Filthy Truth (9781476734750)

by Clay, Andrew Dice; Ritz, David

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  This book is in memory of my parents, who had me, raised me, loved me, and taught me to always believe in myself. Fred and Jackie Silverstein, you are missed every second of every day.

  FOREWORD

  DECEMBER 1988. I’M twenty years old, home from college for winter break. I’m with my boys, the boys I’ve known since I was six (the boys whose interactions I will steal from many times when I write Entourage).

  They all know that my going to college is a farce. I’m never gonna be a lawyer. I’m either too dumb or too lazy. But I’m gonna be in comedy. Somehow. Some way.

  My boys know this. One of them, Frankie Giovanello, tells me that I have to see this new comic on the Rodney Dangerfield special.

  Frankie swears that “you’re gonna shit your pants when you hear this guy.”

  His name: Andrew Dice Clay.

  So we all sit down.

  We bust open some Jack (my parents are out).

  And we wait. For the Diceman.

  Now, I’m a punk at the time, a hater. Comics I don’t already know and idolize all suck. So I wait, anxious to tell my boys how much the Diceman sucks. How when I’m older, I’m gonna be much funnier.

  And then he comes on.

  Leather jacket.

  Hair to the ceiling.

  Cigarette in his mouth.

  I remember this like it’s yesterday. Seriously.

  And I’m thinking, What the fuck is this?

  And then he starts.

  He puts his arm around his neck and takes a toke off his cig.

  To this day I have no idea why that was funny, but I didn’t stop laughing for the next ten minutes.

  Neither did my boys.

  Vulgar nursery rhymes.

  Sex jokes.

  Aggressive.

  Raw.

  Nasty.

  But you could feel, or at least I could, that it was a put-on. There was something lovable about this guy.

  I was sure he was going to be a giant star. Two years later, the same crew and I were at Madison Square Garden, screaming along with twenty thousand other maniacs at “Little boy blue. He needed the money.”

  I was right. Dice had blown up.

  Every guy I knew could recite his entire act.

  He made movies and TV shows. He seemed to be everywhere.

  And then he disappeared. Poof.

  I always wondered what had happened.

  I didn’t know that nearly twenty-five years later I would have a chance to help resurrect one of the most dynamic performers I’d ever seen.

  When Dice came to the set of Entourage to start work on our final season, it was as if I were a kid again, watching as a fan. He’s such a force and a presence. The minute he started his scene, he just popped. I went over to him after and said, “You know, your whole life is about to change.” And he just said, “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  I knew he was. And so did Woody Allen, and now Martin Scorsese. The Diceman is back with a vengeance!

  Doug Ellin

  INTRODUCTION

  MOST CELEBRITIES WRITE their books to look good. If their necks were long enough, they’d bend over backward to kiss their own ass. Most people rewrite history to make themselves the fuckin’ hero. Well, I do consider myself a hero, but not the kind that blows smoke up his butt. I’m a hero like Rocky is a hero, ’cause I’ve learned to take punches. I’m a hero because if you knock me down, I get right back up. I’m a hero ’cause the weasels who wanted me outta the game are outta the game themselves, and I’m still swinging. I’m a hero ’cause I got the balls to tell the filthy truth.

  So I’m not gonna start at the top. I’m gonna start this at the bottom. I ain’t playing the Garden or the Forum. I’m playing the back room of a sushi bar in Vegas. I’m broke, grinding through the toughest decade of my life. Two marriages have collapsed. Counting the cost of my divorces, my crumbling career, and a vicious blackjack jones, I’ve lost millions. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was raising my two wonderful sons—the most beautiful human beings in the world—I might have lost it. But I haven’t lost it. I still got it. I’m standing up tall in this little Japanese joint, performing in front of fifteen people when I used to perform in front of fifteen thousand. I’m saying, “You’re watching history. You’re watching Rocky training for the championship. You’re watching the champ on the comeback trail. You’re gonna remember this moment when you saw Dice in such a place, just like you remember the time you got your first hot fuck. When you’re fucking, the dark clouds lift and the world goes away. You guys know what I’m talkin’ about. When you’re slammin’ into her soaking-wet pussy like a fuckin’ freight train, you ain’t worried about the rent or the price of gasoline. When you’re about to bust wide open with your barrel of load, you got the energy of the gods. Well, I got that energy tonight. I’m coming at you with all I got.”

  That night was the beginning of the ride back. That night I also got a little spiritual. I talked about God. I said, “They say after you die you get a few minutes with God. Well, I can imagine God saying, ‘Dice’—he’s calling me Dice ’cause he’s a fan—‘Dice, what’s the one thing in life that really bothered you?’

  “And I say, ‘Well, G, you’re a great guy for asking. So, with all due respect, there is one thing I’d like to know.’

  “ ‘What’s that, Dice?’

  “ ‘When men get older, why did you go and stretch the balls out like that? Why didn’t you stretch out the cock? I mean, how great would it be when you go off to work to hear your chick say, “Honey, tuck your cock into your cuff.” ’ ”

  That small crowd in the back of the sushi bar got off. I got off. I made sure we had a good time. They laughed until they cried. They soaked up my take on life, which only gets richer with each passing day. They got all of me.

  In this book, I’m giving you all of me. I’m making goddamn sure that you’re gonna have a good time—the time of your life—in reading about my life.

  I have every confidence that whether you begged, borrowed, bought, or stole this book, once you get done reading it, you’ll wanna read it again. It’s gonna be that fuckin’ good. I say that because I was born and nurtured in the most colorful, beloved place in all the world, a place where storytelling is an art form—stories coming out of the candy stores and the playgrounds and the delis, stories in every apartment building and on every street corner, crazy stories, funny stories, but no story funnier or crazier than the one belonging to Andrew Silverstein, born September 29, 1957, in beautiful Brooklyn, New York, a kid so bold and eager to get going that when in the hospital the nurse put a plastic nipple in his mouth, he ripped open her shirt, watched her big, beautiful boobs pop out, and said, “Honey, I like it from the tap.”

  THE ORIGINALS

  THE ORIGINALS ARE:

  Jackie Silverstein, Supermom.

  Fred Silverstein, Superdad.

  Natalie Silverstein, Supersis.

  And me—Superman.

  BECAUSE SUPERMAN LOVED his neighborhood of Brooklyn, and because Superman knew it was his job to protect the neighborhood, Superman was taking his job seriously.

  At six years old I was going to school wearing my Superman costume under my regular clothes. When my parents and sister were sleeping at night I was practicing flying, leaping from the couch to the floor in a single bound. Like the television Supe
rman on my favorite show, I was faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive. If someone had told me that Superman was a figment of the imagination of two Jewish cartoonists from Cleveland, I wouldn’t have believed it. I thought he was real. I thought he was me.

  Without knowing I was wearing my costume, Mom one morning walked me to the corner where the school bus arrived to take me to PS 222. I climbed in and took a seat by the window. I watched Mom watching me and saw all the sadness in her eyes. She didn’t like to be apart from me—not even for a few hours. That’s the kind of mom she was.

  At school I had a hard time sitting down. I was in the back of the room pacing back and forth.

  “Andrew,” said the teacher. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Pacing.”

  “Stop.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

  “Then go.”

  I went, and that’s where I took off my street clothes and ran back to the classroom as Superman.

  The kids loved it. They howled. They applauded. With my arms extended and my cape flowing, I was running around the room.

  “Stop!” screamed the teacher.

  “I can’t. I’m Superman. I’m here to protect you. I gotta protect everyone.”

  I caused mayhem and chaos. I liked it.

  Fifteen minutes hadn’t gone by before Mom showed up in the classroom. Jackie Silverstein was a gorgeous woman with the looks of Liz Taylor who also had a mouth on her that could scare mountain lions. Not that there were too many mountain lions in Brooklyn.

  The teacher started in on Mom. Big mistake. The teacher said, “Andrew not only has shown absolutely no interest in his schoolwork, now he’s running around here in this costume and scaring the other children.”

  “They don’t look scared,” said Mom. “They look amused.”

  “There’s nothing funny about this,” said the teacher.

  “Then why are they laughing?” said my mother.

  “Mrs. Silverstein, let me be frank. The way Andrew is behaving, it’s going to all go downhill from here. Your son’s not going to have a future.”

  Mom stepped up to the teacher and stood as close to her as she could. They were jaw-to-jaw. Mom laid into her.

  “That’s what you want to say about my kid—right here in front of the other kids—that he has no future? I thought teachers were supposed to be smart. But this is not a smart thing to say. This is a stupid thing to say. Very stupid. So stupid I have half a mind to waltz you into the principal’s office and tell him what you’re telling me and these other bright little kids. You’re telling them that having an imagination and a little fun is not only a terrible thing but it also means you’re ruining your life. And you call yourself a teacher? Lady, you should be ashamed of yourself. You should resign your job and look for work down in the sewers—that’s what you should do.”

  My jaw dropped. The same went for the other kids. They were stunned. Mom grabbed me by the arm and yanked me outta there. I wanted to thank her, I wanted to kiss her, but I didn’t say anything, because as soon as we left school she was yelling at me. “What kind of kid puts on a Superman show in the classroom? Are you out of your mind, Andrew? Are you crazy?”

  When Dad got home from work she told him the story and started yelling at me all over again. But I didn’t mind. Because hearing what happened, my sister, Natalie—who’s three years older—was laughing just like the kids had been laughing. And besides, even though I knew I may have messed up, I’d learned the biggest lesson of all: that my family was everything. My family was there to back me up. My family was there to defend me against the world, no matter what I did. My family was my protector, and I was my family’s protector. We were the Originals. We were from Brooklyn. No one was gonna mess with me. No one was gonna intimidate me. I was free to fly.

  My dad could do anything he put his mind to. He wasn’t scared of going from one kind of business to another. In the earliest part of my life, when we lived in a garden apartment on Burnett Street, he owned a big toy store on Avenue U. If Mom had the mouth, Dad had the heart. He was a giver. He’d say, “Take any toys you want, Andrew.”

  I saw Dad as a combination of Santa Claus and Hanukkah Harry. At Christmas our living room was piled high with toys—board games and dolls, cowboy holsters and every ball known to mankind. Too bad I couldn’t catch or throw the balls worth a shit. From childhood on, I sucked at all sports except for one—boxing.

  This was another gift from my father, who’d been a Golden Gloves champ. He was so good they put up a statue of him in a park near Cunningham Junior High. Dad wasn’t a loudmouth like Mom. He was a strong, good-looking man with no apparent fears. He didn’t provoke fights, but he didn’t back down. He made it clear that he was there to protect my mom, my sister, and me. His attitude was, You don’t gotta be afraid of the world; you can take on the world, and when you do, I got your back.

  Dad might have been calm, but our household wasn’t. Our household was loud. There was a lot of screaming, not only because Mom expressed herself that way but also because her loud family was always around. There was my beautiful grandmother Shirley and her sister, Carol, and Carol’s husband, Ernie, not to mention all the other aunts and uncles and cousins. I loved all this. I even loved the screaming. I came to believe that, for Jewish families living in Brooklyn, the more you screamed, the happier you were. The more you screamed, the more you loved your family. You didn’t hold nothing back. You let your feelings fly.

  Shirley and her daughters also lit up certain fancy New York nightclubs where they ran the cloakrooms. I remember my dad leaving the apartment at midnight to drive into the city to pick them up after work. This was our family’s first venture into showbiz. Mom, Aunt Carol, and Grandma loved the bright lights of Broadway and wanted to be close to the action. Dad never objected and, because he was so sure of himself, never got jealous when Mom got the attention of other men.

  I got everyone’s attention early on. I didn’t have to demand their attention—I got it ’cause they loved me. I got it ’cause I loved to carry on and entertain them, mimicking voices I’d heard on the radio or actors I’d seen at the movies. By the time I was six, I could do John Wayne. The living room was my stage, and my family, with sister Natalie as my biggest fan, cheered me on.

  Brooklyn was the center of our universe. Brooklyn was heaven. I never imagined leaving. And then one day, much to my amazement, we got up and left.

  THE ORIGINALS WERE ON THE MOVE

  AFTER FIVE YEARS of construction, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, linking Brooklyn to Staten Island, was finally opened on November 21, 1964. This was the first day that cars could make the drive. Among those passenger cars was a Pontiac LeMans driven by Fred Silverstein. Jackie was sitting shotgun, with Natalie and seven-year-old Andrew in the backseat.

  The Originals were making the short haul over the water from Brooklyn to Staten Island.

  Back then Staten Island was wide open and ripe for development. Dad’s dream was to create a whole neighborhood—fifty-two homes. He was calling it Silvertown Estates and moving us into the middle of the action. We’d be living in one of the first completed two-family houses in the development. We’d be living upstairs, and downstairs would be Aunt Carol and Uncle Ernie and their kids, my cousins Jamie and Lori.

  As we drove off the bridge and exited onto Victory Boulevard, I craned my neck to look around. My little heart was beating like mad. I was excited but also wary. We were only a few miles from Brooklyn, but as far as I was concerned, we could have been on the fuckin’ moon. Brooklyn was wall-to-wall apartment buildings. Staten Island was acres of empty farmland. Brooklyn had subways. Staten Island had cows.

  Silvertown Estates was still going up. Some of the houses were half-built, some just framed, others just cement foundations. Only half the streets were paved. Our house, at 431 Canterbury Avenue, was a beautiful two-tone shingle home. The development w
as set in the middle of the woods. Just beyond that area, some two thousand feet away from our house, was a giant brick tower next to a complex of big old ugly brick buildings. It looked like a penitentiary.

  “What is it, Dad?” I asked.

  “Willowbrook. It’s a mental hospital.”

  “What’s a mental hospital?”

  “A hospital for people who’ve gone mental.”

  “Crazy people?”

  “They come there for treatment.”

  “And they lock ’em up?”

  “They’re locked up till they get better.”

  “And what if they escape?” I asked, feeling uneasy about these neighbors.

  “You don’t got nothing to worry about, Andrew. Look around, sonny boy. Staten Island is paradise.”

  I looked around, but my eyes went back to the ugly brick tower and those nasty-looking buildings. Crazy people. We were living down the road from an army of crazy people.

  Other than living in the shadow of a loony bin, I liked Staten Island. The wide-open spaces made me feel free. I raced around on my first serious bike—a three-speed red Stingray with a big banana seat, thick motorcycle handles, and a fat sissy bar in the back.

  Schoolwork still didn’t thrill me. It never would. I was a third-rate student and first-rate class clown. My favorite parts of the school day were the fire drills.

  “They’re great,” I was telling Mom. “The teacher lines us up outside, and if you’re not in a straight line, he punches you in the arm to get you back.”

  “He what?”

  “He walks up and down like John Wayne and punches you in the arm.”

  “He didn’t punch you, Andrew, did he?”

  “Well, yeah, kinda . . . ’cause I was outta line.”

  I realized I shouldn’t have said nothing, because the next day Jackie Silverstein, dressed like she was attending the Academy Awards, showed up at school. When the door to our classroom opened, she walked through wearing her full-length mink coat. It was like she was making a personal appearance. As I said, my mom was a knockout, a dead ringer for Elizabeth Taylor. But you put her next to the real Liz Taylor, you’d think Liz Taylor was a skank. But more than beauty, my mom had charisma. When she walked into a room, it was like she had a spotlight following her. My teacher, Mr. Barketta, this tall guy in his thirties, he didn’t have a chance.