HAZELDEN
In 1992, my dad was taken to the hospital for carotid arteries in his neck. He had been smoking Kent cigarettes and eating only fried food for most of his life, so it wasn’t surprising he needed an operation. A few days after they operated, he went home, but he wasn’t there for long. He developed a brain aneurism and had to return to the hospital within a week.
I had a pretty short visit with him that second time, because what I really wanted, what I needed—was money. I told my dad that I was behind in my rent and begged him to help me out. Except that was a lie. He handed over his credit cards, I gave him a kiss, ran out the door, got cash advances from all the cards and bought more crack-cocaine.
Three days after that visit, my father died at the age of fifty-eight. I was destroyed. When I left the hospital and got on the subway I looked around and said to myself: “These people can’t be going to work—my dad just died.” Although my relationship with him was nowhere near as close as I had with my mom, I wish it had been more. Whenever I look at photographs of my dad as a young man in the Air Force, I see that I have his exact skin color, and his smile—we look like twins. Even my laugh is deep and intense, just like his was. He was a good man and, unfortunately, because of my drinking and drugging, I never attempted to be close with him, a reality that brings me serious regret.
Eight months later, I was in Hazelden Rehab Center in Minneapolis. When I returned home, I realized I still had the credit cards my dad had given me. I decided to cut them up. Then I wrote a letter to him and went to his grave to pay my respects and apologize. I brought a flowering plant with me and read the letter to him. I told him how sorry I was for what I did. I dug a hole in front of the headstone, cut up the cards, folded the letter, put them all in an envelope, and placed them in the hole. I covered it with soil and put the flowering plant on top. I had told him in the letter that I had been drinking and doing drugs when I took the credit cards from him, but he would be pleased to know I had gone into rehab and was getting the help I needed.
Before I made it to Hazelden, I went to Liza Minnelli’s apartment for a Christmas party. I had met Liza when Elektra signed her best friend, pianist Michael Feinstein. She and I hit it off immediately.
Her home was on East 69th Street. It was a stunning apartment—a real showstopper. When you entered, you were greeted by four larger-than-life-sized Warhol paintings of Liza, and in the dining room there was an equally gorgeous Warhol triptych of her mother, Judy Garland.
I handed Liza a big bouquet of white Casablanca Lilies (clearly, I had a thing for lilies) and she was overjoyed.
“Why did you come alone?” she asked.
I just shrugged, so she marched me over to a sofa in the sitting room, right next to Madonna.
“Introduce yourselves,” Liza commanded with a big, radiant smile, then dashed back to the front door.
Madonna looked at me and we shook hands as I sat down next to her. It had been a long time since I had booked her at the Red Parrot, so we were kind of meeting for the first time.
We started talking about movies, specifically the one she was in the middle of making with James Russo, directed by the infamous Abel Ferrara, called Dangerous Game (a.k.a. Snake Eyes). We also talked about all the art covering Liza’s walls.
We watched the many guests entering her apartment, dishing each one as they arrived. We first saw Lucie Arnaz come in with her two boys. They were pretty young, maybe ten and eleven, and one of them was so excited to see Madonna that he furiously tugged at his mother’s coat. Madonna called the kid over and planted a big kiss right on his lips. I was sure he was going to piss in his pants, or faint. He just stared back at us in shock.
More guests came in. Madonna and I continued our rather camp scrutiny of the mostly “B-listers” as they arrived. Until Tony Bennett came in—definitely not a B-lister. Then O. J. Simpson and his wife, Nicole, showed up. Everyone went into the living room while Michael Feinstein played the piano. We all sat there for about two hours and had a few drinks, when James came over to Madonna and told her it was time to go—they had an early call the next morning.
At some point, I started to wander around the apartment. I stared at the Warhols of Liza, near the entranceway. Then, I saw her Oscar for Cabaret on a shelf. I reached over and lifted it with one hand. Suddenly, I had to grab it with both hands because it weighed a ton. I didn’t expect it to be so heavy. The floors were pure white marble and if I dropped it, that would be a major disaster! I quickly pushed the statue back into its place and took a deep breath.
My need to drink was growing strong. I wanted something harder than white wine and champagne, which was all that was being served. The party was fabulous, yet my need for booze was overwhelming. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I quietly left.
I hailed a taxi down to Times Square, to two of my favorite hustler bars—Stella’s and Cats, and scored some crack. I then raced over to Club USA to see Marky Mark. I was super fired up from all the coke and after his performance, I went backstage to see him. He recognized me because he was at The Ritz the night before, and we had playfully argued about whether it would be he or Metallica who would take the next #1 album spot on the Billboard charts.
Then I pulled up his shirt and asked him to roll his stomach muscles up and down. I had seen him do that before and I loved every moment of it. I now figured I could touch his muscled abs, so I did, even though there were a few big, black security guards working for Mark hovering behind me. But Mark signaled to them that I was harmless.
It was around 3 a.m. when I went home. I was feeling frantic for some more crack. I found my crack pipe and I scraped and scraped it and then all of a sudden, my mind went into a full-blown frenzy.
I thought it was the end of the world
I felt like I was writing a book.
I thought I was going to die.
Ranting and raving, I grabbed a cab on 7th Avenue and went to my friend Carol Friedman’s home in Soho. When the cab arrived, I madly rang her bell, frantically pressing the button—I was so high. Finally, she appeared at the upstairs window and threw down the keys. Many of the buildings in Soho didn’t have buzzers at that time.
I ran up to her apartment and when she opened the door, I rushed in and whirled around like a crazed maniac—laughing and cackling. All I had on were a pair of boxers and an old man’s winter coat with two beers in the pockets. I immediately threw off the coat and started doing push-ups—1–2–3—then I got up and grabbled Carol in my arms and twirled her around and around.
”Michael! What’s going on?” she shouted.
“I’m high on CRACK!” I yelled back—the word fired me up. I laughed and kept twirling.
Turned out, of all my close friends, Carol was the only one who didn’t know I was a major drug addict. I put her down on the floor and started howling, like I was in pain. Tears gushed out of me. I started crying and screaming.
“Carol! You have to help me! You have to help me!” I was so out of it—and overwhelmed with terror.
Carol was completely thrown and didn’t know what to do, but she told me later, that at that very moment, she had a vision of the EMS paramedics carrying my dead body out on a stretcher. She said that when she had that vision she knew she had to do something, and fast.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she said.
“Fine! Fine! Whatever you need to do!”
“And I’m going to tell Krasnow.”
“Fine! Just help me, Carol!”
She rushed me to St. Vincent’s emergency room and they immediately asked her what was wrong.
“He’s high on crack,” she told them.
They quickly took me to the back to see a doctor. They strapped me down on a gurney because I was so crazed and out of control. I kept screaming because I was feeling trapped. Apparently, Carol heard my screams and tried to get back to me, but the hospital staff wouldn’t let her.
She then went back home and called Krasnow. She had been the creative director of Elektra Entertainment until a few years previously, but continued doing freelance work for the company, as a photographer. Bob knew her well.
Carol called him at 6:30 a.m. and woke him up.
“Bob?” she said. “Michael has to go to Hazelden.”
“Why?” Bob asked.
“For drugs.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“It’s crack,” she told him.
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
Bob ended up calling Maryann at Elektra. She handled all the administrative and human resource matters and there had been a number of executives at the company who had recently gone to rehab. Unfortunately, that was the music business.
At St. Vincent’s, the doctors did a complete work-up—EKG, CAT Scan, blood tests, and I eventually fell asleep. I woke up around seven the next morning and was discharged.
As I was walking down the street, I ran into Carol, who had been heading over to the hospital to get me. I smiled when I saw her.
“Where are you going?” she asked me.
“I’m heading over to Vince’s in the East Village.”
“No, you’re not,” she said.
She knew I was going to cop some more crack.
“We’re going to your apartment,” she said firmly.
By that time, Maryann had taken care of the paperwork to get me into Hazelden. A private car was going to pick me up the next morning to take me to the airport.
“I’m staying with you tonight, Michael—until the car comes,” Carol insisted, and she slept on my couch that night. That was December 22, 1992.
On the flight the next morning, a hip Jewish mom with dyed blonde hair and an exhausted look on her face sat down across from me with her fifteen-year-old son. The boy was lost in his Walkman and I could swear I heard Metallica blasting out of his headphones.
The woman’s name was Ruth, and her son’s was Rich. He was an adorable, husky teenager who had one of those spikey haircuts that all the kids had at the time, and was listening to everything heavy metal. I struck up a conversation with him and at some point, he told me he wanted to be an orthodontist when he grew up.
Once we landed in Minnesota and headed toward ground transportation, a man from Hazelden arrived to take me to the center, which was about an hour north from the airport. It was at that moment when I realized he was there to pick up Ruth and Rich, as well. As it happens, they were visiting Rich’s dad. On the drive out to Hazelden, I continued talking with Rich and started feeling a little paternal toward him. He had a big chip on his shoulder about going to Hazelden because this wasn’t the first time they were visiting his father there. Rich felt having to go on these trips just ruined Hanukkah for he and his mom. Over the next few days I often saw Ruth, Rich, and his dad on the grounds of the center.
Dear Carol:
I don’t know where else to start this letter except to say thanks for being a true, true friend. I love you for helping me get over the biggest obstacle in my life. Now, onto more important things. We have to discuss the significance and importance of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons in pop music. I was just listening to the oldie stations here and “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” came on. Well! When that chorus begins and Frankie’s voice is heard—if that’s not a precursor to a pop anthem that changed the world, I don’t know what is! I think we need the Greatest Hits CD. On another legendary note, Down to Zero CD by Joan Armatrading—a startling, uplifting, glorious record. My friend Aaron has a few songs taped on a mix cassette of songs. I forgot how wonderful this record is. A classic! When I get home, I’d like to get the CD. Also, Pirates by Rickie Lee Jones—my all-time favorite record. If all this music doesn’t have your head spinning, I just want to let you know that I think Minnesota is just grand. So I think I’ll stay.
Just Kidding!
I’ll be here until the 20th of January—another 15 days. Do you believe I’m up and ready to rock at 6:30 a.m.? It’s like the fucking army. Meditation. Breakfast. Lecture. Process (Discussion about Lecture). Lunch. Walks. Peer’s Story. Dinner. Lecture. Process. And the list goes on.
Yes, it is therapeutic. I really need this. And by the way, I’ll tell my story tomorrow.
I hope all is well with you. I look forward to seeing you the moment I arrive. Give or take a few moments. Foxy first.
Love always,
Michael.1
I eventually transferred into a “unit” called “Shoemaker.” The first person I met there was Larry, also known as Bubba. He was a white football player from Texas who was chemically addicted and was at Hazelden to get clean. He had already been there for twenty-three days and he hated everyone non-white, gay, bi-sexual—you name it, he hated them.
“I hate niggers and faggots!” he told me without blinking.
I thought he was the most adorable thing ever. He had red hair, freckles, and was big and burly. The following fall, he was heading to play fullback for the N.F.L. Of course, this information excited my twisted mind and the next thing you know, he was my roommate.
I endeared myself to him and although we were only roommates for the last five days of his stay at Hazelden, every night we stayed up late playing 500 Gin Rummy, talking about our lives, and having a ton of laughs. I think his twenty-eight days at Hazelden made him a little more introspective because of the types of people he met there. He also signed my Big Book:
Dear Michael,
I hope when you think of me you smile because you put a smile and peace in my heart that I’ll never forget.
I love you,
Bubba.
The day he left, I helped him out to the car with his luggage and we hugged. I sent him off with solid words of peace and twelve-step advice. When I returned to our room, I found he had left his football jersey on my bed. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I had ever received.
Not long after Bubba left, I received a lovely letter from my Aunt Jennie:
My dearest Michael,
I’ve started this note to you I don’t know how many times. I want to be awe-inspiring, I want to take away all your pain. I want to make you well and I want to make you happy. I’ve never written a letter to a family member except to my husband, Jackie, when he was in the service. However, since receiving your letter, I have felt compelled to respond. First, I have to let you know how very dear you are to me. Since your dad’s passing, I hoped that we were bonding. It’s very important to me, I’m sure selfishly, that we keep in touch for whatever time I have left. Now you know I’m not being maudlin. I care for you unconditionally, What you have done and what you are doing is so together of you. I’m very proud. I, in short, must tell you that I am here for you any time.
Will write to you again, love,
Titi.2
Her letter filled me with such joy, a feeling I had not experienced in many years because of my addiction. I was starting to learn the importance of my family’s love. I hoped my ability to recognize and accept that would last after I left Hazelden.
Meanwhile, life there was very strict. There were daily group meetings, and one-on-one’s with your unit counselor. One of the major rules at the center was that you weren’t allowed to speak with anybody who was not in your unit. The staff insisted on keeping everything organized and under control, so fraternizing with the other units was strictly verboten.
But being boy crazy, I kept seeing sexy young men in all the other units and in the locker room—so, of course, I really wanted to talk to them. Luckily, everyone from all the units ate at the same buffet in the dining room. I particularly remember one guy named Tim. He had a very seventies rooster-like haircut, similar to Rod Stewart. He had freckles everywhere with a somewhat athletic build, and I just loved that he worked in construction. After Hazelden, we stayed in touch for many years, mostly on the telephone—until 2017, when I heard he died from brain cancer.
By January 10, I was counting down the remainder of my days at Hazelden. I had ten more to go. I was anxious to get out. I felt really good and I knew I would stay sober, that I wouldn’t drink or do drugs again if I followed the program. And that was true—until 1999.
But right then, what mattered more than anything was getting out of Hazelden and back to New York, because I had to start recording the new Nina Simone record, her first studio album in years—and what would wind up being her last.