Tag Archives: Women

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

My Father, Carl Marcus 1978.


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?”



#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.




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.

Wakayama Fembot Love


A couple of years ago I was doing some business with a small telecom concern in Osaka. My partner at the firm was a man I’ll call Yoshi. After a night of karaoke and drinking into oblivion, Yoshi said he wanted to take me to his house in Wakayama.


“Oh? To meet the family?” I asked. He turned very serious. “Uh, no. No family. This house very different, for working only.” We jumped in his car. “Jack, long ride coming. You want to wake up?” He pulled out a long vial of what looked like coke. “Sure,” I said. He sprinkled a nickel-sized pile between his thumb and index finger and took a loud snort, “GENKI,” he yelled while pumping his fist. Huh? I’ll have to look that one up in my ‘Japanese For Dummies’ guide later on. He hit the other nostril and yelled it again. He quickly went from being passive and docile, to totally loose and untamed. 
He turned up the music, it was Foghat’s “Slowride”. He sang along.

He gave me the vial, I was no stranger to nose candy. Although I was a little paranoid about doing it in this country, which carries a 1-7 year prison sentence for possession…

for any amount. Yoshi seemed very connected with some of the Prefectural Police, which I’m sure would not benefit me in the least. Fuck it, I set the vile in my lap and quickly grabbed a bill from the breast pocket of my sports coat, I rolled it up. I opened the vial and tapped a nice pile into the vial’s cap. I hit it. It burned worse than any coke I’d ever done. “FUCK! What is this?” He kept singing. “YOSHI WHAT IS IT?” “JACK, he screamed, IT’S SHABU! SHABU!” Huh? I’ll have to look that up later in my guide as well. BOOM!

Then it hit me. It was that hardcore, scalp electrifying, instantaneous no man’s land of awake feeling that only methamphetamine brings. “MOSHI MOSHI!” I yelled, while pumping my fist. He repeated the words and laughed. We made our way to Wakayama. My coworker, Pete Cavendish, called Wakayama “The Bakersfield of Japan, with hidden secrets.” We went through a couple of tolls. Foghat’s ‘Slow Ride’ repeating over and over which was starting to disturb and annoy me all at once. We finally arrived and we were in a small garage, the door closing behind us very quickly. It looked like a bunker. We got out of the car and Yoshi led me to a heavy steel door.

He put his thumb on a small pad on the wall, and it beeped. The door gently sprung open. We walked into a very large ‘gentlemen’s club’ like atmosphere. It was lit with strong overhead fluorescent lighting. It had two dancing stages complete with stripper poles. There were small tables and black and red velour couches and chairs. Yoshi picked up a remote and worked some buttons, the bright fluorescence was replaced with music (Ravel’s Bolero) as well as soft red, green, and yellow lighting. Then from out from behind the stages, beautiful women appeared breathtaking birdies in all shapes, ethnicities, and sizes.

They all wore sexy lingerie, one looked like Betty Page, another like Marilyn Monroe, and yet another like Raquel Welch. “Yoshi! What?!” He sat and sad nothing. Then more beauties came out! One looked Like Sophia Loren another like Jayne Mansfield. The detail was impeccable. Then a Natalie Wood and a Barbara Eden (complete with I Dream of Jeannie wardrobe) Then an odd sight, there was one that looked like Yvonne De Carlo who played Lillian on “The Munsters.” Which might be a real blast to fuck for the sake of novelty. But I was fixated on the Sophia Loren. Another one that looked like Mansfield. “Jack, you want?” He waved his hand across the club.

I knew they must have been models or prostitutes. Was it a brothel, a private strip club? This was an expensive little operation, regardless of what it was. I summoned the Sophia Loren and the Monroe. They both approached. They had still, wet, doll-like eyes. Their lips were full and moist. They both wore lingerie, the Monroe in period-perfect hose and garters. The Loren in a “Merry Widow” style bedtime outfit. Artificial intelligence? Robots? No, a robot is an inappropriate word. “Hello,” I said, “My name is Jack.” “Hello,” they said back in unison. Their voices seemed to match the starlets to a tee. They sat on either side of me and said no more.

Very quickly their hands were all over me, pulling, tugging, and stroking. Suddenly we were all naked and I couldn’t find a blemish or an imperfection on either one of them, they were anatomically correct and totally life-like. They both moaned occasionally saying things like “more, oh so good, oh yeah,” He didn’t quite have the intimate vocal component totally correct, but so what. They literally sucked me dry. As I dressed to leave, more of them came at me, with the Barbara Eden Bot leading the pack saying, “but master, wait.”

They cornered me and the Yvonne De Carlo bot (Lillian Munster) grabbed me from behind, they ripped off my clothes and I very quickly succumbed to the electronic nympho succubus’. Finally I couldn’t take anymore I screamed for Yoshi, “MAKE IT STOP! ENOUGH!” There was a high-pitched buzzer sound and they all retreated, I tried to put my suit back on but it was ripped and shredded. Yoshi came up and patted me on the back. “You ok?” I was more than ok. “You want more sex?” I had to think for a moment, I may never get this chance again. “Maybe later,” I said. “Maybe we have Ramen and Yakatori?” That sounded fantastic. Then maybe a little Shabu and a crack at the Mansfield Bot.