Drugs, Alcohol, and My Jewish Mother ― How I Beat Them All

Surely, a few sips of Manischewitz wine or some gefilte fish a la horse radish might've altered my state of consciousness slightly, but were those "gateway foods" responsible for my years of drug and alcohol abuse? Or was it the pressure I put on myself to do well that was the cause. Or maybe it was the pressure put on me by my mother, who embarrassed the hell out of me by packing lunches of steak sandwiches on Jewish rye with mustard. (And let's not forget the "Fruitana" for dessert.) I had the world by the balls - an Ivy League education, a junior tennis win over John McEnroe...where, why, and how did I spiral out of control? Stealing my boss' receipts? Running off to Atlantic City? Ending up in one of the most oppressive rehabs in the area? That wasn't me, was it? It wasn't all bad, though. I had my moments. Incarceration, for example, brought me some good fun. I got to chuckle at the convicted felon who bullied me into turning over my money and jewelry to him. (Come on - was he really gonna be believable pretending that Wharton ring was his?) Being jailed also brought me some respect; after all, how many bananas and cream-eating Jewish boys get invited to a post-release angel dust party? Read a lot more about my journey from bar-mitzvahs to bar-hopping. Stay with me, each swaggering step of the way. I promise to tell all. No holds BARred.