Tag Archives: alcohol

My days at the London Hotel were numbered. Essay #1

#2:00 AM London Hotel, West Hollywood.

I was walking the halls collecting trays, and picking up early morning orders left on doorknobs. As I made my way from floor to floor, I pondered all the decisions and wrong turns and I made in my life. Disastrous turns that led me up to my current position at 50 years old.

Sure, there were drug and alcohol incidents here and there, also some jail stints. There was also first-degree burglary, grand theft auto, possession of controlled substance as well as assault with a deadly weapons charges but all that was many years ago.

When I applied for this job, Jill Myers in human resources said The London was to do an intensive background check. Apparently, it wasn’t that intensive.

Truth be told, I lost all my hustle when I sobered up and I stopped doing hard drugs. Thank baby Christ I’m not permanently psychotic or paranoid. These thoughts were broken by a woman in a nightgown running and screaming coming down the hall straight towards me.

‘I left my key in my room, I left my key in my room! She looked distraught and flustered. At first, I thought she was dead on the reincarnation of Leona Helmsley, or the ghost of Leona Helmsley stuck in a Hell-like hotel purgatory.

Was it Leona? At 2 AM your mind really plays tricks with you. Think the Overlook Hotel but I’m way more passive Mr. Torrance.

‘Okay okay, ma’am. Ma’am, what is your name?’ This was the protocol. Simple enough.

‘What the hell does that have to do with it! Just let me into my room! That’s private information anyway!’ She seemed to be moving closer toward me. I started stepping backward.

‘Ma’am, I’m sorry I just can’t let anybody into any room without proper identification.’

Her eyes lit up, ‘Anybody, anybody? Into any room? I’m Sofia De Aragon and I’ve been staying at this hotel on and off since it was The Belage! How dare you!’

A door in front of us opened and a guest popped his head out. He took one look at Mrs. De Aragon and quickly went back to his room and shut the door.

‘That’s right! You mind your business!’ Sofia said as he bolted the door.

Suddenly I felt like a scolded eight-year-old. ‘Okay okay, I’m sorry. What room are you in? ‘Well that’s just it, I don’t know what room I’m in. They used to put the room numbers on the key, how the hell are you supposed to remember what goddamn room you’re in?’

‘Well, I guess we’ll have to call the front desk.’

She looked angry, ‘Well where is that god damn phone to even call them? We’re on the eighth floor! Do I have to run downstairs?’

I started moving towards the lobby of the eighth floor, I knew there was a phone there. I had to get away from this woman. I felt like she had stuck an invisible straw into my chest and was sucking the very last bit of life that was left in me. It had to stop. I picked up the phone. ‘Hi it’s Mike, In-room-dining attendant, I have a Mrs….’ I looked up at her, ‘Ma’am your name?’ She shook her head and whispered, ‘give me the phone, give me the phone.’

I attempted to walk away. Let them come up and let her into her room, or figure out what room she’s in. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

‘Hey where are you going? I’m in room 416 you need to let me in.’ We were both on the 8th floor. I don’t even know how she ended up on this floor. You need a room key to use the guest elevator to go from floor to floor. Which I don’t even have. And I was told under no circumstances were guest allowed to use the service elevator. I walked towards the phone called the front desk again. I hung up. Then I explained the situation to her and that she would have to wait here while somebody came up from the front desk.

She was flustered and upset ‘Why can’t you just let me in?’

‘Ma’am if you don’t have your room key we can’t get down the elevator to your floor, I don’t have access to that elevator with the key that I have.’ We both stood there looking at each other for a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

‘Well that’s absurd, what kind of bullshit operation are they running here?’ I walked away. She was saying things to me as I was walking away. They can fire me, they can discipline me, they can do whatever they want. Bottom line, I was not talking or looking at this woman for another fucking minute.

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/

Disgruntled Client.

OCT 3, 2017

WOW! Where do I start?

I’ve been to about 26 rehabs, no need to list them here, but feel free to ask my mother. There’s a thread of etiquette and a sense of decorum that comes in the world of rehabs, sober livings, and sobriety in general.

It might serve you to make a poster or placards for all to see, maybe hang it in the common areas. That being said (with the exception of the piss soaked, shit stained bed bug ridden county dumps that I’ve experienced) this is quite possibly the worst rehab I’ve ever been in. Hands down! Kip Garman, my case worker, therapist, whatever it is he claims to be (I have yet to see any credentials.) He just sits and blows vape clouds and looks out the window while I’m telling him my most intimate of secrets! Then makes no comment whatsoever, except, “good work I’ll see you next Monday.” HUH? What the actual fuck!!! He has the emotional depth of a bird bath! Also that scam artist in accounting, Candy, she double bills my insurance!

Well, I mean my mother’s insurance, but still! Now to the residents. Just selfish fucking little assholes! They never clean they’re up after themselves, AND staff just sits there looking on and don’t say anything. WHAT THE FUCK! It’s like the staff is intimidated, or scared they might get fired if they say something to these little shits! Stop coddling these little fuck sticks. Tough love works! Make them scrub toilets! Clean up dog shit at a local dog park! Why do I have to clean up or move things around because these brain dead millennials wreck havoc throughout the place!

There is a dishwasher, fuckers! Load it, fill it with cascade, turn it on, and goodnight! Then, in the morning, empty the fucking thing! Nobody loads or unloads it except me! They all live out of the dishwasher and then load dirty dishes in with clean dishes so there’s never a complete cycle of anything being clean or dirty, fucking so sick of it! These people have zero living skills! The same goes for the washer and dryer, these little assholes just live out of the dryer like it is their drawers or closet. And then I have to pull that shit out and put it in their room because otherwise I get yelled at for putting it in the common areas!

They keep the volume on the TV at like the highest possible level! I have to listen to the Friends theme song at maximum volumes. And there’s a DVD collection of every season of “Friends” in the common area? AND Who even watches that shit? I’ll answer! They do! Because they’re on suboxone or Librium or Seroquel! They sit there drooling and droopy-eyed, most of these assholes never even had a real habit or have had to truly hustle to keep from getting dope sick!!

Also regarding the tv. My bedroom wall is right on the other side! IT’S SO LOUD! The common areas are a disaster too! Half-eaten bags of Doritos and cookies and burritos on the coffee table. Gummy bear fruit bullshit stuck to the sofa, a motherfucking half glass of almond milk sat there for so long it turned back into an almond! It is disgusting and I am about to call the board of health. The techs sit around and try to pass all the shit off to the next tech and they just walk by something that has been there for DAYS! Why oh why the fuck don’t they say anything!?!?!? The smoking area is a health and safety disaster too!!!

These halfwits leave lit cigarettes on the edge of the wooden benches or fill up the but cans with so many cigarettes it finally just burst into flames. Nobody says or does anything it’s just one big fucking free-for-all. They vape frantically like they’re going to the electric chair. ALSO, I overhear people talking about cheating on their fucking Piss test, sneaking out at night and drinking. One guy (some wanna be wigger ex-con who’s never done a day in jail) said he had his girlfriend smuggle drugs in that she had “stuffed in her pussy.” I was like, “hey dip shit this ain’t pelican bay! I mean this place is 20 grand a month! the fuck am I paying for? I could be spending that in a crack house. Anyway, I want to just talk about the most glaring cases.

#1 Phillip Eckstein (trust fund self-entitled little fuck bird who lives in his OWN room)! He’s constantly leaving soiled peanut butter spoons knives forks (apparently whatever he can use to scoop it out) then open jars of everything and crumbs on every surface of the god damn kitchen! He walks around saying nigger this and nigger that like he’s from the ghetto. A white dude! This motherfucker is a refrigerator white trust fund dude from Holmby Hills for Christ sake! He never flushes the toilet when he defecates and makes remarks like, “My parents are paying top dollar for me to be here, I think the staff could at least clean up after me.” You believe this little douchetard! I finally let him have it when he used a washcloth to wipe his ass and then he just throws it behind the toilet like nobody knows! I swear to God I’m gonna beat this kid within an inch of his fucking life if something is not done about him. And the worst Fashion sense fucking kid wears three different decades of styles. Plus I think he’s banging that other resident Tempest that hippie broad. Don’t give me started with her constantly slathering coconut oil all over her body just a creepy cookie brought with hairy armpits. She says she doesn’t use deodorant because it’s unnatural but if you smelled her that’s unnatural.

Example #2 Cassandra Levin: Why o’ why the fuck do I have to listen to every traumatic event that occurred in he life? “Oh my uncle fingered me, I was beaten by my stepfather with a frozen turkey in a pillow case, my mother dressed me up like Brook Shields in that movie Pretty Baby, and trotted me around Old Town in Pasadena. I gotta listen to this shit while I’m watching episodes of CSI in the Day room…REALLY?!?! Bitch if Brooke shields got over it you can get over it. Then the food! Just like momma used to make except she didnt shit in it! How about something a little more complex then meatloaf, pasta, baked chicken, and potatoes? Every week the same shit!

Look, I know I’m here on a scholarship and I’m grateful for that but GET IT TOGETHER HERE! I really hope you address some of these issues my sobriety is at stake here.

Suicide Pros Inc. 

I’m Steve Marsden. I’m the owner-operator of Suicide Pros™.  (Patent Pending – soon I hope to have hats, shirts, and coffee mugs.)

So a couple of years ago I was wrought with suicidal ideations. Just this insatiable obsession to commit suicide, I tried with the old hose in the exhaust pipe, got to coughing like I had tuberculosis and quickly exited the car. Main reason for this attempt, I was distraught saddened by the death of my cocka-a-poodle “Fleming.” In my grief, I did a horrific amount of drugs, drank copious amounts of alcohol, hell I even went on a sex tour to Thailand. But nothing could fill the empty hole that the passing of Fleming left. I called a couple of different suicide hotlines.

I found them very trite, mundane and just outright insincere. The anger and intolerance I was experiencing while talking to these ‘suicide professionals’ actually saved me from killing myself. I went from suicidal to homicidal in just minutes. Then it came to me. Maybe people need to be angered and pissed off in order to turn their thoughts from suicide? Maybe that whole tender loving care thing was the wrong approach. Maybe people need to be put in check. Especially first world shitters that have everything they want and need, and basically just complain and are sad because their souls are so empty and they have nothing but material belief in their cockamamie little minds.

Let’s face it, the dead western soul is the reason for the dead western mind, which is no doubt the springboard for suicidal ideations. Whoa, how’s that for some shit bird street philosophy. So but anyways I volunteered at a couple different suicide hotline locations, they fired me. Anyway it was voluntary and I needed to get paid, plus they didn’t like my style. Apparently I was to ‘confrontational.’ So I started my own suicide hotline.

So far no one has offed themselves, and I’ve got three and a half stars on Yelp, but even the bad reviews are good because the bottom line is they didn’t kill themselves. My confrontational style and sincere lack of care (based on the fact that you’re somebody I don’t even know) has created a business model that has turned the suicide hotline business upside down! One survivor (who called Suicide Pros™ many times) even gave me a room to live in her house. I’ll call her Margaret for the sake of anonymity. She’s one of these old ‘Sunset Boulevard’ type broads.

Her resentment and anger of not being the young vivacious screen gem of yesteryear brought on suicidal ideations that even a contract from Louis B. Mayer couldn’t lift. I put her in her place, and I told her who she was, where she was, and it was time to give up all that bullshit maybe take an improv class, or do standup comedy, or tell the stories of yesteryear on The Moth or some other bullshit public forum. Live for now and stop all this whiny old starlet horseshit. It worked. She has an improv troupe (The happy old shit heels) that tours the country and they’re all 60 or 70 somethings.

People love them because they’re real and they act their fucking age, they get lots of laughs at all the childish games that they constantly come up with. I get a lot of schmucky little millennials calling me as well. Sad or angered over mommy and daddy’s divorce, being bullied at school, or not even being able to reach the next level in some shitty video game. Hey whatever the case, they need to get put in check as well. Sometimes I threatened to do a three-way call with their parents (like I even have the parent’s number). So for $49.95 (PayPal only 5 day guarantee) Suicide Pros™ is your best bet for value, to save your life, and to start anew, or leave the planet with a clear conscious.
Real enrichment. Check for our (Tell me why I don’t like Mondays) special.

12 steps (IMHO)

Look, I’m a fan of 12 step programs. I believe they do help, I’ve watched these programs help 100’s of people over the years. BUT…

you have to beware of, sexual predators, money grubbers, real estate agents, grifters, hustlers, poseurs, producers, actors, second story men, old rock n’ rollers, old punkers, elderly R & B artists, bad teeth, bad caps, stupid hats, silicone tits cheeks and asses, Botox, bikers, tattooers, hot rodders, gurus, yoga teachers, dream catchers, spiritual make believers, Buddha beads buffoons, agents, writers, brooding struggling artists, directors, money grabbers, liars, cheats, thieves, age inappropriate fashion, bad hair, bad vibes and unwanted hugs and touching. But who am I to judge? I’ve had my fair share of sponsors over the years. Some got loaded, one blew his brains out (he was a doctor operating a pill mill) and got busted bailed out went home and put a gun in his mouth. My most recent made it clear, “I can’t keep you sober, hopefully you will have an experience and not have to drink or use again.” Well it’s been 4 years and 4 months and the one thing I remain clear on is if I drink and or use drugs I cannot control the amount I ingest. This is something I’ve experienced over and fucking over again. And the thing is (in a sober state) I have an obsessive mind that takes me back. So I talk to people about my fucked up thinking and ideas. I also try to be helpful to others and LAUGH! Not get punked out by the world of impermanence that’s FOREVER constantly changing around me. I’m not gonna mention god because to me it’s irrelevant in doing the steps, I’ve been agnostic and atheistic for many years, but I’ve been able to become somewhat of a better person through these steps. I’m not quite as needy desperate selfish and angry.

Long Island Memories…

The San Gennaro feast –
Three or four times a year in Island Park or in any of these Incorporated little villages they replicate the NYC style Little Italy Annual Feast. ‘FEAST?’ Like these people don’t ‘feast’ all year around, like they need another excuse to fill their insatiable, big, Walmart fashion wearing asses with sausage and peppers, and meatballs, and pizza, zeppolis (deep-fried leftover pizza dough rolled in a horrific, diabetic, and coma producing amount of powdered sugar) and Diet Coke (irony.)

There’s always like the one hot chick at the feast that every fucking dude beats off to or obsesses on and every chubby disgusting chick in the village hates. They wander around aimlessly being lead by Carney like vendors to the next gastric torture chamber, all wearing some stupid T-shirts that they had made at the little stupid T-shirt making booth, shirts like, ‘I’m with stupid’ or ‘Irish and proud’ ‘Italians only’ or fat big bellied assholes with the NYPD t-shirts on. They’re all looking for something somewhere but they never find it. So like they just eat into oblivion and go home and nap, and come back and do it all over again the next day. It’s all gossip world and everyone knows everyone’s business.

A lot of white trash. Who are you to judge these people, you ask? Well, most of my relatives live there, angry alcoholics still blaming the ‘niggers and spics’ for everything. Which is ridiculous and lame because there is like hardly any African Americans or Puerto Ricans or Latins that live there. They are forever defending cops (because their sons, uncles, or some mental deficient in the shit stained, algae-ridden gene pool, happens to be one) most of them have never been outside of New York. Except for maybe like the aggressively white Poconos for trips, where they have some timeshare cabin, or that they paid $24,000 for.

They’re Philistines, their cultural high point of the year is Super Bowl commercials. Quite a few of them develop health problems. Which include but are not limited to hypertension, gout, diabetes, premature hair loss or thinning (the men and the women) even forms of cancer out of self-hatred or possibly living so close to a landfill dump. When I moved back out there in ‘90 my cousin Lucky took me to Pete’s clam bar, which was across a narrow canal from said landfill. He’s slurping down the sixth clam on the half shell while looking out at the seagulls (flying rats as he calls them) on huge mountains of garbage. He was joking, about the proximity of the possible toxicity of the dump to restaurant distance, theorizing on the health dangers.

Then he’s like, “come on you pussy eat some.” I tried, and gagged and threw up a little. Lucky was a New York city cop. His name was a direct result of being born 7 pounds 11 ounces. Which is hard to fathom, because presently because then he was 6 foot 2 inches and weighs 525 pounds, he’s had a crippling food addiction ever since he stopped drinking. As he puts it, “I’ve never met a carbohydrate that I didn’t fucking like.”