why I didn’t listen to you before. You stole Ronald Reagan away from my beloved Jane Wyman, star of Falcon Crest, the best show ever on television. I’m not listening to a word you say. Don’t tell me not to drugs after you went around stealing another woman’s man!” And with that I took the rolled up twenty dollar bill and snorted the cocaine.
“Remember my dear, crack is wack,” Nancy said.
“Whatever,” I replied, “your husband’s administration was a joke!” And with that Nancy disappeared.
While this very special episode of Diff’rent Stokes was taking place in the club bathroom, the hot guy was outside knocking on the door.
“You OK in there?” the hot guy asked.
I opened the door and replied:
“Yeah, I am fine. Just hashing out a few things with Nancy Reagan.”
He looked dumbfounded. “Pretty good shit, huh?” he asked.
Good shit indeed. We partied the night away. Cocaine was fabulous for me because while taking it, I could drink as much alcohol as I wanted without getting drunk or sick. It was like a miracle drug and I wondered why more people didn’t do it. That is until the next morning.
I awoke the next morning wondering what I had done wrong to deserve feeling the way I felt. I felt as if someone had dropped a ton of bricks on my head and left me for dead. My head was spinning and I felt as if I my heart was going to stop at any moment. I told myself that I was never going to drink or do drugs ever again, but that night rolled around and it was time to party again. Alex and I had cleverly decided that from then on we were going to have themed nights of going out. Every night of the week we would dress up in a different theme. It seemed to be the perfect way to try and find a new boyfriend. Heroin chic was a favorite, where we would temporarily dye our hair black, put black eyeliner on and tight jeans and look like crack heads. For whatever reason, we thought this look was attractive; but, after a while, I realized we didn’t even need the makeup anymore. We were pretty much crack heads.
One night before Christmas during freshman year of college, Alex and I decided that it would be fun to try acid. I had done mushrooms in high school and was told that the effects were similar but acid was even more potent. The two of us went to a club and danced and drank and had a gay old time. After a few hours of dancing, Alex put a tab of acid onto my tongue and I immediately cased the club for Nancy Reagan. I couldn’t find her, but I did see a drag queen in a red pillbox hat that bared a striking resemblance to her. I guess Nancy had given up on me – I was a lost cause now. I had reached the point of no return, although I did tell myself I would never smoke crack or shoot up heroin. At least I still had some boundaries.
The night we tripped on acid was like taking a trip on an emotional rollercoaster on which I care to never ride again. A club promoter named Stephan came up to me and tried to kiss me and his face turned into a bat then he tried to swallow me whole. Then, the walls began to melt and I tried to lick them because I thought they had turned into milkshakes. Finally, I was so hungry when I got home that I made myself some macaroni and cheese that turned into worms and I hid under my bed for a solid hour until I thought it was safe to come out.
The next day, I met up with Jason for a few drinks at our piano bar.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jason asked.
“Having visions of Nancy Reagan and trying every drug imaginable,” I replied.
“What?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I said. All of the experimentation had taken its toll on me. “I don’t feel well.”
“Drink this,” Jason said as he waved a martini in my face. “Vodka is good for the heart.”
“I can’t do drugs anymore. It’s only been a month and I feel like a junkie already,” I said. My Jewish guilt wouldn’t even allow me to be a drug addict without feeling horrible about it.
“Just take a break,” Jason said. “Just drink. Drinking is fun and it won’t kill you.”
Why do I always think everything everyone tells me is the truth?
“You’re right!” I proclaimed, “drinking won’t kill me, will it?” Just ruin every relationship I ever had from that point on and force me into making the worst decisions any human could possibly make.
“Cheers to you, Mark,” Jason said. “You’ve overcome your drug addiction.” We clinked glasses and both sipped our martinis.
“Wow, it’s so easy to get yourself off of drugs. It’s a wonder why more people can’t do it,” I said as I was probably still tripping on the acid from the night before.
“Well, never say never Mark. You know marijuana is a drug.”
“Really?”
“So is cocaine.”
“Let’s just say I won’t do any drugs that don’t come from mother earth. Since you have to grow weed and cocoa plants, I think that is a safer bet, don’t you?” I asked.
“It’s a lot healthier for you. God only knows what people put in those acid tabs.”
Thus my philosophy on life began and spanned throughout the next decade. My first few months in New York had not only taught me that it was OK to be gay, but also OK to financially support every drug dealer and bartender in the New York metropolitan area for the next eight years.
THE PICK-UP ARTIST
When you’re single and living in the big city, there is nothing better than long nights out with your friends, searching for your next lover. We have found, as a culture, that drinking and socializing at bars has been a foolproof way of getting someone into the sack. There is something about alcohol that lowers inhibitions and makes people more willing to do things or sleep with people that they normally wouldn’t. For me, going out and drinking let me create a world in which, only I exist. I am not above creating fake professions, wild nonsensical back-stories, or faux celebrity relatives to get someone to notice me. I completely lose my bullshit filter and it’s anyone’s guess what ridiculous nonsense would come flying out of my mouth. The following are a few situations that I have gotten myself into that have proved disastrous in finding that new lover.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After moving to New York, my friend Valerie gave me her friend Ashley’s brother’s fake ID. Tired of missing out on the fun of going out with everyone else, I accepted it, but there were some clear discrepancies between the ID and me. For one, it said my name was Brennan Kasperzack. My name is Mark Rosenberg, however my middle name happens to be Brennan, so it seemed meant to be. Secondly, it said I was six feet, two inches tall. I stand at a mighty five feet, eight inches tall. Brennan has dark brown hair and I have blonde hair. Brennan has brown eyes and mine are blue. There were so many clear differences between my ID and I that I never thought in a million years it would work, but time and time again, it never failed to get me where I needed to be.
After about a year of using it, I got pretty cocky. It didn’t seem to matter that I was not who I claimed to be so I continued the charade. One night, when a group of friends and I were out at our favorite bar, Posh, the bouncer came over to me.
“Hey,” he said. You have to appreciate the rituals of
