Crash and Burn (40 page)

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We didn’t speak at all for a couple of months, but that wasn’t the start of a slide back into drinking for me. Instead it was a wake-up call that my feelings could throw me off. Paris was a misstep fueled by—you guessed it!—anger, resentment, and the rest of it. I was strong enough to see it for what it was and not let it take me over. A couple of months passed and then Adrienne and I got back in touch. She texted me: “I want you to know that I don’t hate you.” Just more proof of how big her heart is. “I hate the things you’ve done,” she wrote. “I’ll never understand them, but I want you to know that I don’t hate you. I miss you, but I can’t have you back in my life.”

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but who could blame her? Not me. As of now, as of the writing of this book, I’ve respected her wishes. I’ve stayed out of her life although I don’t want to. I want to be in her life, and it seems that I stand a chance of getting there. I hope so. I hope this isn’t the last paragraph of the last chapter in the story of my life with Adrienne. I hope I’ll write that last paragraph
forty years from now, just before I prepare to enter the next life, where I’ll wait for her to join me. That’s what I’d like, but I don’t know if I’ll get that. Whether I deserve it or not is another story, and it’s not one I’m discussing here. Let’s just leave it alone and let me hope for the best, okay? For now I’m respecting her wishes, I’m staying out of her life, and I’m happy knowing that she’s all right. It was so sweet of my baby doll to text me to let me know that she doesn’t hate me and that she misses me. That meant more to me than she may ever know.

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So that was Paris. A classic Artie Lange self-destruction tour, international edition. Jesus, the minute I think I’m out of that cycle, it draws me back in! There’s never a dull moment in my life and I guess I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that the good is always mixed in with the bad in equal doses. I’ve realized that my job is to keep the bad from taking over—which is a hell of a lot harder than saying it out loud or writing it down here or anywhere. Admitting it is important, but that’s just the first step.

I know a lot of you reading this admire me, so let me tell you something: your admiration and appreciation is what keeps me going. Please hear that and know that I mean it in every possible way, but also know that I’m more flawed than even you think, and if you’ve followed my life story this far you know we’re talking pretty flawed. Seriously, though, I’m more fractured, more twisted, confused, and dark than these pages and the book before this could ever do justice. I don’t want any of you to see me as a role model, I don’t want any of you to think that my story is something to aspire to. My way of living is no way to live. It is what it is, and I couldn’t help it because I can’t help who I am. But if you can? You should. Please, for my sake and for the sake of those in your life, do.

As much as all of you fans love me and as much as I love you, I think if you got to know me personally the way those closest to me
like Adrienne have, you’d see someone else. I think you’d see that I’m not the guy you think I am. You’d discover, unfortunately, that like most people I’m just a jerk-off. And some of you would really hate to learn that, I’m a jerk-off with a very sentimental side that, dare I say, borders on the romantic. Call me a sissy, call me a pussy, call me whatever you like, I don’t care. This sentimental jerk-off has something to say: I love you all. And more than that, I’ve got to say something I should have said a long time ago. Fuck it . . . Okay, here I go. . . . I’m sorry, Adrienne, and I love you.

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What you just read was written many months before this book went to press, and as usual, a lot happened in my life. I’ll tell you why this book didn’t get out there to you in a more timely fashion at a later date: right now we’re talking about Adrienne. After Paris, when I wrote the words you just read (which was several months later), I believed with all my heart that she and I were done forever. When she and I were together, I saw the possibility of being another Artie, and I’d like to think being with me allowed her to be who she really wants to be. Whatever it was, when we were together and things were good, I felt deep down in my soul that I’d finally found my girl, the one I wanted to be with forever. When she was on my arm I felt like I was doing something right.

There’s a theme to this memoir that the learned scholars among us have probably picked up on by now. For the stoners in the back of the class who don’t even know their names, let me fill you in on a concept we’ve touched on repeatedly in these pages: hitting rock bottom. Did you guys get that at all from this book so far? It’s cool if you didn’t, I’m known for my subtlety. What I’m getting at here is that Paris was rock bottom for my relationship with Adrienne. Luckily, I learned from it. I didn’t walk away from that drama and deny it, I didn’t ignore it and I didn’t blame what had happened on her and pretend it didn’t matter. I saw the writing on the wall, and it made
me realize that I’d lost her and getting her back was a cause worth fighting for.

So that’s what I did. It took a long time because I’d done a lot of damage and our bond had been put through the ringer. But I kept at it, and slowly, over time, I showed her that I’d learned my lesson. We didn’t talk for a while, but slowly we started talking again, and step by step, she saw, through my actions, that I was worthy of her trust. She understood that, going forward, I wasn’t going to lie and tell her that everything was fine when it wasn’t—the way I had in the past—and she was okay with that. I told her that every day was a struggle for me but that I wanted to struggle if that meant I could have her in my life. We started spending more and more time together and she saw that I meant what I was saying; I really was trying. Eventually we got back to where we were, and it hasn’t been perfect every day because nothing is. Having her back is a blessing I never thought I’d have, so when the time was right, I did what any sensible man who values the woman in his life should do: I asked her to marry me. And lucky for me, she said yes. As of this writing we’re engaged and I’m the happiest, luckiest motherfucker in the world. So there it is.

This book is
mostly about the darkest time of my life. That’s saying a lot because my life has seen a lot of darkness. I’d like to make it clear that those dark times were caused 100 percent by my own fuckups, because I wasn’t born into hell. My life hasn’t been the male version of Fantine’s from
Les Misérables
. I created my own misery and I know it. And this misery was pretty much completely brought about through drug abuse. Booze was in there too, but dope is the thing that really fucked me up—opiates, heroin.

I realize that to some of the people reading this what I’m about to say is a utopian goal, but please, do yourself and the world a favor and try to avoid drugs. There’s nothing romantic or cool on any level about drug addiction. It’s pathetic, plain and simple. Drug addiction isn’t feeling euphoric and being insanely creative. It’s crying like a baby when you need more drugs. It’s needing people to take care of you as if you’re an infant. It’s your skin turning green or yellow from abuse or withdrawal. It’s just flat-out embarrassing, and there’s nowhere to hide.

When you are truly down and out the way I’ve been, you really find out who has got your back . . . and whose friendships have been nothing but a steaming pile of bullshit. I’m happy to say that ninety-nine percent of my friends were amazing, all truly great people who
helped me in ways I can’t describe and can only hope to pay back. But there was also one percent who were the opposite. I won’t name them here because I plan to let them know sometime in the future, in a more surprising and more hurtful way. These people treated me so badly that their behavior could have only come from a place of insane hate and jealousy. Now, I know when you look at me it has to be hard to believe that someone could be jealous of me for any reason. Don’t ask me how, but these jerk-offs found a way. They treated me as if my career, and my life in general, were completely over. I might as well have been dead and buried. On the one hand, look, who can blame them? They were just playing the odds, and I was in bad shape, so if you hate me for some reason, why not pile on?

In the end they lost, because with the help of the ninety-nine percent who were good to me, I made it. I’m back, I’m not going anywhere, and my hatred for that one percent runs deep—very, very deep. As a matter of fact, if it were legal I’d have them killed. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the joint for one of those dirtbags, but if I were sure I could get away with it? Yeah, I’d make a phone call or two and rid the world of those scum-fucks forever. However, that is not the case. I know for sure there’s no way to get away with it, so this is the last I’ll speak of it because I’m not going to do anything to get in trouble—I’ve had my fill of it.

I’m guessing a few of you are reading this and thinking, or saying aloud if you’ve chosen this book as your children’s bedtime story, “Christ! Artie, what the fuck did these people do to you?” If I were you I’d be asking me the same question and I’d be disappointed when I didn’t get a straight answer. This is all I will say here: what they did was serious and devious. The kind of things that trigger the level of anger that gives you the chills—and they did them to me at my very lowest point. They know who they are. They range from being very wealthy and successful, to flat-out broke drifters, and at least two of them have names that you, the general public, would recognize. It sounds so childish, but one of my biggest incentives for
staying clean and in showbiz now is to prove them wrong and stick it in their smug, giggling asses. To that one percent who screwed me over, when you get a chance, do the world and me a favor and go fuck yourselves.

Glad I got that off my chest.

Let’s not end a dark tale on a dark note, shall we? Let’s try to stay positive, so please allow me to take this opportunity to thank a few of the good people in the ninety-nine percent who helped me and who can’t be thanked enough. My mom, my sister, the great Colin Quinn, and obviously the rest of my family; Adrienne, who has proven to be an angel; Norm MacDonald; DirecTV’s Chris Long, who is truly a stand-up guy, and the great Howard Stern . . . thanks, guys.

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If there is anything I’ve learned from my life and if there’s anything I hope to impart to anyone else who cares to listen to my story, it’s that addicts are not like other people. I’m not saying we are better or worse, worthy of praise or ridicule, I’m just saying we are different. A normal person could have a bad day and come home and have a drink because of it and not have another drink for two months. A normal person could also have a drink every day and not have it affect their life. An addict like me needs chaos. I need the action, I need the juice; it’s like gambling to me, except that I’m gambling with my life and the lives of those I love. But I love the risk, no matter what the odds. And that’s an urge that is never going to leave me.

I’ve realized something lately and this might come as a surprise, but I think gambling is my worst vice. It’s the one that led me down the path. Because if you think about it, when you gamble, especially the way I do, you really get the adrenaline going—and isn’t that what addiction and abuse are all about? I saw a friend of mine recently whom I’ve known since we were teenagers and he told me a story about myself that revealed a lot to me.

We were out one night about twenty years ago watching a Monday
Night Football game and my buddy wanted to go home pretty early into the game.

“You’re leaving?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s a pretty boring game, Art.”

He was right. It was the Browns versus the Rams, and both teams sucked. “I’m gonna go home and get some sleep. I have to work tomorrow.”

“Hold on,” I said, as a true addict and degenerate gambler would. “I know a way to make this game
not
boring.”

My friend laughed at me. “Oh yeah, how’s that?”

“How much money do you have in your bank account right now?”

He looked at me funny. “Um, probably six hundred bucks.”

“Okay, bet $1,600 on the Browns. I’ve got a bookie we can call right now.”

“What are you talking about? Why would I do that?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll see what happens.”

He really looked at me funny then. “Art, why would I do that? I don’t know anything about the Browns.”

“Well, that’s perfect, that makes it even better! If you knew about them, if it was an educated guess, it wouldn’t be any fun! C’mon, man, let’s do it!”

Going in blind: that’s the action, that’s the juice. Not knowing what’s going to happen, not considering the consequences, that’s the high. The consequences are so insane when you’re betting more than you’re worth.

I got so worked up trying to talk him into it that he saw my true inner self and he never forgot it. Just the thought of placing that bet—not even with my own money—got me so excited I could barely sit on my bar stool. I have a gene in me that’s not found in most people.

“Artie, calm down, man. I’m not doing it. I’m going home.”

He did go home and we’re still friends, but I was definitely disappointed in the guy.

I now know that I’ve got a fire inside. I’ve learned not to romanticize it, but I’ve also learned the hard way that I can never say I’ve beaten it into submission and eliminated it because that would be a lie. You can’t destroy what’s a part of you, you can only learn to live with it. I’m going to do my best to live with that demon each and every day. Sure it’s going to come out, and I know there will be times when that part of me wins. Hopefully it’s during football season and I’ll get lucky, because let’s face it, there’s nothing like winning a long-shot bet. I can’t imagine a greater high than winning a ridiculously large wager because of a fluke like a Hail Mary. Which is pretty much what I am, as a person, if you think about it.

What can I say? Rooting for an underdog is not a winning strategy, but I can’t tell you not to do it because somehow it’s worked for me. It hasn’t been easy, in fact it’s mostly been hell, but it’s never been boring. And since my life is far from done and is changing every day, this won’t be my final answer, but after all I’ve been through I’d like to say this about my life right now, from the bottom of my heart: just being here is all right by me.