Crash and Burn

by Lange, Artie

  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 w
e’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.

  CHAPTER 5

  EYE OF THE STORM

  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.

  When I was finally ready, I told him so and he told me that he’d need a partner to have his back: Joe the Cop. I hired them both and they planned out exactly when, how, and where they would see me through detox. Joe is a really good guy, just a typical Irish cop from Queens, a real salt-of-the-earth type guy who reminded me of every friend I grew up with. Of course, that meant nothing to me when I was retching and reeling from opiate withdrawal. At that point he was just a stick figure that wouldn’t get me drugs.

  The first thing those guys did was bring two drug-sniffing dogs over to my house in Hoboken and down the shore in Red Bank and those mutts literally found anything that had ever had drugs even next to it. I was actually in awe of them, which numbed me to the fact that every single stash I had was being discovered and trashed before my eyes. I mean, seriously, these two dogs were finding rolled-up bills in bathrobes that I hadn’t worn in months, sniffing out the stench of crusted heroin that at that moment I wanted to snatch out of their mouths just for being so fucking good at their jobs. These fucking canines found my old stash spot in my Hoboken apartment, and even though it was empty and had been for a few weeks, they freaked out as if it were Scarface’s desk. That was the moment I truly realized that I’d been found out and that this latest round of bullshit was over. That was when I knew that I had to try; I had to put myself in the hands of these guys at least. I had to sweat this shit out and see if there was anything left of me.

  This had been a long time coming.

  ————

  I’d spent the previous half year hiding all of this the best I could, by hiring people, firing people, just padding my life from any kind of true vision. I rehired my old assistant Melissa (who is a very sweet, very hot former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader) because she was the only assistant who could deal with me without losing her mind. By early spring, she was my seventh PA in twelve months—lucky number seven. Here is how randomly I determined who should be working for and with me. Tim Sullivan, whom I’d met backstage at a Springsteen concert because he was connected to that camp, became my new road manager, starting with a fund-raiser I did at Caroline’s, just because I wanted him to. I paid Tim ten grand for taking care of those gigs, not because it was actually very much work at all, but just because I wanted him to be on board “Team Artie.” I even made Teddy get Tim up to speed at a gig in Boca Raton before I officially fired Teddy. I really didn’t care much about etiquette, and my business management was beyond remedial.

  I hadn’t forgotten the plan that Howard’s manager Don had laid out for me—less road time and fewer gigs for more money—that I’d agreed to start in the new year (meaning the year we were in, that was now nearly half gone). I did want to do that, but like everything else that was good for me I kept putting it off because I was overtaken with greed and drug lust. I decided I needed to put that plan on hold until the start of 2010, because I convinced myself that before I could change anything in my professional life and risk a potential decrease in my income I had to bank as much money as possible. I had two mortgages, I had spent a lot on my shore house, and I was spending even more on drugs and gambling. The deeper I got into my booze and drug problem the more I enjoyed gambling—on football, basketball, baseball, boxing, you name it. I also started playing blackjack a little too enthusiastically at every single casino that booked me—and there were a lot of them. The more I partied the more I lost and the less I cared.

  Let me give you an example. During Super Bowl weekend in 2008, I played the Mandalay Bay in Vegas and was paid $110,000. I went on a real nice tear and had a great time. Between the booze, the drugs, the strippers/hookers, and all of the gambling I did, I netted $10,000. Actually, after paying my booker his commission on the $110,000, I lost money. Keep in mind my room was paid for, so in two days I spent $100,000 on “fun” and bad decisions.

  I kept on like this, thinking everything was peachy, even when Dr. Drew called into the Stern Show and asked to have me on the next season of Celebrity Rehab. The producers of the show offered me $200,000 to do three weeks on the show and Howard said he’d be happy to give me the time off because he thought it was a great idea.

  “Fuck that,” I said on the air. “I’m not going to some fucking televised bullshit rehab run by a quack.”

  Dr. Drew was very civil about it and pointed out the obvious: “If a person wants drugs they’re going to get drugs. I don’t think my program will work for Artie right now because I can tell from his attitude that he doesn’t want it. If we try to push him it won’t work, but I can tell you this, Artie, if you don’t get into a rehab program soon and make some changes, things are going to end badly for you.”

  That pissed me off so much that I went on a tirade about Dr. Drew, with him right there on the phone.

  “How can you even call yourself a doctor?�
�� I said. “You’re a show biz whore. I mean nothing to you; I’m an opportunity. You’re all about show business not about helping people. You are only talking to me because you’re a show biz whore.”

  I was completely wrong of course. As I found out later, Dr. Drew is the furthest thing from that; he genuinely cares and he is a real counselor whose motives are true. He’s not in it for fame, he’s in it to help—fame has come his way because he’s really good at his job. I’d never learn this firsthand because I eliminated that possibility with my behavior on the air that day. Drew finished off the interview with Howard, but it was obvious that he’d put my file in his trash bin, if you catch my drift. Not too long afterward I learned that my suspicions were correct when Lisa G from Howard 100 News brought us a quote about me that Dr. Drew had given in an interview not too long afterward. Basically he said that he’d wanted to help me because it was clear that I desperately needed it, but that my feelings toward him were too strong and too aggressive for anything in his program to work for me. He said my attitude toward him was too vicious for us to ever make progress whether we were under the microscope of Celebrity Rehab or not. This of course sent me into an even more heated round of badmouthing, first Lisa G then Dr. Drew, until Howard just cut me off outright.

  ————

  And that’s when I told Mike I was ready—as usual a little too late, but ready nonetheless. Better ready late than never ready, right? The plan was to lock me in down at my shore house during our next hiatus from the Stern Show, which was in April of that year. These two weren’t kidding: Mike wanted to get me off all opiates, and wasn’t hearing me when he realized that Subutex—the opiate inhibitor/replacement I’d been abusing—was as much a part of my diet as any of the obvious other drugs. I realized how serious he and Joe were about this when they handcuffed me to my bed in my bedroom down the shore.