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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/

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

Going For A Drive

 

Motoring up the 101, he pointed to the north and said, “See that area there? That’s where all the low lives live.” Then pointing towards the beach he said, “That’s where all the winners live kids.”

“What are low lives dad?”

“Scumbags!” he shouted, “columns of human waste, they live in clapboard houses, or if they’re lucky, stucco shit holes with screaming shmucky kids! They work dead-end jobs with fat wives and 30-year mortgages and 5-year car notes, they have pension plans and punch a fucking clock all day, just plain shnorras.”

“What’s a pension daddy?” My sister asked.

“Baby Lorraine it’s when assholes work year after year for twenty or thirty years, and in the end, they only get a little bullshit stipend.”

“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.”