Less Than Weirdo

May 4, 2016

*Nan Goldin "French Chris at the Drive in New Jersey 1979, courtesy Matthew Marks Gallery New York*

text by Max Barrie

The noise in my head is so loud some nights, only bashing my brains in or a power drill would suffice. Then this Meat Robot called Max would finally know peace.

The delusional hemorrhoids of loneliness are consistently painful and at times paralyzing. I’m around clients all day at work; I pass families and doggies as I stroll through Brentwood; I have a great relationship with my therapist who I see four times a week. But at the end of the day, I always go home alone. And there’s no good way to get home. Any route I take, each step is cemented with sadness, as if I’m walking a long plank to my apartment… trying to avoid dog shit on the sidewalk.

I know the worth of water now that the shower head is missing and I’m forced to bask in my own filth. I consider getting married some day— then I think about resenting HER and trolling around LA for strange. I imagine creating a family, and I obsess about my poor children. I will make them crazy… then life may very well break them as it has broken me and so many others. I refuse to create lives carelessly, especially as the planet decays and Biff Tannen takes office. Am I better than my biology because I believe the best gift to my kids would be to never have them?

What? I can’t ask their permission. “Hey buster, would you like to be born?” Had my parents asked me, I think just based on the common cold, I would’ve rejected the offer. Even though I think it’s selfish, if I loved a woman enough, I would probably have children with her… if she poked holes in the rubber. That said, I’d much rather co-exist with someone who’s already manufactured rug rats or has a broken pussy.

Don’t misunderstand me… I love kids. I just don’t want any of my own. To all my friends and family and the readers that have reproduced, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you— provided you’re there for your brood. From volunteering with little ones a few years back, I’ve come to believe that life’s true meaning is fully realized when one is responsible for another life. Also, tots are closer to “The Source” than us, and regularly teach us important lessons we have forgotten.

The following story is one more reason I’m afraid to multiply. I’m content with being half-baked.

I was roughly six months sober when I moved into an apartment with George Kutter. Everyone predicted the worst, but I didn’t see it coming. Most likely Jewish blindness. You know, you look in the fridge and the milk is right there, but it’s nowhere to be found. I fuckin’ hate that.

In high school, George’s family’s home was a large gated estate in Bel-Air, on the tippy top of a hill. My father once picked me and some pals up there after a party in 9th grade. I had alcohol poisoning and my old man had to pull over every five minutes so I could barf. The cops even stopped us along Sunset Boulevard, and my dad lied and said I had food poisoning. This was in 1998 and I was fifteen years old.

Years later life had evolved, but I had only revolved. I’d been in and out of posh rehabs, treatments and other programs by my late twenties. And as it turned out, so had George. Except POSH wasn’t the adjective I’d use to describe the joints he ended up in. He was on his own… his father had lost the family fortune, and done time in federal prison for tax evasion.

George and I were living in different sober livings, but kept running into one another at AA meetings around Los Angles. At my sober living, I had a private room and air-conditioning, while at his— Georgie had rats and a vending machine. But even without the family funds that had once propped him up, George was a straight survivor. He was slinging cell phones to make rent and car payments… he even had a really beautiful sober girlfriend named Eleanor.

On toilet paper his life was in the shitter, but Georgie was handsome, confident and always held his head high. I admired that. And even though I had gotten alcohol poisoning at his house when I was fifteen; and he had almost beat me up for making fun of his wanksta wardrobe in 10th grade, I was taken with him in a heterosexual way. He was cool, he was likable, and these days he often included me. He introduced me to people, took me to parties, dinners, BBQs— we even did a road trip with some of his friends.

After about a month, maybe two— we were both ready to “graduate” from our sober living homes. My plan was to get an apartment, which was George’s thinking too. But he had shit credit and zero savings, so it would be difficult for him to get greenlit anywhere. We were buddies, and naturally I wanted to help… so we soon decided to be roommates. But looking back on it, somethin’ tells me George had decided this long before we ever broached the subject.

If it wasn’t Daddy, it was Mommy or Grandma— when she was still around. Someone was always backing me. So even though I was constantly worried, I never really had to worry. George and I soon moved into a nice two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica. We basically split the rent and utilities, but I paid a couple hundo more for the master bedroom and a private bathroom.

Not only was I newly sober— at this stage in my life I was dealing with some of the worst OCD I had ever experienced. Every little thing felt like climbing a mountain. My days were plagued by endless showers, lots of butt wiping and lengthy brushing and flossing sessions. I would rarely shave because it took an hour and made a mess. I was cleaner than clean, but had gone primal. No one was allowed in my room… and I spent most days in bed watching movies I had already seen a dozen times. Occasionally I would leave for food or to have my clothes professionally cleaned at Flair Cleaners on Montana. I was royalty at that place— easily paying their monthly rent and land taxes with my distorted thinking that didn’t work— linked directly to my MasterCard that did. Sometimes when I returned to our apartment, I would get paranoid about someone having been in my room and rifled through my things. I soon called a locksmith to secure my bedroom door.

George worked during the day, and at night we would go to an AA meeting or grab dinner or both. Some nights his girlfriend would come over and we’d all go see a new movie or eat at Sugarfish— a place I have since deemed The California Pizza Kitchen of sushi. Cookie-cutter menu, mediocre service… it rattles me even to write about it now. If you wait thirty minutes for a table and spend megabucks at Sugarfish, you’ve completely bought into the bullshit. If you know the difference between rat shit and Rice Krispies, you’ll take your clitoris over to Matsuhisa.

My room and George’s room were separated by a kitchen and a living room, which in a few months would become a moonless den of iniquity. Sometimes in the middle of the night when I’d grab something to drink from the fridge, I could hear him plowing Eleanor. I’d hear her moans and the mattress give, and a light thumping against the wall. It seemed that he fucked her hard and often, but like any good addict, it was never enough. George was smitten with Eleanor and proclaimed to everyone that she was the only vagina in his life. But he neglected to mention Heidi, who was a speed fuck slut freak of the week and Georgie’s side piece.

I remember the day everything started to go dark. Thats how darkness works in my experience. It doesn’t flood the building immediately. It finds a way in and spreads itself out like peanut butter. Slowly at first, but soon the knife picks up speed and nowhere is safe. Eventually it’s stuck to roof of your mouth and it’s hard to voice the words, “HELP ME.” Georgie and Eleanor sat me down in the living room. With roughly nine months of sobriety, George had apparently smoked crack earlier that day in his car, down in our parking garage. He said the urge came on strong and all he could do was pick up the phone and call Red. Red would soon become a character in my life and a lampshade in our apartment.

Eleanor and I stood by George in his time of trouble. I mean what choice did we have? She had been hoping for a ring finger rock, and I was aiming to make good on my lease. It was obvious Eleanor and I were thrown off track… this wasn’t part of the plan. We were two skeptical, yet encouraging hostages.

"If you reside in and around the darkness, it’s just a matter of time until you grow fangs."

Inside every addict lives a monster. If you feed it, you wake it up and embolden it. If you stay off the sauce and dry goods for long enough… it falls back asleep. The beast lives with you and it dies with you. I would soon learn of the depths of George’s addiction and the bloodthirsty yeti that ate his spaghetti. It was not going down without a fight. It was not going down, period.

When Georgie wasn’t working, we regularly hit AA meetings and hung out with Eleanor, like nothing had happened. But something had. A few weeks passed and then came Eleanor’s birthday dinner in Hollywood… I noticed that George was amped that night and picking at his forearm during the meal. Later on he appeared to be slurring his words and falling asleep mid-sentence. I didn’t want to believe it, but he had been tuned up for days prior to the celebration.

She broke up with him. Thats when all hell broke loose in our apartment.

George began cyberstalking Eleanor on my laptop and doing drugs out in our living room. That’s when I met Heidi. Apparently George had been sneaking her into the apartment since day one. Whenever Eleanor wasn’t around, he was drilling Heidi like the cum dumpster that she was. They shot speed, fucked like rabbits and stayed awake for days.

After a while I completely cracked too. I was mostly alone in my room… my OCD was still off the charts… I didn’t have a job, and I was rooming with a speed junkie— now in the throes of his addiction. If you reside in and around the darkness, it’s just a matter of time until you grow fangs.

One night I went over to a pal’s house and picked up a bottle of booze… then the bottle picked me up— held me against the wall by my throat. My friend was concerned. “I thought you gave up drinking,” he said. I told him I WAS drinking, just no longer doing drugs. Most people who aren’t addicts always accept that answer… but the truth is— whether it’s wet or it’s dry, if it changes the way you feel, whats the difference?

Pamphlets and Big Books can suck my Dick Tracy… if you’re not a druggie and want some insight into the monster, listen to Eminem’s song, “Deja Vu.” It beautifully and tragically explains everything in under five minutes.

Soon enough, I was abusing the non-addictive drug, Seroquel??? Georgie was using it to, to come down from his seventy-two hour runs. Then one night we went to Cody’s place in Hancock Park. It was a condo on Rossmore with a back entrance through an alley.

When we got up the stairs— it was me, George, Red, Cody and Heidi. The blinds were drawn and “Family Guy” was playing on the TV, but no one was paying attention… everyone was getting high on Red’s supply. I was drinking from a six-pack of Heineken. Cody was smoking Roxys on foil; Red was smoking crystal meth out of a giant glass pipe; and Heidi and Rusty were making themselves comfortable on the sofa… tying off and trying to shoot drugs. They would gasp each time they missed a vein, then wiped the blood off with an old t-shirt.

Cody eventually offered me a Roxy, but it was my old friend Xanax that I ended up visiting with. I washed down two bars with a beer like it was nothing. Then a little later when I saw Red smoking a joint, I took a monster hit. As I exhaled the smoke, coughing, it clouded the air… and the next few days were erased in a matter of minutes. I only recall my legs shaking and it being difficult to walk. And I remember stopping by my Mom’s house to ask for money the next day.

When I look back on my life, I can connect the dots for the most part, but I’m certainly not one of those people who says— “I wouldn’t change a thing.” I would change many things. The first thing I would change is, I would’ve slept with Lexi Shapiro that one night in 2008. The second thing I would do… would be to go back to each time I put my poor mother through hell, and not do that. There must be a thousand instances.

I came to in my apartment days later, sitting next to Red on my green living room sofa. I was snorting a line of coke off the coffee table and handing him eighty dollars for another gram. Red gave me a little sack of chunky white. I laughed at how small it was. He said we could weigh it. I told him no, I believed it was a gram… I just found it all so amusing:

Paper is access granted and powder is make-believe power.

George walked in and told me to go easy on the blow-sheezy. When George wasn’t at work, he was basically stalking Eleanor or getting high or both. He would drive past her apartment five or ten times in a row. In his deranged mental state, he had convinced himself that she had a new man in her life. This was a delusion. She would soon file a restraining order against him.

I did cocaine for days… taking Seroquel to come down, but the coke crashes still landed me in some starless emotional basements. It was a Sunday in September when I sank into a quicksand state of hopelessness and self-loathing. I picked up my Blackberry and texted a sober actor friend of mine who lived in Malibu. After I typed to him things that had transpired, he invited me over to talk in person. But later that day he was presenting at the Emmy’s, so he only had a few hours. When I arrived at his home, we smoked cigarettes on his ocean deck, while I explained everything in greater detail. He listened to me carefully. Often times humans just need to be heard.

While he got ready for the Emmy’s, I lay on the couch in his den. I think football was on the TV in the background, and soon I was asleep. I woke up to a bottle of Fiji Water and some chicken nuggets that he had microwaved for me. After I ate, he told me to take a shower. He even gave me a change of clothes. This was the only person in Hollywood, on or off-screen, who wasn’t a complete and total disappointment. He was the cool kid who invited me to his birthday party, told me I mattered, and picked me up when I tripped and fell.

We both left his house at the same time. I left in my car and he left in a limousine with his assistant. He told me to call him when I got back to my apartment, and he’d walk me through flushing the rest of my drugs. I did as I was told, except I couldn’t dump the coke. While I was on the phone with him, I only pretended. He told me he was proud of me and that we’d check in later that night. I thanked him and hung up.

George was spending so much on drugs that he couldn’t pay the rent. Although I didn’t find out until it was too late. Maybe I should have suspected when he started asking me for a Benny now and again. He also got in trouble at work, not just for being loaded, but for fucking his supervisor’s wife. You can’t write this kind of stuff. Well, I can… it’s true.

I was eventually back in the treatment center I had been through several times before. I’m not sure why I kept going back there and not somewhere else. I guess the same reason I kept using… it was comfortable… it was familiar.

My dad ended up paying George’s back rent, as well as to break our lease. If I could go back in time, that’s something I would change too. I can’t even imagine how much dough I’ve cost my father since my world premiere in ’82.

Shortly after I checked back into rehab, Georgie’s Mom passed away. After that, the word was that George took off with some druggie chick named Christian Weinstein… wait, what? As for Eleanor, she moved on and I would see her from time to time around the sobriety scene.

I remained in treatment for two months and then sober living for another fourteen months. After a year and a half of hard work, abstinence and a job in recovery, one day the urge came on strong… all I could do was pick up the phone and call Red.

Max Barrie is a writer and artist currently based in Los Angeles. The son of screenwriters, Michael Barrie and Sally Robinson, Max was born and raised in Beverly Hills, California. With acerbic wit and self deprecating humor, Max documents his life growing up in the shallow, superficial depths of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood machine. In his multiple part autobiographical series, entitled A Trendy Tragedy, Max will explore his bouts with addiction, prostitution and his search for identity in a landscape that is rife with temptation and false ideals. FOLLOW AUTRE ON INSTAGRAM TO STAY IN TOUCH: @AUTREMAGAZINE

[Non-Fiction] When I’m Not Checking the Clock, I Know My Time is Worth Something

February 24, 2016

When I'm Not Checking the Clock, I Know My Time Is Worth Something

by Max Barrie

I can’t believe I waited ’til I was 10 years old to start smoking cigarettes. I think I set out in search of a pack when I was seven and it took me three years to find one.

I grew up in Beverly Hills in the 80’s— so naturally I assumed everybody was Jewish and worked in show-business. I lived in a safe little bubble on San Ysidro, across the street from Fred Astaire. But when my younger sister was born we moved to a larger home in the flats. That’s when school began and my childhood slipped away. I was five.

I wasn’t beaten, molested, neglected or abused in any way. So why is this brat complaining? I’ve been told that childhood ends the moment you become aware of your own mortality… but I think my childhood started to dissipate on the playground. SCHOOL— talk about the absolute worst and probably most accurate introduction to life.

Grownups used to always tell me to enjoy my time as a kid because being an adult meant the fun was over. When I heard this repeatedly during the single digit days, I didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. If this “kid thing” was supposed to be fun, then when I’m older I’d probably need to inject Dilaudid into my neck vein. Never went there, but in 2010 I tried smoking Oxycontin to cure the common cold. It actually helped.

I’m not saying I have the answers to a happy healthy childhood for future generations. If I knew shit, I wouldn’t be sitting in it at this moment. But I know that there’s something very wrong with a little kid being dropped into a daily situation where he can’t win.

K-5TH

Eventually morning birds chirping meant war. I was usually cold, tired, hungry… then soon forced to retain both useless and useful information for hours. None of which stuck anyway. I would be ignored by adults, teased by my peers, scolded for day-dreaming, and regularly forced to hold in my urine. Then around noon I’d scarf down a soggy sandwich and wash it away with a warm Capri-Sun… until the loud bell rang— declaring it was time for three more hours of Chinese water torture. In the film Risky Business— Tom Cruise is watching the clock in his high school class, and time is going by so slowly that he actually sees the clock tick backwards. Most of my childhood was spent watching clocks. When can I pee? When can I eat? When can I go home? Time to wake up, time to go to bed, time to do this, go here, come back, sit down, stand up… by second grade I was so spun out that I suffered from hypochondria and constipation. My Mrs. Gooch’s obsessed mother had the nanny feed me a steady diet of mineral oil… which unfortunately started leaking out of my ass during social studies. I’d have to run to the bathroom (without asking), barricade myself in a stall, toss my shit-stained Underoos, wash myself with powdered hand soap, and then freeball it back to class in my sweats. If more oil leaked out of my ass that day everyone would know. So I clenched my cheeks together until the final bell because one wet fart and life would be even more unbearable.

"Do you think I’m a snooty gay puss? I am. I basically grew up with a silver spoon full of mineral oil in my mouth. I certainly got everything I wanted, but I’m not sure I had everything I needed."

During school I was picked on, picked last, and never picked for anything good. Then after seven or eight hours of this horse shit, they’d give you more work to take home. Are adults really this clueless? I don’t think they’re malicious, but I do recall Ally Sheedy's line in The Breakfast Club— “When you grow up, your heart dies.” She wasn’t wrong… and for me it started with The Pledge of Allegiance. The little computer between my ears was being programmed five days a week to fear and lose faith. Also— when you’re a kid, the days don’t fly by like they do now. Remember? You don’t just wake up, do a few things and suddenly it’s sundown. This is all new stuff that we’re absorbing and eight hours seems like a week.

Do you think I’m a snooty gay puss? I am. I basically grew up with a silver spoon full of mineral oil in my mouth. I certainly got everything I wanted, but I’m not sure I had everything I needed. How do you concentrate when you’re tired and twisted up like a pretzel by 8:00am? How can a four foot tall kid shoot hoops at 9:00am with the sun blaring in his tiny Jewish eyes? Suck my cock, Coach… thanks, get the balls too… atta boy.

In 1990 my brilliant father - who IS TRULY BRILLIANT - but also unaware, sends me to summer camp. He thinks it’ll be FUN for me because it was fun for him back during doo-wop. Yeah. So school finally lets out… I can exhale… and days later I’m woken up at 7:00am, the birds are chirping— it’s freezing and a big noisy bus picks me up and shuttles me off to the woods with people I’ve never fuckin’ met. I’m like eight years old. This sounds like the beginning of a horror movie. So I refused to go back to camp after a day or two and my Dad was heartbroken. He was out seven-hundred bucks, and couldn’t understand what was wrong with his unusual son that didn’t like waking up early and doing arts and crafts in the bushes. Twenty-five years later nothing has changed.

$$$

These days my Brentwood shrink tells me I’m trying to win back my childhood, instead of mourning the loss in a healthy way. She says I’m stuck— and thats why I refuse to get a job and continue to bum around tinseltown like Peter Pan in those delightful green tights. She says my being sober isn’t enough and that my parents are enablers. I don’t think she’s wrong, but I’m not sure I give a shit.

Grownups were in fact right about the fun being over. Except with me, there was never any fun to begin with. After high school - where I was basically a pill popping undesirable puppet for four years - I barely graduated and soon left for college. When I got there, I discovered that the chirping birds had been tipped off… and now I had two roommates and lived in a broom closet.

After quitting college and winning my father’s heart yet again, I worked for about ten years on and off in LA. Different gigs… mostly entry level jobs in television. Anyway, I soon realize that I’m still in hell, just on a different floor. Every day at work I had deja vu. I had been there or somewhere like it, I knew these people— this reminded me of that. Like in Groundhog’s Day, I could practically hear “I Got You Babe” when my alarm went off in the morning.

Now at nearly thirty-three years old, after cracking up a multitude of times - hospitals, rubber rooms, rehabs - I’m attempting to live a more “peaceful” existence in my estimation. I reside in a halfway house… ok, it already sounds awful… and it is, but it’s not completely fucked. I paint and I write and I sleep in. Every morning I snort coffee and Prozac for breakfast, then I wander the aisles at Ralph’s, and twice a week I complain to my therapist about being a snooty gay puss. I even bought a white noise machine at Brookstone to drown out those chirping birds.

My family and “friends” believe I’ve given up on life, but I don’t exactly see it that way. I feel like I did twenty tours of duty and now it’s time to come home… wherever that is. I don’t live like the Prince of Persia on the blue bayou, but I avoid going back into battle and being on the clock. These days I’m well rested… which I didn’t know was an option. I can eat when I want to, I can shit when I need to… I take my fuckin’ time in the shower. I even quit driving, which in Cost Angeles probably added ten years to my lifespan. I like the volume low. But most people write me off as this mentally unstable sugar baby— another tragic tale of of wasted youth.

For me there might not be a way to beat the video game of life. Maybe I missed the warp zone or didn’t catch the golden twat when it flew past my head? It seems like whether I’m at school or work or jobless or drunk or sober or single or dating or driving or walking, it doesn’t really matter. I’m always somehow not doing “it” right, and everybody else knows better. We readily accept the reality we’re presented with, but does that make it absolute? Aside from day and night, don’t we basically make everything up. I value my version of peace in life… and I suppose if I’m viewed as bum, I can live with that. It’s better than watching the clock day in and day out.

When Billy Joel was masterfully interviewed by Howard Stern a few years back, he talked about collaborating with Paul McCartney at his home in New York. Howard asked Billy if he ever critiqued McCartney or told him something wasn’t good? Billy Joel said no because if he himself doesn’t agree with something musically, it’s just not his taste.

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[Non-Fiction] Sexy Lexi and The San Fernando Valley Fuck Switch a.k.a. Less Than Shapiro

May 25, 2015

Sexi Lexi and the San Fernando Valley Fuck Switch a.k.a Less Than Shapiro

by Max Barrie

To my critics… I wish you all of you peace, love and anal leakage. But you’re not allowed to use my toilet. Try the Chevron on the corner you hush-hush cocksuckers.

Every word I type is true… I don’t do semi-fictional… I’m not James Frey. Everyone has their version of things and this is mine. The names are changed to protect the guilty, but that’s about as fictitious as I get. ALSO, I wish I knew as much about me as all of you do. If you have an opinion about my life or my recovery… if you think you know something OR see me as cookie cutter spoiled trash, I respect that. You’re not wrong, but that is simply your take. I’ll admit it stings a little when you flash your funhouse mirrors, then poke at me with your pedestrian solutions and tough love that I’m either too naive or too stubborn to adhere to. If it didn’t hurt I wouldn’t be writing this.

When I say ONE THING, different people hear different things. So just to go on record— I do not blame anyone for ME. I tell MY stories, I report MY news. I know us humans often look out the window instead of at our reflection because it sits better with our psyche… but believe me I spend plenty of time in the bathroom poking myself in the chest. There are certainly people I wouldn’t thank during my Oscar speech but that doesn’t mean I sit around all day pointing my dick at every cunt I see. I do believe that in this life there’s an ongoing “lack of insight” Bar-Mitzvah theme down every road I travel. But at the end of the day I know I’m a lottery winner and ultimately responsible for my actions… not my thoughts… my actions— and making my way in the world.

I am a fussy baby bitch that would be a blow up doll behind bars, but in front of my Macbook I’m anything but. I’m King Shit of Turd Island and I will take you apart piece by piece for peace. I will filet your nameless anus and cut off your anonymous tongue. I promise. Often in life I throw temper tantrums that nobody can hear… and if they do hear something, they think it’s the gardener and shut the window. So hear this. I want my turn on the seesaw, I want my twenty-percent-off coupon at Bed Bath and Beyond and I want a dirty girl with clear skin to fuck me gently. So if my writing cracks open that door, hand me a Bic Pen and a napkin.

But there’s more to my chicken scratch than desperately needing a voice or claiming a prize. Selfishly I scribble to keep my head from bursting like a water balloon. If I don’t constantly stay creative, you will inevitably find me at Ruth’s Chris on Beverly Drive, stuffing an entire ribeye into my body and spilling Heineken down my pants because it feels good. Writing for me is pushing a never-ending shit-log out of an infinite asshole. I keep it moving so I don’t get backed up.

If I write for other people, which I’ve tried before, I’m in a great deal of danger. I paint alone, I type alone and I’ll probably leave earth alone… unless it’s on Virgin Galactic. Speaking of saying goodbye— I also write to make sure there’s documentation of all this silliness because I’m gonna be dead very soon. I’ll be strolling down North Crescent to meet the vagina of my dreams… and before I reach the hotel entrance I’m gonna have a massive heart attack, hit my head on a wooden bench and bleed out on the pink walkway. Later that day I’ll be offered a book deal.

Ladies and Gentlemen… may I present: Sexy Lexi

The actual vagina of my dreams was and will probably always belong to Lexi Shapiro. I first heard her raspy voice on a three-way landline call when we were eleven years old. She was a friend of a friend of mine. He was a dick and his whole family were dildos, but at that age I would have followed him off the Malibu Pier because I thought he was cool. I forget exactly why he introduced me to Lexi… but my guess is he wanted to show me that even at that young age he was no stranger to strange. Soon the three of us met up at Century City— not the shopping mall, but the creepy complex across the street where the massive CAA building now shimmers.

Lexi looked like Claire Forlani before I had ever seen Claire Forlani. At eleven however, she was still quite subtle and wore thick glasses. There was really nothing super unique about her… another half-Jewish girl from The Valley with dirty blonde hair. Still, something happened when I first met her in person… those magnified peepers flipped a switch in my misshapen little mind. And I couldn’t explain it then and I can’t really articulate it now… but the process would be irreversible. To this day I regularly think about her.

It was like all of a sudden I had a purpose in life and it was to make Lexi love me. But how? At the time I had recently seen Disney’s Aladdin… but I didn’t know Robin Williams, nor did we have Fuckheimer genie money. I was also short and chubby with a puffy “butt cut—” as a result of Hebrew heritage and my 90’s Stussy image. Winning her heart would be no humble feat.

From sixth grade to age twenty-six any of my Lexi fairy tales would put you to sleep by 7:30pm. But I’ll give you a bit of background. Coincidently she and I ended up attending the same synagogue with our families, and sometimes we ate together… we spoke on the phone occasionally… we also kicked it at certain social gatherings. And even though I was a Beverly Hills boy and she was a Valley girl, she introduced me to Il Tramezzino on Canon… much like Lexi, their “chicken special” would change the game forever.

By the time we were fifteen her glasses came off… and her nose may have been adjusted. Either that or she and every third girl I knew were accidentally breaking their beaks over summer break. One night she wanted to see a chick flick at CityWalk. I was balls deep in the friend zone and I didn’t even know it. At the time I saw this as an opportunity, but feared my dick would explode and I would shit my pants before the movie started. How would I make her see me the way that I perceived her, as a portal to some sort of earthy paradise? It also didn’t help my case that I looked like the Jewish Eddie Munster.

I found my dad in his home office and begged and pleaded with him to get me a Town Car and a driver for the evening. In my mind the vehicle would serve two purposes. One— I would give this Toluca Lake Tootsie a taste of the good life… and two— it would prevent any parental figures from fucking up my chance of a first kiss. I was fifteen and would’ve easily picked making out over any amount of Apple stock. These days I don’t even like kissing… the tongues, the saliva, the bacteria… get away from me. If a mouth isn’t pristine, she might as well be wearing a Beekeeper’s mask during intercourse.

My father, bless his heart, eventually gave in and ordered the Town Car. Is it the right thing to do to get a ninth grader a car and driver for the evening? My guess is many would object… but I think in some bizarro way he empathized with how twisted up I was over this Lexi situation. And at that time I truly believed she was the answer to my cancer.

"Moaning and groaning in ecstasy… clearly this reaction was drug induced because anytime I had fooled around with women in the past, they usually reacted like my dog ate their homework. Of course I’m referring to the ladies that weren’t handing me an invoice after I ejaculated."

She did seem impressed by the chaffered car, but the flash didn’t aid my confidence. Never did, never will. And after sitting through a horrific Gwyneth Paltrow movie in Universal City, nothing magical happened on or off-screen. I remember her hugging me when the car dropped her at home… and I recall feeling sorrow and shame during the ride back to my Dad’s place. I even assumed the driver thought I was on the down-low.

So many similar stories. Some of them with Lexi, but also many of them with my imaginary girlfriend, Abigail. When Abby finally gave me head after senior prom, she wouldn’t even swallow my make-believe semen. My real date that night was supposedly a Seventeen model and treated me like I was contagious.

Years later

I was twenty-six years young when I had dinner with Lexi at a Greek restaurant on Larchmont. This evening would not end until sunrise. And there’s not much of a story to tell, but this night was quite significant for me. If you asked her today, I’m sure she wouldn’t even remember. I was sober, but she sure as hell wasn’t. Even five years later I believed that had this one adventure gone differently, life would’ve been kitten biscuits.

Before ye judge, no one was taken advantage of. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a fucking asshole.

Dinner eventually led us to a Hollywon’t night spot. I shelled out several hundred dollars for a fully loaded table, but I didn’t touch the poison on it… I was dry for some reason. I was the designated driver, but that couldn’t have been the reason. There was a Led Zeppelin cover band playing and I could feel my pulse in my eardrums. To this day whenever I hear “Whole Lotta Love” I have PTSD.

Lexi kept drinking booze at our table and taking frequent trips to the bathroom. I was so lost in my head that it didn’t occur to me until later that she was doing blow… a lot of it. She eventually revealed her voodoo vial of bright white, but I wasn’t having any. I heard my Step-Mother’s voice— “One sniff could be your last.” I did cocaine for the first time later that year with my buddy Blooper. I remember I pulled out a one-dollar bill and Bloop explained that higher currency was probably less contaminated— which actually made sense even though the product had just been up someone’s ass. Still, like Lexi and the “chicken special,” lines would become shape-shifters in my game.

After the nightclub, I could walk you through the night beat by beat. But I’d like to speed it up a tad because this isn’t MY magazine, it’s just MY column in someone else’s magazine… and I’m lucky to have it.

I ended up driving Lexi’s car because she was so toe-up. I didn’t realize until that evening how hard she liked to party. Booze and blow… then while we’re cruising down Wilshire Boulevard, she pops the glovebox and a giant honey jar of Kush falls into her lap. She can’t stop laughing… at this point I’m freaking out inside— convinced jail is just a BOOP-BOOP away. But I’m playing it cool or at least Larry David’s version of cool. Lexi soon wants to stop for rolling papers and also mentions that she wants to… fuck me in half. Huh? Can you not rinse but repeat that?

After fifteen long years the girl of my dreams who always looked at me like a My Buddy Doll, saw me the way I saw her… only it was through very thick beer goggles. We grabbed Zig-Zags at Rite-Aid and drove to The Valley, while she proceeded to get very stoned. At one point while I was driving she leaned over and stuck her tongue in my ear… I nearly drove into a mountain.

At the time I was renting a loft in Hancock Park, but I never bought furniture… don’t ask. I had this big empty apartment with a desk and a mattress on the floor. By now Lexi was so high and horny I could’ve fucked her in Griffith Park and told her it was the New Outdoor Marriott. But I didn’t do that. And I was too ashamed to bring her back to my place… so we headed toward her family’s home where she was staying.

The story doesn’t end there… who am I kidding, it basically does. Before we reached her destination she instructed me to pull over on a quiet street off of Beverly Glen. I did as I was told. Lexi crawled over into the driver’s seat and straddled me… we started kissing passionately and she looked like she was literally in heaven. Moaning and groaning in ecstasy… clearly this reaction was drug induced because anytime I had fooled around with women in the past, they usually reacted like my dog ate their homework. Of course I’m referring to the ladies that weren’t handing me an invoice after I ejaculated.

I started using my fingers on Lexi and she went wild… but when she pulled her panties further to the side and went for the yogurt gun, I stopped her. “We shouldn’t do this.” As I’m writing now I want to hop in Doc’s DeLorean, travel back in time and punch myself in the fucking eye! I suppose I didn’t want to take advantage of a drunk girl… and I didn’t want to cum inside her… and I didn’t want to get caught by the authorities… and what if she had HPV and I became a carrier?

I drove her home, parked her car and she gracefully stumbled toward her front door. She asked how I would get back? And like we were kids, I spun a story of a driver that would come pick me up. Lexi smiled and said goodnight. Walking up Ventura Boulevard before sunrise was beyond depressing… I eventually called a cab. On the ride back I felt what I can only describe as hollow torment.

In my youth I was spit on, hit with food, threatened, blackmailed, slapped, kicked, name-called, humiliated, overlooked, ignored, criticized, isolated and labeled learning disabled. I was not always, but often in the thick of it… and I’m NOT feeling sorry for myself you mummies! I want to try and understand how come after years of battle in Cost Angeles, I let Lexi Shapiro’s magical vagina literally slip through my fingers? Do I just “like the way it hurts” like Rihanna? I don’t think I’m a nice guy… well, nice-ish at times. Maybe unconsciously I knew that if I stuck it in I’d beat the game, then wake up only to relive this Lifemare all over?

I tried tirelessly, but Lexi wouldn’t see me again after that. She has since left Los Angeles and started a family.

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[NON FICTION] A Stab at Suicide—I’ve Always Got a Joker in my Deck

May 18, 2015

A Stab At Suicide—I've Always Got a Joker In My Deck

by Max Barrie

I’m not a danger to myself… but what if living is unnecessary?

Frankly, unless death resembles LAX, I’m a supporter. I DO worry about unnecessary suffering. But we live in such a toxic environment, how can poison possibly be avoided? On a planet where no one is safe, where no day is free, and enemies are at arms length. The food is processed, the air is polluted, the water contaminated.

I was born in August of ’82. It was at Cedars-Sinai and I came out SCREAMING! My theory is— as soon as the cold air hit me, I realized I had been evicted and hadn’t had time to get dressed. My unsolicited birth would soon become a metaphor for my FANCY FUCKED life— with which I was rarely impressed. And while breathing came highly recommended and everybody was doing it, I eventually concluded that a lot like college— life wasn’t for everybody.

A bipolar comedian that I worked for in 2006 said to me— “Max, I’ve always got a joker in my deck.” He attributed the quote to Hunter S. Thompson. What the expression meant was— I can exit the game at any time by offing myself. The saying made sense to me, so I had it tattooed on my left arm… which is now covered up by a scorpion. In 2009 I awoke to an early morning phone call from the comedian’s Uncle. He was sobbing and told me that my funny former employer, who’s career had stalled, was found hanging from a tree in a wooded area. I didn’t really know what to say or how to feel… I hung up uncomfortably numb and thought of a joker— a devilish little clown with a shit-eating grin. This was not my first experience with premature death, but it was the first time I knew someone who had intentionally cut things short. It would not be the last.

I never had access to a rocket, but my plan to leave earth had always been brewing. I obsessed over death as a child and ultimately in my late 20’s I would make half a dozen BOOZE-FUELED trips to The Cold Spring Bridge out in Santa Ynez. This was before the suicide barriers were installed. I had read that out of all the jumps off Cold Spring no one had survived. I would drive nearly two hours… from LA, down the 101 into Santa Barbara… then up into the mountains along Route 154. Honestly it’s a miracle that I didn’t crash, kill anyone, or get arrested during any of these grisly expeditions. I drove into the elevated darkness with one purpose each time… but once I arrived at the bridge I could never get out of my car. Truth is I was petrified.

By 2014 I BELIEVED my torture had at last outweighed my terror. I was again fresh out of sober living, now WORKING in drug treatment, and soon back on anything 80 proof with coke… and I don’t mean Classic. It didn’t take long for me to crumble… it never does once you add venom. After a couple weeks the word was out. My roommate wanted me gone, my family wouldn’t have me around, and I was back to lying and stealing. How many times could I keep dancing this jig? My feet were tired. What now, another treatment facility? Additional counseling? More mindless prayer with nudniks… fuck that shit. I thought— why not just quit while I’m behind?

So I “tried” to kill myself. And maybe I actually succeeded… maybe I’m dead right now and not really writing this? Wouldn’t surprise me if Beetlejuice walked in and asked to borrow some Scotch Tape. Anyway, when I awoke on April 9th of last year I snatched a bottle of vodka, stole a bottle of muscle relaxers, and gassed up my hybrid with a roll and a half of quarters. Then I drove to a place where lots of people go when they’ve given up all hope— The Valley.

I maneuvered my way down into Chatsworth, shut off my iPhone and parked my car in a low-key area. My windows were tinted. I climbed into the back seat and began drinking and popping pills…

Lights dim… 100…99…98…and frog thoughts…

Next thing I know I hear my roommate’s voice far off in the darkness: “Hey, where are ya buddy?” Then we’re abruptly both in his car driving fast on the freeway— a lit cigarette falls out of my mouth and burns a hole in my jeans… suddenly I’m in some emergency waiting room… my Dad enters and I have trouble walking… a nurse helps me, then comes the charcoal.

I don’t know how much vodka I drank and I’m not sure how many pills I took… but clearly it wasn’t enough to carry out my exit strategy. I’m convinced today that had I really wanted to die I would have swallowed every pill in that bottle and never turned my iPhone back on. Yup. At some point I don’t remember, I turned on my iPhone, answered it and explained to my roommate where I was.

My roommate was an 80’s James Spader asshole type, but I loved him in some bizarre non-homosexual us against the world way. After all this happened he stopped talking to me… and now it’s like he was never really there to begin with.

***

Many say life is bittersweet, and I can’t really argue with them. But from my perspective if someone barfs on my Bay Cities sandwich, I don’t ponder the unsullied tomato on the end. My lunch has been FUCKED and now I have to get back in line or walk over to Swingers— the most annoying restaurant in the history of food. That’s my take on life. If you talk to me about balance, I’ll tell you to shampoo my lunchbox. The bad stuff contaminates everything else and I’d like to speak to God’s supervisor, Mr. Davidson. On many occasions I see people trudging through everlasting slime… and I get why they want out and I believe it’s their right. Whether the problem’s terminal cancer or stale popcorn, who says you have to stick around? Life’s a gift, this bodysuit is mine, and that is fucking that.

"Mummies and dummies continue to fuck like there’s a pussy shortage and then reproduce like rats. There’s too many of us, there’s not enough resources, and global warming’s gonna melt all the ice by 2040. Death may actually be a much needed vacation."

Mummies and dummies continue to fuck like there’s a pussy shortage and then reproduce like rats. There’s too many of us, there’s not enough resources, and global warming’s gonna melt all the ice by 2040. Death may actually be a much needed vacation. I think most of us just have contempt prior to investigation. I’ll tell you what’s worse than death… yesterday I was in an Uber carpool with two Asian girls who couldn’t stop saying “LIKE…” gangsta rap was on the radio, and the driver only took streets where the magnified sun seared my skin off.

That said, and even though I happen to be pro-choice long after birth, I do have soul. It may be a warped black pretzel, but it’s still edible.

Here’s the BIG PROBLEM with killing yourself, unless you’re Kris Jenner. Kidding. But honestly, a stewardess who gobbled cocks in Calabasas and then sold her children for shekels?! We’re so gullible. The PROBLEM is when you take your own life, you’re also destroying other lives. And that will never be ok in my estimation. When I was drunk and high I used to wanna believe it was nobody’s problem but mine. But I often got behind the wheel… and I said regrettable things… and I didn’t show up for work… and I once pissed in someone’s dryer until it wasn’t a dryer anymore. When I was under the influence it quickly became everybody’s problem.

We often feel that we’re separate or different just in general, but it’s amplified when we’re depressed or ready to check out. Fortunately or unfortunately we’re not independent. Everyone’s a part of something more than their own ass. People are connected, lives are tied in with other lives. You’re a link… and it’s not polite to break the chain for selfish reasons.

That comedian who hung himself had a wife and three small boys at home. He had a sobbing Uncle who called me… he had other family and friends and people he worked with… he permanently and negatively affected other lives. We could even go a step further and discuss the ripple effect of that. It’s kind of like barfing on that Bay Cities sandwich.

I’ll end with this…

I never thought I gave a shit until I met Adam in treatment last year. We shared a room for thirty days and I fuckin’ hated him immediately. He walked loud, he talked loud, he left his shit everywhere. He was a spoiled cunt muscle who regularly begged me to write a screenplay with him, only he had no story. Adam had migrated from bumblefuck to Beverly Hills after college and basically struck gold… but then he lost everything… even his trophy wife. All day long this putz would talk about every cent he made and squandered, and in group he would explore his new life with, and I quote— “mediocre women.” He actually said this.

I complained to him and about him, I shit—talked him, I ignored him. In my eyes he was a spoiled child who’d run out of DoubleStuf Oreos— Mr. Veruca Salt. But sometimes he sat with me in front of the TV and talked about killing himself… and I still didn’t buy it. He just wanted sympathy, so once I said— “Ya know Adam, some people have to leave the party early.”

He checked out on a Friday after his thirty days were up, while I stayed on for an additional month. I remember he hugged me by the front door in the morning and grabbed his bags. He got in the backseat of a small Honda, but he had that Lincoln Town Car look in his eyes. I never saw him again.

Adam texted me the next day saying he was out with friends, but still complained about his horrible life. I think I told him to “hang in there” or some bullshit… then deleted the text. Then on Sunday Adam went to a shooting range, coincidently in The Valley… and he blew his head off.

When word got back, everyone in the treatment facility was visibly shaken. The patients, the doctors, the staff. I even saw some tears. I didn’t feel anything at first, but I did think about Adam’s parents back in the small town where he came from… as he was an only child. And while I wish I had been more compassionate and less judgmental during his life, I don’t take any responsibility for his death. Shit… maybe a little.

That first night after he died— when I got into bed and the lights went out, I was instantly flooded and overwhelmed with memories of Adam… one of him eating chocolate cake in the living room with his hands… he said to me: “This is the stuff that makes life worth living.” Then I thought of that joker— a devilish little clown with a shit-eating grin… and then a voice in my head told me I needed to live. These days I’m not so sure anymore.

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[NON-FICTION] Superficial Stockholm Syndrome… I was kidnapped, raised in Lost Angeles and bought into it

May 11, 2015

Superficial Stockholm Syndrome…I was kidnapped, raised in Lost Angeles and bought into it

by Max Barrie

One of my favorite Kanye West songs is “Can’t Tell Me Nothing.” And my favorite line is the first one— “I had a dream I could buy my way to heaven, when I awoke, I spent that on a necklace…” What I hear is— I’m sacrificing a bright future for material crap.

In LA especially, real money is regularly pissed away.

As far back as Henry Hill could remember, he always wanted to be a gangster. Well as far back as I can remember, I always wanted your approval. In grade school I longed for three things— a girlfriend, a growth spurt, and athletic prowess. Basically I just wanted to be loved… I saw those three things as ways in. Any love that did come my way was never enough or it wasn’t the right kind. Years later, a bottomless pit of need for booze, at that age it was rainbows I wanted to mainline.

The one person who loved me unconditionally was my doting obsessive compulsive grandmother, Miriam. I was the firstborn grandson and in her eyes I could do no wrong. In her company, I had the Midas touch and did whatever the hell I wanted— as long as I didn’t choke on it or drown in it. Conveniently, she also schooled me on the harmful nature of germs and dirt and instructed me on how to keep everything, including myself, spotless. To this day I have a bottle of rubbing alcohol by my nightstand. Hey, ya just never know.

My therapist often refers to the self-esteem movement of the 1980’s as being a colossal mistake. She says it was a time when many professionals instructed parents to give their children constant positive reinforcement no matter what— but this according to her, would unfortunately set up an unrealistic environment for kids that the real world would inevitably swallow.

I do not believe my parents, nor my Grandmother were briefed on this movement.

My Mom and Dad loved me, but were often busy and Miriam rarely left my side. I think she just happened to be a human version of a Care Bear and actually believed that I was going to somehow save the Jewish people in the 21st century. Up until her death in 2011 no one ever loved me as much as she did. Since the beginning I wanted my Grandmother’s love on tap, but that wasn’t possible. Like my therapist explains now, she was no match for the “real world” that eventually swallowed me whole. In the 80’s and 90’s, not only did I NOT receive this first class treatment in her absence, I often got the exact opposite.

$$$

Ok, lets fast-forward to high school… it was 1997 and I was even more lost in the sauce. Now remember where this story takes place… yep, Hollycould. And by the time I was fourteen years old I was convinced I had a few things figured out. Mastery never came to me socially, academically or athletically, but now I saw people around town and at school just like me… small people… goofy people… maybe unattractive or even mean people, and they were WINNING— like Charlie Sheen would so eloquently describe years later after a crack run.

High school for me is where things really shifted. Instead of just day-dreaming, I saw that attainable greatness was readily for sale. Shangri-La was all around me or so I thought. Good looks, brains or throwing a football didn’t necessarily get you access… we didn’t even have a football team in this private society. If you wanted to be known, fully equipped with acceptance in our viper’s nest— you needed a last name followed by a minimum of seven zeros. A BMW, drugs, and a large home were also quite helpful.

Now this isn’t new… this is textbook Scarface Machiavelli shit. Money equals power equals women equals “winner winner, Sheen dinner!” This formula has gone on everywhere, all over the place, since the beginning. So what makes tinseltown unlike an oil dynasty or the people who invented the vagina? LA is the epicenter of magic store horse shit… and everyone wants to know or wants to BELIEVE they know what’s happening on these insincere streets. If life’s looking sweet, people can dream… and if the forecast is doom and gloom— who doesn’t love dirty laundry?

"I almost drowned in SoCal’s sea of superficial diarrhea… and I’m not out of the deep doo yet. The fact that I haven’t blown my brains out— is well… not really that miraculous. I’m a big pink muffin and I’m afraid that if I make my exit too soon, I’ll just be shit out someplace worse… like Sylmar."

In my experience money in Hollywon’t is generally new, often flashy, and turns everyone into warped bloodthirsty vampires— just dying for a taste. What’s also different about LA is it brings the word “COLD” to a new level… and I don’t mean the weather. It’s like if COLD smoked crack with Charlie, hopped in a Tesla and shot down a crowded sidewalk on a Sunday afternoon. Los Angeles is THAT cold… and this lack of compassion and authenticity mostly stems from a desire to win a race that doesn’t really exist.

Am I even making sense at this point? Probably not. Starting out I was a nice kid who eventually became a product of his environment. The guys who drove Ferraris were dating supermodels with names like Elsaleena. And the poor bastard in the Camry was jerking-off a lot or hit the jackpot with some fatty ginger he met at Coffee Bean. I saw this bubblegum bullshit day after day after FUCKING day… and soon I started to resent my father for not owning more homes.

I’m not even sure I liked Ferraris at first, but I sure as hell started to. When I was fourteen, if I wasn’t watching “The Way We Were” with my Grandmother, I often felt lonely and out of place— especially in a crowd of my contemporaries. And all the dicks and cunts in the vicinity claimed that my salvation was at Nobu. “Maxie, honey baby— heaven awaits at that back table right next to David Duchovny." And these weren’t just my peers, these were their parents… pretty much everyone I knew.

I escaped or snapped out of “Superficial Stockholm syndrome” at around 30 years old… after sixteen long years in. As I’m typing this I feel like one of those former Scientology members from that HBO documentary. “Yes, LRH was my homie and I worshipped Xenu and 75 million years ago I battled aliens with John Travolta. Yes.” Sounds crazy, right? Rodeo Drive ain’t that different… it’s just tangible bullshit instead of fairytales. “No, Max you’re wrong! It’s Bvlgari, look at how it sparkles, this is the answer I’ve been waiting for.” We cling to exquisite nonsense because thats where we see a crowd and a fuss forming. And I am absolutely being judgmental, but I’m also empathetic because I ran with the affected herd for 16 fiscal years!

Five years ago I was walking around the Malibu Colony thinking God had officially made my dick look bigger. I was actually so stoned, I probably whipped it out and showed the natives. It was an afternoon on the 4th of July and I was drinking and smoking joints that I had meticulously laced with Xanax… next thing ya know it’s pitch dark and I’m being forcibly removed from this snooty settlement. And not one of my “friends” was anywhere in sight. I’m not blaming anyone, I made my bed… but when I phoned a buddy in a holidaze near PCH, I find out everyone’s partying at a nightclub fifteen miles away. With friends like these, who needs enemas?!

The next seventy-two hours were a nightmare. I had been humiliated, I was now isolated and melting into a Tempur-Pedic mattress at Mommy’s house. I could literally see toxic odors seeping out of my pores. This was not a unique tale in my travels, nor am I pointing the finger at this bizarre beach village. What I’m saying is this— wherever I went, there I was. The only place my cock ever grew was in my fucked delusional mind.

I don’t claim to be a teacher or a professor, and I fear that I come off like a self-proclaimed know-it-all in my prattling. I don’t believe I KNOW anything, I just pitch my version. I’m all for everybody doing whatever they want as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But my unsolicited advice would be make sure it’s YOU that really wants something and not just the general consensus.

I almost drowned in SoCal’s sea of superficial diarrhea… and I’m not out of the deep doo yet. The fact that I haven’t blown my brains out— is well… not really that miraculous. I’m a big pink muffin and I’m afraid that if I make my exit too soon, I’ll just be shit out someplace worse… like Sylmar. So it’s a combo of FEAR and some GOOD FORTUNE that’s kept me alive. The good fortune being a series of random events and chance encounters that we’ll discuss some other time. I don’t take credit for ninety percent of my pulse… but that doesn’t mean I’m thanking Xenu either. The truth is that I don’t know. All I can do is maintain my ten percent through continued self-examination, while remaining cautious, yet open.

What I’ve come to understand after being a Stepford Jew for 16 years is… we’re all struggling on this cruise ship together and we’re all headed to the same marina. Lets have a nice ride, shall we? If you’re on a WINNING streak after a crack binge with Charlie, MAYBE USE YOUR MONEY WISELY? Perhaps symbiotically improve your life while improving the lives of others? Don’t worry, if you do end up buying your way into heaven, I’m sure there’s a Westfield mall up there where you can purchase chinchilla bell bottoms.

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[Non-Fiction] Beauty and the Light-Switch are Thick As Thieves

April 27, 2015

Beauty and the Light-Switch are Thick As Thieves

by Max Barrie

Big fake tits and a peach scented ass turns me on. It always has…I’d like to think I’m better than that…that quick wit and kindness gets the blood pumping. But, no…not so much.

The first time I went to Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Playboy Mansion was in 2005. I was sober at the time, but just strolling around the property got me high. Girls in their underwear — all the blonde hair, the big boobs and the fun fruity smells. I was in heaven. Being invited there got me a little female attention that night…but I was (and am) a “nobody,” so ultimately the centerfolds and cyber girls made their way over to Bill Maher and Brett Ratner. Bastards.

It only takes a touch of bullshit to make most girls like you. In 2006 I fucked a Floridian waitress simply because she saw the zip code on my driver’s license…90210. The next day she told me she loved me, and I phoned my doctor for antibiotics because while I was riding her ass, I noticed she was coughing a lot.

Anyway, since childhood I had assumed Hefner was hiding all the answers behind those big black gates. Ol’ Dick Daddy had the keys to the kingdom and with them came the secret to happiness. Slowly I learned I couldn’t have been more wrong. The more often I went, my natural high wore off. By 2008, I was back on the sauce and The Playboy Mansion had (in my mind) become a haunted house with spooky pussy.

"Eventually, I ended up relapsing at a whorehouse in Nevada — drinking, drugging and charging five grand on my Bloomingdales Visa card."

The girls that I longed for were never interested in me, so I finally started drinking when I was 13 years old— held out as long as I could. I was small, I was shy, I was simply “friend material.” So I turned to the bottle for solace. There were other reasons why I started partying all by myself, but being denied vagina access topped the list.

I didn’t lose my virginity until I was nearly 20. I fucked my girlfriend on my father’s living-room sofa in Westwood. It was such a creepy little house, that was later bulldozed and built into a McMansion. This wild beauty who was willing to accept my average size penis had already been with TWELVE GUYS. Of course I lied and said that I too was very experienced. The sex was terrible. Using a condom made me imagine I was wearing a wetsuit in the shower…it was happening, but nothing was being accomplished. I knew I was inside her, but couldn’t really feel her sugar walls. Anyway, I ended up falling in love with this girl…but as perfect as she was, I couldn’t stay faithful and ultimately I couldn’t respect someone who accepted me. I’m truly sorry…her not being there today will forever be one of my deepest regrets.

$$$

In and out of “addiction recovery” since 1997, by 2002 I had started hanging out with a shady cast of characters in the twelve-step world. These fellas, although sober and many spoken for. introduced me to massage parlors and prostitution via the Internet.

Paranoid already, at first the possibility of being arrested kept me away from any illegal activities. But soon the itch needed to be scratched and I became a regular…justifying my bad behavior like any good sober alcoholic: “Well, hookers are better than drugs.” Better for me perhaps, but I’m not sure about these poor women. “Poor” is the wrong word. Sometimes I’d pay up to a thousand dollars an hour. I convinced myself they’d be blowing somebody and that because I wasn’t Don Simpson, everything was cool. They were usually high-class call girls and porn stars… and still on several occasions I couldn’t go through with it. Some ladies looked so far fucked that I couldn’t get too close. I would hand them the cash and get out of there. Does that mean I’m redeemable…? Certainly not, I’m just talking.

Eventually, I ended up relapsing at a whorehouse in Nevada — drinking, drugging and charging five grand on my Bloomingdales Visa card. The Madam asked me if I got discounts and points. Indeed I did. Anyway, the girls at this slutty sorority seemed to find me entertaining— probably because I was young and from Los Angeles. I also bought them pot, Jack In The Box, and forked over five grand… so there was that. And even though I was so high I was barely able to bang it out with one of ‘em, it was the most fulfilling and disturbing experience of my life. Fulfilling because of all the female attention… disturbing because it was a whorehouse in Nevada.

So many superficial stories — like the threesome I’ve never had or the woman with herpes who chased me around on her shag carpeting. But I told the editor I would limit this ride to four pages. Next time I promise to dig deeper. I’m not sure why I chose to recall these pink twisted memories… to me they’re entertaining… and perhaps significant?

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[Non-Fiction] Snow’s Tight and the Two Whores — Abandoned and Unfinished

April 25, 2015

Snow's Tight and the Two Whores – Abandoned and Unfinished

by Max Barrie

It’s very difficult for me to take credit for anything unless I royally fuck it up. I’m not special... but based on the feedback I’ve gotten over the years, I do believe I was BORN with a particular skill. And that is the ability to paint pictures with words. So when anyone speaks well of my writing I try to talk them out of it— explaining I have very little to do with my process, usually blaming genetics.

That said, my therapist is teaching me how to accept compliments and say... “thanks.” She wants me to understand that all of us are born with different abilities... and certainly how we nurture and use these skills is something to take credit for. My ego absolutely agrees... but I’m still digesting the idea. In the meantime I have no problem feeling directly responsible for anything awful.

The following whorey is true... however, names of people and places have been changed, and TWO crab magnets were combined into ONE to keep things moving.

IMPORTANT: Unless I’m attacked— I do not write to reopen wounds, hurt others or bring about trouble... I don’t have the right to reveal anyone’s story but my own. If you want gossip, I suggest ragmags in any CVS check-out line. If you press me for actual names or details, you’ll find I won’t be helpful.

I had been drinking and fooling around with an older woman who resembled a melting snowman. She smelled like an antique rug and would keep licking her palms before she stroked my cock. But even with a big buzz going her bushy beaver quickly tipped the scale and I became nauseated... so I made some excuse of why I couldn’t toss it in, then abruptly left her house.

When I arrived back at my apartment it was nearly two in the morning. I felt contaminated by the affair, but was too tired to shower. I would probably take more showers if they didn’t involve water... but with my OCD it often becomes Super Hole Sunday. I grabbed an old plate from the kitchen that once belonged to my grandmother. I took the plate into my bathroom and locked the door.

I began picking apart a rock of cocaine and then chopping it up with my driver’s license— making skinny lines on the plate. I loved lines. It changes with time— the monster inside... he has many faces and many forms. His hope is that one day I won’t recognize him and he’ll be set free. But in this moment we were thick as thieves and it was lines that got his furry penis hard.

SNORT! The tiny burn, the bitter taste, the drip, licking my fingers, rubbing my gums... the numbness sets in... the blood starts flowing... quickly. In a few minutes the world becomes a nice place to visit and I think I could one day outshine Jake Gyllenhaal if I really set my mind to it. Unfortunately I was too busy doing blow in my bathroom to achieve anything except that.

If you’ve snorted shit and also inhaled the real deal, then you know what a difference a grade makes. I’m no expert, but this had to be some Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah product. In a few hours I started texting my buddy Red who also happened to sell me this cocaine. I still had plenty left, but wanted more... just in case this cut went out of season.

Red had been awake for nearly three days smoking meth, and happily agreed to sell me more narcotics if I could pick him up in Bel-Air and drive him to a friend’s apartment by the beach. When I asked him why, he said— to hang out and get more high... he told me I could do the same. It sounded like a brilliant idea. It was 6:00am, although it seemed frightfully bright as I headed east down Sunset Boulevard in my hybrid. There was lots of texting and circling the rich twisted streets beyond the East Gate. The coke was well hidden, but I looked like a Jewish Looney Tune, and now feared being stopped by Bel-Air Patrol. Red’s brilliant plan was suddenly anything but.

At last I find him hiding out in the open? He hops in my car and we make our way back down to Sunset. I take a right and head west. Being awake for 72 hours and with his high fading, I occasionally had to wake Red from a coma-like-state for simple directions. My cocaine rush was still going strong and suddenly I realized I’d been licking my lips and chin for the past twenty minutes... it’s bizarre... and damp.

Janessa and I knew that any Magic 8-Ball would have predicted jail time. The medics worked on Red in the front seat of my car while she and I stood ten feet back on the sidewalk. Janessa looked away, cried druggie tears and squeezed me tightly... then asked — “Did we do the right thing?”

We eventually arrived at this generic apartment complex on the water... it was vast however, and Red couldn’t remember which unit belonged to his friend. We called, but there was no answer... so we walked up and down hallways looking like two lost druggies in search of a Panda Express. I had my drugs in a back pocket, but Red had a whole backpack full of tricks. I was beyond paranoid at this point and tried walking faster than him so it would appear we weren’t together. I’m guessing this wasn’t effective.

Eventually his friend answered her phone and we made our way to her apartment. We knocked, but no answer... we tried the door... it was open. It was clean and cozy inside, but I could sense trouble and was afraid to sit anywhere but in the living room. I settled on a sofa, relieved to no longer be pacing the hallways. A little black poodle came over to visit me and looked like it had questions. Soon Red walked out of a bedroom accompanied by Janessa...

If you’re reading this I’ll try not to bore you. When I was a kid I was diagnosed with many different disorders by a whole circus tent full of professional bozos. Looking back I believe most of these quacks were taking my parents and I for a long ride through The Bird Streets. The one diagnosis that may have been correct however was: attention deficit disorder... even now after even writing a few pages, I get restless and assume everybody else is just as bored as I am. Unfortunately, I can’t take ADD medication due to their addictive nature. The non-stimulant stimulants are horse shit.

I soon learned that Janessa liked to shoot drugs and whore out young women— one of whom was currently sleeping in her bedroom. Red needed rest and bunked up with the young strumpet I hadn’t yet seen. So I’m now left in the living room with this weathered woman and her curious poodle.

Janessa handed me a bottle of hard liquor, and a paper towel because I still couldn’t stop licking my lips. She also offered me a Zany bar which I pocketed— helps with the comedown from any speedy scenario. As she tried my cocaine, I looked her over. Blonde, busty, overweight... thirty-five going on fifty. Boffing’s on my brain, but my amplified fears quickly quieted my gossipy cock.

We watched Weekend At Bernie’s on TV... ironically a farce about a rich dead guy, presumably from drugs. Half-way through Janessa received a phone call from a john who was ready to party at 10:00am on a Tuesday— so she went to wake her sleeping beauty in the other room. In a daze, Red stumbled out— toying with his smartphone. The young brunette colored strumpet who follows is called Tobi, and barely acknowledges me.

Tobi starts off by talking about nothing and then continues on about absolutely nothing... all the while heating up her pookie. She takes a few heavy hits of crystal meth to start her day wrong, douses herself with pumpkin body spray, and leaves to go fuck a dick for a dollar.

Red then comes up with his second brilliant idea of the day— breakfast. We all agree that it’s some Einstein shit, but I’m currently the only one with a vehicle. Tobi has taken Janessa’s car. Why we didn’t think to call a cab or hoof it, I don’t remember. None of us were in any condition to get behind the wheel, but Janessa offered to pay for pancakes... and I started thinking that if I played nice and stuffed her with food, she could be stuffed with anything. I agreed to drive. Still a bit jittery, I popped that Xanax— Red grabbed his backpack and the three of us left.

All buckled up and ready to head out... Red and Janessa now make a “quick fix” their number one priority. They plead with me to give them a few minutes in the back seat. And although I objected to this, ultimately I didn’t know how to refuse them their good time. They got in back where the windows were tinted and I put the car in PARK. Janessa borrowed my phone charger to tie off and Red cooked the heroin in a spoon with a bit of bottled water... then prepared a shot. I had seen people inject drugs before, but this was too close for comfort, so I kept looking out the window. I prayed they wouldn’t miss their veins and bleed on the upholstery. He shot her up first, then took care of himself. As they finished, you could hear their voices soften. I was relieved it was over... but it wasn’t over.

Red sat shotgun and Janessa stayed in back— resting her head against the door and grinning like The Cheshire Cat in Blunderland. I started to drive. In a few blocks Red passed out and leaned on me. I assumed he was nodding out and pushed him away. He fell forward and his head smacked the glove compartment— at which time he started making a bizarre breathing sound. I was clueless, but Janessa knew... she started yelling his name and then SCREAMING his name and then panicking... he was overdosing.

My mind went blank for 3 seconds!

In the past because I had reacted to situations instead of acting in situations, I stirred up a lot of trouble. I wanted to think this through and respond appropriately... but analysis was not a luxury Red could afford. I quickly pulled off onto a side street, jumped out of the car and called 911. Not that it would help— I threw his backpack and any other goodies I found into my trunk. There was a sports bar across the way and people were starting to stare. The operator instructed me to check Red’s breathing and keep yelling his name! He was breathing, but I could tell his body was beginning to shut down.

Emergency vehicles and police soon showed... Janessa and I knew that any Magic 8-Ball would have predicted jail time. The medics worked on Red in the front seat of my car while she and I stood ten feet back on the sidewalk. Janessa looked away, cried druggie tears and squeezed me tightly... then asked— “Did we do the right thing?” After a minute or two, Red shot up like a rocket, eyes wide, almost as if he had emerged from the ocean. He was then taken to a local hospital in an ambulance.

There were no searches or arrests made, the car wasn’t even impounded. Did I have friends in high places besides Red and Janessa? I gave the authorities all my information, Janessa grabbed Red’s stuff and I dropped her outside the hospital.

In the middle of the night my phone woke me up. It was Red. He called to inform me that he had given the police false information at the hospital, and that Janessa had disappeared with his backpack.

I’m a bad apple with some edible parts.

FOLLOW AUTRE ON INSTAGRAM TO STAY IN TOUCH: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Her Tongue is History, Her Body a Mystery by Max Barrie

March 25, 2015

Text by Max Barrie

This is gonna be a fun story to squeeze…

My life gets better everyday… because everyday it gets closer to being over.

And I have an Ab-Fab setup… so why am I constantly twisted up like a bag full of pretzels? My brilliant parents love me and still bankroll The “Maxccident.” I have a genius younger sister who continues to raise me via SMS text. I have friends… HAD friends. They’re all gone now. Dead or grown-up or missing. I’ve had two girlfriends in my life… they both married doctors oddly enough— one still believes I’m a homosexual. She never really explains. Maybe she found my bodybuilding mags?! I kid. But she suspects I’m closeted. And believe me… if you saw her - and I told you I broke it off - you might think I craved the ol’ calzone too. I’ve never made love to a better looking woman than the one who took my virginity at 19… this girl robbed me of my wasted youth on a brown leather sofa. It was all downhill from there.

I was once hanging out with a very famous Playboy Playmate and her husband in Sherman Oaks around 2002. This was before Playboy got dressed and Hugh Hefner legitimately became a bowl of oatmeal. Anyway, this Playmate’s husband was talking to me about internet porn… and jerkin’ off. I was in SHOCK because his wife was the hottest woman EVER— what’s this clown doing WWW-ing pussy? Eventually I would know the truth about people… and certainty says— everybody gets burnt out on everybody. More so guys growing tired of girls from what I’ve seen. And that’s a sad fact. This couple eventually divorced… Que Sera, Sera… the future was mine to see.

And while I’m not letting women off the hook, I believe in many ways they are more evolved creatures than us. If you have a penis and you want to build a life with a woman you “love,” you have to look in the mirror and ask yourself— “Am I ready to be better than my biology? Do I LOVE this person enough to go against my nature from this day forward?” I’m not really sure what women need to say to themselves in the mirror before they settle up. I’m not a woman… so I won’t comment. Being a man has not been pleasant… to say the least. But from my perspective, there is no greater challenge than being female. If you “survive” life as a man, in the next life God might give you a vagina. “You are ready my son, here comes the sideways slice-a-roo.”

I’m lonely… a lot of us are. I’m a lonely tortured car-less Beverly Hills toad. And I miss booze… it was always there… my white knight grinning from across the room. I can’t say the same about life or people… or Madison Grendel.

Nobody had seen Maddy at the rehab I had recently checked into. She was a ghost then and she’s a ghost to this day. At the time, she was sleeping off a meth binge. I think it had been nearly six months that she was shooting the snappy stuff into her veins. LATER THAT YEAR at an Omakase lunch, a mentor of mine said— any person who injects meth into their body truly hates themselves to the very core. A lot suddenly came clear. Madison Grendel hated herself and she wanted to leave earth… and I don’t mean in a rocketship. But like in 1989’s Batman… The Joker created Batman long before Keaton dropped Nicholson into that vat of acid. A small town and a strict family in Arizona had created Maddy, long before the trouble started. A product of her environment… aren’t we all.

One night I was sitting in the living room of this rehab watching shit TV. This was before Netflix and Hulu muscled their way in. Suddenly, a tall, thin, black-haired Japanimation character crept into the room in her bare feet. She was so thin, that she almost didn’t exist— like a shadow. I watched this 20-something girl grab snacks from the nearby kitchen like she hadn’t eaten since Tuesday. She probably hadn’t. She was wearing earbuds to avoid any possible communication. I didn’t know then, but music marinating her mind would become her signature style. I would eventually learn that she was so twisted and so tortured, songs temporarily kept her from the darkness. In moments she disappeared down the hall with her goodies and I didn’t see her again for a couple more days. When I asked a rehab tech about the mysterious junkie, he told me her name was Maddy.

Maddy’s hair hung down to her lower back… and she wore clothes that concealed every inch of her body. Mostly long sleeve shirts and hoodies and sweat pants. She was on holiday from a hell I couldn’t possibly imagine. Madison had big beautiful almond shaped eyes and was very soft-spoken, but rarely spoke at all. She mostly listened to her music, doodled on scratch paper and chain smoked cigarettes. She would go back and forth between Marlboro Reds and Camel Lights, but never said why.

Everybody in rehab has a roommate… at least they used to. It was a common practice to keep people from isolating and to put more heads on beds— fill the joint up. My roomie was a kid from Manhattan named Conner. He was probably 19 or 20 at the time. Anyway, he was immediately taken with the mystery that was Maddy— which was funny because I had assumed he was gay. Something feminine about him. Anyway, he started talking to her in free moments, and one night while I was elsewhere, they made out in our room. Later, Conner found me outside smoking and his lip was bleeding. Maddy had apparently bitten down a little too hard during their sesh. But he didn’t give a shit, he was hooked— love at first bite. After that it was like Maddy had rescued a Labradoodle… she couldn’t get rid of this kid. But they both seemed pleased with each other’s company and I was pleased that they were pleased.

In treatment addicts love to hook-up. Everybody humps in life. But you throw two dry drunks or sober druggies in a room and they’ll smoke each other, ya dig? Most everyone who works in recovery or has time in sobriety frowns on sex in the beginning… I don’t. I used to buy into the bullshit of— you’re either using a dick fix or a magical box as a binky— OR you’re rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. I was always told I needed to focus on myself, YET I was ALSO TOLD service work was important in sobriety to get me out of myself. Blah, blah, blah… meanwhile it’s perfectly acceptable to be a pharmaceutical induced chain-smoking zombie. That’s cool and won’t have any negative consequences. My point is, people are going to find each other and bang each other… it’s in our nature. And rebellious anti-authoritative personalities are gonna enjoy doing it that much more in a broom closet. The whole game of hide-and-fuck is a high in itself.

That said, I couldn’t see what was happening to Conner… he was coming apart in Maddy’s hands like stale Play-Doh… day by day… bit by bit… piece by piece. She didn’t do it for me, so I couldn’t yet understand. In this life, tunnel vision and lack of insight are a double-barreled shotgun. At the time neither she nor Conner were really on my radar. He was a love sick kid and she was some mute popcorn hoe. In our room at night, Connie would tell me how beautiful Madison was and how her big mouth and long tongue would swallow his lips during their dry hump sessions. I found this mildly amusing and thought of a cow. I also learned that Madison would occasionally play with his pecker, but her clothes never came off. He had never seen the goods unwrapped. I just assumed she was all scarred up from shooting drugs or that she had caught fire in a meth lab.

By the time Maddy left Los Angeles, I had never seen her without her clothes off either.

Connie looked up to me. I’m not sure why. Admiring an older drunk in rehab seems like a step in the wrong direction. But I was funny and friendly and we would talk shit, and I would make him laugh about sad truths in life— like waking up in the morning. At the time there were probably fifteen patients total in the facility, and I made some lifelong fans during that stay. This was my third time in drug rehab and fourth time is treatment.

I’m not bragging… believe me, nobody hates Max Barrie more than Max Barrie. I’m not my taste. But I often did well in these contained therapeutic environments, especially having been there before. There was little pressure and lots of downtime— giving me the opportunity to find friends. I’m often agreeable, empathetic, and usually giggling about something. And during this particular stay, I wasn’t heavily medicated— which was always a personality plus. For years the street drugs and booze weren’t the problem. It was this crap that was prescribed to me by professional nudniks. Creeps. My “get well story” was an artist’s journey, but it was often handled like a science experiment. I would however like to give a special shoutout to Ritalin, which helped me flip the switch on eleventh grade… until I started snorting it. Feel the burn.

I didn’t know it yet, but Maddy started to like me. She began taking her earbuds out and talking to me. And during group therapy she would say nice things about me. She knew I was a writer and she showed me some of her journaling and scratch paper doodles… a few times she even wrote me three to four page letters detailing her day and the evil circus between her ears. Conner didn’t seem to mind that Maddy had taken a liking to me. He liked me just as much, if not more. And the fact that he thought I was cool, probably fueled any tiny flame that she felt for me. Women love noise. I liked Madison too, but didn’t think about her sexually. Not really. Something about her spooked me… maybe the intravenous drug use? But there was also a lack of emotion.

Maddy seemed sad right before it was my time to leave. She shared about it in group. I was kind of touched, listening to her talk. I didn’t know that she had felt that much of a connection with me. Maddy had another ten days left, but would remain in LA for aftercare and sober living. By this time, she had started to transform a little. She had gained some weight from all the junk food… there was color in her face, and layers to her skin. One day she visited a hair salon… and when she came back, that’s when my troubles started.

She had short black hair, down to her chin now… and with those big windows and full lips… she looked like a “1990 Demi Moore,” but hotter. Four weeks earlier she was a paper thin pale-faced junkie with bad skin. Her body even looked better. The right stuff popped out, everything else stayed in like it was supposed to. She reminded me of a broken rose. At last I saw the lovely.

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." —Confucius

Like most men, I usually know if I want HER within seconds of meeting HER. But with Maddy, I had to wait a month. And Conner, I didn’t care. I did care for him, but I was more interested in myself… and now even more interested in Madison.

I checked out of the rehab and rented a private room at a sober living. It was basically a three thousand dollar a month closet, but it was all mine. I soon started getting calls from an unknown number. When I finally decided to answer, it turned out to be Madison calling. She wanted to know where I was living and what I was up to. Then I started running into her at our outpatient program. She would also phone me more frequently.

"I used to think that ready money made a man, and I wanted to stick out my green prick whenever and wherever possible. In Hell-A, if you have cash, people smile when they see you. But they’re disingenuous little devils. A man is made in the storm of life, once he stops doing childish things and starts helping others. "

Just like in a book, Maddy was from a screwy strict Catholic family. And after spending enough time with her, my best guess is she also had a genius level IQ. She once mentioned in passing that she had been accepted to Harvard, but went to a state school because of a boy she followed… and this boy eventually broke her heart. She wasn’t street meat off the sidewalk grill… Maddy was well read, well educated and even played the piano like Beethoven. I mean it was creepy to see this punk chick in a hoodie go at it like a concert pianist. Bit by bit, piece by piece… some of her story surfaced.

Her state school sweetheart dumped her sophomore year, and after a long battle with depression, Maddy dropped out. She was in so much distress, she couldn’t really focus on her studies. So like all great alcoholics and addicts in training, she said “fuck it.”

—to her strict family

—to her formal education

—to religion, which she never bought into anyway.

Her parents stopped communicating with her and she started using now and again. A few pills, some weed, a little blow. All in the name of a good time and passing the time. And I empathize. If you get under the covers with booze and dope, they will eventually turn on you, but unlike a boyfriend or an unforgiving family, a substance will never turn it’s back on you. And that my friends is the drug rub. So Maddy started playing around… but more of an opportunist than an addict - at this point - she began selling to pay her way, and to afford the bad habits she enjoyed. Everyone loves a pretty girl… and one who’s HOLDING trumps a bitch on the runway any day of the week.

In order to sell more, she became tight with some very bad people and started bringing in real money. She had contacts in Texas, Arizona, and across the border. I know what you’re thinking— is this girl for real? Is Max Barrie full of shit? And who the hell is Max Barrie? Honestly, I can’t effectively answer any of those questions. I’m telling you my version of things and what Maddy conveyed to me during the time that I knew her. But she could’ve been taking me for a ride, entertaining me, spinning stories that never were. According to her, she started selling heroin. She lived alone in an apartment with 3 handguns, 1 shotgun, and a safe full of drugs, just like in the movies. She even had a pit bull. And for a few years her life was moving, but never moving forward. Money kept coming in… but eventually she had to pay the fiddler.

Any possible tall tales aside, I knew for a fact that Maddy would meet with a team of attorneys regularly, and I also listened to a few threatening voicemails she got from old “co-workers” back home. She finally changed her number.

Both in different sober livings, I picked her up one night and took her out to a birthday party in Hollywood. The bouncer wouldn’t let us in at first because I was wearing sweatpants. Never mind that they were seven-hundred dollar sweatpants from Maxfield. So I did the unthinkable… I told the gatekeeper who I was and who was celebrating their birthday that night. A few minutes later we got in. After the party, Maddy and I went to see some awful horror movie in Century City. Like we were in 7th grade, I took her hand during a spooky Scooby-Doo moment. We kissed. I finally understood what Conner had been talking about. Her mouth was the Batcave and her tongue nearly took me down. I didn’t mention anything that night, but I would eventually call her on it. Still, she would always refuse to display her big pink taster. I asked to see it many times.

Like Conner, I gradually started to become infatuated with Maddy. Part of it was that she soon became hard to reach, which is always exciting. Speaking of Conner, he found out I was fooling around with Maddy. He asked me why I would do something like that? He thought we were friends. I felt bad, we were friends… sort of, but isn’t this how friends treat each other? It was how most “friends” had always treated me… as an afterthought. Conner soon flew back to New York. I heard he relapsed, but I can’t be sure. He changed his number and wasn’t on Facebook. Anyway, fuck him. No, fuck you, Max. I’m sorry I hurt you, Connie. Women have always been so few and far between that when one gave the go-ahead, I didn’t think about anything or anyone else.

I had some funds at the time… maybe my sweatpants gave it away? I had been working before I landed in treatment, and had recently inherited six figures. So I was spending a lot, acting like a big shot. I used to think that ready money made a man, and I wanted to stick out my green prick whenever and wherever possible. In Hell-A, if you have cash, people smile when they see you. But they’re disingenuous little devils. A man is made in the storm of life, once he stops doing childish things and starts helping others. If you’re lucky enough to strike gold, like I did at birth, be very careful, but be generous. If you’re blowing money left and right to feed your fickle beasts, you’re missing the point.

I took Maddy to Nobu for dinner, as well a handful of other pricey establishments. I bought her a birthday necklace at Chrome Hearts. She even got a little emotional, saying she couldn’t remember the last time anyone bought her anything. We both lived in sober livings, so I wasn’t allowed to play with her ass indoors. There was a lot of making-out in my car. Up front in a donut shop parking lot… in the backseat, parked along PCH. I kept trying to toss it in, but she would never get undressed. I still hadn’t slept with her yet. Now don’t I look silly? Thats my specialty. A lot of embracing one another and intense drama and even a couple mediocre blow-jobs. But that about summed it up.

I eventually got us a suite at The Beverly Hills Hotel and we ordered room service and crawled under the covers to watch a movie. Surely, this would be a thigh opening experience for her. But she refused to get undressed… and sometimes when I touched her, she would tremble. Because I’m an asshole, I cracked jokes about her having a cock that she didn’t want me to find… that’s when she told me a horror story.

Last year she was robbed, beat-up and BRUTALLY SEXUALLY ASSAULTED by two guys she knew back home. I can still hear her say those three words to me— “Brutally Sexually Assaulted.” And even though I didn’t have CSI evidence, I believed her. Talking about it, Maddy looked like her insides had been kicked out through her stomach. She wouldn’t say much more… other than she knew the two guys who robbed and raped her, and she didn’t call the police because of the line of work she was in. She also mentioned that since it happened she couldn’t get undressed without having a panic attack. So showers were quick, mirrors were covered, and sex was difficult to say the least.

After the attack, Madison’s addiction really took hold. “Casual” became “tragical.” She started regularly smoking meth, didn’t sleep for days, even got sloppy with work… eventually she started shooting the drugs. All pookie and no cliche makes Jack a dull boy. This went on for months. Maddy was originally only trying to cope, but eventually it became a kamikaze mission. She canceled her insurance, stopped paying bills, gave away belongings… like when Nick Cage’s character went to Vegas. But before her credits could roll, the DEA knocked on her door with a number of charges. Possession, distribution, trafficking, you name it. However, the authorities told her it could all be a bad dream if she helped them. That’s when Maddy lawyered up, flew out to Cali, and landed in rehab with me.

I started to have nightmares and daymares about the guys who attacked Madison. I replayed a brutal assault in my mind that I knew nothing about, over and over… I pictured horrible evil Pulp Fictiony things. Whatever images you conjure up while you’re reading this are sufficient, as mine certainly were for me.

I started to lose myself, and only think and breathe about Madison… rescuing her and avenging her horrible attack, then the two of us running away together. I soon told her I loved her and she told me the same. And in some warped and twisted reality, we probably did love each other. It just wasn’t the kind of love that came with a white picket fence or stood the test of time. And then she’d disappear more often, or not return my messages… so I’d break things off… and then she’d come back crying and give me head… and we’d start over just as soon as I finished. When Maddy was around I would only think about her leaving, and when she wasn’t around I would wonder where she was. During the worst of it, nothing helped. I was stone cold sober and emotionally invested in the wind. It was a lot like being on drugs.

Anger, shame and selfishness gripped me in it’s tiny claw. I was furious with those two guys who raped Maddy. I also was angry at her for “letting it happen???” I was upset that I couldn’t fuck her because what did that say about me? And then I piled on the shame for thinking such selfish disgusting thoughts… and what did THAT say about me?! If I could have shot fireballs out of my eyes, this would’ve been the time. Also, fuck the DEA for arresting her. Fuck the lawyers who were billing her. Fuck the recovery community for making us sneak around. Fuck Conner for being a butt pirate and relapsing.

Wherever I pointed my finger, it didn’t really matter. There were always three pointing back. Oh, ok, maybe this is why the recovery community frowns on newly sober people dating?

When the new year arrived, Maddy and I had officially stopped getting together. And that’s when I melted into a pile of clothes and slime. I thought about suicide and I even thought about homicide… however anything I thunk was in bed. I could barely get up to take a leak. My version of a Porta-Potty was some of those red plastic keg cups on my dresser. I rarely left my sober living, but when I did come up for air, I’d get horribly paranoid. I would think I saw Madison nearby or that her car was following me, or that my friends were fucking her… or not fucking her? I’m not sure what’s worse.

You go to rehab to stop drinking and using drugs… at least I did. Pretty much everything else is none of anybody’s business as long as I’m not hurting myself or someone else. You could certainly make the argument that Maddy and I were hurting one another. Because even though we grew into each other, we were the last thing each other needed. But whether the sobriety scene put their guns in the ground or not, this relationshit happened… and so will others.

The best advice I got in the middle of all this was from a certain compassionate witness who always wore a hat. He had seen it all and been through it all. And he didn’t talk at me, he sat and listened to what I had to say. And when I finished, he paused… then spoke, “I’m not Nostradamus and can’t predict the future, buddy. Any Rehab and Juliet romance will either work or it won’t… this may be a good thing OR it may not.” And that was all. There was no judgement… so I could hear him… and because I could hear him, I could digest. He then explained how common rape and trauma were… he threw out frightening statistics and said that many female victims knew the men who assaulted them.

My very first girlfriend I met in a drug rehab. She’s the one who took my virginity at 19. We were together for nearly three years.

The only difference between rape and murder is— with rape, the victim bleeds out over a lifetime. Madison went back to Arizona and I never saw her or spoke to her again. At some point we texted… maybe a year later… and I learned she had a legitimate day job and had relapsed again on meth. Don’t know what happened with her legal problems. She wouldn’t say.

I burned a kid who looked up to me and soon after I became a caricature of him. With time, I snapped out of my love sick craziness and it morphed into something else… I also started fucking Alexis— a tiny tattooed grunge girl who lived in my sober living. She granted me vagina access, and was great at sucking cock and even better at swallowing, if that’s possible? The antidote really is the poison.

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CATEGORIES: ART / CULTURE / MUSIC / FILM PROSE / DESIGN / FASHION

Daily Journal

Adorned Youth by Stephanie Pfænder & Camille Ange Pailler (Copy)

about 14 hours ago

Trashy Clothing x Barragán unveil "Arsenal of Democracy", a fusion of Fashion and Resistance

about 6 days ago

American Artist Reimagines Rocket Science Origins Using Octavia Butler’s Futuristic Lens through the LACMA Art + Technology Lab

about a week ago

Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Excerpts from Autre’s FW24 Citizen Issue letter from the editors… #editorletter #citizen #spectacle #politics #democracy

American Artist: “Earthseed” from Hyundai Artlab (@hyundai.artlab) takes a behind-the-scenes look at the making of American Artist’s (@a_____rtist) project “The Monophobic Response.” Offering an in-depth view into the artist’s practice, this film explores the creative process that went into reimagining a pivotal 1936 rocket engine test through the lens of Octavia E. Butler’s science fiction novel “Parable of the Sower.” Discover how their multi-year collaboration with the LACMA Art + Technology Lab enabled them to explore the societal implications of technological advancements. Watch Now - Link in bio! – Artlab Editorial presents is a film series celebrating 10 years of Hyundai Motor’s partnership with LACMA (@LACMA) by highlighting the journey and impact of three visionary artists through the LACMA Art + Technology Lab. American is a recipient of the 2021 LACMA Art + Technology Lab grant #lacma #americanartist #artandtechnology #lacma

AUTRE 19 FW24 The Citizen Issue window take over at @casamagazinesnyc 🗽 #casamagazinesnyc #citizen #issue

QUORI THEODOR. Last Thursday night, @autremagazine took over the @stoneisland flagship in Manhattan to celebrate our FW24 “CITIZEN” Issue and a 166-page supplement by @sicknethi generously supported by the cult luxury outerwear brand. Sethi signed copies and two large lightboxes of the covers greeted guests at the door. Autre 19 FW24 The “Citizen” Issue is out now #stoneisland #nicksethi #manhattan

MYKKI BLANCO. Last night, @autremagazine took over the @stoneisland flagship in Manhattan to celebrate our FW24 “CITIZEN” Issue and a 166-page supplement by @sicknethi generously supported by the cult luxury outerwear brand. Sethi signed copies and two large lightboxes of the covers greeted guests at the door. Autre 19 FW24 The “Citizen” Issue is out now #stoneisland #mykkiblanco #manhattan #nyc

JACK PIERSON + NICK SETHI. Last night, @autremagazine took over the @stoneisland flagship in Manhattan to celebrate our FW24 “CITIZEN” Issue and a 166-page supplement by @sicknethi generously supported by the cult luxury outerwear brand. Sethi signed copies and two large lightboxes of the covers greeted guests at the door. Autre 19 FW24 The “Citizen” Issue is out now #stoneisland #nicksethi #jackpierson #manhattan #nyc

AUTRE CITIZEN. November 5th, 2024, will be remembered as a turning point in global history. One way or the other, we fight on. In our FW24 Citizen Issue @janellezara explores the prescient work of @joshklinejoshkline whose practice is focused on the “21st century as an era of massive transformation.” Photographs by @damienmaloney Order Autre 19 FW24 The Citizen Issue (🔗 in bio), an over 500 page compendium of democratic ideas and dreams. #joshkline #vote #november5 #democracy

AUTRE CITIZEN. November 5th, 2024, will be remembered as a turning point in global history. One way or the other, we fight on. In our FW24 Citizen Issue @janellezara explores the prescient work of @joshklinejoshkline whose practice is focused on the “21st century as an era of massive transformation.” Order Autre 19 FW24 The Citizen Issue (🔗 in bio), an over 500 page compendium of democratic ideas and dreams. Credit: Josh Kline, Freedom, 2015. Installed at Modern Art, Oxford, 2015. Image courtesy of the artist, 47 Canal, New York, and Modern Art, Oxford. Photo: Ben Westoby. #joshkline #vote #november5 #democracy

AUTRE CITIZEN. November 5th, 2024, will be remembered as a turning point in global history. Vote for history, but also vote for the future and your conscience. In our FW24 Citizen Issue @janellezara explores the prescient work of @joshklinejoshkline whose practice is focused on the “21st century as an era of massive transformation.” Order Autre 19 FW24 The Citizen Issue (🔗 in bio), an over 500 page compendium of democratic ideas and dreams. Credit: Productivity Gains (Brandon / Accountant), 2016 3D-printed plaster, ink-jet ink, and cyanoacrylate; foam; polyethylene bag 21 1⁄2 × 27 × 55 in (54.61 × 68.58 × 139.70 cm) Image courtesy of the artist and 47 Canal, New York. Photo: Joerg Lohse. #joshkline #vote #november5 #democracy

ꪖ ꪜꪮ᭙ ⅈડ ꪖ ᭙ⅈડꫝ ꪗꪮꪊ ᥴꪖꪀ ꫀꪖ𝕥 Bobbi Salvör Menuez and Quori Theodor wedding portraits by @michaelbaileygates in AUTRE FW24 The Citizen Issue (🔗 in bi0) #bobbisalvörmenuez #quoritheodor #spiraltheorytestkitchen #wedding