by Nik Richie
Ben Quayle is running for Congress in Arizona, and he’s pretty much an automatic shoe-in because of his name, but I don’t really take an interest until Politico reaches out to me. They call me up wanting dirt, saying, “There’s speculation that you and Mr. Quayle used to go out together a lot.”
It’s the “guilty by association” angle. Take a seemingly stand-up guy, pair him up with someone like a Nik Richie who is viewed unfavorably by the mainstream media, and the first person is no longer as likeable. I can see from a mile away that they’re trying to make Ben look bad by his former association with me, but I’m not going to lie. So I tell the reporter that it’s true.
“Ben and I were friends,” I say.
“Were friends? You mean you’re not friends anymore?”
“We were drinking buddies, but I haven’t talked to him since we started Dirty Scottsdale together.”
The reporter asks, “What do you mean you started it together? You’re saying Ben Quayle was a part of that website?”
“Yeah, he used to go by Brock Landers.”
“We heard that he drank and did drugs,” the reporter says.
“To my knowledge, he never did drugs,” I say. “Not that I’ve seen.”
“Mr. Richie, I’m going to check a few things and give you a call back.”
I wasn’t trying to out Ben. I didn’t think I was providing any new information about his past, but the next thing I know the media was all over it.
It’s everywhere: Politico, Associated Press, Vanity Fair.
Every major news outlet is talking about how Ben Quayle used to write for Dirty Scottsdale, linking all of his articles and quoting him, saying he has no moral compass. The media is bum-rushing him, and his political opponents are using Brock Landers against Ben in their commercials and interviews. They paint him as this depraved individual who’s not ready for office, and for every time Ben tries to do damage control, the media tosses another Brock Landers quote in his face.
In true political fashion, Ben lies about the issue, telling people that he was never Brock Landers and had no affiliation with the site. He pretends like I never existed and I can’t help but wonder why he would lie since he’s going to win anyway.
Just own up to it, I’m thinking. Just be honest.
All Ben has to do is say that he did it for a while, but when it got too hot, he backed out to focus on his political career. We were kids. It was only for a little while. People will understand. Ben keeps denying it, though. So the media gets into an even bigger frenzy because they’ve got a politician caught in a lie, not to mention me calling him out on the site.
I post:
Wow, if he is denying that he is Brock or any association then he better be ready for a sh*t storm. Ben this better not be true. I was just trying to help you get votes by outing you…there is no need to lie to the American people. I miss those days three years ago in my kitchen hanging out hungover thinking about what club douche bags in Scottsdale to target next. —nik
Traffic goes up.
Ben changes his story.
It goes from him having nothing to do with the site to him admitting to the media he posted a few comments here and there to boost traffic (which is still a lie, just a different one). He maintains that he was never Brock Landers, and he plays dumb regarding me coming to him for legal advice at Snell & Wilmer. Ben says he had no hand in helping me incorporate the company. He does what all Dirty politicians do: deny and lie. Ben bullshits the media and I keep calling him out on it.
Vanity Fair quotes me saying: “I am not attacking you, I am just being honest. Stop listening to your bullsh*t advisors because they are making you look stupid. If you don’t remember me or Brock Landers that is cool. I guess I don’t remember the time you banged [redacted] (a chick) in my spare bedroom. I just let randoms spend the night and have sex with strangers…should I continue?”
I reiterate my side of the story, the truth. I explain that I even made him an e-mail64 where chicks would send him dirty pictures all day. Half of me is waiting for Ben to fess up, the other half is expecting another lie to come out of his mouth. The more he and I jab back and forth at each other, the more the media feeds on it. They find the worst image they can off the site—typically a naked chick, legs spread wide and covered with hearts, and say, “This is what Ben Quayle was a part of.”
It’s a complete shitstorm, a couple of guys publicly fighting that used to be best friends. We used to be the Batman and Robin of Scottsdale, but politics had clearly changed Ben for the worst. He was one of them now, and as much as I used to get along with the guy, the situation proved that I didn’t know him anymore.
Ben ends up winning the election.
Despite the Brock Landers clusterfuck, he manages to pull it off. Even though he lied to the media and snubbed me, I still posted on the site that any registered voters in Arizona should vote for Brock Landers. I did my part in pushing the polls back his way, and I figured that’s the least I could do for an old friend.
After Ben resigned from Dirty Scottsdale, there were a few times that I had run into him out and about at the clubs. He was still up to his usual shit: drinking, having a good time, chasing girls. We’d talk about the site and he was happy to see how big it had gotten. It was easy to slip back into old conversations: who’s the hottest chick in Scottsdale and the current tool-tards of the scene. That’s the Ben I miss talking to.
So I decide to give it one more try and give Ben a call, not really knowing what to say beyond “congratulations.” His voicemail kicks on and I leave a generic message wishing him well on everything. It’s probably one of hundreds he’s gotten, and I have no expectations of him actually calling me back. Too much has changed. The both of us, we’re too different now. He’s no longer the guy I met in Lake Tahoe that chased chicks with me, and I’ve all but killed off Hooman Karamian. Ben’s the politician. I’m Nik Richie. Public perception won’t allow two guys like that to have a friendship without it causing a bunch of drama.
Sometimes to move up in the world, you have to sacrifice your friends.
[email protected]
$11M
During the whole Ben Quayle drama I find out I lost $11,000,000.
Associated Press puts it out on the wire that Sarah Jones got awarded a default judgment when I didn’t show up to court. The problem is that I don’t know Sarah Jones. I don’t know her lawyer, Eric Deters, either. Both the names are new to me, and I don’t even recall getting served papers about this. When someone is suing you, usually you get papers about it, and that didn’t happen.
The story about how this Bengals cheerleader went up on The Dirty are only vaguely familiar. The first one alleges she hooked up with the placekicker. There’s another one saying that her husband cheated on her and she’s got STDs. I don’t deny something went up. The first thing I do after reading the AP report is check that there is, indeed, a post about Sarah Jones. And there is. Two of them. That much I can confirm. The rest of this shit: the lawsuit, the $11M payout, this Eric Deters fucker celebrating a win over me—it’s coming out of nowhere. Meanwhile, everyone’s calling me about it. My friends are all getting hold of me to see if I really just lost $11M. ABC and NBC both want to get my reaction on losing that much money. At this point, I’m not even sure if I did or didn’t. In my mind, Associated Press are the journalists of the journalists. Maybe they know something I don’t.
David clears everything up.
He does what he does best.
My lawyer looks into the situation and finds out that this fucking moron, Eric Deters, sued the wrong site. He sued thedirt.com. Not thedirty.com. They’re Dirty World Recordings. I’m Dirty World. You could say that’s a small mistake, but not when $11M is on the line. And AP spreading this bullshit is only making it worse. Everyone is still calling me to find out if I’m shutting down the site or what I plan on doing, if I’m broke now. The comment boards are lighting up on the Jones post. Teasing me. Gloating. Saying I g
ot what I deserved. There’s relief in knowing that I’m in the clear, but in this business, even the appearance of vulnerability can hurt you.
So I put up the post about how Eric Deters fucked up and that I actually haven’t lost any money. I’m fine. They’re the ones who fucked up. Of course, AP doesn’t give an apology or issue any sort of retraction. The rest of the media outlets do, often citing how incompetent one would have to be to sue the wrong site. I agree. You have to be pretty fucking dumb to sue the wrong site.
We look into this Eric Deters guy a little bit more. He calls himself The Bulldog. He has a radio show in Kentucky. He fights in cage matches. David surmises that this guy is trying to ride in on the coattails of the Ben Quayle scandal. Just like in Hollywood, sometimes you do things for money, and sometimes you do them for publicity. Recently, Ben and I have been in the media quite a bit. David thinks Deters is going after the hot target for the sake of itself, to draw attention his way. He wants to put his name out there.
In other words, Deters is a fame-chaser.
He’s using Nik Richie as the platform to chase it.
Dr. Phil
The producers of Dr. Phil contact me wanting logos and shit like that because they’re doing an Internet-related show. They say it’s going to cover The Dirty, Facebook, and this movie called Catfish, which I guess is about an online relationship that goes sour. Collectively, this is all going to add up to an anti-cyber-bullying type of episode in which Dr. Phil gives his take on things with no one present to contest him. Since I don’t like the sound of that, I tell the producers that I want to come on. I’d like to be there to give my side of the story, and if that means me having to fly out to do the show then I will.
Now, they don’t have to agree to this. Dr. Phil and his producers can do and say whatever they want because the show is their turf. They don’t have to invite me, but it makes for better TV if they do. Controversy equates to ratings. We both know that, and we’ve both been applying that rule in our own way. So this episode of Dr. Phil ranting about cyber-bullying quickly turns into Dr. Phil vs. Nik Richie.
I fly out to Los Angeles, right into the lion’s den.
In the green room at Paramount Studios, I’m sitting with Shayne and my lawyer, David Gingras, as he goes over what I should and shouldn’t say. It’s like he’s preparing me for trial, and in a way, he kind of is. Dr. Phil is a nationally televised show. People are going to judge, and we’re all well aware that Dr. Phil has already made his decision about what kind of guy I am. The trick is proving otherwise, or at the very least, giving the audience a few reasons to think otherwise.
“Don’t be a heartless asshole,” David says. “It could really help us out down the line if you at least try to be pleasant.”
“Okay…I will try to be pleasant,” I say, but it comes out sounding fake.
“I’m serious, Nik. You don’t need any more bad PR.”
Of course, Zuckerberg doesn’t show. He’s in charge of the biggest social networking site on the planet. When you’re the most popular kid at the table, you don’t need to do little bullshit appearances for good PR. He’s already got all the good PR he can handle. The only ass Zuckerberg will kiss is Oprah’s.
I, on the other hand, don’t have that luxury.
It must look like I’m nervous because Shayne squeezes my hand and says, “Hey, it’s going to be okay. It’s just TV.”
I’m thinking, Well, I’ve never been on TV before.
Production comes to the green room to escort the three of us out to the set. After a few hallways, we emerge from the backstage and I see a crowd of mostly middle-aged women talking amongst themselves. The place is packed, cameras and crew members everywhere. Freddy Fags65 and Scooby Snack are in the audience, and them being here is just too damn convenient to be a coincidence. They’re both dressed up like they’re about to go clubbing, and Freddy is still sporting that spiked haircut that makes it look like he made out with an electrical socket. I’m not really worried about anything they could say, though.
David, Shayne, and I are seated in the center section of the audience, front row, and the production assistant is speaking low to me, saying, “Dr. Phil is going to come out. He’ll do an introductory bit, and then when he’s ready for you to come up, he’ll introduce you by name.” She says, “You’ll sit in the chair nearest him. Got it?”
I nod like I understand and she takes off.
The theme music kicks in and I start shaking, feeling cold. Freezing actually. Music is playing and the lights are frigid and bright the way you’d think of death, and then the audience starts applauding when they see Dr. Phil come out. My breath shortens and I can’t stop my hands from shaking, and suddenly I’m doubting myself and everything I’ve done with my life. It’s cold and Dr. Phil is up on stage, a giant. He’s wearing a dark suit with a purple paisley tie. A crisp white shirt. Women are cheering as Dr. Phil reads off a teleprompter.
He showcases screenshots of the site.
He reads user comments word for word, opting to keep in the curses because they can always bleep them out in post. Not even three minutes into the show and already there’s a disapproving energy mounting in the audience. I can feel it. Through the cold lights, it’s thickening.
Dr. Phil says, “Nik, come on up.”
Everything seems to go away when I step onto the stage: the noise, the people, the cold. Even the lights seem to dim down. Muted, more like a soft glow that’s focused solely on Dr. Phil and myself. Our conversation begins:
Dr. Phil asks, “You created this website, correct?”
I say, “Yeah.”
He requests, “Define the website for me in your view.”
I flash back years ago, to that lunch at Ra Sushi where I’m miserable and the pieces finally come together: reality TV + Internet. I briefly explain the concept of what I’ve termed as “Reality Internet.”
We arrive at the first point of conflict when Dr. Phil points out that these people on the site aren’t public figures. He says, “These are regular people just going about their own business.”
Well, we could disagree there. I could bring up girls like Alien and Leper, the cokehead, alcoholic, stripper/porn star/prostitutes. I could say what they did at those clubs in the Hard Rock, and how Alien threatened to jump out the window if I didn’t fuck her, and I could mention how Leper fucked me and then immediately went to Lil Wayne to fuck him. I could share this information, and I wonder if Dr. Phil would recant his previous statement of how “these are regular people just going about their own business.” Alien and Leper clearly aren’t normal in any capacity. And their business, as he refers to it…well, I’ve seen that first-hand. I’ve watched them go about their business, and it’s a complete shit show.
I don’t say any of that, though, nodding my head slightly because Dr. Phil is still talking. He explains the process of the website as he understands it, saying, “Somebody takes their picture that doesn’t like them, or…for whatever reason, and then they just write terrible, insulting things about them on the website.”
But if the picture doesn’t lie…if the subject is truly what everyone accuses them to be, is what they say still terrible? Is it slanderous to call a cokehead a cokehead? If I think someone isn’t pretty, does it become an insult by voicing it? Since when did it become criminal to have an opinion? Or is the crime the act of documenting it?
These are the questions I should be asking. I should elaborate on the very small amount of information he’s been given about me and the site, but instead, I respond, “It goes both ways, but yeah…there’s a marketplace for it, and what I’m doing is a business.”
That’s my way of saying: It’s not personal. It’s a job.
Dr. Phil comes back with, “Well, there’s a marketplace for heroin too but that doesn’t justify being a heroin dealer.”
Fucker got me.
Now I toss out my big numbers, saying, “Yeah, but if fifteen million people weren’t coming to my site, then obviously it
’s something that’s demanded and needed, and I’m—”
“—Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he cuts in. “You just said it’s “demanded and needed’.”
“Correct. Yes. I believe it is.”
“You think it’s needed? You think it’s a necessary element in today’s society?”
But now I’m not even listening anymore. I’m waiting my turn to speak.
“It’s a form of holding people accountable for their actions, Dr. Phil,” I say, almost yelling it because he’s trying to cut me off again.
“Holding them accountable?” he asks, clearly offended by the idea. “You actually think you’re holding people accountable? Who are you to hold people accountable?”
And now Dr. Phil and I are overlapping because he keeps asking questions while I’m still attempting to answer the first one. The interesting part about this, the part I don’t think about because I’m so caught up in the moment, is that I could just as easily turn the tables on Dr. Phil. I could ask him, “Who are you to hold me accountable?”
We both do the same thing: we’re shown a particular issue, and then we react or advise based on what we see. We’re not the source of the issue. Neither of us go on the hunt for these cases. Dr. Phil doesn’t tell people to be bad parents or cheat on their spouses the same way I don’t force people to do drugs or sleep around. Yet, here we are, a TV personality and an Internet personality, doing approximately the same thing but in an apparent argument.
Dr. Phil tells me that what I do is “reprehensible” and “destructive to people.”
He berates me, cyber-bullies me—except it’s on national television. He television-bullies me. I can’t complain because I knew this would happen. It’s not like I came on here thinking Dr. Phil would be kind and cordial and understanding, but then the cameras cut, and something very odd happens.
