u/MaxWinterLA

The sad lawyer’s existential journey.

“What do you do?” the “producer” asked.

“I’m a lawyer,” the sad lawyer said.

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

“Not really.”

“What kind of law?”

“It’s complicated. Basically I do contracts.”

“Well, do you like it?”

The sad lawyer stared blankly at the “producer,” all snuggled up to his young wife. He wasn’t expecting a full-on existential crisis at Mr. Noodle’s Golden whatever. Especially not from such an unsurprising or simple question. It was a totally normal thing to ask. But somehow, the sad lawyer had never been asked it, had never asked it himself, or even remotely contemplated it. Eventually, he sighed and gave an honest answer.

“No.”

The “producer” and his young wife looked at each other and chuckled. They didn’t even stifle the chuckle. They full-on chuckled — as if sharing an inside joke.

“Well, you make a lot money at least, right?” the “producer” asked. It was forward, but it seemed to be a genuine attempt to put a positive spin on an awkward moment.

The sad lawyer looked down at his sad Chinese beer.

“Well, inflation is a bitch,” he mumbled.

——

The sad lawyer’s sad existential journey gets increasingly surreal from here as an old Twinkie and Szechuan peppercorns start to alter his physiology. If you want to hear more about his journey it’s absolutely free because existential dread should not cost a damn thing:

https://maxwinterstories.substack.com/p/the-sad-lawyer?r=292pvs&utm\_medium=ios

Trigger warning:

This story contains “adult themes.”

Crude, explicit, offensive, and outdated language.

Culturally insensitive depictions of neurodiversity and mental illness.

Alcohol abuse. Drug abuse. Tobacco abuse.

Sexually suggestive dialogue. “Sexual situations.”

Domestic violence.

Occult themes that may be offensive to some religious readers.

Sequences of flashing lights that may cause seizures in the photosensitive.

(Epileptics, you’ve been warned!)

And, as with many sick, twisted, degenerate horror stories… (think: serial killers) ours starts with animal cruelty.
BTW, we’ll probably beat the word “degenerate” to death today. But really, there’s no better word in the English language to describe all that touches his domain.

We’re talkin’ about King Cobra.

Check out the story here. For free of course:

https://maxwinterstories.substack.com/p/parasocial

When O.J. Simpson got arrested for murder, my grandmother refused to believe the news.

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly!” she said.

“Really?” I said. We used to sit on her bed in her Park Avenue apartment and watch TV. I was fourteen when the infamous Ford Bronco car chase went down.

“Not my O.J.” she said.

“Your O.J.?”

She looked at me, as she often did, like she was sharing a secret.

“He flirted with me!” she whispered. “Trust me. He’s way too handsome and charming to kill anybody.”

\\\_\\\_\\\_

This is a personal essay I recently wrote about my very unusual grandmother, Joan Schindler: interior designer to the stars, croissant entrepreneur, hustler, fabulist, survivor, and one of the most important inspirations in my life.

It’s also about what happens when you get older and begin to understand the adults that you loved as a child — in all their complexity.

I spent the last few months talking to people who knew her, revisiting stories I grew up with, and discovering A LOT of things I never knew.

The result is a very personal essay available 100% and always for free

https://maxwinterstories.substack.com/p/momo-and-me

“Hello, Chelsea…”
Whenever I wanted to call my Dad, I had to connect through Bonnie.
It was a normal part of my childhood.
Always the same burnt-out, raspy, voice.
“Hello, Chelsea…”
Apparently, Bonnie was a showgirl back in the fifties…but by then it was the nineties.
She sounded like a woman who never bothered to breathe clean oxygen.
Just cigarette smoke in… cigarette smoke out…
Only years later did I realize this was not a normal childhood.
Most kids were not patched through switchboard at the Chelsea Hotel when they wanted to speak to their father.
Sure. A lot of you know the hotel. Many of you’ll say: “The place where Sid Vicious stabbed Nancy.”
And you’d be right.
It’s too bad that little footnote in punk rock history looms so large.
Patti Smith’s book Just Kids looms large, too. (You should read it.)
But most people don’t know:
-When built in 1889, the Chelsea was the tallest building in Manhattan… just 12 stories.
-The neighborhood of Chelsea is named after the hotel — not vice versa.
-The night the Titanic survivors arrived in New York City, they slept at the Chelsea.

Read the rest for free here:

https://maxwinterstories.substack.com/p/hello-chelsea