THIEVIN’ PINK PILLS AND PSYCHOTROPIC THRILLS
Monday night, Jeff’s apartment, Q-107, 11:30 pm. I was pacing back and forth because I couldn’t get the patio sliding door off its tracks; it usually wasn’t a problem. How the fuck…? I had to get in. What do I do now?
I knew Jeff kept an English cookie tin of pills in his studio apartment, he’d showed it to me a couple of weeks ago. I needed to steal it; I needed to get high. I needed to throw the ultra-heavy little hibachi through the sliding glass door: Crash! Slam! Chinkle, chinkle, chinkle…
I rushed into the apartment. There was briquette dust in the air and all over the floor. He had concert posters and Playboy centerfolds taped to the walls: Hendrix, Mott the Hoople, Humble Pie…complete with black lights. The floor was strewn with dirty socks and underwear. The coffee table had paper plates with food still on them from the weekend, along with an open container of Vaseline and Swedish Erotica porno vids.
I searched under the bed: No.
The closet: No.
The bathroom: No.
The refrigerator: Yep! The cookie tin was in there and loaded with pills. So many colors and designs! I grabbed an Alpha Beta paper bag, threw the tin in the bag and walked out the front door.
I quickly walked to the exit of the building. I ducked inside a doorway. I saw the little Oakwood security cart hum by, the guard looking like business as usual. No sense of urgency, just making his rounds. I was in and out in probably two-and-a-half or three minutes. Oakwood has twenty-six buildings, lettered A through Z, three doors each. Five guys handled all the security, two vehicles. Easy pickings.
#1 Son And Other Stories is available now on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/0999614185/
Also, check out my Interview with Marc Maron on his WTF podcast.
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.
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?”
“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.
“927, oh fuck. I don’t know”
“714 731-1883,” I say.
“Carl Marcus,” I say.
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.”
“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.
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CHECK ME OUT ON MARC MARON WTF #876 http://wtfpod.libsyn.com/episode-876-michael-marcus-dr-steve
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.
Never gets old.
The huge shirtless guy with cystic back acne and pink angel wings tattooed on his back. He is constantly told by staff to put his shirt back on, but then quickly removes it again to display “Winged Bacne.”
The emaciated girl with a tit job and ass implants that is so done up with foundation and mascara that she makes absolutely sure not to sweat at all.
The guy at the squat rack who grunts and screams like he’s getting ass raped or doing a deep knee bend on a 19 inch dildo.
The wanna’ be gangster dude who is buried in a hoodie and oversized sweats, occasionally peering out of his hoodie and mad doggin’ every one. Then goes back into his little hoodie cave for self involved enrichment.
The Lilly white granola eatin’ hippie girl with stinky dreadlocks, hairy armpits and a yoga mat, living in her little world of spiritual make-believe.
The ‘roided out guy that tries to intimidate everyone like we’re all on the yard, but then gets seriously put in check when he tries that stupid shit on me. TRUE STORY!
The hipster fellow who walks the treadmill in what looks like ‘Newsie” or “Steam Punk” turn of the century fashions.
The slack jaw, gamer / hunch back postured, body like a tube of toothpaste guy, who can barely bench press what looks like a 1/3rd of his own bodyweight.
The ‘roid red rosacea little queeny man who obsessively compulsively cleans up all the loose weights and dumb bells, while passively aggressively saying, “Ok. Are you done with that?”
The chubby gay Perez Hilton guy with the skin-tight deep v t-shirt and Dolphin style shorts, saying “GIRL” to his like-minded and similarly fashioned friends.
The rude guy/girl who sits on a machine texting or talking or doing who the fuck knows what on their cell phone while people (spineless people who don’t have the balls to say anything to these inconsiderate machine suckers) stand by sighing. By the way – I ask immediately ask if I can work in. I ain’t there to watch you kibitzing on your (smart) Phone while I stand there with my dick in my hand.
The dude who uses community locker blow dryer on his nuts, for what seems like hours, in the locker room. The other guy that washes his clothes in the sink, then uses blow dryer on them. Then blow dryer burns out, then never works again.
The trainer who has his clients doing the most awkward and bizarre exercises on equipment that is clearly used for a completely different purpose.
The high as fuck towel dude at the entrance of work out area that has extreme difficulty multi-tasking, i.e. validating parking tickets and checking memberships and passing out towels. This guy constantly being told by staff or gym members “Um, dude. Towel.”