Filthy Truth (9781476734750)

by Clay, Andrew Dice; Ritz, David

  And that’s all I got.

  I was frustrated as hell ’cause I knew he was playing with me. Now he’d seen me twice. In New York I was good. In L.A. I was great. He knew goddamn fuckin’ well that I was great. He had to let me on. But why couldn’t he just say it?

  A week later he didn’t say it, but his rep did. I was on.

  It finally happened November of 1987. Along with Robert Schimmel, Bill Hicks, Carol Leifer, and a few others, I’d been picked to go on the HBO Young Comedians Special that he was hosting. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. It was doubly sweet—and I was doubly motivated—’cause it was gonna happen on my home turf.

  I prepared for this spot like a fighter going after a title shot. I worked out my material every night at the Store, honing it, tweaking it, weeding out anything that didn’t kill, perfecting every punch line. I didn’t care if I played in front of a packed house or five people. I went after them with everything I had.

  I worked out like a fighter, too. I watched what I ate, hit the gym every day, and ran the Fairfax High track every night. I put every ounce of my energy and focus into getting ready for Rodney.

  The night of the show I put on my clothes as if I was a soldier going into battle putting on a uniform. I got dressed slowly, deliberately, each item of clothing adding one more layer to the Dice persona—underwear, socks, black sweatshirt with DICE on it, pants, giant belt buckle, black boots, fingerless gloves with rhinestones, and the final two touches, my motorcycle jacket and my oversize shades. I checked the fluid in my Zippo lighter and made sure I had a full pack of cigs. Then I stared at myself in the mirror and took in the full effect of Dice. Yeah. I was ready. I was so fucking ready.

  I walked from my hotel to the club. I wanted to feel the pulse of Manhattan and bring all that energy and aggressiveness with me. I felt people staring at me, this cocky half Elvis, half Terminator walking down the street like he owned the city. As I walked and smoked I thought, without an ounce of doubt, I was about to make comedic history.

  When I got to the club, I found Mom, Dad, and Natalie sitting ringside. I said hello and then drifted over to the bar. After a while, Rodney came over. “How you feeling, Dice? You ready?”

  I paused and looked at him through my dark sunglasses. “Ready? Tonight they pay. Tonight they get disciplined.”

  Rodney roared. “Tonight they pay. Okay, you’re ready.”

  And I was.

  • • •

  When it was time for my set, Rodney introduced me this way: “This next gentleman comes from Brooklyn. Best way to describe him is to say he’s the typical boy next door. Say hello to Andrew Dice Clay.”

  I got up onstage and took my sweet fucking time lighting my cigarette with a flick of the Zippo and an over-the-shoulder-back-of-the-head drag. I opened with the nursery rhymes.

  “Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider and sat down beside her and says, ‘Hey, what’s in the bowl, bitch?’

  “Little Boy Blue, he needed the money.

  “Was an old lady who lived in a shoe, she had so many children her uterus fell out.

  “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, trim that pussy, it’s so damn hairy.”

  From the rhymes I went to the audience. I spotted a guy sitting with a good-looking chick and started needling him.

  “How long you been going with her?” I asked.

  “Couple of weeks,” he said.

  “Is she nice?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Bottom line, she suck a good dick? She suck the chrome off a trailer and lay back with a beer after? To me that’s a lady. Today chicks don’t suck dick the way they used to. They dabble at it. They lay there, they flick it, they smack it. They say, ‘Ooh, look at the way it jumps.’ I say, ‘It can sing and dance too. Now suck my dick, honey.’ Most of ’em don’t know what they’re doing. The minute they start sucking they gotta look right up into your eyes with this innocent expression. It’s like you’re staring down at a fuckin’ gopher. ‘Why you looking at me, honey? Don’t look at me. Suck my dick. Concentrate. And jiggle my balls. What are they, orphans? It’s a three-piece set. Work it, hone it, get it right. If you can’t party with the big boys, don’t show up.

  “These days the chicks like us to go down on them. Ever seen a vagina up close? It’s fuckin’ frightening. It’s a haunted house down there. It’s covered with so much shrubbery and weeds, you gotta cut through with a machete. And depending on her moods, she’ll just lay there like you’re not even in the room. You gotta check in and say, ‘Honey, am I in the right ballpark?’ She says, ‘No. A little lower. A little to the left.’ I say, ‘What are we doing? Backing in a truck?’

  “Once you go down there, it’s no five-minute trip. It’s a fuckin’ weekend. After ten minutes it gets boring. That’s why I wear a Walkman.”

  The crowd was mine. I owned them. It’s like my friend Lee Lawrence always told me: when preparation meets opportunity, it spells success.

  The only thing I didn’t like was the title that either Rodney or HBO gave the special. They called it Nothing Goes Right.

  EVERYTHING GOES RIGHT

  IT WAS 1988—A decade after my debut at Pips—and it was shaping up to be the biggest year of my life. Even though Crime Story wasn’t picked up for a third season, my appearance as a cast member had given me a boost. I was also featured in a movie called Casual Sex? with Lea Thompson and Victoria Jackson where I played Vinny, a sexy thuggish guy who found his feelings and went around saying, “I’m the beast from the east. I’m a wild crazy beast. I’m the Vin Man.” When the producer, Ivan Reitman, saw what the Vin Man was doing on-screen, he rewrote the script, turned me into the star, and changed the ending so that I went off into the sunset with Lea Thompson. Professionally, I was in good shape. Personally, my relationship with Trini was going great guns. When it came to women, I was no longer the crazy man I once had been. At least I told myself that. I told myself that the reality of having a beautiful family life was right around the corner. Trini and I were living together in an apartment in Hollywood.

  On the night that Nothing Goes Right aired we were at home. We had a few friends over, and during the show we were sitting on the couch holding hands. Trini was laughing louder than anyone. After the show I told Trini and my pals I needed to go for a walk. I needed to be by myself.

  It was a Saturday night in Hollywood like any other. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, music blaring from the cars and clubs that lined the Strip. As I made my way to the Store, I was smoking my cigarette and savoring the moment. I was about to break through the show business barrier. I was about to achieve what I had always wanted—recognition and fame. I couldn’t remember feeling happier.

  • • •

  The special was the tinder that started my full-on inferno. I was playing Chuckles, a comedy club in Long Island, when Dennis Arfa, the greatest agent in the world, came in to see me. Dennis represented Rodney. He had been there the night of Nothing Goes Right. Rodney was actually the only comic on his roster. The other artists were Metallica, Joe Cocker, and Billy Joel.

  Arfa was a complete hipster, a guy who had the balls to leave William Morris to do his own thing. The Morris office had been representing me for years for movies and TV, but not for personal appearances.

  “Diceman, baby!” he said to me after the show. “I brought the papers.”

  “What papers?”

  “I’m signing you.”

  “You are?”

  “Tonight, baby, right now. I see your future, and it’s all green. The minute you go on sale, it’s like checkers, sweetheart. One jump, done. We’re sold out. Just like that.”

  Naturally I was flattered, but I was also consulting with my father, who, now that I was taking off like a rocket, had become more involved in managing me. There was no one else I trusted more.

  “There are bigger booking agencies than Arfa’s,” said Dad, “but you’ll never find anyone as devoted as Dennis. This guy is r
eady to go to war for you. I’d sign with him.” And I did.

  A month later I was playing the Treehouse in Connecticut, a comedy club attached to a hotel. This was just after Nothing Goes Right had aired, and everyone and their mother was talking about my performance.

  I was having a late breakfast at the hotel when the waitress said I was wanted on the phone by a Mr. Gallin.

  Sandy Gallin? How the fuck did he know I was at the Treehouse? And what did he want?

  “How are you, Mr. Gallin?”

  “Fine, Andrew. Please call me Sandy. I’m calling to set up a meeting. When will you be back in L.A.?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “Can we get together the first day you’re back?”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “You must know that you’re the hottest thing in the country right now, Andrew, and it’s absolutely paramount that your next move is the right one. There’s much to discuss.”

  Naturally I was jumping out of my fuckin’ skin. Sly Stallone’s manager had hunted me down and found me in Connecticut and was practically begging me to sign. If I was a putz, I would have said, How ’bout last time I was in your office when you didn’t even bother to look at me? But I wasn’t a putz. I was a guy who wanted a big career—so I didn’t say nothing.

  The afternoon I arrived in L.A. I ran over to his office. Unlike the last time when I met Sandy and felt like I was invisible, this time he greeted me like I was some kind of conquering hero. He started with a personal story of his own, about how he was from Brooklyn, how he loved the Dodgers when he was a kid, and how we had so much in common. Then he came right to the point.

  “I want to do great things for you, Andrew. I want to be your manger.”

  “I already have a manager,” I say.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My dad.”

  “That’s wonderful. I can work with your dad. I look forward to meeting him. I know you’re lucky to have a father to look after your best interests. He adds to the strength of the team.”

  “And you know I got an agent.”

  “Dennis Arfa. The best.”

  “I can’t lie, Sandy. I can’t tell you that I’m not excited about having you as a manager. That’s been a dream of mine. But I also have another dream. And before I sign with you, I need for that dream to come true.”

  “What is it, Andrew?”

  “My own HBO special.”

  Sandy didn’t say anything. I could see he was surprised.

  “You get me that special,” I said, “and I’ll sign.”

  “Andrew,” he said, his tone changing from light to dark, “I don’t audition for anyone.”

  “Look, Sandy”—my tone totally sweet, not a trace of anger—“I know you’re as big as they get, and I don’t wanna show no disrespect, but the truth is that I had to audition for you. Last time I was here I came up empty. Then the Rodney special became my audition. You saw it, you liked it, and now I’m back. All that’s good. But before I commit, I need to see you in action.”

  “You really are from Brooklyn, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. We come from the same place.”

  “Sheila,” Sandy said into his intercom, “get me Chris Albrecht at HBO.”

  Thirty seconds later Albrecht was on the speakerphone.

  “Chris,” said Sandy, “I’m here with Andrew Dice Clay. Maybe you heard of him. Anyway, I want to sign him, and he’s willing, on the condition that I get him his own HBO special. Can you help me out?”

  “Give me twenty-four hours, Sandy, and I’ll have an answer.”

  When Gallin hung up from Albrecht, he looked at me and said, “If the answer is yes, I’ll have an eighteen-month contract ready for you to sign.”

  I smiled, trying to look cool, but my heart was pounding and my mind was racing. All I thought was, So, that’s your move, huh, Dice? You’re gonna play two-handed poker, winner takes all, with the most powerful manager in the business?

  That was my move.

  • • •

  I went home to hang with Trini and my parents and my sister, who’d flown in for a few days. We all holed up at my place, not saying much, basically sitting on pins and needles, waiting for Sandy to call.

  Later that afternoon, the phone rang.

  Sheila.

  Sandy’s assistant. She told me that Sandy wanted me to come up to his house that evening. I explained that my parents and sister were in town and I didn’t want to leave them alone. Sheila put me on hold and then came back on the line ten seconds later. “Sandy said to bring the whole family.”

  Around seven o’clock, we wended our way into the hills above Sunset Boulevard and pulled into the Sandy Gallin estate, an eighteen-thousand-square-foot palace only slightly smaller than the Ponderosa. A butler greeted us at the door with Sandy close behind. He welcomed Mom, Dad, Natalie, and Trini like family who’d just arrived from the old country and then took us on a tour of his mansion. Each room was more magnificent than the next, but one room absolutely floored my mother: a walk-in closet off the master bedroom suite that was the size of a bedroom itself. My mother froze and gawked at the rows of red underwear neatly draped on hangers. “Red underwear,” she said. “Keeps away evil spirits.”

  “You got a smart mother,” Sandy said to me.

  After the tour we all went downstairs, where the butler met us with a tray of crystal flutes filled with champagne.

  “A toast,” Sandy said, passing out the flutes and holding his up. “To working together, and to the first of Andrew’s many HBO specials.”

  I nearly fumbled my champagne flute and dropped it onto his marble floor. “You did it?”

  “No,” Sandy said. “I booked it. You did it.”

  CUTE LITTLE STORY

  THE GALLIN/ARFA COMBINATION was nuclear.

  Within a week, Dennis booked me at the Roxy on the Sunset Strip. Being the clever manager that he was, Sandy invited twice as many people as the place held. The overflow filled the street and made the news. This was the start of Dicemania.

  A week later Sandy called and said, “Carl Reiner’s hosting the annual Big Brothers banquet at the Beverly Hilton tonight. It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-plate men-only affair. I’ve talked to Carl. He’ll try and bring you up if there’s time. There’s no guarantee. It’s up to you whether you want to go, but I will tell you this—every producer, every power player, every talk show host, every important director in Hollywood will be there. We’ve already scored at the Roxy, but this will take you to another level. If you bomb, though, the consequences could be grave. Your exposure will be enormous.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “This is the chance of a lifetime. How can I not take this shot?”

  “It’s a risk,” said Sandy.

  “Risks are what I’m all about.”

  I knew what Sandy was up to. He wanted to put me on edge. He wanted to get me crazy so I’d outperform myself. Well, I hardly needed more motivation than God originally gave me. But if Sandy Gallin wanted to play God—as most managers do—I’d play along. I’d overmotivate and make sure that the fuckin’ Big Brothers banquet was something no one would ever forget.

  I was feeling great, but my stomach was in knots when Barry Josephson picked me up his black Corvette. When we arrived at the Beverly Hilton, I saw that every man was wearing a tux. Not me. I said, Fuck the tux. I was wearing my leather—crazy leather jacket, fingerless leather gloves, leather boots, tight black jeans. I had on my shades. I had on my attitude.

  Eventually, after a crew of other comics, Carl Reiner finally got to me. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let me introduce our next speaker, a man recently hired by the Bush administration as an adviser on foreign affairs. Please welcome Mr. Andrew Dice Clay.”

  I loved the intro. As I made my way up, I felt like Martin Scorsese was filming me in slow motion. I passed by Jack Lemmon and gave him a playful tap on his cheek. (Later someone said, “Do you understand, Dice, that no one has touched this man i
n thirty years?”) This was it. Every power player in Hollywood was sitting right there. It was all or nothing. I had all these thoughts of what I had been through in the last ten years of show business. Then I thought of what my dad had said that day on the phone: “Don’t hold back, sonny boy. Let them have it.”

  I stood at the podium. I gave the audience all the time they needed to take me in. I lit my cigarette, snapped my Zippo closed, and, looking to the left at Carl Reiner, said, “I noticed all night you’ve been telling little stories . . . Well, I got a cute little story . . . See, I got my tongue deep up this chick’s ass . . .” The roof blew off. My insides were shaking from nerves, but they would never have known it. I held nothing back as I barraged them with my best material.

  Those fuckers were falling on the floor. Literally. Near the end when I hit Sidney Poitier with a few oversized-black-dick jokes, Aaron Spelling, who was sitting next to him, got so worked up that he knocked Sidney out of his chair and was punching him on the arm. It was complete mayhem. Even one of my favorite clean jokes went over: “You know when you’re standing on line at the bank and the guy says, ‘Is this the end of the line?’ ‘No, asshole, it’s the front. We’re all standing fuckin’ backward.’ ” I wasn’t up there for more than ten minutes, but they were the best minutes of my life. The howling and screaming was beyond belief.

  “I don’t know what just went on here,” said Reiner, “but I’m looking at a bunch of old farts who are laughing—really laughing—for the first time in twenty years. In this room tonight, right before your very eyes, Andrew Dice Clay has become a star.”

  Garry Shandling followed me and bombed. It was so quiet you could hear crickets. Shandling didn’t work for another five years. After Gary, Red Buttons came on and said, “Wasn’t Dice unbelievable? Big man, big star.” Then Red looked over to me and said, “But, schmuck, next time wear a tux.”

  • • •

  The phone woke me up the next morning. It was Sandy saying that my HBO special would be shot in Philly.