There’s this pause, and Jonathan says, completely deadpan, “Well, first of all, I could have told you, it’s not an actual palace.”
I laughed, for the first time all weekend. It felt great.
“You shouldn’t be staying in Worcester, you should be staying in Boston,” he continued. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to send a car for you, you’re going to come to my house, we’re going to record an episode of Dr. Katz, I’m going to make you laugh, we’re going to have fun, you’ll have a nice meal, I’m going to book you into a hotel in Boston, you’re going to do your show, and then you’re going to get a good night’s sleep.”
He was absolutely my Prince Charming. He had a car come get me, we went to his studio and recorded the Dr. Katz, and then he picked out a nice hotel for me, asking me if I could afford it, and I said yes. Because it never occurred to me that if I’m doing stand-up far from home—with bombing being a distinct possibility—I should make sure I’m as comfortable as possible. As far as the club owner wanting his money back goes, they sold tickets, and they sold drinks. So why would I need to give money back? Fuck him.
Performing at the state pen. I love a captive audience! (Photo: Jake Johnson/ Bravo/NBCU Photo Bank)
Well, I’d been such a disaster that the Comedy Palace club owner bumped me out of the main room for the last night. My replacement? A woman called “The R-Rated Hypnotist.” Her big closer was hypnotizing a guy to give a blow job to a banana. Naturally, it killed. And like a kid sent to the corner in class, the owner told me I had to do my final Sunday show in the diner next to the club. Fine, I thought. I’ll play in the fucking hallway to get the fuck away from you.
But wouldn’t you know it, even though that diner had maybe fifty seats, the people who showed up came to see me. Worcester’s gays were there in force, the setting was intimate, and it was like doing my thing at the coffeehouse. No two-drink minimum, nobody screaming, just me telling my little stories and making jokes about people getting comedy with their tuna melts.
Thank you, Worcester, Massachusetts, for making the tuna melt my favorite sandwich.
My best college gig story is really an Andy Dick story.
The University of North Florida in Jacksonville wanted me and Andy as a double bill for a show in early 1999. They probably wanted us together because we were both on NBC sitcoms, and although I’d performed with Andy many, many times on the alternative circuit—where we both had fifteen minutes in a lineup of a half dozen comedians and performance artists—we’d never double-billed a college. This was a high-paying gig. Plus, the college said to me, “We’d like you to go second, because we consider you to be the headliner.”
“I’m flattered,” I told them, “but I will not follow Andy Dick, because you never know if that crazy crackhead is going to show up or not.” FYI, I have a no–Macy Gray policy as well. Check my rider. One time I was supposed to open for her at a charity event, and I got a call from someone saying Macy was missing and they couldn’t get ahold of her. I said, “I’ll wait for somebody who’s stuck in traffic, but not somebody who’s just missing.” That’s just a recipe for me doing four hours of stand-up in a row.
Everybody in the comedy world who knew Andy knew he fought his demons. I’ve seen him do brilliant sets, and sets where he was so messed up on drugs I felt it was the last day I’d ever see him alive. We’re talking an admitted serious, serious drug addict and alcoholic.
Also, content-wise, I knew what Jacksonville might be in for, and it’s not an easy thing to follow. If I’m inappropriate for colleges, Andy is Larry Flynt at a Cub Scout meeting. At the time Andy would travel with his band The Bitches of the Century, and they’d play ironic songs and do bits that were really, really out there. For example, they sang one song called “Little Brown Ring,” about licking assholes. Andy sings it in a kind of falsetto voice, over and over and over, about his little brown ring. Or your little brown ring. I’m not sure whose little brown ring anymore, but he’s very fixated on someone’s little brown ring.
So I fly into Jacksonville a day early, because I’m always too nervous to fly the day of a gig, and as colleges usually do, they make a student my babysitter. I love that—some kid from the drama department coming out to get you and drive you to the hotel. I can’t tell you how many young men have outed themselves to me on that ride from the airport. There’s also usually an excited offer to take you to dinner, which is hard for me because I don’t drink and I would find myself inevitably stuck at a Señor Frog’s at two in the morning hoping for more fried zucchini zircles. College gigs are quirky that way.
Well, for some reason, the college had hired two stretch limos for us. I’m not really a stretch limo gal, but there it was the day of the show waiting outside my hotel, and when I got to the university, I asked, “So how’s Andy doing?” I never say, “Where’s Andy?” I just start in with a broad question about his state of mind.
“Well, we don’t know if he’s here yet,” the college rep said.
“At the school?” I said.
“No, we don’t even know if he’s in Florida yet.”
It’s now 7 p.m., and the show starts at 8 p.m.
“Well, do you have any hints that he’s left California?” I said.
“We don’t know anything.”
I felt a little psychic. So I said, “If Andy doesn’t come at all, no matter what, I’ll go out there and give it my best, and hey, maybe he’ll show up! Stay positive!” I knew, though, there was probably a 50/50 chance that he’d show up. Those aren’t terrible odds.
The gig was set up in the basketball court, a common venue at colleges. It can be great for music, but not for stand-up, because acoustically those spaces are better for accommodating loud noises, like a concert. And instead of nice theater seating, you’re dealing with metal risers on the side and metal folding chairs taking up the court itself. What’s fun about it, though, is you get a big audience, and for me, that was a huge audience. Something like 1,800 kids and, it turned out, adults, since it was homecoming weekend. Oh yeah. It wasn’t just eighteen-year-olds on their way to keggers afterward. It was alumni, the dean, and university staff.
So I’m out there trying to keep in mind the youth contingent—the MTV music awards, Britney and Justin, and any frickin’ young celebrity I could think of that I’d had a run-in with. Jokes about my seventy-something mom just weren’t going to be relatable. Anyway, the crowd was nice, and at the end I yelled out, “Thank you, everybody, get ready for Andy Dick! Good night!” and walked off. Meeting me halfway from the wings is a mousy unibrow-sporting girl from the audio/visual department who had squeaked out a shaky-voiced intro calling me “Kathy Griffith,” and now she’s trembling even more. “Um … Andy’s not here yet,” she tells me. “Can … you … keep talking?”
“Fuck no,” I said, and just walked away from her. Later I realized that was kind of rude—sorry, Unibrow Girl, if you’re reading this now—but we were sort of in the middle of the stage, and in my head I’m thinking, I’m saying no because I know Andy, and he might not be coming for a very long time. He’s not just parking the car or finishing up his costume, surely.
So Unibrow Girl quiveringly tells the crowd, “Give it up … ladies and gentlemen … for Kathy Griffith. We’re … waiting for Andy Dick … who’s not quite here yet …”
And just then from the side of the stage comes Andy’s distinctively flamboyant roar: “I’m HE-E-E-E-A-A-RRRGGGH!”
The A/V girl’s pleasantly surprised that he arrived. And me? Well, with just those two words, I know he is Fucked. Up.
Andy walks out in a suit, and he brings his band out with him. He starts by saying, “You guys all think I’m gonna be Matthew from Newsradio, don’t you?” His words are slurry, that sibilant meow of a voice is kind of trailing off. “But like, I don’t really have an act. Kathy’s got her stories, but like … I don’t really … have anything. I didn’t really … prepare anything. For you guys. So …”
And
I’m like, “O-h-h shitballs.” The audience is confused, they’re not sure if it’s part of the shtick or not, and they’re just looking at him. He’s not giving in, either. “S-s-s-s-seriously, I don’t … have anything. I didn’t … do anything.” And then, out of the blue, “You guys are all looking at me like I’m a FAGGOT.”
Pause. “You think I’m a FAGGOT?”
Nervous laughter, signs of discomfort are emanating from the crowd. Maybe it’s a bit, they’re thinking. But … maybe it’s not a bit. Is he supposed to say the word “faggot”? Those kids are there for a show, and to be able to laugh and blow off steam. And here’s this guy saying over and over, more belligerently each time, “Quit lookin’ at me like I’m a FAGGAHT! YOU’RE THE FAGGAHT, FA-A-A-GG-A-A-AHTS!”
Whatever I do or don’t know about Jacksonville, Florida, I’m pretty sure eighteen-year-old guys there don’t like being called “faggot” over and over on a microphone when they’re at a comedy show. Maybe there are audiences out there that would enjoy the on-the-ledge aspect of this brand of humor, but when it’s guys who will be piling into pickups to go to the Outback steakhouse afterward or a frat house to drink cheap beer, they probably don’t want the word “faggots” ringing in their ears on the way there. No surprise, the crowd starts to turn, and one guy gets the nerve to respond, “Yer the faggut!”—which of course Andy in his Andy Kaufmanesque way loves.
Cue a louder, even more aggressive Andy: “DID YOU CALL ME A FAAAGGGAATT?? YOU’RE THE FAAAAGGAAAHT!!!”
At this point those nice audio/visual department kids come up to me with crisis-management looks in their eyes, as one of them says, “Ms. Griffin, would you like us to take you out of here?”
“No,” I blurted. “Get me a folding chair, a cheese platter, and a Diet Coke.” Who would want to miss this?
I park myself in the back of that theater in a little protected area offstage where I could see Andy but he couldn’t see me—thank God—and settle in for the train wreck. Now, a tiny part of me is thinking maybe I can help in some way if Andy really goes too far. I’ve known him long enough that if I had to (and I never have), I could play bouncer and go grab him by the seat of the pants and pull him off the stage. I’m sort of on standby, I realize. But really, I wouldn’t have left that spot for all the money in the world.
Suddenly, without warning, Andy’s off the stage and out in the audience. It’s pitch-black out there, so there was really no way to tell who had yelled back at Andy. The sound is bouncing. But he picks some nearby random audience member—there was no way it was the guy who actually heckled him—and says, “I’ll show you who’s the fag now, FAG!” And with that, Andy pulls down his pants, revealing his lack of underwear, and starts grinding on some poor guy’s lap. It really was like one of those Abu Ghraib prison photos. The look on the audience member’s face was like, “All I wanted to do was come to a comedy show and now I’m being called a ‘faggot’ and getting Andy Dick’s bare ass rubbed on me!”
This whole episode happened at lightning speed. Andy is stealth. He was back on that stage as if it had never even happened. The audience was traumatized, like they’d been given a roofie. The vibe from the crowd had turned as well. “I think something really bad just happened. It was over fast, but I don’t feel right. I don’t feel good about myself. I feel dirty.”
Andy, meanwhile, is on to the next thing. “Oh, you guys, this is my band, and I’m gonna do a song!” he cheerily announces.
“I gotta go change, there’s gonna be a few minutes where you guys are gonna be looking at nothing. Does anybody sing or dance? DO YOU GUYS DO ANYTHING?”
People are genuinely looking at each other like, “Oh God, now I have to perform? I just got over the guy getting a bare-assed lap dance.” There was lots of murmuring of the “Do you do something? I could do card tricks, I guess?” variety.
Sure enough, one guy raises his hand, a big man with long, straight brown hair in a ponytail and a beard, and he says in this southern drawl, “Well, ah could SANG.”
“Where are you from?” Andy asks.
“Ah’m from right here in Jacksonville,” he says.
The minute I saw this guy, I recognized him. His nickname is Big Fat Paul. I know him because he travels with Andy and he does bits with him. They do the kind of bits at clubs that end with them bloodying each other, or one of them puking. These are committed guys. So I am now the only person outside of Andy’s group who knows this man is a plant. Everyone there thinks he’s an audience member. Everyone there thinks he’s a local. Everyone there, I begin to think, is fucked.
Andy prodded everyone to give it up for one of their own. “CLAP, you guys! CLAP! He’s gonna come up! BE NICE!”
Big Fat Paul had some story about how he was a town florist or something, and when he gets onstage he acts as if he’s unfamiliar with the mic. He turns to the band and says, Well, ah mean, ah don’t know what songs y’all have, but ah mean, I wrote a song, and if y’all want to follow me, that’d be fine.
At this moment, the audience is almost a little calm, because they’re probably thinking, Well, at least Andy isn’t out here calling us “faggots” repeatedly. Maybe one of our own is going to rescue this.
I got a second Diet Coke.
Paul starts singing a made-up song called “Hey Go-Go Girl,” in this surprisingly sweet, Sinatra-style crooner voice.
After a little while, Andy reenters in full drag, dressed as a go-go girl. I mean, white-fringe minidress, white platform stripper boots, white fishnets, huge blond wig, and drag makeup he’s obviously slathered on very quickly. Paul picks up the pace, and Andy starts doing some very funny go-go dancing, like something out of Laugh In. Real Goldie Hawn-in-the-cage stuff.
As Paul is singing “Dance, go-go girl! Dance!” Andy’s dancing gets more frenetic. Then Big Fat Paul in character starts to act like he’s so sexually attracted to Andy’s go-go girl persona that he can’t stop himself. As he sings faster, he moves toward Andy and starts gently grinding up against Andy’s butt. Andy affects a look on his face like, “Who the fuck is this guy?” Andy tries to wrest himself away, making hand gestures as if attempting to keep Paul from touching him.
What happens next takes place in a flash. Paul, who’s 300 pounds, grabs Andy and pulls his dress up, and sure enough, Andy is wearing nothing underneath. You just see his dick flapping in the wind. Paul throws Andy on his stomach and proceeds to act as if he’s ass-raping him. This happens for maybe four seconds, after which Paul makes his exit, running into the audience like he’s filled with shame.
Remember who’s watching all this: not just students, but storied alumni wondering what in God’s name had become of the glorious educational institution they once attended.
Overall, the audience at this point looks like those see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil monkeys. There’s a smattering of traumatized gasps, appalled outbursts, nervous laughter, and then walkouts. Those metal risers echoed in a symphony of disgust: CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, with plenty of shouts along the lines of “I’m fucking outta here!”
As if that weren’t enough, Andy is back on the mic, and with full commitment starts screeching, “I WAS JUST RAPED! AND YOU DID NOTHING!” Now, there was an element of the audience that you could tell was genuinely thinking for one second, “Oh my God, did I really watch this poor little one-hundred-seven-pound comedian get violated by some freak?”
But it’s mostly a lot of walkouts, a controlled chaos as people can’t get out of there fast enough. And then, the one truly unplanned thing happened: Somebody hit the fire alarm.
BOOOWUP BOOOWUP BOOOWUP BOOOWUP.
It’s now a melee. All you hear are people flinging themselves off the risers, out of folding chairs, trying to find the exit, going every which way, holding hands buddy-system-style. As the fire alarm keeps sounding, Andy looks pissed because his bit ended too soon. He looks bored, and barely even cognizant of the fact that 1,800 people are basically running amok. “Fuck it,” he says, drops the mic, and walk
s offstage.
I was there to meet him, and so was a reporter from the city paper, with a tape recorder. Right away, I knew this was not good. Remember, Andy had fully exposed himself. Now, I’m sorry, but Andy is my junkie. I have a theory that everyone has a relative in prison, and everyone has a junkie. Think about it. Look at all your friends and relatives, and I’ll bet you have a junkie. It doesn’t mean you own them, or clean up after them, but they’re a presence in your life. Well, Andy had been my junkie for a while, and a little part of me thought, I don’t want Andy to go to jail for this.
The reporter starts right in, “Did you expose yourself? It looked like you exposed yourself.”
“I don’t know what happened!” Andy replied in a woozy tone, clearly sensing a chance to continue his bit for the benefit of the press. “I took my … I think I was RAPED out there!”
I jump in, “Sorry, Andy’s not doing any interviews!”
“Oh, can we talk to him for a—”
“No, Andy’s not doing any interviews!” I yell as I pull him away.
As we get some distance on the reporter, Andy turns and says, “Are we gonna go eat something?” We had plans to eat after the show, but in an attempt to keep his ass out of jail, I laid down the law and said, “Yes, Andy, but at a restaurant, not a bar. We’re going now. We’re getting a meal, and you need to stay away from any reporters.”
“I have to come in your car,” he says. “I lost my limo.”
I’m dumbfounded. “How did you lose your limo in Jacksonville, Florida?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” he cried out. “GA-A-AHD!”
“Fine. We’re going to a restaurant, but it’s just you and me. No boys.” Andy has a penchant for eighteen-year-old boys. As well as girls. He can’t decide. “No eighteen-year-old boys. I’m not gonna get pulled over in fucking Jacksonville, Florida, with you and some fucking teenager.”
“All RIGHT, GRANDMA!” he screams.
So I’m waiting in the limo, and when Andy hops in he goes, “Let’s go eat!” He’s acting like nothing’s happened. Sure enough, three college boys get in. I say, “You’re fucking kidding me. I might be codependent, but I am not going to jail for this shit.”
Official Book Club Selection Page 15
