Sex and Drugs and Techno in LA: The Hogan Torah Story — Part 1

Anotherlogan’s long ass story

Hi. I’m Hogan Torah and I wrote the following as Anotherlogan after a week long meth bender in 2003. This was the first thing I ever wrote. It reads rough as hell. I tried to leave my original writing unmolested but did correct a few things. Originally titled Who am I, this is part one of three.

The other day I overheard a group of close friends talking about me. They said something to the effect of. “Logan used to be such a bright, intelligent, happy guy. Then all of a sudden, he started parting like a mad man. He was all strung out and bitter. He’s doing better now, but what the hell happened to him?”

What happened? What did happen? It’s like this…. TLDR: I was on Drugs. HT 8/20

When I was an adolescent my family was upper-middle class. I didn’t think my family was rich. My father drove an E class, while most of my other Jewish friends’ fathers drove an S class. It’s not like we were rich. Our cleaning lady came once a week, we didn’t have a live in. We weren’t rich. My parents went out every Saturday night on a date and hired some kid down the street wo watch my sister and I. We didn’t have a live-in nanny. We weren’t Rich.

I did what my mother told me to and that was to get good grades and don’t ever hit people. She was the disciplinarian in my family and was a stay-at-home full time housewife. My father told me that I didn’t have to worry about what I wanted to do with my life because as soon as I was done with high school, I had a job waiting for me at the bank he was president of.

In junior high I hung out with the “nerds.” My social status was very important to me. I so desperately wanted to hang out with the cool kids, but I was never one of them. I might be friends with them but I didn’t belong. When It came time to go to High School I went to Kennedy. All the rich “cool” kids lied about where they lived so that they could go to Granada. I had enough of trying to be one of them so I tried my luck at Kennedy.

When I started high school, I was not hanging out with those guys again. I had befriended a guy who was cool because he was a really good skateboarder and the all the older skaters took him under his wing. On the first day of school when he wanted me to come behind the C building for lunch, I was ecstatic. On the way one of my old friends from jr. high saw me and started walking with us. Skater guy whispered in my ear that my friend could not come with us. I didn’t think twice when I asked my friend if he thought he was hanging out with us. He stood there with a confused look and I kept on walking.

This makes me cool now, right? I’m hanging out with these senior skater dudes. These guys were not Tony Hawk. These guys were Bam Margera. My friend had their respect. I, however was some dorky little 9th grader who couldn’t ride a skateboard that would just stand there and try to be one of them. They would do every fucked-up thing that you could possibly do to someone in high school. Do you know the definition of swirlee, canned, pansed, wet willy, spit ball, Indian burn, redneck, melvin, snotrocket is. One day one of them snatched my lunch and I finally threw a punch. I was then picked up and slammed head first on the blacktop. I was knocked out and when I came to there was a crowd of people around me. I tried to get up but a teacher kept me on the ground until a wheel chair arrived. I’m being wheeled to the nurse’s office crying and bleeding.

“What happened to that guy?”

“This fool whooped this kid’s ass.” Told the guy to anyone who asked while wheeling into the nurse’s office. The crying didn’t make me look too cool and my head was throbbing with pain.

Even though by throwing that punch I had earned some respect I didn’t hand around there anymore. I stopped talking to that friend who would watch me being tortured and would laugh. I couldn’t hang out with the nerds because my friend who I dissed had become their new leader. I would eat my lunch alone where I wouldn’t be seen. Then I would walk around like I had somewhere to go, avoiding those two hang out spots. After about 2 months one of the kids I met invited me to play basketball with his crowd for lunch. I never fit in with the jocks because I am horrible at any sport that involves a ball. After a couple of days of this I suggested we not play basketball and just hang out instead. We found a spot-on campus that had not been claimed for lunch and that became our spot. Soon other people that just didn’t fit in with their cliques joined us. I had created my own crowd. After a while, my friend who I dissed started coming around again. He was my friend again and still is one of my best friends and one of greatest people I know. We never mentioned what had happened until recently. I don’t think I will ever live that down. I didn’t realize it at the time but after time it became clear what we were. We were Punk.

In summer school that same first year we were watching a movie. A spitball hit me in the back of the neck. I spun around but didn’t know who did it. Another spitball. Then another, and another, and another. I figured out who did it. I had never met this guy before I had never met any of these people in this class before. I had never stood up for myself before besides that skater I hit with a half assed punch. Soon other people joined in and before long, half the class (including girls) was shooting spit balls at me. The teacher was reading a book at his desk and didn’t really seem to give a shit. All I could do was put my head down so they couldn’t see me cry. The two-hour class finally ended and I was covered with spitballs I’d estimate that there were about 400 spit balls fired at me during this movie.

The teacher was a lazy fuck who had just finished his masters and was probably not approved for financial aid for his doctorate so was forced to actually work and was too much of a pussy to try and make it in the profession he been studying for. So he goes back to school to teach, but has no idea how to get a class filled with 15 yr old’s during summer to pay any attention to a class they had already taken and gotten a C in and forced by our parents to take classes during this time we should be sleeping. He puts in a movie related to American History (i.e. 1776, Dances with Wolves, Stand by Me, ect….)

I’d ditched and played sick for a couple of days but I went back to this class and I was prepared. I had a hollowed out bic pen and a water bottle. The teacher puts on Tombstone and turns off the lights. One is no match for 20, now they wait for me to turn my head to retaliate. Now they can hit my face. I am deluged by spit balls for another 2 hours. This one tough wanna be gangster chews on 3 sheets of notebook paper and runs up behind me and throws it at my neck and the class in laughing their ass off. The movie ended and the teacher is not in the classroom. The lights get turned on and I shoot a spit ball at the gangster kid. He comes right up to me and grabs my wrists. He pulls one of my arms back and up. I put up no fight. He then yanks my wrist towards me and makes me punch myself in the face. I am standing there, about to cry and he looks me in the eye and asks the question. What bitch?

I never went back to that class. I was punked so hard I couldn’t even tell anybody about it. There was only one thing to do. The rest of that summer I worked out every other day for three hours. Every time I thought I couldn’t lift the weight one more time I just pictured that little shit saying what bitch. Every time I didn’t want to do another set, I remembered getting my lunch stolen and slammed and everybody laughing. I used one of those trees with the soft bark as a punching and kicking bad. I would hit it until my knuckles were skinless, then do it some more. I drank protein shakes like mad. I had started that summer 5'3" at 98 lbs when school started that September, I was 5'7" and 130 lbs.

When I came back to school that next year, I had no problems. It had nothing to do with my size it was the way I carried myself. I never went looking for trouble, but I never backed down again. For example, If someone threw an eraser at me, I threw a chair at them. If someone gleeked on me, I threw a chair at them. If someone wanted to play keep away with my gym shirt and there were no chairs around, I kicked them in the nuts. Fair fight? There is no such thing as a fair fight. Someone is always bigger than the other. You gotta do what you gotta do to.

I finished high school. Everything was going my way. Got a car. Got chicks. Got the body. This is the reason I’m as aggressive as I am, but why did I get so into drugs?

I loved drugs

At this point in my life I was at the height of my game. (The height of my dickishness. My shit didn’t stink) I was making about 3x what I would of at a real job, tax free of course. I had the all the toys I wanted. Girls wanted to be with me and guys wanted to be me, I thought. Waking up with no obligations is not as great after 3 years. I enrolled in school, pharmacy tech school that is. I learned all about drugs I hadn’t even heard of.

Ok. High school was over and I went on my senior trip to Puerto Vallerta. I hadn’t gotten laid since I’d lost my virginity at 16 and was the only person in our group not to get laid once. I had decided to go to College of the Caucasians due to their Playboy best female student body ranking and because It was the closest to my house. My mother said that she would give me 50 bucks a week if I stopped working because she didn’t want a job to interfere with my studies. I had a new hobby as well, raving!

I had finally found my calling. Forget about whatever crappy rave you went to in Glendale once 3 years ago. The year was 1996. It was right at the peak of the acid wave. Raver style was unrefined, it didn’t have a look at so it borrowed from what you last were before coming a raver, i.e. hip hop adidas wear/Punk hair. Everyone was on hallucinogens so It was very visual oriented. What I loved about it was the fact that people would have to go to a parry to know where they were, no web, no Grove Riders. Someone who was usually me (I actually liked driving on acid. The car and I were one) would drive for 1–2 hours, to dance in a warehouse. There would be this one moment, where the mix and the lights and everybody were building up for the build. You wait for it and….bang! The perfect moment in time. You take a mental picture and try to make that feeling last until next week.

When I came back from Puero Vallerta I learned that my father had a grand mal seizure while I was away. He appeared to be alright and the doctor said that it was probably because of heat stroke or dehydration. That summer my dad was acting a bit strange. He seemed to get angry easier, his coordination was off, and he started smoking a lot more pot.

It was my 18 birthday and my family and a friend of mine went down to Ventura Blvd. to go to some place that isn’t there anymore. As we were leaving the parking lot dad hit a car while backing up. He then took off and t-boned another car while turning on to Ventura. He threw it in reverse really quick and boned the fuck out. My grandmother, my friend, and myself were screaming and he just had a big smile on his face.

He only had 2 beers and he wasn’t on meds or anything. The weirdest thing was that my father usually slowed down to drive through puddles so he didn’t splash any water on his 18" rims on his Cadillac STS. I offer to drive but he never EVER would let me drive one of his cars. It wasn’t over yet, he later runs a red and broadsides the side of an SUV. The SUV spins out into a telephone pole and rolls a couple of times. However, this time… HE TAKES OFF AGAIN!

The next day my father and I go out for our usual Saturday afternoon run. Before we get in the car, he gives me the keys for me to drive. He tells me he’s been a feeling little off lately. I agreed. We went to the car wash that we had gone to just about every Saturday since we moved to L.A. While the car was being washed, we went over to Family Fun arcade. He liked Golden Tee and any other sports game, we would always play a shooting gun game together once or twice before we left. Then we would go look at software or a mall or a head shop which started way earlier than it should have.

This Saturday we were going to the driving range. My father was never a great golfer but he always hit the ball. Today he was missing the ball completely more often while he was hitting it which was weird. He always connected and the ball always went straight. It only went 150 yards, but every time and straight. One time he fell back into the guy next to him. It was a quiet ride home.

My mother took my father to the hospital and sure enough it was a tumor. He was operated on 2 days later. All of my parent’s friends in the waiting room with my sister and her boyfriend and me, all alone. I went outside to go for a nice long walk and smoke a Kool. Walks are great when you are making a decision or need your multiple personalities to talk to each other. I thought about what would happen if my father died, what would happen to all of us. This was not a minor operation. We saw him right before going into the operating room. even though he was 55 he still had a pretty full head of har that he wore at the same length for the last 15 years. Now He was bald, no eyebrows, scared shitless. I really didn’t know what to say, so I said, see you soon. I went back into the hospital and my mother, sister, grandma and I were called upstairs. I was to run back downstairs and tell everyone if the tumor was malignant or benign. I had so much shit on my mind I forgot that I didn’t know which one was which. The Doctor says the tumor was malignant and I go running down stairs and tell the 50 people in the waiting room that it wasn’t cancerous. And every one is cheering and hugging and thanking god. My immediate family comes down crying and…. I felt like someone had used my genetic tissue to wipe their ass.

They were unable to remove some of the tumor so they tried a brand-new procedure called the gamma knife and he was the first person ever to have the treatment done. This tickled him pink because he was a tech freak and It was a great anecdote to tell. He was thinking of wring a book about his experience. It worked though. He made a full recovery within 8 months after his surgery. His hair was growing back. And his original personality had returned. He was actually happier than ever before. He had cheated death and beaten the odds. He started going to temple most Fridays with my mother, something he hated to do before. My dad was going to live a long happy life.

The End

Nope. Then things got worse.

Hardly. If what you just read made you feel something you may want to get a box of Kleenex. This is has been the most difficult thing I have ever written but I’ve only told but a handful of people this.

While all this is going on, I find it more and more difficult to get up, go to school spend some time outside. My parents weren’t home much so I would get high and watch tv. Then I started getting high and drunk. then I started getting high, drunk, do some lines, pop some Vicodin…ect. My dad was getting free tweed thanks to prop 215 through his insurance.

I started selling a little to my friends and making a few bucks then my friend asked me if I wanted to go in with him on mescaline for 50 cents. We would meet him at the club, come give me a hug (couldn’t resist) Then another friend had sheets of acid for 100 a sheet. Then his friend said he could do it for 80 just not to tell the guy I used before. Then that guys friend said he would do it for 60 but I couldn’t tell the other 2 then I met the guy. Then I met the guy who they got it from and he did it for 45 bucks and He told those other 3 guys to go fuck themselves. So do the math and consider I sold a page for 80 half for 50 ten for 30 three for 10 one for 5. and averaging 3 pages a week and I made even more with the Weed and microdots. Go to the rave with 100 in drugs, come out about 700 richer. Go every week people know who you are so you don’t do anything but stack cash in your big pants and keep eating and selling drugs till the party is over. Then get more and go to the after party.

My dad’s hair had grown back and he was feeling better. Then, he started getting angry more frequently again, his driving started getting worse. I realized something was very wrong was the day we went to the mall to buy this golf game for the PlayStation and we came to the escalator. I was walking behind him and he stops and looks at the ascending stairs. He slowly plants his foot on the moving stairs and his hand on the hand railing. He reaches out and misses the railing on the other side. He screams as he topples backwards. I was able to catch him before he really hurt himself.

I drove home and it was another very quiet car ride. He was determined though. He had the gamma knife done again and about a month later and was ranting and raving all week about how we were going to the mall and he was going to show everybody that Brady Mora was healed and triumphant once again.

After a terrifying drive to the mall he was bragging about how great of a driver. We go to the arcade and after not shooting a single thing in virtual cop he brags about all the guys he shot. We get to the escalator and after blocking the stars for 5 minutes he gets on and stumbles and I caught him. When we get to the top, I knew there was no way in hell he was going to be able to do this I grab him in a bear hug and lift him up and out of harm’s way. He was furious that I helped him and continued to rant and rave for the entire scary ride home.

I bit my tongue as my father was gloating to my mother about how well he did at the mall. When he wanted me to tell mom about how well he did I couldn’t hold it any longer. I told everyone what really happened. Then I asked my dad how he could possibly think that he was getting better. He looked like he was about to cry. He sarcastically thanks me for my support and says that I am right. I went upstairs and cried myself to sleep

After the gamma knife the tumor was close to gone, unfortunately close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. The doctors recommended Chemotherapy to get the rest. The cycle ended and the tumor was still there but it didn’t seem to be growing but it wasn’t thinking. Looking back, we were all in denial at that point about the fact that my father was dying, we were so optimistic hoping the next treatment would be the end of this.

A year and a half after his first operation, my father was even worse than before. His driving was terrible and he smashed up his Cadillac pretty bad. After that he stopped driving. He started falling all the time and I would have to pick him up. Because off this my mother would ask if I could stay home in case my father lost his balance again. I agreed and stayed home a lot of Saturday nights. Poor me.

In the scene I was coming up and becoming one of the inner circle. The promoters and people who threw the party hated my friends and I. They would invest all their time and money on throwing these stupid raves just so they could give you a flyer and say come to “my” party and if you kissed their asses enough they would put you on the guest list. After spending every night for the last 2 months outside of clubs and parties passing out flyers until 6 am it is time for the party. You lose 2,000 dollars and tell all your friends (that you let in free) that you broke even. I make a phone call and drive down the street to meet my guy and come to your party. I’d go to the party and after 4 hours I walked out with 2,000 dollars and some little candy raver the promoter was trying to get on. About

this time is when the first pressed pills hit the market. Ecstasy was never very popular before that because it use to come in powder form. You would have to put the powder into empty little capsules (molecules). Because 80 mg was enough to get you just high enough so you could feel it that’s how everyone capped them. You always wanted more. When pressed pills hit the market the pills contained about 100–150 mg of E so people were getting all fucked up.

My grandmother was ill at this point too. She went to the doctor and they ran some tests. The doctor told us that my grandmother had advanced terminal cancer but that we should not let her know. I come home from this party at 6 am tripping on mescaline and my grandmother is there when I open the door.

I could see the death on her face. One side looked like a big bruise and it was like the skin was slowly melting from her face. Maybe I was just tripping balls. She grabs my arm and says, “Logan! What’s wrong with me! Why won’t they tell me what’s wrong with me?” I stood there for a second, then bolted out the front door screaming running down the street. I ran all the way to my friends house down the street I let myself in and passed out. The next day my grandmother was catatonic.

1 week later she was dead. I don’t think that she wanted to be alive when my father died. I’m just sorry the last time she saw me I ran away from her screaming.

After that I went to my chemistry midterm. Got there a half hour late and sat down. After I found someone with a scan-tron, which you must have in junior college because teachers are so lazy that they can’t even grade four tests in a semester, I started my test. I knew not one of the answers or had any Idea how to even fake it.

I turned in my blank scan-tron and left College of the Canyons for the last time at 130 miles an hour in my father’s STS.

My dad was scheduled for his second surgery and then everything was going to be alright. Looking back now it was pretty grim. He couldn’t walk or even sit up at this point. I helped him out the best I could. My father had now become an invalid and all we could do was laugh about it. I had to pull down his pants and hold his dink as he peed. We would still get high together. My mother hated the fact that he was influencing his son in such a way. She didn’t seem to understand that he wasn’t really there anymore.

The day before his surgery my mom went out for a half hour. We smoked in his room using the toilet paper cardboard/dryer sheet method. We then shot the shoot for the last time, we discussed lots of things. A half hour had passed and my dad asked for another hit. I told him that I couldn’t do that as my mother would have ki/led us both. He begged, he pleaded and I walked out of the room. His last words to me were “Thanks, Thanks a lot Logan.” Through all my life I have one regret, and there it is…

He had the 2nd surgery in September and I was a life guard I had just taken two hits of mescaline. I was stationed on top of the slide beneath the giant skull that dumped 2,000 gallons of unheated water every second…. In September. Not the best spot in the park. I was called off stand and told to go to the hospital immediately….

I’m tripping balls and driving to the hospital. The feeling of impending doom was strong. I’m wearing my little red lifeguard trunks and the white collared polo shirt with lifeguard written on the back.

I walked to the intensive care unit that I knew the location off all to well. My mother is crying, there’s 7 doctors in a huddle, our rabbi is there and my dad is in the bed convulsing. He was having one seizure after another. The doctor who did the brain surgery walked in looking pissed. Another doctor put her hand on his shoulder and he pushed her out of the way. He stood over my father and used his hand to open my father’s eye. “Brady! Brady! Wake up! Brady!” Another doctor put his hand on the surgeon’s shoulder. He shrugged off his hand and stormed out, cursing in Hebrew. I didn’t know what was going on, but it didn’t look good.

After a while of doctors arguing, mom crying, dad convulsing, me standing in a swim suit tripping balls but feeling numb. A man called me into another room. He introduced himself as a grief councilor. We went into the hospital atrium and he explained that my father was never going to wake up. He explained a few other things that I didn’t listen to. My dad was clinically brain dead.

He continued to “live” for 2 months. I went to the hospital for the first three weeks. He just got skinny and sicklier looking. My mother was there all day every day. He had a tracheotomy tube coming out of his throat. You could suction him and he would have a gagging reflex. My mother would do this every five minutes just to see him move. It was sick.

I can’t tell you much about those 2 months except I kicked 3 people’s asses for no particular reason and I was so high I didn’t give a fuck about anything, especially myself my 19 birthday party it was 2 weeks late because everyone forgot (I did too). My mom had left the hospital for the first time in 4 days. My family had all assembled in town. There’s 15 of us in this Italian place and my mother’s cell phone rings. A hush falls over the table my mom looks at the caller id then starts sobbing. Mom picks up the call and her fears are confirmed. She hangs it up there is 15 us all hugging and crying and screaming. The only thing I can say is that we ruined every one else’s dinner that night and I’ve hated my birthday ever since.

I can’t really remember too much about that time except I felt an incredible loneliness. My friends would call say they were sorry and tell me to feel better and then hang up. My family all didn’t know what to say. My sister had her boyfriend, my mom had all her friends that had experienced this kind of thing before.

I was all alone. Just me and my bottle of pills. They were with me at my dad’s funeral. My friends all came, gave me a hug then left. Sorry, give me a call when you are feeling better. We sat Shiva for about 4 hours. My friends had all left and I broke it first. I went upstairs took 4 of every good pill that was lying around the house, had a shot of tequila and a bong load of some chronic and went to bed for 3 days. I slept for two and just lied around the last day wondering what I was going to do now. Then my phone rang. I answered. Yes, I have a quarter. I got my keys…

(Part 2 is here)