by Nik Richie
We went to movies.
We went on dates.
Hooman Karamian and Nik Richie started to become separate people again. She saw her husband, not the blogger or the chicks he ragged on. She was starting to be happy again. We both were.
And then she got pregnant.
Amanda had been pregnant for about a month, but it was confirmed around Thanksgiving. We had never planned on having kids. Not at that particular moment, anyway. Amanda and I were finally getting along again, but the idea of having a kid reintroduced a certain amount of stress into our lives. She had things that she wanted to do with her business that would need to be put on hold. I was more concerned about the idea of Amanda and I raising a child together. Our relationship as husband and wife was rocky. Adding a kid would introduce a whole other level of complication. That, and Amanda still didn’t approve of what I did all day with the site. Quite honestly, I had a suspicion she’d use the kid to get me to discontinue my involvement, either by selling it to the first bidder or shutting it down completely.
And I was also worried about being a good father.
I was having a lunch with Jim and told him about all these issues, but he insisted that this was going to be good for me. This baby would bring a lot of joy into my life, he said.
So Amanda and I had a series of talks over the next few weeks, more or less preparing ourselves for the changes that we were about to face. We were both going to have to scale back on work. We’d have to rearrange our finances, set up doctor’s visits, and start reading books like What to Expect When You’re Expecting because we were both fucking clueless when it came to kids. The two of us needed to mentally prepare for this, because up until this point, we were both all about our careers. We were going to have to stop being so selfish, and right around the time we finally accepted this new reality is when it happened.
She lost the baby.
It was December. I’m not sure which day.
What I remember is that my wife was screaming out in pain from the bed, clutching her stomach. There were faint blotches of blood coming through the sheets, so I was already starting to feel faint. Light-headed. The old phobia was kicking in, but the situation was making my adrenaline pump. It kept me conscious. I helped her walk from the bed to the bathroom, and she was crying, telling me how much it hurt. Her stomach was in pain. Sharp pain. And there was blood coming out of her vagina into the toilet. I couldn’t see anything, just kept hearing drop upon drop of it coming out of her. She cried and cried, and it was like this for I don’t know how long. I just squeezed her hand until she felt like she was ready to try and move, try and go to the hospital to see what was the matter. We already knew, but we had to hear it from a doctor to be sure. As if to make it official, they had to run their tests and take their samples.
Before we could confirm that we weren’t going to be parents, a doctor had to tell us, “I can’t find the baby.”
Amanda blamed me.
For some reason, I couldn’t say why, it was my fault that we lost the kid. We lost. The both of us. Not just her. I had to keep repeating that it was my kid, too. She wouldn’t listen, though. It was easier to make me the scapegoat. The villain. The bad guy.
After she miscarried, the air in the apartment became something worse than it ever had before. She started resenting me again. Hating me. Hating me for being Nik Richie and hating Hooman Karamian for killing her baby. I disgusted her on so many levels that she couldn’t stand the sight of me, and so I went to the place where I was accepted. Wanted.
I lost myself in my work.
Relished it. Needed it.
I wanted to be Nik Richie all the time now because my other life was in shambles. Broken beyond repair. Hooman Karamian slept on the couch and was hated by his wife. Nik Richie was loved, feared, adored, funny. He was all these things that Amanda didn’t see, or didn’t want to. He started out as the escape from work, and then he became the escape from my marriage. My life.
All day I would go over posts that Gayden and JV sent.
All day I got to be Nik Richie. I got to escape myself.
People had been asking for years how I could stand being Nik Richie, and my answer was usually along the lines of how this kind of figure was warranted. Needed. There needs to be a guy like this to call people out, keep them in check. This answer is true, but not the whole truth.
The reality is that compared to how bad things got in life, being Nik Richie is easy. Nik Richie didn’t have the same problems that Hooman Karamian had. He was above it. Beyond it.
That all changed on January 23rd.
I was about to have my own dirt.
79Refers to when something, typically a job, is done less than ideally.
The Tour
Looking back on it, the details seem to stick out more than anything.
Hurricane Bay in Glendale, AZ: I start calling it Glentucky because the girls are trashy and have no teeth. Mansion in Miami, FL: smells like noodles. Venue in Houston, TX: steroids; every guy in the place is a roided-out juicehead sporting tribal tattoos. I’m drinking. Drunk. Privé in Las Vegas, NV: we’re at table 69, which only celebrities are allowed to sit at. Barcelona in Scottsdale, AZ: I’m home but it’s cougar central. Rich divorcées staring at me like I’m meat. And I’m still drinking. Drunk. Losing it. Flying to Republic in New Orleans, LA: it’s my first Mardi Gras; girls flashing their tits for plastic beads. Me: stumbling through the French Quarter. Sometimes I get so drunk I puke, and then I wake up and go to Blonde in Kansas City, MO: the promoter has these terrible hair plugs and all the girls look too old. I celebrate my 30th birthday fifteen times and they pay me for this. $10,000. $15,000. $30,000. It depends on the market. A short flight to Lure in St. Louis, MO: get drunk and RichieRexic (Dirty Celeb) is waiting for me in the tub in my hotel room like she’s Mena Suvari in American Beauty. I don’t fuck her. Never fuck a Dirty Celeb, I tell myself. Then it’s Primal in Atlanta, GA: I’m expecting it to be packed with blacks but it’s totally vanilla. I understand my market a little bit more. Drink. Get drunk. Move on to Energy Night Club in Chicago, IL: it’s sixteen-and-over night, and all I remember is a bunch of little kids waiting in line to take their picture with me like I’m Santa Claus. Sugar Night Club in Columbus, OH: not even memorable, but I’m still drinking. Getting drunk and waking up hurting and hungover, going to Dream in Sacramento, CA: the armpit of America where every chick is beat. Fly south to Wet Night Club in San Jose: hottest servers I’ve ever seen, but I get rejected by all of them. Get drunk, can’t remember who I slept with. I’m sleeping with a lot of girls I don’t remember. Forgetting them. Forgetting myself, and now I’m at Ilounge in Orange County, CA: Persian mafiaville; I’m home again. Leaving for Dolce Vendetta in Dallas, TX: break my own rule and fuck a Dirty Celeb. I break a lot of rules. Fly out of DFW to the Hard Rock in San Diego: talk shop with Andy Hirsh; it’s a rare chill night. Move on to Playboy mansion in Beverly Hills, CA: Hefner is a geezer walking around in his jammies. The Shannon twins give me Dirty looks all night. Hot chicks with + 2’s everywhere wearing costumes and lingerie and body paint. It’s not reality. Go back to Vegas for a Tao Group event. Go back to Dallas to do Kinki Lounge: 8-Belles is running the girls there. I don’t fuck her. Have a threesome with some other girls instead, and I’m starting to lose it hard now, but I keep moving. Fly to Seattle, WA, for Last Supper Club: I get drunk and fuck a girl in my hotel while her friend watches us and masturbates against the wall. They get weird in the morning and I leave town. I disappear. I’m at Aura in Pleasanton, CA: pull a Janny on Amanda Reed, fall hard for her and make love like I never thought was capable. Go to PCL in Scottsdale: I’m back where it all started and I’m a god here. Drinking and drinking and drinking more with these AZ chicks. I’m at Glow in Long Island, NY: it’s fucking guido country…like a Jersey Shore audition. Back to Vegas to do Pure Group: I’m limitless. In Vegas, Nik Richie can do whatever he wants. Fuck whoever he wants. Drink whatever he wants in any amount. I’ll even spray champagn
e in the server’s face. Then I move on to Crobar in Chicago, IL: it’s the easiest place to get laid. Drink. Fuck. Leave. A pattern is emerging, and I’m getting on a plane to Charlottle, NC, for some event at Cans Bar & Saloon: I sit with Bobcat cheerleaders and get wasted. Do Bar Canvas in Austin, TX: total letdown. I’m expecting blonde, blue-eyed Texas girls and they’re all beat. Keep drinking, moving, going to Empire Social in Sacramento: it’s worse now. Everyone’s offering me drugs (Pepsi, Molly, random pills) and I’m saying “no” but they keep coming with their dead eyes staring at me. Everyone’s a vampire. Go to Jet Companies in Denver, CO: the mountain air clears my head, everyone is nice. Tons of snow-bunny blondes. Go to Velvet Dog and Barley House in Cleveland: double-duty. Get so drunk playing beer pong that I wake up at some girl’s house. I’m not playing it safe anymore. Keep moving to Harrah’s in Atlantic City, NJ: I’m out of control and swim across the pool in my underwear in front of everybody. Nobody tells me that it’s against the rules. Nobody tells Nik Richie what he can or cannot do. I keep drinking, keep moving to Plush in Dallas: meet some friend of Sarah Wood’s but don’t fuck her. I’m at the VooDoo Lounge in Ft. Lauderdale, FL: hook up with Brock’s Chick’s cousin and she tastes like spray tan. Want to call Quayle and tell him but we’re on the outs. Move on to Status Lounge in Houston: I fucking hate Houston. It’s so boring, or maybe I’m impossible to entertain now. A year has passed: drinking, flying, and fucking. I’m puking and blogging and eating on the run. I’m at the Hyde Lounge in Hollywood, CA: it’s terrible; everyone is just staring at each other and sizing them up. Too much ego. Turn 31 at Vanity in the Hard Rock: watch young girls do too much coke. Almost participate but decide against it. Do Haze Nightclub in Vegas: pound a bottle of Patrón. Puke hard. Fly away to Pink Kitty in Cabo: my opinion of Mexico totally changes. Go back to Vegas: get married. Holy shit, I’m fucking married now. The media is eating it up but we’ve got to keep moving. I go to the Lucky Buddha in Richmond, VA: bring two chicks back to my hotel but ditch them in someone else’s room by using the balcony. Shadow Room in Washington, D.C.: someone tries to jump me for the first time. The guy acts like he has a knife and security pushes me into a taxi. I almost relish the surprise. Back to Vegas, I give away +2’s at Eve Nightclub. I randomly run into Amanda Reed at Wet Republic. She looks good. She grew up okay. At McFadden’s in Pittsburgh, PA: get cuffed for taking a swing at a guy because he called me gay. No arrest. Move on to Club Elevate in Salt Lake City, UT: fucking bust. I’m expecting hot, blonde Mormon girls and they’re all beat. Keep drinking. I notice I’m getting older. Losing my looks, my mind. It’s starting to take its toll, but I keep going to Wet Republic in Vegas for a pool party. Go to Ivy Rooftop in San Antonio, TX: the city is romantic. Go to The Palms in Vegas for Halloween as Brad Pitt and my wife is Angelina Jolie: a power couple dressed as a power couple. We’re in Aja in Tampa Bay, FL: we call it Trampa Bay, and there’s a 20/20 film crew following me and Scooby and JV, so I’m showing off and doing The Rock80 in the club. We go to Lunar in Cincinnati, OH: we can’t find JV because he gets lost and some chick steals his clothes. We’re at LIV in Miami, FL: hands-down best club in the world, but the problem is you can’t communicate with anyone. They’re all rich and foreign so there are two language barriers. I keep going. Keep drinking, but it’s a routine now. We go back to the same spots in Vegas, L.A., Scottsdale. We go back to Dallas. I have my dinner, drink, sleep, fly away. Scooby and JV love it, but to me it’s a paycheck. I don’t even want to do it anymore but we need the money. For years, we’re on this road of airports and the hot dark of the club and hotels that only look slightly different from each other. The details change so little from place to place: the hairstyles and the clothing and the accents. Other than that, it’s Groundhog Day. A cyclical nightmare. Purgatory. We’re remixing the remix, but it’s the same night over and over and over. It blurs together in ways you’ll never forget but can’t remember clearly in hindsight. When it all began, the high of being Nik Richie lasted three hours. Now I’m lucky if I cop a buzz for five minutes. The body, the mind, they’ve built a tolerance to it. The fun is gone. It’s work. Money. Doing an event is almost painful now, and I can’t wait to reach the end of the road.
I want to be done with it before it’s done with me.
80Signature move in which I take two bottles of champagne, hit them against my chest, and spray them as I fall to my knees on the ground, waving them signal flare-style like Nic Cage does at the end of the movie.
The Catalyst
In hindsight I can see that the DUI was the reason The Dirty became successful. Perhaps “successful” isn’t the right word. The site makes very little money on its own, but it was able to survive due to my momentary lack of judgment.
My goal was to never let my identity become public. I was going to start this site and then flip it for however many millions of dollars and retire. Doing The Dirty forever was never in the cards. It’s a young man’s game, and people get older. They move on. I was going to open up a little beach bar in Orange County or maybe even Mexico, something to keep me busy in between boat trips and rounds of golf. I’ve always been the type of person that even when I’m on vacation or trying to relax, I feel like I need to be doing something. Always moving. Hustling. Looking for the angle. That’s a trait of Hooman Karamian that translated over to Nik Richie: the ability to devote myself to something entirely for the sake of success. I discovered it when I wanted to become a doctor and was able to maintain it all these years.
Sometimes devotion isn’t enough, though.
Sometimes you need to compromise.
In this particular case, I needed to make my identity public. Expose myself. I had to let this Nik Richie persona become a tangible presence that people could meet in the real world. An idea can only do so much on its own, and in this case, the man behind the curtain made more money than his idea ever did. All those trips to L.A. and Vegas and Miami—that’s what kept everything afloat. The appearance fees. It started with Dolce Vendetta in Dallas and kept on going for years to come.
As much as the people over at The Smoking Gun don’t like me or my site, the reality is that their threat to out me served as a catalyst for everything: the events and the money and that ever-growing reputation of Nik Richie who seemed to crop up everywhere. I did the TV show circuit. I did the tour, a tour that almost killed me. I met people: industry people, people who were chasing fame, and girls. So many girls. Girls like Sarah Wood and Amanda Reed who would fuck with my head and my heart. Girls like Alien and Leper. Scooby Snack. And then there was Shayne. I met and befriended Lonnie Moore, and he would be the one to introduce me to my wife. I’d meet Shayne in Vegas and make her my bride, all because of one turn of events.
In the alternate reality where no one finds out who Nik Richie is, that doesn’t happen. It’s entirely possible I never would have met anyone. So sometimes a mistake can make you. Or it can go a little bit further and make a marriage. A family.
We have a daughter.
Her name is Press.
My wife Shayne Dahl Lamas-Richie with newborn Press Dahl Lamas-Richie.
To Press
You were born on 11/11/11.
It was shortly after I appeared on Anderson Cooper the first time, which is the reason why I opted to do it via satellite. In the event that you decided you wanted to be born, the last thing I wanted was to be stuck on a talk show and miss it. I had actually been telling everyone on my radio show that November 11th was the day you were coming out, and somehow I think you knew I wanted that. You cooperated. You were 6 pounds, 6 ounces. Healthy. Perfect. No blood. I was so worried there was going to be blood and there wasn’t. You had big Hollywood eyes and rosy cheeks. Perfect skin. Even the nurse joked around about how “this baby already has makeup on.” I looked at you and it was like looking at a little me, and I remember thinking, Oh great, she’s going to be an ugly Persian baby.
But then we sat down together, you and I, and I started to see your mom in your featur
es. You were a good balance of the two of us. After the nurses cleaned you up and wrapped you in blankets, we sat there for about a good hour and I just looked at you. Held you. You had that baby smell I had kept hearing about, and it was quiet. I don’t remember anything ever being so quiet. It’s like we were on our own little planet where there were no TV shows or websites or drama. Just us. Quiet. Your mom slept and we got acquainted. I talked to you. I didn’t have that life-altering moment that other parents talk about. You didn’t instantly change me or my world, but I remember thinking, Okay, now I’ve got to get my shit together. I’ve got two girls to take care of now.
It was time for me to grow up. My soul didn’t change but I matured. I had another reason to be successful, however, it wasn’t a selfish one this time. It wasn’t about me or what I wanted. You were the person in my life that I needed to take care of, and I knew you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself if I failed. I was needed, and I had never had that before. To you, I wasn’t Nik or Hooman or Corbin. You weren’t even aware of these people. I was just Dad. And you were Press.
