fine, he tells me it was made for him, exclusively for him by a top designer at the Affliction company. I don’t know what to say. Then he tells me it cost 4500.00. I still say nothing. Which works.

We go to the gym in the complex. After about ten minutes of light weight lifting (between vaping) he says his ribs hurt and we go back to the unit. He spends time with his GF Serenity then he showers. She comes into the living room. CNN blairs. I’m sucked into a mainstream media loop of terrorist hell. She’s wearing a t-shirt only, seems nice but looks crazy in the eyes. If eyes are the window to the soul, well, these windows lead into a dark place. She speaks to me and tells me about his relapse two months ago. He ran away from a Malibu rehab and called her, she stated that they met just weeks before at the ‘Spiritual Solutions By The Bluffs’ meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

They went to the Chateau Marmont and she says that being from Bellflower she was very impressed and overtaken by his class, elegance, grace, and impeccable taste. So then he coaxes her into getting drugs. So she texts Sinbads and he brings coke and heroin up to the room. She said his disease, the disease, whatever tricked her and she accidentally relapsed but only did two lines. So she immediately blew her nose and flushed it out with Evian water. She said she still has 17 months of sobriety and she’s not giving up her time. To be safe she spoke to her sponsor, she referred to her as a hardcore bitch, Ex-Chola from Venice etc etc…So Sylvia told her that her clean time is between her and her higher power, and IF anyone has a problem with that tell them to go take a flying fuck off the Santa Monica pier, don’t put up with that shit Mija.

Anyway back to the hotel, she said she kept a close watch on him while he snorted coke and heroin so she could save him if need be. But then unfortunately then she fell asleep and when he snorted out of a fresh balloon turns out it was Fentanyl, and when she woke he was foaming at the nose and mouth, she said “Pulp Fiction” style. She called 911 and so then he needed Narcan and those paddle thingys. Then she goes into detail about the relationship, they don’t go anywhere, he just wants to watch the CNN and the Game Show Network. He doesn’t hug or kiss me, he’s really not that intimate and they only fuck occasionally, and the lights have to be off. Or, he won’t fuck her at all.

Her eyes start to water and she says he calls me fat and stupid. Then she asks me if I think she’s fat and stupid. I tell her I don’t know her. She says of course, I’m sorry. I guess you wouldn’t know my IQ. But then she asks me if I saw her on the street would I think she was fat, and am I YOUR type, would you fuck my body type of girl? I tell her that this is all inappropriate and I’m really am not comfortable with this conversation. She goes in the bedroom and comes out with a big purse with a small Maltese dog in it, gives me a dirty look and leaves abruptly…

 

L-25.  Ain’t No Jive

8ish PM July 1979

I’m alone. I’m 15 years old. I’m home alone and I’m frying on acid. I dripped two drops (hits) of liquid L-25 into my eyes, from a medicine dropper.

A friend convinced me to drop it in the eyes to get it, “closer to the grey matter.’’

It worked! Everything is so alive. Vibrating & moving! Colors galore!

My father has ridiculous rooms decorated with rare art, Lladros, and Hummels. They’re all moving and marching!

The art, every oil telling a story on canvas. The Ivory Netsuke’s, pointing and laughing at me!

The Louie Couture style wallpaper moving & speaking regal! I’m appreciating what was boring and old just hours ago.

I’m running through all of it, trying to catch air. I’m like a ballet dancer.

Jumping off Chippendale lounge chairs and a Queen Anne style sofa!

I really believe I can fly. This is happening. I’m floating.

Maybe I have to jump off the roof. There is a pool to break my fall.

I forget the house alarm is on and set it off by stepping on a sensor pad in the living room.

I can’t make the bell connection, where is it coming from? I look at myself in a mirror above the mantle; my face is pulled and taffy-like and urgent. The sound, the ringing?

I have an alarm clock. I wake to an alarm clock, am I dreaming?

But it’s not that. I’m not dreaming, I’m on acid and I know that much.

I don’t get it!

I didn’t set the alarm or the clock.

Finally, I get it.

I turn the house alarm off.

The police are there in what seems like seconds.

‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

They are trying the doorknob. I see it moving. Ringing the doorbell. They are persistent to get in. To find out who has trespassed.

I’m scared shitless. I breathe deeply. I’m sweating. It’s grim.

I’m at the pinnacle of the L-25 and it’s going to be wrecked by the men in blue.

I open the door.

One cop who’s melting away backward with a .38 special pointed at me, and another with a shotgun, who appears cartoonish and taffy-like.

I feel like I’m looking at them through a ‘fish eye’ lens. Then the questions come quickly.

Like they’re robots and their speech mechanically operated.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael Marcus.”            

“Where do you live?” the shotgun officer says.

“Here,” I say.

“What’s the address here?” the .38 officer says.

“13691, Tea House Lane,” I say.

“Zip Code?”

“927, oh fuck. I don’t know”

“The phone?”

“714 731-1883,” I say.

“Your father?”

“Carl Marcus,” I say.

“Your mother?”

“Which one?”

That breaks his rhythm, confuses him, and he asks if I’m on medication.

“No,” I say.  “Why?”

“Because your eyes are dilated, son.”

“I’m not well,” I say.  “And if you’re done with the questions, I’d like to go to sleep.”

“One minute, son.”

“Yes,”

“What’s the code word?”

The seconds start passing like hours.  There is a code word but I forgot it…then it comes…

“Vent,” I holler.

“Good night, son.” Why does this guy keep calling me “Son?’

The cops leave.

I go to the backyard with a flashlight and explore my Father’s meticulously manicured Banzai garden. Small people inhabit the banzai village. 

I trip around the house, the garage, rummage through photos, boxes, and drawers.

I find super 8 porno films, “Swedish Erotica” and a hand held projector.

I thread the film through the hand-held viewer.

the images are more tiny through the little peep hole they’re moving and going at it in there a group of tiny naked bodies in a little birdhouse I seem to be holding.

I try to jerk-off, but I feel like I’m going to pull my dick off my body. So I stop.  

Then I take my fathers car for a drive, a 1978 Red Corniche Rolls Royce, I’m cruising Lemon Heights. It’s all twinkly and shiny out.

Everything is moving and swirling by. I’m fully aware that I’m in a $115,000 car.

I will get her home safely, my dad and stepmother are on an antique buying trip in New York.

I go home and furiously drink a six pack of Heineken.

Then I sleep. I think I slept, or I hallucinated that I slept.

I woke up and felt like an overgrown putty product, yanked and pulled through this reality’s wormhole. 

The Vin Skull Duggery Hour

Howdy, hi there friends and neighbors!

Welcome to Vin Skull Duggery Variety Hour!

An absolute mind-bending program of dome diggin’ serotonin slinging, neuron rattling, frontal lobe lovin’ and brain salad surgery bazar.

Brought to To you by the good pholks at Price Pfister ( the pharmaceutical arm) Where they are committed to plumbing the depths of your reward center for teasers and treasures. Also, by that hip slick and cool new Vietnamese Soul food Joint out on Highway 1 & 1/2~ Pho Diddley. Drive through! or better yet; lounge to the sounds of Lee Kravitz Washington …or karaoke on the 3rd Tuesday of every leap year. Try The Signature Dish, Pol Pot Pie! My favorite!

On this evenings program- we fool around with the left and the right of your gray matter. We really Get in there an dig around for delusion and grandeur and speak to king baby and his majesties ego! It’ll be a real journey of sorts with layers of decay and evil, so please no sandals or shorts, dress accordingly for this Advil-venture.

We will knock your socks off with a surprise shocking guest, live from the house of arrest, Capt. Mind Fuck and his Buccaneers. Playing they’re classic diddy, “My insane Brain Can’t stand it on this plane” as well as “4 point restraints in a 4-star resort.”

With special guests Leggy Pee & Daddy Puke. As you well know we are committed to mental excellence and uncommon sense in bringing the finest non-sequitur babble from here to Minot. So why not? Let’s see what makes that melon tick…or pull the trigger till it goes click, whatever your fancy – it will be well worth the dollar six eighty admission you part with.
Tune In!
We’ll see you ’round the Hippocampus!