Tag Archives: Dysfunction

ROOM SERVICE DURING AWARD SEASON

Well, it’s here, that self-congratulatory jerk-off fest and ass kissing extravaganza!

Film, music, and television award shows! Look I’m not trying to hate, I enjoy one or two shows here and there. But Jesus Christ it’s nonstop in this town! I would love if they gave an award for ‘biggest douche bag, biggest asshole, the biggest pain in the ass to work with, biggest ass, biggest man boobs…’

I don’t know, maybe if we get a little more creative, and a little more self-deprecatory maybe the general public wouldn’t take actors and celebrities so seriously. They seem to look at them as these monumental, incredibly important, amazing people. What’s worse though are the sycophants & minions that blog and report on said celebritards. And a lot of those people stay right here in the hotel. These are the flies buzzing around the secondary shit that is Hollywood. Based on the delusion that there’s any glamour in Hollywood, entertainment reporters would be the very lowest on that wrung. How do I know? Because I worked for an entertainment magazine (STAR) long enough to see what a load of stupid fucking tripe all that information and news is. But hey, I grew up in this town so I’m probably a little jaded.

Ok on with it.

Golden Globes Night.
I get a big order $860.00 rm. 412, knock knock.
‘Room service.’ The TV is LOUD; I hear audience laughter as well as heavy room chatter. A lot is going on in there. I sense douchery; I hope I’m wrong.
‘What? what? Who is that? Why are you bothering us! Come back later.’

I knock again and scream loudly over the noise, ‘ROOM SERVICE!’
‘Yes, Yes. Okay. Hold on.’ The door opens a Perez Hilton looking guy gives me a dismissive wave in. Fat dude in purple skinny jeans and deep v-neck with a wolf’s head print. I’m annoyed, right off the bat. Why do I have to be visually offended by your bad taste in fashion and your lack of physical exercise? I hate everything.

I go in, 10 or 12 people are huddled on a couch looking up at a wall mounted plasma screen. They’re consumed.
They’re desperate for a fix. They speak as if they know the celebrities intimately and personally. Using first names, or shortening the name or making child like names of the nominees.
‘Oh my god Patty (Patricia Arquette) is hot!’
‘Well Meryl is like that…’
‘Bobby D was up for that.’
‘And Well George (Clooney I suppose) is so blah blah…’
I’m totally ignored, and someone says ‘pause it.’ The poor man’s Perez replies, ‘Don’t you fucking dare, I need to see this in real time! Ok come in. Quickly please.’ At that point I move even slower. ‘Where would you like…’ I say slowly.
‘Oh god, just over there. Where ever.’

Then a chubby girl in skintight everything. ‘No no not there! Just leave it. Right by the window.’ She gets up with a grunt. ‘Nyuuhh, oh my this looks fan fucking tastic!’ Another rude chubby wubby on the Couch yells, ‘eat my quesadilla bitches and just see what fucking happens!’
‘Oh shut up Gavin!’ I back up towards the door, now I really want to get out of here. I feel my soul being sucked out of every orifice. The depth of this crowd resembles a dried out birdbath.

I leave the room. I look in the book, of course there’s no extra tip or gratuity. ‘Oh God you cheap assholes,’ I say under my breath as I round a corner. I bump into a bellman that’s bringing someone’s luggage to the lobby. ‘Yeah man,’ he says ‘this is the cheapest fucking crowd of the year prepare yourself.’ The next room, 516. Just tea. Small order smaller auto gratuity. I knock,
Room service before I can even finish the sentence a girl whips open the door,
‘Finally.’ she says. The room’s packed with wardrobe racks, and suitcases, and boxes, and shoes and high-end designer shopping bags, jewelry strewn all over the tables. I manage my way around the obstacle course of couture footwear and accessories. I give her the check.
‘Yes yes I’m here dressing and styling VIPs I’m sorry to be short, I just need things delivered very quickly.’
‘That’s nice.’ I say.
She grins at me.
I walk out.

Short & Sweet
The Grammys. In the great words of Chuck D of Public Enemy, ‘Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy.’

More senseless awards for art. I will not be commenting on Kanye West, because I really don’t care. I haven’t heard the new Beck album either. I’ve never listened to music because it won an award. Seems like an Award just solidifies your self-worth as well as a future paycheck.
Most of the guests that I dealt with on Grammy night were too self obsessed to be dismissive or mean. Anybody that was of real importance was already at the show. At the end of any shift (regardless of the event that’s taking place) I usually laugh it off. And I realize that it’s not my career path and you wouldn’t get the entertainment of this lovely little blog, so I will be reporting more about this fantastic award season after the Academy Awards! And we’ll see you at the movies!

 

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! Another excerpt from my book ‘#1 Son And Other Stories’ Available on Amazon.

My Father, Carl Marcus 1978.

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From the chapter, “Going For A Drive”

 

“What’s a shnorra Daddy?”

“Mikey, it’s men or women who freeload and sponge, like leeches at corporate or government jobs because they have no original thoughts, business sense, or ambitions. AND EVEN WORSE, they have no panache or hustle. You never want to get caught up in that garbage kid, it’s a dead-end life. A real fucking horror show.”

“OK, Dad.”

He turned up Frank Sinatra and ran his gold rings on the Caddie’s plastic steering wheel. He sang “My Way” as he gunned the red Eldorado up the 101 past Cambria. My father drove us all over California. We motored from Point Conception to the Mexican border, from San Fernando to San Francisco, Burbank to Barstow and all the nooks and crannies in between. He feeds us Ghirardelli chocolates, Pismo Beach clam chowder; date shakes from Hadley’s, root beer floats from A&W, fried shrimp from Howard Johnson’s, and pea soup from Andersen’s. On many occasions, he would wad up the check and stick it in his pocket, and we’d just walk out. “Let’s play a game kids. It’s called dine and dash.” If the waitress ever stopped us on the way out, he’d say, “must have slipped my mind,” then pay the bill. Once in our travels, my father took us to Fedco. He had acquired ‘paid’ stickers that a manager friend stole from the cash register. These stickers were used for big-ticket items that couldn’t be bagged. He’d slap a sticker on an item (toasters, irons, roller-skates, bicycles, even a color TV he put on a dolly) and we’d walk out.

When he was tired he’d pull into a rest stop and say, “OK you little cuties, shut the fuck up now. I’m sleeping, and I want silence.” He had no problem throwing an open fist into the back seat if we woke him. He called it “backhand therapy.” At home, he called it “wall-to-wall counseling.” My sister and I would sit back there wired on sugar and freak out about waking him. Then he’d wake up, and we were off. We also played road games. “Hey kids, you want to play house of horrors?”
 There was silence.

“How do you play that game Daddy?” My sister asked.

“We think of the worst possible scenario that could occur in a house filled with children.” More silence, for what seemed like an eternity. “For example, a banister that is sharpened like a shaving razor, and when you slide down it cuts you in two, haha!”

“Ok dad,” I said nervously.

“Or a special well lit room where they take a hole punch to your eyelids so your pupils are always exposed to the bright lights.”

“Eww,” said Lorraine.

“Or a chair with tacks and nails on it that you’re forced to sit in.”

“Dad, how about being stuck in a car that plays Frank Sinatra, over and over and over, forever?”

 

GET IT NOW!

#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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Young Scars (1985)

TBT… The Angry Young me

 

Just a young man

So seasoned at lying

At 17 years old

I

Rob

You

Blind

You believe me when I blame someone else

I piss on your favorite things

I torch whatever I can

Burn it all down

I must be really mad

Why?

You exposed me to sex

When

Was 

Much

Too

Young.

Sacred sex.

You showed me criminality

You stripped my sensitivity away

It was your matter-of-fact fuck it all attitude

that fueled my rage

I rebel.

You purged and cleansed the household of me

Then I’m gone in a drug-induced haze

 

I got high with you and your wives

Listened to your stories

Believed your lies

Then you put me away when I robbed you.

You threw me out.

You wondered why

You introduced me to all.

Sex, drugs, and Sinatra

You lived the life of all that was evil shallow and toxic.

Why do I hate?

Why am I still so fucking full of rage?

I can’t let it go

I don’t want to judge

I can’t stop

So

I

Just

Live with it…

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When Carl Met Mary

April 1959

     Mary Agnes Lydon was a registered nurse living in Miami and working at Cedars of Lebanon hospital. She had come from New York that same year to escape the cold winter. She worked the swing shift. Mary preferred this shift so she could go to the beach with her friends before duty, as well as hang out in the clubs and dance after her shift. This was a far cry from Beach 115th street in Far Rockaway, where Mary grew up. It was comically referred to as ‘The Irish Riviera’ by the locals. Mary had shared a one-room bungalow with her two sisters three brothers and her mother and father.

     Around the same time in 1959, Carl Marcus had just arrived in Miami. He had just been released from Elmira State Prison in February 1959. Carl came up hard in the Bronx. He was raised in a sixth-floor walk-up with his 2 brothers and 3 sisters. At 16 he was convicted. Now he had completed a 6-year bid for a stack of charges including theft, breaking and entering and grand larceny. while he was in prison Carl Had learned from another inmate that you could open vending machines with a simple pair of vice grips. Upon his release, Carl and his friend Hal hit the road. Hal had just done a three-year bid for passing bad money, specifically washers and slugs rolled as coins, real coins on the end of each roll, with slugs and washers throughout the rest of the roll.

     Off they went roaring down the eastern seaboard Route 95 south in a 1959 black Cadillac convertible, hot-wired and stolen by Hal Blake from a Jack Bernstein’s Used Car Autorama (a car dealership in Flushing, Queens). They’d hit rest stops, laundromats, gas stations, hotels, automats (fast food restaurants where simple foods and drinks are served by vending machines), anywhere and everywhere that coin operated machines existed. Carl went into these establishments armed with Vice Grips while Hal stood guard. Carl would pry open the machines with the tools just enough to access the container that housed the coins and he’d empty them quickly and methodically into a pillowcase which then went into a briefcase.

Nickles, dimes, and quarters, bags and bags of coins. In the wee hours, they’d roll the coins in the car, Hal, dosing each roll with the proper amount of slugs and washers. Minutes after the banks opened Hal and Carl would separately hit as many banks and grocery stores as possible trading the coins for cash. They’d quickly move on to the next town repeating the process over and over again. Carl Marcus told me that they cleared about $17,000. Give or take a couple of hundred in loose change.

     In April 1959 mary and her friends were hanging out at the Boom-Boom room in the Fontainebleau hotel. A couple of different guys were hitting on Mary. She was quite the looker, black Irish, brown eyes, long brown hair and dressed impeccably. Carl barreled his way through the crowd. At six feet four inches, sporting a shark skin suit, a gold-tone watch, and alligator shoes. He approached her and gave his spiel said he was looking at real estate ventures in south beach, where he was from, and what his intentions were. They made a date for dinner the dinner.

     The following night Carl picked Mary up and they swapped New York stories, Carl telling Mary how the Irish Catholic kids called him Kike and Christ killer and beat him up on the beaches of Rockaway. He stopped the car and asked Mary if that was what her brothers or cousins did. Mary laughed and said, “yep!” after a walk on the beach he took her home.

     He picked her up two nights later at the end of her shift at the hospital telling her they must go quickly that he had a surprise for her. They pulled up to an exclusive club where Frank Sinatra was about to perform. It was sold out. Carl offered the Maitre’ d $50.00 and they sat at the edge of the stage. Mary was totally in shock, and Carl beaming with satisfaction. After that night they spent almost every day together between Mary’s shifts. One night when they were all hanging out in Hal’s hotel room the cops barged into the room and apprehended Hal for alleged having sex with an underage girl. The police took Carl mary and Hal down to the station. Mary was swept up in the excitement, she had never been in trouble with the law. After a lot of manipulation and lies, Hal, Carl, and mary left the station.

     That night all drove off, back up Route 95 north. Now they were back in  New york at the Plaza Hotel. Carl had a fake line of credit and used that phony line of credit to throw an engagement party for his sister Susan. The next morning the jig was up. The front desk called the room and questioned Carl about the alleged line of credit and the bank in Miami that it was drawn from. He said he would call and straighten it out. He hung up and he and Mary quickly packed and ran down 15 flights of stairs and roared off. They were married and settled in Freeport Long Island where they had two children, Lorraine, born June 1961 and Michael (me) born in 1964.

 

 

 

Fourscore And A Little More

Fantastic Scams™

Bait And Switch®

Meteoric Rise©

Easy Money™

You’d be a fool not to fall for a this! Don’t miss the boat! The trains leaving the station! You’ll be living a lifelong vacation! Work from home! Make $8000.00 monthly posting ads for Sir E-Bay & Lady Google!

Jack off or diddle your cunt, while you watch the latest version of Alan Funt!

Excuse the candor and rancor But let’s get to the pointless meaning of what I’m screaming. The easy money is for easy wallets, with disposable Dead Presidents past and present. Otherwise, You’re the pheasant for a ‘Cheney like’ hunter, you’ll be put out to pasture in a dead field of wheatgrass, just what do I mean?

They’ll wax that ass, then put you in the Unseen Museum… Where a thousand dead souls spend recess doing the dance of a thousand recessions, coupled with a line dance featuring the legacy and the lord of this dance the one and only, Sir Ronnie Ray Gun – cutting a rug and a budget with a trickle-down break dancing routine that will have you squirming in your (once upon a time) Wrangler Jeans.

…Meanwhile, Tommy Two times at the outdoor bar repeating, “You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

If that isn’t enough, Well I don’t mean to get gruff, but you can high tail it (or Low ride) back to Toonerville, Tommy! And take that Pitbull with ya’- He’s bad for business! Seems he ate all the gunpowder and blood sausage. And he makes whitey uptighty. He’s not fixed and his balls collide with the consciousness of dimly lit buffoons. And you there, yes you, where you from, Rangoon? Or another place?

I can’t place the face, but we don’t allow that click-click language in this here saloon so hit the bricks and tell your story walking or face La Migra, who are suffering from maximum migraines brought on by the same paranoia of the simple solipsistic suckas that sing and dance to the drum of Sir Donnie’s Republican Tantrum.

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.

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.