Crash and Burn (15 page)

It wasn’t meant to be, because this business love affair lasted as long as it took me to do the one thing no one should ever do on a tour bus or a private jet—take a horribly toxic shit. Trust me, let your intestines fall into your underwear, stick a softball up your ass, do anything, but find a way to hold it in if you ever find yourself on a rich guy’s private jet. Because there’s no way to hide it—even the smell of a miniscule rabbit pellet will be detected.

I’d had the Detroit gig booked for a while and I was excited for it, because Detroit is an honest town that likes to laugh, likes to party, and will not be fucked with. Going there with Detroit natives, arriving in high style, was just so cool to me—it was like being flown in by helicopter to see the Stones back in ’78, which is something I think about often and wish those thoughts could take me there.

So for the sake of telling this story anonymously, let’s call the main guy “Hedge Fund Guy” and his wife “Mrs. Impossibly Beautiful Hedge Fund Spoils” because the woman was completely stunning, a half-Asian ten, dressed to the nines. Keep in mind we were taking a jet to a comedy club in Detroit; not exactly an occasion to don your Oscars-worthy finery. But she was all decked out just to see me, of all people, do stand-up. This woman possessed the kind of beauty that demanded respect, because not only was she blessed with genes that few people have, but she was putting in the work and
doing the upkeep. It’s not easy being hot (just ask me); those women have to do a lot of work to maintain it.

The other people on this jet were equally well dressed, well educated, and sophisticated. It looked like they were all going to dinner at Dorsia with Patrick Bateman, not into Detroit with Artie Lange. I was pretty self-conscious in my sweatpants, green corduroy jacket, disheveled hair, and gruff demeanor (can you blame me?), so I did the only thing that made sense to a derelict like me who found himself in company like that: I snorted a lot of heroin.

For those of you who haven’t done heroin and don’t know much about opiate addiction or abusing other drugs, first of all don’t do it. Don’t do opiates at all. Stay away.

There is no worse curse I could wish upon my enemy than opiate addiction. It’s an albatross that you can never truly remove from around your neck. At best you make it invisible and keep it at bay before it drags you into the depths. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest (ha ha! get it?), let me tell you what happens when you’re a true opiate/heroin addict and you get a generous amount of that stuff in your system: you need to take a shit immediately. I’m not talking about some workaday crap that you can pull off on the side of the highway rest stop. A full toilet and some privacy are required.

That’s the brand of shit I laid down on that plane, in the very nicely decorated cubbyhole of a toilet at the front of the cabin. It was a completely horrible, inhuman crap—literally the most disgusting, foul, odorous shit a human being has ever dealt. How do I know this? I dealt it, I smelt it, and everyone else on the plane did too.

I should have seen it coming; since we were flying private I’d brought a large bag of heroin with me, which I hadn’t planned to dip into until after the show, but these people were all so perfect that I needed to be numb just to be in their presence. I started hitting it hard the second we got on board, and of course I couldn’t stop, so I kept returning to the bathroom every few minutes after the seat belt sign went off.

“Artie, are you okay?” one of their beautiful wives asked me after my third trip to the head

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’m great, couldn’t be better.”

I didn’t want to shit on the plane, believe me, and since it wasn’t that long of a flight I figured I could hold it, but I was wrong again. After a while, my ass was going to let go wherever I was sitting, so I figured I should at least do the right thing and put it in a toilet. As a longtime abuser I’ve had the misfortune of polluting many toilets with toxic human waste, but I have to say that this particular instance took the cake. It really was that bad, just one of the worst heroin shits I’ve ever shat. For all the things I don’t remember doing in blackouts, this is something I wish I could forget. If I think about it too long the stench will come back to me and I’ll gag.

It takes a little over two hours to fly to Detroit and my bowels gave out about forty-five minutes into the flight. We had been making small talk the whole time, all while I kept getting up to do more drugs, then returning, trying my best to keep everyone laughing. I wanted to be as charming as I could be to make up for the obvious fact that I was trash and they were treasure. I wanted to show these lovely people that I am smarter and more well read than a Google search of my name might suggest. I didn’t go to college (because college is for losers) and I barely graduated high school, but let me tell you something, for most careers, none of that shit matters in the real world. If you read a lot, stay up on current events, have a curious mind, and aren’t lazy when it comes to learning about what’s important to you, you don’t need a degree. I’ve met plenty of Ivy League morons I’d run circles around if life were the Olympics.

I have no idea what they thought of me before then, I just know what they’ll remember me for: the hurricane of shit that came from my ass. After too many lines I knew I had no choice, so I went into that little closet and let loose the mythical Kraken from my crack. The plane was so small and sleek and efficient that everyone else heard all about it because the can was no more than five feet away
from them. They were enjoying a quiet night and civilized cocktail-party chatter, which made it all worse, because this shit was not going quietly into the night: once my pants were down, I let it go, and my ass sounded like it was killing Sonny on the Long Island Causeway in
The Godfather
.

There is a very specific type of heroin- or cocaine-induced shit fueled by the copious ingestion of those drugs which causes your body to empty itself so suddenly that you feel like you’re sitting above a thunderstorm. You’re not really even part of it, it’s that much bigger than you are. The worst part about it is that, like lightning, it can’t be controlled, plus the thunder is really loud. It also leaves evidence of its destruction behind, and when you’re a heavy guy, that becomes an issue because it’s not exactly easy to wipe your ass properly. Imagine how much harder that is when you’re high and in a Barbie-sized bathroom. And, just beyond the folding door a plane full of beautiful, rich people are listening to you.

I was fucked: I’d put on a show I had no intention of starring in and I couldn’t even clean myself up because I could barely move. On top of that I had to go back out there and make small talk with people who couldn’t be nicer or more intimidating to me. Did I mention that everyone was hungry when we took off? All they could talk about as we taxied down the runway was how great the catering was on the jet and how they couldn’t wait to dig into the sushi and seafood they’d arranged for. I felt bad that they were about to sample that sushi with a coating of my shit stench on it.

Since I’m coming clean here (ha ha!—get it?) I’d like to admit that I also completely shit my pants on that plane, which I’m even less happy to admit is something I’m no stranger to doing. I don’t remember the first time it happened, but I know for a fact that during that phase of my life it became a regular thing. It began to happen so much that I made a game of it by stashing my shitty underwear in the corner of the balcony of whatever hotel I happened to sleep in that night. This was a one-sided game, because the maids who were my
opponents had no idea that we were playing, and by the time they did, I’d already won. It was an Easter Egg hunt where the eggs were all brown and only one kid was looking. Here’s how I would play it out: if I shit my pants completely, I’d find the most tucked-away corner of the room and stuff them in there in such a way that the horror of what they held wasn’t visible from a distance—only picking them up would reveal the “goods.” To balance this cruel joke that I completely enjoyed, I’d leave a $20 bill on the dresser. That was my sarcastic thank-you. In my mind here’s how it played out: the maid would come into the room and think I was a great guy for leaving such a huge tip. Then they’d find my pile of shit in those underpants on the balcony and realize that $20 wasn’t even close to covering what they deserved.

Believe it or not, if there’s one thing I would change about that flight to Detroit it wouldn’t be the shitting, my unclean ass, my stinking underpants, or my inability to go fifteen minutes in their presence without doing heroin. The only thing I’d do differently would be somehow keeping the jet’s caterer from serving an amazing meal. That was the coup de ass if you will, because the moment I came out of the bathroom and met everyone’s disgusted stare, exactly then the staff began to roll out these gorgeous plates of sushi. Can you think of anything less appetizing to eat with the scent of fresh shit hanging in the air? So let me remind you once more of the cardinal rule in show business: never shit on a private jet (or a tour bus). If you do, everyone will know, because the smell flows right through the ventilation system and there’s no getting away from it.

As I mentioned, another thing you can’t get away from when you’re fat is the inability to wipe your ass well, especially in cramped quarters (such as airplane bathrooms). That’s the kind of hygiene situation I was working with when I returned to my seat next to Hedge Fund Guy, which made matters infinitely worse. The smell never dissipated because it was right there around me like the worst kind of halo. I can’t explain how awkwardly silent the remainder
of that flight was. The food remained untouched, mocking me as my fellow passengers tried not to talk because that meant they’d need to breathe. I was responsible and everyone knew it. There was nothing I could do to redeem this. I was also high as hell, so at the same time I didn’t care because all I wanted to do was nod off. In the moments where I realized just how disgusting a human I was I toyed with the idea of breaking the ice and saving the situation by just coming out with a joke that addressed the deathly stink and made fun of my crap. This horrid, rank odor was literally a four-hundred-pound gorilla in the plane.

I ended up nodding off, and to make matters worse, about twenty minutes before we landed I woke up hungry and forgot all about what I’d done long enough to eat one or two of the shrimp cocktails, some cold cuts, and a lot of sushi as they looked on, truly horrified. I pretty much used my hands too. I didn’t know what their problem was: I saw food in front of me and I ate it.

It goes without saying that Hedge Fund Guy was a fan of Artie Lange, but he, his wife, and their friends/my friends really weren’t into Partie Lange. That guy sucked as far as they were concerned. Partie Lange lost Artie Lange his potential investor: they all came to the gig, but we didn’t hang out afterward and I never heard from Hedge Fund Guy again. All those plans to go to Windsor were forgotten quicker than Brendan Fraser’s last movie.

After the gig they came backstage, however, to say their hellos (which were really good-byes), and that is when I knew it was over. To this day it’s a sore subject with my friends, so we’ve all nonverbally agreed to never discuss it again and we’ve adhered to that every time we see each other. For the record here’s how that last conversation with Hedge Fund Guy went backstage.

“Great show, Artie; we really enjoyed it,” he said.

“Oh, good, I’m glad,” I said. “Your seats were okay?”

“They were fine,” he said. “Listen, we’re not going to Windsor, Artie.”

“Oh, cool, okay,” I said.

“We are going to dinner, though, if you’d like to join us, but I don’t think you’d like the restaurant,” he said, his message crystal clear.

The guy was a major player, and he was a huge fan. He ran a multibillion-dollar fund and he really wanted to invest in my career; he saw profit in my website at a time when every comedian was looking to evolve in that area. The purpose of the trip was for us to talk about it and get our plans beyond the ideas phase. I knew this and I wanted this; in fact I went out there with the goal of landing his support, because he had the means to make it happen. But I was so fucked up and so screwed up and it went so bad that all I did was make sure he’d never talk to me again. I’ve got the benefit of hindsight going for me now, and what I see in the rearview when I think about this story is a symbol of just how fucked up I was. This was a major opportunity for me—and a rare one—and I let it go right through my fingers. I was so embarrassed about it that I just didn’t care to even try to rescue it. I let the pieces fall where they might and just looked down at them as if I had no choice and played no part in the matter.

That flight was the end of the relationship. I did my set and didn’t even try to go with them to eat after the gig. They invited me—I still can’t believe they were that polite—and that’s clearly where we were going to talk business. But I didn’t care anymore, so I didn’t go. I was too fucked up to do anything but make an excuse and let something else of value drift away.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m gonna go crash in my room.”

That was about all I was capable of. That trip was a microcosm of my life because my life had become a series of excuses that allowed me to “crash in my room.” What I didn’t realize is that everything I was trying so hard to keep under wraps in those rooms was on the verge of escaping, ready to blow the doors off and come out into the light for all the world to see.

I continued to
zigzag from gig to gig with Helicopter Mike in the spring of 2009, and he continued to remind me that if I was man enough, he would be able to get me off the shit that was becoming less fun and heavier than an anvil on my back every single fucking day. I never doubted Mike’s intentions either, not because I thought he was charming, but because I knew from other people who knew him that I wouldn’t be the guy’s first rodeo: he’d helped a number of notable rock musicians get off heroin. That was all great, except that I was just too much trouble. I told him I wanted to rid myself of the drugs but I didn’t want to have to take time off from my career to do it. He actually agreed to work with that and said we could accomplish it together as long as I was serious about tackling my problems when the time was right. When I was ready, he said, he was up to it—but I’d better mean it and not fuck around.