Dustin Diamond
Page 15
Emmanuel Lewis
I became friendly with Emmanuel (TV’s Webster) when we did a taping of Celebrity The Weakest Link. Back in the day, he used to frequent Michael Jackson’s notorious Neverland Ranch. I don’t need to rehash the accusations made against Michael Jackson. And trust me, I’m aware that there seems to be a powerful homosexual undertone to many of the stories I’m telling in this book, but I can’t avoid it. Why should I be honest about everything else I recall and then avoid being honest about Hollywood’s ubiquitous gay subculture. I don’t care what someone’s preference is. Makes no difference to me.
Emmanuel Lewis told me that when he was at Neverland Ranch, Michael Jackson showed him the room where Bubbles the chimpanzee’s cage was situated. He had trees and ropes and all sorts of gymnasium equipment to crawl on and swing from. Emmanuel got the impression that Michael thought it was funny to leave him alone with Bubbles for a few minutes, their statures being relatively equal. As it turned out, Bubbles was actually bigger than Emmanuel, and, when he got a bit rambunctious, Emmanuel was forced to lock himself in Bubbles’s cage for protection. What a picture that must have been. Emmanuel didn’t mention whether or not, while locked in the monkey cage, he threw his own feces at Bubbles.
The Hollywood Christmas Parade with Pat Boone
One year I was selected from the SBTB cast to appear in the Hollywood Christmas Parade. To give another example of how random and bizarre celebrity pairings can be on Planet L.A., I was set to ride in a convertible with Baywatch Hawaii heartthrob Jeremy Jackson. Jeremy and I were given a rendezvous point where we were to meet. Then we were to ride together in a limo to the division of the parade where our open car would be waiting. When I arrived at the meet-up, I discovered that, sharing the limo ride with us would be that iconic Christian crooner of my parent’s generation, champion of old-fashioned, apple-pie, American values, Pat Boone. I was aware of Pat Boone by name, but as a kid I didn’t have any real appreciation for his legend. Pat and I chatted absently while waiting for Jeremy to arrive.
When Jeremy finally showed up, he was a glorious sight to behold: strung out on something, his hair electric purple, smooth Baywatch chest exposed through an open, metallic disco shirt, wearing dark sunglasses and having severe trouble remaining vertical. Luckily, hooked around his arm to steady him, was a six-foot porn star wearing sequins, clear Lucite heels and not much else. This chick had the obligatory giant boobs, and ratty hair. She looked like she’d been ridden hard and hung up wet. She also apparently took no issue with holiday revelers along the parade route having a clear view of her moose knuckle. The two of them, together, were a fucking mess. Mr. Boone was not pleased. I knew I had a front seat to an impending disaster, and I was savouring every moment.
“Hey, Dustern … Waasup?” slurred Jeremy.
Jeremy and I had known each other for years as child actors making the rounds. I looked at Jeremy’s sad, sorry state. I looked at Pat Boone. “Oh boy,” I thought. “This will be magnificent.”
Inside the limo, Jeremy and his lap dancer squeezed up tight against Pat in the narrow seat at the back of the vehicle while I stretched out along the side. Clearly, Jeremy was getting on Pat’s nerves. He was finding it increasingly hard to act Christ-like towards this lunatic rubbing against his left haunch. But Pat has class, so he leaned over and offered his hand to Jeremy’s yard troll, “Hello. I’m Pat Boone.”
“Charmed,” her gum snapped.
“Hey, Bat Poon,” mumbled Jeremy, shaking Pat’s hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“It’s Pat Boone.”
“What is?”
“My name.”
“Bat Poon.”
“Pat Boone.”
“Right on, man.”
After we exited the limo, Pat ran for safety while Jeremy and I found our vehicle. He told moose knuckle to get lost while he drove around and waved for a while. Along the parade route, the car moved torturously slow with frequent stops. During one such stop, while bright-faced majorettes twirled batons and did splits on the pavement, Jeremy passed out snoring on my shoulder. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a nice nap.
So, if you’re keeping score: Jeremy Jackson is a douche; Pat Boone is not a douche.
Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito
It was dusk, and I was leaving an audition with my dad, walking past buildings on the lot from the casting office when, through an open door, I spotted Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito huddled over a script. I waved at them from the sidewalk, and they waved me in. Dad and I entered the room and introduced ourselves. The script they were kibitzing over was Throw Momma From the Train. Danny said, “Don’t worry, it’s a comedy.” We stood and chatted with them for a while. This was when The Goonies had just come out and Anne Ramsey, who played Mama Fratelli, was eventually cast as Momma in the picture Danny and Billy were working on (as it turned out, one of her last films before she died).
They asked me if I’d seen The Goonies yet, and I was, like, “Of course (duh).” That’s when they said it was likely they were casting Ramsey as the momma to be thrown from the aforementioned train. I take no credit for the final casting, but I did sing her praises as a rabid fan of all things Goonie.
Shaq
I was flying first class to the NBA All-Star Game in Texas with my friend Mark. We decided that Mark’s looking like Ron Howard would be our “in” with the chicks once we got there: I was Screech from SBTB, hanging with my best pal Mark, son of Academy Award-winning director and beloved television icon, Ron Howard. Hey, we were teenagers, it was the best we could come up with on short notice.
On the flight, we sat down the aisle from Shaquille O’Neill. I’ve never been a big sports fan, but obviously I knew Shaq was a huge star, and I respected that. At the time the SBTB cast was attending and traveling to hundreds of events, meeting loads of famous people in every profession you can imagine. In fact, I’d already met Shaq a few times already. On the other hand, my buddy Mark was blown away. “Whoa!” said Mark. “It’s Shaq! We gotta meet him.”
Also on this flight, sitting right behind us, was Den. The flight attendant came around to take our drink orders, and Mark and I were determined to have a few alcoholic beverages before debarking for the big basketball game. Truth is, we wanted to be hammered by the time we landed. Even though we were still underage, we were veteran drinkers at that point. My goal in those days was always to appear older than I was.
The airline staff knew the plane was packed with celebrities on their way to party at an event. Regardless, Mark and I knew it was always a crapshoot whether or not we could get served alcohol on board these flights. It all depended on how we approached our liquor order and how cool the flight attendant chose to be. I subscribed to the suave, debonair technique of acting like ordering a glass of booze was old hat. To anyone without severe myopia, I was clearly pre-pubescent, so it was all about the delivery. “What do you have in Johnnie Walker, red or black label? Hm. I’m not a fan of the red label. Very well. I suppose that’ll have to do. Rocks, please. Cheers.”
This time it worked. The fight attendant didn’t blink and moved on behind us to take Den’s order. The next thing we heard was, “You guys. You and your shenanigans.” Dude? What the fuck?! Den had totally cock(tail)-blocked us. I liked Den, and still do, but sometimes he would go way out of his way to be my buzz killer. For instance, when Mark and I turned to getting our Ron Howard’s son “facts” straight for later use in the fine art of scoring chicks in Texas, Den leaned forward and asked, “Are you guys talking about Ron Howard?” I told Dennis to never mind. That was a mistake. Later, when Mark and I actually had a couple cowgirls corralled with our phony story, Den came swooping in to kill the fun.
“Sooooo,” Den said to Mark, “you’re Ron Howard’s son, huh? Really good to meet you. Say, I was trying to remember, what’s your grandfather’s name again?” Mark didn’t know. We were just trying to get laid. But the thing is, Den actually did know. That’s why he was the Man from Everywhere.
We approached the big man. Shaq was all smiles; supercool. Everyone crowded around him, thrilled just to be near him, screaming “Shaq! Shaq! Will you sign this for my kid?! Shaq, can I get a picture?!” I reintroduced myself and asked if Mark and I could get a picture taken. Shaq said, “Sure!” So I handed him my camera, threw my arm around Mark and posed for a picture. Shaq laughed, snapped the shot, and handed me back my camera. When I think about that photo now, I have to chuckle knowing that Shaq Fu was the photographer.
Buddy Hackett
One day Buddy Hackett was appearing on The Tonight Show, killing time on our set on Stage 1, visiting with St. Peter, the cast, and crew. He told us how much he enjoyed the show. Buddy Hackett was a fan of SBTB?
Buddy wandered around Zack’s bedroom set and picked up a Nerf football. He started tossing it back and forth with us kids and the writers. Buddy waved his hand, encouraging one of us to go long and hurled the ball spiraling high into the technical equipment suspended from the ceiling. SMASH! Buddy had zinged a direct hit into one of the ginormous 20K lights. The glass casing and bulb exploded like a fireworks finale, cascading glass and toxic dust onto the set as everyone scrambled for safety. From under cover, we all heard Buddy say, “Well, I’ll see you guys later.”
Hanson
One day the MmmmBoppity boy band, Hanson, was appearing on The Tonight Show and decided to enthusiastically drop by the set. When I first heard they were coming for a visit, I felt awkward. The Hanson brothers were big fans of SBTB and even bigger fans of me and my character, Screech. I didn’t know whether to feel honored or goofy. They really went out of their way to meet me and spend time with me that day. The whole encounter left me a little ill at ease because I was not a Hanson fan. I was happy when they said, “Hey man, love your work!” but it felt weird to reply, “Hey man, thanks!”
Jaleel White
Jaleel White, who played Steve Urkel on Family Matters had the closest role to mine on a network sitcom—the annoying, tag-along, nerdy, comic relief. Urkel was the primetime Screech. It’s interesting to note that he appeared in the pilot of Good Morning, Miss Bliss, playing a character who was in no way a pre-SBTB version of Screech. In Jaleel was a kindred spirit, another young actor playing an outrageously over-the-top character on television that was nothing like our real personality.
Jaleel and I met on a film called The Monster Squad. The movie was written by legendary action screenwriter, Shane Black (Lethal Weapon, Predator, etc). The movie was actually filmed between the first two Lethal Weapons, and it was my first experience acting in a feature film. Also in the picture was Jason Hervey, who played Wayne, Kevin’s older brother in The Wonder Years.
Unfortunately, much to my dismay, my scenes ended up on the cutting room floor. I was originally up for the lead role, but the producers didn’t think I had enough experience to carry the film (I disagreed, of course). The director, Fred Dekker, still wanted to give me a small role so I wound up playing “Kid With Baseball Cards.” My scene had me walk up to the eventual lead, Andre Gower, and say, “Hey, man, you gypped me on this baseball card. It has bird shit on it.” Andre’s character apologized, traded cards with me, and I ran off. But alas, the scene got cut.
Jaleel also went uncredited in The Monster Squad. It was 1986 and neither of us knew what the future held for us. I guess that was just a weird nexus for two kids in Hollywood to briefly connect before going on to become iconic TV comedy geeks of the 1990s. Jaleel was a laid-back dude. He was also nothing like his super-geeky television alter-ego. On Family Matters, Jaleel was fortunate when he got to perform episodes where he played his own twin brother, who was a normal, cool guy. He got to play a role closer to his own personality on camera for audiences—in essence, a slicked-up clone of his real-life self. That was something I never got the opportunity to do.
Frank Zappa and MTV’s Kennedy
MTV VJ and host of the 1990s nightly show Alternative Nation, Kennedy, was on the set of SBTB to do some sort of research for an article she was writing. She said she wanted to talk with me alone, so we ended up going out to dinner together for an interview. I was still too young to drive, so she drove us over to Universal City Walk where we found a restaurant to sit down in and talk. During the meal, she asked me if I wanted to order an alcoholic drink, but I balked because—with NBC fanatical about our public image in the media as cast members of SBTB and with Kennedy writing who-knows-what in an article that included me—I didn’t want to do anything stupid that could wind up in print. I declined any booze.
Plus, I felt like she was probably trying to ferret out some gotcha moment by being out with me in the first place. She thought SBTB was squeaky-clean, conformist bullshit, and she was the cool, punk/grunge/alternative hipster—even though she first came to prominence as an Eastern Orthodox Christian known as “The Virgin Kennedy.” I played it safe. The last thing I needed was her writing some expose about “The Dark Side of SBTB.” (Hey, that’s my job! And it’s taken me almost twenty years to do it!) The whole thing with Kennedy was very awkward, punctuated by a weird vibe. We were an odd couple indeed to be out for a meal together. Can you imagine being seated in the same restaurant that night? Casually glancing over your shrimp scampi, “Hey, isn’t that Kennedy from MTV over there with … Screech?” You might think you’d had one too many Long Island iced teas.
After dinner, Kennedy drove us up Mulholland Drive. Final destination: Frank Zappa’s house. I was just a stupid kid, and unfortunately it wasn’t until years later that I started to fully appreciate Zappa’s music. I grew into a connoisseur of the odd and obscure, which eventually put Zappa’s style at the forefront in my musical mind. Of the few people on Earth (past or present) that I would completely geek-out on, Frank Zappa was definitely one of them. I wish now that I could have sat and picked his brain until he ran me out the front door at the tip of a sharp object, which he probably would have.
The Zappa house looked like a fractal clinging to the slope of the hill, sections of the organic structure stabbing out into every direction. Kennedy drove up to the imposing security gate, rolled down her window and leaned into the intercom.
VOICE: Can I help you?
KENNEDY: Yeah, we’re here to see the Gweech.
There was a long pause, then—Open Sesame!—the gate rolled open.
Inside, Judy Zappa was there. Frank was not up for company. This was in 1993, very shortly before he died of prostate cancer at the age of fifty-two. There was a fireman’s pole that extended from the top floor to the ground floor of the house. We spent most of the evening negotiating the abstract architecture inside the family’s laundry room, which housed a pool table that Dweezil sat cross-legged on, strumming his guitar, chatting. I’d met him at an audition previously, so I spent the time rekindling our casual acquaintance. Later we would meet again at the NAMM show in Anaheim when I got into playing music, and Dweezil was there, sponsored by Carvin amps, which were the amps I used at the time. Kennedy and I didn’t hang long at the Zappa compound. It was just another of those random Hollywood moments that I had come to take for granted.
By the way, the Gwe
ech? He was Zappa’s Siamese cat.
CAPTAIN DOUCHEBAG AND THE CONSPIRACY LAWSUIT AGAINST NBC
I learned the hard way growing up in Hollywood that, in life, there are usually only a few friends you can truly count on. And really, of those few, there’s maybe only one, if you’re lucky. As a result, I would cycle through friends quite a bit. It’s just one of the hazards of the business. On the other hand, you have a yearning to make genuine connections with people who see you as you really are, who enjoy your company because you share common interests, not because you’re famous. As a working actor, you spend all day pretending, inhabiting a fully formed personality that is not your own. When you’re with friends, you want to feel comfortable enough to drop your guard and be yourself. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for your idealism about people’s motivations and the hopeful possibilities inherent in each budding friendship to give way to skepticism and often cynicism. You develop a sixth sense about people. I got to a point where, if my instincts told me someone’s motives were not honest and sincere, I’d drop them instantly and move on.