Everybody Curses, I Swear!

by Carrie Keagan

  “We are kinda vulgar and we are kinda primal and we talk about dicks and vag and blowjobs and … you know … dick in the ass, anal sex.”

  —Gerard Butler

  It was the summer of 2007 and everywhere you turned you were bombarded with Nickelback’s music video for their hit song “Rockstar.” It’s the one that features cameos from a multitude of celebrities drowning in self-adulation because there’s nothing more rock ’n’ roll than a bunch of rich and famous people patting themselves on the back and telling you how awesome they are!!! Now, if you look closely at Gene Simmons’s appearances in the video, you’ll notice he’s wearing a T-shirt that says NGTV.com. There we were, cemented in pop culture history for posterity. In the ultimate game of “How’d they do that?” it was a strange dream to think that only a few years before that, we were on the verge of bankruptcy and surrounded by dissent. How we went from Netgroupie to No Good TV, from bankruptcy to an Internet phenomenon, and from a company of eight to a production powerhouse of a hundred is the stuff of legend. That legend began with my friend Gene Simmons.

  We were running on ribs ’n’ dick, our angel investor had turned on us, the company’s board was divided, our big media partnership had disintegrated, and we’d been evicted and locked out of our offices. It appeared like the sun was about to set on our dreams. With our backs against the wall, I threw a Hail Mary pass to my buddy Harry, who stepped in with a last-second catch. Suddenly and unbeknownst to the scheming few that surrounded us, we returned from the dead. Then, in the still of night and without telling a soul, we talked the landlord into letting us retrieve our property. Ken, Kourosh, and I moved everything into our new beach pad. Then we went silent to regroup. We could see the new dawn breaking ahead.

  Almost a week went by before the board, our investor, or any of our partners realized that everything hadn’t gone to shit and somehow, somewhere we had survived. It was odd. We had saved the company and its assets and somehow they were upset by that. Our nemesis had done such a number on our investor that he was upside down and didn’t know it. Upon realizing that their coup had failed, the proverbial shit really hit the fan. Lawyers were being called and threats were being made. The level of insanity was at an all-time high. We didn’t trust people involved in the coup, so we didn’t tell them where we were and what we were doing. Then, in a final declaration of war, our nemesis did the unthinkable. In what can only be described, in hindsight, as an epic blunder, he resigned from the company and from its board. If the investor decided to sue the company, as threatened, to force us out, he needed to distance himself from the litigation. It was a beautiful mess. And as he lunged forth with his coup de grace to finish us off, we received the most unexpected phone call. “Hello. This is Gene Simmons.”

  “Tooth rattling, brain numbing, bone shattering, fuck fest of a blood salad!!”

  —Sylvester Stallone

  Two hours later, we were at the demon’s lair, and by lair I mean palatial, KISS-themed dungeon, OMG, estate. Gene had received a copy of the sizzle reel we had created from a friend and loved it. He and his partners had become true believers, and somehow he tracked us down. A few days later Gene and co. invested in our company. Gene doesn’t like to fuck around when he sees an opportunity. Needless to say, our internal problems faded as quickly, as our previously hostile investor became an ally who wanted to help with the transaction. At which point, our nemesis became a forgotten casualty of war. Our angel investor was bought out at a modest profit; the idiot brigade had marched off a cliff, and we were renewed and re-invigorated. At the closing, I remember Gene serenading me in his best Frank Sinatra: “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you” while giving me a twirl. It was a beautiful moment of vindication. Together, we and Gene went on to raise millions of dollars of investment to launch our new digital network: No Good TV.

  “Motherfuckin’ hell yeah with an eight-ball on the side!”

  —Chris Pratt

  Building any business is a game. The rules of the game aren’t always clear and your enemies are never quick to reveal themselves. The game begins with a handshake and a smile on your face on the way in, and if you’re not careful it can end the same way on the way out … but without the smile. We had survived this far because, after all we had been through, we were all out of arrogance, and we knew that even though we had new partners, we were blind, surrounded, and our adversary was far superior in force. The only useful weapons we had at our disposal were humility and character. Trust me when I tell you there is nothing that better illuminates the gray areas where most business is transacted than humility and character. It’s like a black light on a motel room bed. It doesn’t tell you what you want to know; it tells you what you need to know.

  In a business where there are no angels, I have often heard, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” But I say, when venturing into the devil’s playground, beware the horny little bastard, for all he wants to do is fork you! That was our relationship with Gene and co. A little give, a little take, a little real, a little fake. It’s what I affectionately call Prison Rules: Fuck or Get Fucked! Gene is smart and methodical and will challenge you with all guns blazing. There is no subtlety to him. He’s not delicate about your feelings. That’s not his game. He’s there to poke and prod you to see what you’re made of and help you make whatever decision He wants you to make or vomit from the pressure like a little bitch. Sometimes he’s wrong, sometimes he’s right, but the only way to deal with him is to have the courage of your convictions. It’s the only thing he respects. Everything else, he could give two shits about. As he would always say, “I’m too rich to care.”

  He could be an asshole. In fact, there are a lot of people in this world who think Gene is an asshole. What they may not know is that he really relishes the idea of being one. He loves it. He works hard to earn it and wears it as a badge of honor. It’s his calling card. He would often claim to be “the world’s biggest asshole.” It’s a serious point of pride. He identifies with it so much that it became the title of his second solo album. But, in my opinion, there is such a thing as too much asshole, and it was my sit-down with the creators of South Park, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, that really put things into perspective for me:

  Sometimes in your life, you’re more of a dick and sometimes, you’re more of a pussy. Sometimes you’re an asshole, just for an afternoon, and, hopefully, you think about it: ‘I don’t want to be an asshole anymore.’ That’s our big political statement. People have been asking us, all these reporters and stuff, ‘What’s your political stand?’ And the only real political stand we take is a dick is different than an asshole. We don’t think it’s a huge stand. That’s it. That’s the only stand we take. Dicks are different than pussies. But pussies and dicks are both … we need them in the world, and they exist in the world. What we don’t need in the world is assholes ’cause they just shit all over everything.

  Myself, I don’t think you should put all your assholes in one basket. Try to mix it up with some dick and pussy for a more even spread.

  In spite of his blunt personality, I always felt that Gene and I had a great relationship. In a funny way, we were two sides of the same asshole. He reveled in being a misogynistic prick, and I was the punk that gave him a lot of shit for it. It was all friendly. It was just our special relationship. No matter what, he was always supportive and protective of me, and we had fun when we were together. But it did all begin with a little bump in the road … actually two.

  So there we were, partners, ready to commence our new business venture. Now that we were all on the same page, it was time to find out what that page was, exactly. Gene was a big fan of what we had accomplished with my uncensored interviews with musicians. He was even more impressed with the leap that we had taken, going from just doing bands to branching out to A-list movie stars and other celebrities. We had come a long way, but with new partners come new ideas. As part owner and chairman of the board, Gene wielded a lot of power about th
e direction we’d be going in, and he and his team weren’t afraid to use it.

  At our first board meeting, I secretly hoped Gene would spit blood or drop tongue, but it was surprisingly very formal. After Gene and his team sat down, the first words out of their mouths were:

  “We think Carrie should do the interviews topless.”

  The room went silent. The pause wasn’t just nine-months pregnant; it was octuplets. I remember thinking, Oh shit. What have we gotten ourselves into? Without exchanging any words, Kourosh and I looked at each other not knowing exactly how to proceed. I mean, at this point, Gene and his team held all the cards and were far more powerful than we were. Kourosh had always said, “When facing an extreme situation, the only response is escalation.” (Prison rules!) Then, as if we had come to some silent agreement as to what needed to happen next … he took a deep breath and proceeded to escalate the situation.

  “If we’re doing that, I’m out!” Kourosh said loudly and angrily. “Respectfully, what is wrong with you guys? Did we come all this way to fail out of the gate with one profoundly stupid decision?! This is never going to happen!”

  Then began two hours of heated debate over whether we were now going to serve double Whoppers during my interviews. I have to say that the most amusing part to me was that at no point did anyone stop to ask me if I would even be open to the idea of sharing screen time with the Bobbsey Twins. It was a conversation around me.

  Admittedly, the request wasn’t that shocking, considering it was coming from Gene Simmons, of all people. The man who loved bragging about banging 4,897 women and professing that KISS pretty much invented sex, drugs, & rock ’n’ roll (though Gene himself claims he’s never done drugs). But let’s be honest, there was no way any A-list celebrities were going to sit down with me if I was naked and my Super Big Gulps were in their faces. We hadn’t come all this way to now be diminished to porn-site status.

  Strangely enough, a few years later, at the junket for The King’s Speech, one of my so-called “colleagues” from the international press allegedly and unknowingly decided to prove my point. In her interview with Colin Firth, she opened with a quite serious marriage proposal to which he appeared flattered and amused while the room filled with tension and curiosity. She followed with a couple of throwaway questions about the film to throw the room off the scent, which was smart. But then she returned to her original quest and began to convince him of the seriousness of her marriage proposal and her willingness to do whatever it took to prove her worthiness. In that instant, playfulness took a rather salacious turn, and she took her top off and presented him with an organic boob salad for tossing. Realizing the soon-to-be Oscar winner was on the verge of a bewb riot, within seconds she was descended upon by security and removed from the suite and then the hotel. Many spank-banks were filled with mental postcards that day, but just like Dustin Diamond after releasing the porno film Screeched, her career was on life support. Like I said, sometimes Gene was wrong.

  Hence, RULE #3 was created. I was never EVER going to go topless. Period. End of story. I give Lena Dunham all the credit in the world. She can play Ping-Pong nude on camera all day/every day with Patrick Wilson, her boobs flopping around like sockeye salmon on a dry dock, and it’s hipster art. Sure, she gets her fair share of criticism, but I don’t think she’s ever been called a ho. If I played Ping-Pong with Patrick Wilson topless, I’d be slut-shamed out of showbiz. Hell, if I weaved baskets with the topless Zulu tribe for the National Geographic Channel, I’d still probably be slut-shamed. #bigbreastedlivesmatter

  Knowing this, if we didn’t stick to my “no topless” rule, we would fail. We weren’t weaving baskets. What we were doing was admittedly salacious, so we had to have lines that I wouldn’t cross. Listen, if I managed to get a job at Hooters and not wear the shiny crotch creepers, I could figure a way out of this, too. This time, the stakes were a tad higher. We had to prove to Gene Simmons and our new investors that we could launch NGTV, now a multimillion-dollar company, and succeed on my talent, not my chi-chis. I have to give Gene credit because after everyone cooled down and he heard our position on why this would be a non-starter and would kill all the relationships we had built, he changed his mind and convinced our investors to trust us on this. I think we gained a little of their respect that day, too. Again, thanks to prison rules!!

  It was a fucking crazy way to start. It was heartbreaking to realize that after everything it had taken for us to come together, we actually could not have been further apart. But going through the fire that day with them taught us a lot. We learned that building a business is very much like a naked steeplechase with all of its obstacles, hurdles, unnecessary nudity, and blind spots. You never know what lies ahead, and you’ve got to take more than a few leaps of faith. If you don’t stay focused, you will wind up “ass-up” in a ditch, naked. We definitely had our hands full with our new partners, but we all wanted the same thing so we kept on keepin’ on. We hit the ground running.

  When you raise money, there’s an expectation to improve everything almost immediately. It’s an impossible task but has to be done. Now that we had turned a corner into the big leagues, Kourosh and I sat down and had a serious conversation about upping our game at every level. We had dreamed about this for a long time, and it was all coming to fruition. We talked about new ways to improve the graphic packages and video design, new programming ideas, and building our own studio space. It was all going great until the conversation ever so subtly turned to me. That crafty son of a bitch! It was then that I realized that he had gotten me all softened up with the fun stuff so he could have a conversation with me about me.

  Show business is a perception game. The way you look and how you handle yourself walking into a room is your first move in the interview. Kourosh and I both agreed that it was important that I look as polished and professional as the A-list celebrities we were going after. If I was going to sit across from Cate Blanchett and invite her to play a game of Dirty Yahtzee, it might be easier if I looked more like her than a Coyote Ugly bartender laying out shots. A bit of polish, a hint of sass, and a friendly smile are your greatest tools. I had one shot at making the right impression out of the gate. It was kill or be killed, so to speak. (Prison rules!) As Kourosh sweetly put it, “It was time for Norma Jean to become Marilyn Monroe,” or as I took it, “It was time to polish the turd!” Kourosh had already taken care of the two essentials by hiring a makeup artist and a wardrobe stylist. Every girl’s dream come true!

  But in true Kourosh fashion, he took it one step further. I now also had a nutritionist and a celebrity trainer, who also worked with superstars like Madonna. I was petrified and intrigued. Even though my dad owned a gym, and I’d spent many days hanging out there after school, I didn’t ever work out. I just played on the machines like a jungle gym. Once, in high school, I got the knuckleheaded idea to train to be an aerobics teacher. I took three classes in a row and literally couldn’t get out of bed for a week. I was pretty sure I was dying. I vowed from that day forward that I’d never exercise again. So basically, I’d never worked out in my entire life, except for one day really, really, REALLY hard.

  I put my head down and committed to three months of pure torture in the name of my future. I hit the gym two hours a day, six days a week, doing cardio, boxing, and weapons training, just to keep it interesting. I kept thinking, If I’m going to do this, I want to come out the other end a fucking superhero! I hopped on the bandwagon of one of those celebrity-endorsed, overpriced, tasteless, twelve-hundred-calorie-diet meal plans that get delivered to your house every day. After the first week of inedible nutrition, I wished I could just not eat food anymore.

  The whole ordeal was a nightmare. At first, it just hurt physically, but then, over time, it was way more mental anguish. Every waking moment was spent thinking about what I wasn’t eating and how many calories I needed to burn before my next meal of carrots and celery. In three months I had completely transformed my body. I had lost a bunch of baby f
at, gained a bunch of muscle, and was down to nearly 12 percent body fat. I felt like Linda Hamilton from Terminator 2.

  On the flip side, I was basically starving and I hadn’t had a drink in months, but that wasn’t even the worst of it. Much to my surprise, I had completely lost my tits. They shrank down four cup sizes, from a DDDD to a C! They looked like pathetic little deflated water balloons. I had been wearing the same sports bra for three months and didn’t notice the severe shrinkage. My whole life I always had bazookas, but now I had slingshots. I panicked every time I looked in the mirror: Am I going to be like this forever? Do I, of all fucking people, need to get a boob job? What the fuck did I just do? When I lost them, I felt like I’d lost part of my identity. A woman without a country. A boat without an oar. A hand without a donut … mmm, donut …

  In the middle of my identity crisis, Kourosh left the country to do some investor fund-raising. I was running the company while he was on the other side of the world. I was left to manage an office full of needy creatives, a barrage of board members, and our ultrasensitive industry relationships, all the while being extremely hangry! It was more than I could handle. The pressure of needing to be perfect in mind, body, and soul was killing me. I was at the gym slicing and dicing my imaginary enemy with a samurai sword when the weight of everything kicked me right between the eyes. I fell to my knees and started bawling. The messy, ugly kind of crying. My trainer Johnny must have thought I’d broken my arm or something. He came running over to me and let me melt into a puddle of gross all over his sweatshirt. This was all too much. We had only a few months until the launch, and I was a complete mess. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I didn’t feel strong; I felt exhausted. I hadn’t seen any of my friends in months. I had lost perspective of why I was doing all this. Does my fitting into a size zero really matter to Michael Douglas or Sharon Stone?