Filthy Truth (9781476734750)

by Clay, Andrew Dice; Ritz, David

  “I heah, I heah you, Downtown Ronny. But right now I got a lot on my plate. Besides, when did you get in the business? I thought you was in another business.”

  The business I was referring to was bookmaking. A few years back my mom had implied that Ronny was a good guy to know. She had said that in the future, if I became a big star, he’d be a good guy to have watching my back.

  “I didn’t realize you was in show business,” I said to Ronny.

  “I’m in fuckin’ everything, ya heah? And this Wheels, he may not be no Dice, but the fuckin’ guy is going places. I see you think enough of him to put him on tape.”

  “I’m videotaping everyone. I’m videotaping life. I’m about to videotape you.”

  “What do you really think of him?”

  “Like I say, Downtown, he’s okay. But he’s green.”

  “You could develop him, Dice. You could take him wherever you want. ’Cause right now I’m hearing that you’re going to the fuckin’ top, and you need all the friends you can get.”

  “Friends I already got.”

  “Now you got some more. Now you got me and Wheels.”

  “So you’re managing him. Is that it, Downtown?”

  “I’m seeing him where you were maybe six or seven years ago. A star in the making. Ya heah?”

  I’m not sure exactly what I heard, except that I liked Wheels, and Downtown had always fascinated me. Besides, it was my mom who first introduced me to him.

  Before long, Downtown Ronny became a part-time member of my entourage. Before long, I used his comic Wheels to open some of my shows. What I couldn’t foresee, though, were the complications that came with Downtown’s connections.

  STERN

  I LOVE HOWARD Stern. I think the guy is brilliant. I first heard him when he was just starting out in the New York market. Friends kept saying, “Dice, you got to do Howard Stern. You guys are two peas in a pod.”

  They were calling him a shock jock at the same time I was being called a shock comic. Like me, he loved talking about sex and wasn’t afraid of where the conversation might go, and like me, he was looking to bust through boundaries. Because we were two New York Jews with chutzpah to spare, we could read each other’s rhythms. We could bounce off each other’s grooves. He was fast, I was fast, and together we worked up a superspeed banter that the listeners loved.

  You couldn’t exactly call Howard a straight man, but in some ways he played that role. I could bounce off his wit. We were a good combination, because Howard is essentially an inside man. His world is the studio, the safe cocoon where he does his thing better than anyone. I’m essentially an outside man. My world is the comedy club, the theater, and the arena. The bigger the live audience, the happier I am. Knowing these differences between us reinforced our relationship. If I was stuck in a studio all day, I’d go nuts. And if Howard had to do his act in front of eighteen thousand people, he’d have a hard time.

  Given these contrasts, we appreciated each other. More than any other interviewer, Howard loved candid discussions about sex. He pushed the raunch because he liked the raunch. Howard became a fan and a booster. He was more intellectual than me, but I was more street-smart. And all the way to this day we are absolutely magic on the air together.

  We had this brotherly bond. He gave me his private number at home and even liked it when I called him late at night, just to fuck with him. Sometimes I’d have Hot Tub Johnny on one line, Howard on the other, and the three of us would make three-way prank calls to some poor schmuck in Queens just for kicks. We were like five-year-olds. Later when I started hanging out with Wheels and Downtown Ronny, I’d take them on Stern with me. Downtown Ronny’s guttural super-street Brooklynese “ya heah” became a trademark that Stern taped and loved to play back. No radio personality was into the whole Dice thing as deeply as Stern.

  As Stern was moving up, so was I. When it came to taking on the media hypocrites, we were like soldiers fighting on the same side. I loved having Howard as an ally. He was razor sharp and never afraid to call me on my shit. I liked the challenge ’cause it made me even sharper.

  A little later in my life, Howard and me were such good pals that he thought it’d be cool if I lived close to him. We found a great place fifteen minutes away from him. Four acres. A four-million-dollar spread reduced to $900,000. I loved the layout and the style. I loved everything except the voodoo dolls sitting in the den.

  “They aren’t voodoo dolls,” said Howard. “They’re exotic African art.”

  “It looks like fuckin’ voodoo to me,” I said.

  “You can’t pass up the deal. You’ll live here four or five months a year. Besides, it’s a great investment. You gotta take it.”

  I took it. But when the papers were written up and I got to the lawyer’s office, I couldn’t sign. I kept thinking about the voodoo dolls. I tried, but I couldn’t sign on the dotted line.

  “You’re crazy,” said Stern.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I’ll sleep better tonight.”

  PANTIES IN A BUNCH

  MY DEAL ON Geffen meant that my first comedy record would be coming out soon. I also learned that Joel Silver, one of the most powerful moguls in Hollywood and the guy who produced the Die Hard and Lethal Weapon movies, was set to produce The Adventures of Ford Fairlane. This would be my first starring vehicle, a film where Sandy Gallin had made sure that my name would appear above the title. The story revolved around a detective who was a variation of the Dice character. He was a hipster who hung out in the rock-and-roll world of L.A. nightclubs and rock arenas. Perfect for me. My costars were Wayne Newton, Priscilla Presley, Lauren Holly, and Maddie Corman.

  Along with this superstar treatment came some nasty treatment from the press. But I didn’t give a shit. The press had their panties in a bunch ’cause I was joking about women and gays in ways they didn’t consider funny. Fuck the press. I wasn’t putting on this act for the press. I was playing to the fans, and my fan base was growing by leaps and bounds. If the press didn’t understand that the Diceman was a character who amplified certain attitudes that millions of people had—not only amplified those attitudes but actually made fun of those attitudes by making fun of himself—then the press had its head up its ass.

  • • •

  In the midst of my success, something happened that shouldn’t have surprised me but did: my fellow comics started attacking me.

  Ever since I started out at the Store, I knew that comics could be the most backstabbing, envious assholes in the world. But that always happened behind the scenes. When one guy did well, you’d hear whispers that he didn’t deserve it. Or when a guy fell on his ass, you’d hear whispers that that was just what the motherfucker deserved. It was always behind-the-scenes shit. So when I was being called the biggest comic in the world, a couple of other dudes who couldn’t stand it started badmouthing me to the press.

  But when Sam Kinison lost his mind and became obsessed with my success, that got to me. Not because I felt it would hurt my career—his attacks actually brought me more attention—but because Sam and I had been running buddies. We’d gone through the wars together. I knew he was deep into coke, and that coke will fry your brain and scramble your soul. Given Sam’s hyper energy, the last thing he needed was artificial chemical energy. Whatever it was, for a long time Sam was fixated on telling the world that I wasn’t shit. He went on Stern and couldn’t stop ripping me. He started calling me Andrew Jew Silverstein, like I ever hid the fact that I was Jewish. He told a couple of audiences that he was hoping I died of inside-out stomach cancer. It made him absolutely insane that I had leapfrogged over him and was playing huge arenas.

  But because I knew Sam wasn’t in his right mind, I didn’t let it get to me. When I learned that his brother Kevin, a really nice guy, had committed suicide, I felt terrible. So when I saw Sam at a Bon Jovi concert, I went over to express my condolences. When I started to say something, though, Sam turned away, like I was dead meat.

  I thought ab
out it for a couple of weeks and decided to call him.

  “The reason I came over,” I said to him, “was to tell you how sorry I was about your brother. I don’t have a brother, and I can’t imagine the pain of losing one. When you wouldn’t even look at me, I thought it was a pussy move on your part.”

  Silence. I could hear Sam thinking.

  “You know what, Dice, maybe I been wrong about you. Maybe the thing to do is for the two of us to go out on tour together. We’ll rent a bus. The two shock comics, the two screamers, the two rock and rollers who ain’t scared of saying nothing to no one. What do you say?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Sam. You got your audience and I got mine.”

  What I didn’t say was something Sam already knew: I was playing twenty-thousand-seat arenas, and at best Sam was playing two-thousand-seat theaters.

  Next time I saw Sam was the night before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. I was at the Comedy Club with Hot Tub Johnny. When Sam saw me walk in, he ran over. Wearing his usual long coat and beret, he fell to his knees and started in with, “Oh, godfather, oh, great godfather, let me kiss your hand.”

  “Get the fuck up, Sam,” I said. “That ain’t even funny.”

  “Godfather,” he continued, “will you grant me the extreme privilege of going on tour with you? Will you be kind enough to grant me my wish, godfather?”

  “You don’t gotta do this, Sam. You know that a tour with the two of us ain’t in the works.”

  Without a word, he just got up and left. Next day Trini and I were coming from Rosh Hashanah services when she turned to me and said, “I got something to tell you, Andrew, but promise you won’t get mad.”

  “How can I promise when I don’t know what it is?”

  “It isn’t good. That’s why I wanted to wait till the services were over.”

  “Tell me already.”

  “Last night after you left the Comedy Club and Hot Tub Johnny stayed behind, Johnny and Kinison got into a fistfight.”

  “What!”

  “It got ugly.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Hot Tub.”

  “And why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He didn’t wanna mess up your holiday.”

  That night I heard the story on the phone from Hot Tub Johnny himself. Kinison had come over to him saying shit like “You think I’m afraid of Dice? You think I can’t kick Dice’s ass?” Being a cool guy, Hot Tub ignored him. But Sam didn’t go away.

  “What are you gonna do,” Sam asked Johnny, “if I decide to kick your ass?”

  “Put your hand on me,” says Hot Tub, “and find out.”

  Sam gave Hot Tub a shove and Hot Tub laid him out with a single shot to the mouth. Sam’s bodyguard went after Johnny, there was a big scuffle, but no one was really hurt. This was all I needed to hear. I jumped in the car and roared over to the Comedy Store, where Kinison was doing a late set. On the way over, I got crazier and crazier. My ears were burning and my throat was dry. If Sam was angling for a fight, I was more than willing—I’d be fuckin’ delighted—to give him one. I’d bash his fuckin’ brains in.

  When I got there, Hot Tub Johnny was waiting for me.

  “No, Dice,” was all he said.

  “Get outta my way, Johnny.”

  “I can’t let you do it.”

  “I said, get out of my fuckin’ way!”

  “This is what he wants.”

  “Fine, ’cause this is what he gets.”

  “He’s setting you up. He’ll take the beating so he can take your money. That’s all there is to it.”

  “It’ll be worth it.”

  “No, it won’t. He’ll win. He’ll get the publicity, his career will get the bump he’s looking for, he’ll sue you for millions, and you’ll wind up looking like a schmuck. Just go home and forget about it.”

  I thought about it for a minute. Hot Tub was right. Hot Tub was a great friend who wanted nothing for me but the best. “Thanks,” I said before leaving the club and going home to Trini.

  MEETING THE MASTERS AND THE MANIACS

  “STALLONE WANTS TO meet you,” said Barry Josephson, my day-to-day manager, who worked for Sandy Gallin.

  I took it as a joke, but Barry’s not the kind of guy who jokes.

  “If you’re pulling my leg,” I told him, “I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

  “He’s making a movie called Lock Up with Donald Sutherland. He wants you to come over to the set.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “No,” said Barry, “this is real. Sly is a Dice fan—simple as that.”

  I felt like a giddy little kid on his way to Disneyland. I could hardly concentrate on anything but this one amazing fuckin’ fact—Stallone had asked to meet me. I always thought I’d make it big, but for all my certainty, I never thought—never even imagined—that one day I’d be sought out by Sly.

  I pulled into the studio lot. The drive-on pass was waiting. I was directed to go straight to Stallone’s trailer. I parked the car. Took a few deep breaths. Got out. Walked to the trailer. Took some more deep breaths. Knocked on the door. Waited a few seconds. Then that voice:

  “Come on in.”

  I climbed up into the trailer, and there he was. He was smiling.

  “Hey, man,” he said, “glad you could come over. Just wanted to say congratulations on everything. You deserve it. You’re breaking new ground. And you break me up, you really do.”

  I jumped in before he could go any further and told him how much Rocky meant to me, meant to all of us. How it was like nothing that came before it. How I used it to channel my energy and my character.

  He laughed appreciatively and asked if I’d do my Rocky impression for him.

  “Adrian!” I started screaming in my best Sly voice. I was performing before an audience of one, but it was the best audience of my life.

  We hung around and shot the shit for a few more minutes before he was called to the set.

  “I’m having a few friends up to the house for a little barbecue on Sunday,” he said. “We’d love to have you and your girl come over.”

  When we arrived that Sunday, we weren’t surprised that the place was palatial. But we were surprised that Sly was in the backyard flipping burgers. No cook, just Sly. He introduced us to his brother, Frank, and all his friends. It’s like we were family. The conversation was low-key and easy. Everyone was treating me like I was the star, not Sly.

  Among his pals was George Pipasik, the famous trainer who got Stallone in shape for Rocky. I’d been reading about this guy for years. He was Mr. Czechoslovakia four years in a row. He was all about building up your natural strength—no steroids, no nothing but working on the machines that he built with his own hands. At forty-five, he looked twenty years younger. In his Czech accent, he said to me, “They call you the Diceman, is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And do you know what they call me?”

  “Mr. Pipasik?”

  “No, they call me Filthy Dirty and Nasty Mouth. What do you think of that?”

  “I like it. It sounds like a name I’d make up.”

  “Well, I’m happy to shake your hand, Mr. Diceman.”

  When we shook hands, everyone—including Sly—was looking at us. They knew what was coming, but I didn’t. He shook my hand with such brute unrelenting force that within a few seconds I was down on my knees.

  “Holy shit,” I said from my position on the ground. “You’re the trainer I’m looking for. As long as Sly don’t mind.”

  “If you can take it, Dice,” Sly yelled from his position behind the grill, “be my guest.”

  A week later I was at Pipasik’s gym, where all the machines, custom constructed by him, were painted orange. I’m something of a gym rat. I’ve been to a thousand gyms, but nothing like this. Those machines were so quiet and smooth that it was a thrill to use them. I wouldn’t call getting trained by Pip
asik a thrill. It was more of a challenge. But I hung in. I was about to make a movie, and this was the man to get me in shape.

  MY KIND OF GUY

  JOEL SILVER DEMANDED respect. He got respect. He was the man who made a slew of tremendously expensive and successful action-adventure movies. Producers like him are army generals like Douglas MacArthur or George Patton. They’re bigger-than-life figures—like Ivan the Terrible or Julius fuckin’ Caesar—because they make bigger-than-life movies. If Joel didn’t think he was getting the most out of you, he’d scream in your face. He was all about big passion. He’d love you, he’d hate you, he’d hug you, he’d rant at you like you were a piece of shit. Joel was my kind of guy.

  Up until this point, Joel and I had had great creative meetings about the character of Ford Fairlane and my approach to the film. So I was a little puzzled when I got a call from his office saying that he needed to have an emergency meeting with me. I showed up with Hot Tub Johnny. Barry Josephson and a couple other reps of mine were waiting for me.

  We were all called into a huge office, where Joel got up from his gigantic cherrywood desk, shook my hand, and then said to Hot Tub, “Would you mind waiting outside?”

  “Not at all,” said Hot Tub, who left me alone with Joel.

  Now I knew something was wrong. Joel didn’t want me to have my backup. He wanted me to feel unprotected.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  “We have a problem with the movie.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Look, Dice, if you don’t care about the film, then I don’t care.”

  “What are you talking about, Joel?”

  “I make movies every day,” he said as his voice got louder and louder. “This isn’t the only movie I’m making. Because I’m making movies—with or without you. You understand that, don’t you, Dice?”