Tag Archives: drugs

Wanna’ Come Back And Party?

Room Service

1:45 AM.

I get an order for an Ice bucket and a Bottle of Champagne. Easy enough. I walk to the room. Let this just be easy, it’s the last order of the night. Please, God. I just can’t anymore.

I knock on the door. It opens.

A diminutive man with tiny little Von Dutch black bikini briefs, bleached hair and tribal tattoos looks me up and down, googly-eyed.

‘Hiiiiii! Oh my god! That was fast.’ He steps aside.
Behind him another man with only a towel wrapped around his waist yells,
‘What does he look like? What does he look like?’
He motions me in while saying,
‘Calm down you horny bitch. See for yourself.’ I move into the room quickly and set down the champagne. He’s watching my ass as I pass him. I turn and hand him the bill.
‘Mmm, Daddy. Slow down. When did you start working here?’ I just want out. I don’t give a shit if anybody’s gay, bi, tri whatever. I just don’t like being cruised. At any hour of the day. This is the last thing I want to deal with at the end of a long shift.
‘Yeah, about six months.’
Then towel guy, ‘Mr. Sexy voice! Do you do voiceovers? You should? That voice! All deep and bedroomy! Well, do you?’
‘No.’ I reach for the bill from Von Douche. He still hasn’t signed it.
He looks me in the eye. ‘Wanna stay and party?’ Then towel guy,
‘Yeah, we got crack and vodka!’ He points to his butt and to the minibar simultaneously.

‘Oh god, Joey shut the fuck up, you depraved little bitch!’ Von Douche says as he’s handing me the bill. ‘If you wanna’ come back and party after you get off…’ Joey interrupts.
‘Yeah, then you’ll really get off!’
‘No.’ I say.
I leave the room and I hear them start to argue.
‘Goddamnit, Joey! You ruin everything!’
I look at the check, no tip.

False sense of entitlement: Case study #1

Three out of four days I work here I’m miserable and I’m ready to walk off the job. It’s not the job (wait, yes it is) but it’s also the people.

 

These people think they live on another planet, and they’re just visiting. These people have such a ridiculous sense of entitlement. I want to kick them in the balls/box and throw them down an elevator shaft.

Example:
I deliver an order to a guy (a bacon cheeseburger blah.) He opens the door. He’s wearing a red and black velvet houndstooth jacket, purple deep v t-shirt, white jeans and purple high top sneakers, topped off with a Hall and Oates style faux hawk /mullet. The combination of colors, style and grooming choices are horrendous. Bad hair, bad fashion, and bad music can literally cripple me at times.

I rush in, ‘Where would you like this sir?’
‘You don’t have to call me sir. I’m younger then you are. Wait, sorry man. Are we ok?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ I put the tray down on the table.
‘So I got a big room. Spacious. Is this normally a room they give to a cripple or handicap? Ha ha ha.’
I grin. I wanted to say ‘if the shoe fits.’ But I knew better.
‘Sorry man I’m from New York I’m not really about PC you know, politically correct.’
Fucking dork.
‘Yeah haha,’ I force a laugh. Which by the way is one of the most painful things you can do to yourself, forcing a laugh is like forcing tears. It’s bullshit and ultimately doesn’t do anybody any good.
The New York I’m from, or the Los Angeles I’ve experienced this guy would have his ass beaten within an inch of his life.

-BY THE WAY (RANT TIME)

Being from New York meant something years ago. First of all ”I’m sorry I’m from New York.” Real New Yorker’s would never apologize for where they’re from! Period! And that’s a good thing! Old New York, FUCK YEAH!
It was ruff tough and violent. I left in the 90’s. It had a Great low brow artistic edge, Haring and Basquiat reigning supreme. Hip-hop like you still haven’t heard in ages. More political hip hop shit, not this hip hop hair band – youtube shallow ass shit. Alphabet city was the dope capital of the east side. The bucket lowers, you get the dope, crack viles littered the gutters I was smokin’ and kicking them all the way down the fucking sewer. You didn’t even need to say you were from New York. People fucking knew they felt it coming off of you.

 

Back to the current assholery-

 So I put the order down on the table.
‘Where you from man.’
‘A lot of different places,’ I answer darkly. He grabs the bill and backs away slowly,
‘Hey man, I’m really sorry if I offended you in any way.
The tip is included right?’
‘You didn’t offend me in any way and yes the tip is included. Says it right on the bill.’
‘Okay, I just want to make sure you’re getting taken care of.’
‘Oh yeah, I’m getting taken care of. That 20% there on that cheeseburger is about nine dollars, it goes into a pool, and gets split between six of us.’
We stood looking at each other for a moment he looked very scared he walked over to the desk and grabbed his wallet pulled out a $20 bill gave it to me and said ‘Hey man once again I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, here bro.’ I walked out and said nothing. I didn’t have too, I punked his ass without saying a word. That’s New York. That’s L.A. That’s being real.

 

Confessions of a problem child

 

I burned down the backyard

And just stood there

Transfixed by the flames

I  pissed on my parent’s artwork while standing on their antique chair

I stole my best friends prized matchbox set

I crept into my mother’s and father’s room while they slept

I stole all they’re money and their car

Then drove to Mexico in a blackout

I told the 8th-grade teacher to shove that bullshit history book up her ass

I got a referral to the principal and was swatted in the ass with plexiglass for questioning patriotism and history and an imposed system of ignorance

I carried a loaded gun because they were coming

And then when they came I realized I forgot the gun

I was on a72-hour psyche hold in 4 point restraints and shot full of Haldol. Swore I’d never be there again, and I was there again and again

I was busted with possession of drugs and paraphernalia and sat in jail, and couldn’t wait to get out and not even have a clue I  was going to do it again. Over and over again

I’ve been angry, homeless walking the streets in Anytown, USA.

Totally convinced, truly believing, it was everybody else’s fault

I  walked the streets until my feet had blood blisters, but never left a square block radius

I broke into so many apartments in the complex I lived in that I could only leave the apartment at night out of sheer paranoia

I drank and drove so drunk that I had to cover an eye to stop seeing double, again, and again and again

I’ve heard at least 2 dozen people say they’ll never drink or use again

Then just hours, days, weeks, months, or years later, they overdose or drink themselves to death

I looked loved ones in the eyes and promised something, and just knew deep down I was going to break their fucking heart

 

Another excerpt from my book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’ Available on Amazon.

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.

http://wtfpod.libsyn.com/episode-876-michael-marcus-dr-steve

 

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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/

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.