Mark Fleischman Plans to Die by Assisted Suicide

Automatic TRANSCRIPT

I thought a lot about mock fleischman the other day because he's going to die soon. He's 80 years old. Actually he's going to die on July 13th. In Germany, but his wife of 27 years by his side. Some years after he stepped away from the insanity of owning nightclubs and restaurants, fleischmann understandably stepped away from the limelight that was the majority of his life. The last time I saw him was a little over two years ago. He invited me to a party that was throwing for the launch of his Studio 54 book. Is that some small joint in Beverly Hills? And the crowd was a mix of The Old Guard and the new. There was some New York City journalist dad too, namely my former nemesis at page 6, Richard Johnson. Fleischmann writing a book about Studio 54 was a good enough reason to get Johnson on a plane and out in LA to hang out. I said, the old man looks good. He said he sure does. Must been that good cocaine in the 80s and we both left. So smart fleshman came by and we posed for a picture. I wish I still have it somewhere. I got to find it. But he thanked both of us for helping keep the club and him and the column for years. It was a nice affair all in all, but I could tell this was one last gasp tomorrow. Like I said, I was closing in on 80. And so here we are. A couple three weeks away from July 13th. The day the music died from on fleischmann. And that's because several years ago, he became afflicted with a mysterious illness that would make him extremely dizzy at times. To his legs, sometimes flat out failing right beneath him. And over time, that illness could not be diagnosed by doctors and became worse and worse and more frightening by the day. As it is now Mark doesn't have any balance. He drops things and doesn't know where his body is in space. There was a time where a doctor is the very best doctor, by the way. Originally thought he had a form of Parkinson's, but it isn't that. Nobody knows what this is. He's suffering from. Once he heard that Mark knew what he had to do. One time he swallowed a bunch of Xanax, but doctors brought him back before he could overdose. When he was going to go buy a gun, his wife, Mimi, intercepted, and they had a long talk. Mark convinced her that he'd had a great life that he loves and now more than anything, but now what this mystery illness running his life, he said, it's time for me to say goodbye. Eventually, with his wife's support, they contacted a Swiss nonprofit group poll after multiple tests and psychiatric evaluations, it was obvious to see that Mark fleischman, a man who pumped so much life into New York City was now a candidate for assisted

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