“I see you as Buddy Love on acid,” said Jerry.
“I love that,” I said. “And I also wanna say, Jerry, that I know you got this reputation as someone who might be tough to work with, but I’m here to tell you that when we’re working on the movie you can hit me in the mouth every day. You can kick me in the ass. You can do whatever the fuck you wanna do. You can’t be too tough on me. That’s how much I love and respect you. That’s how willing I am to work with you.”
“Who says I’m tough to work with?” asked Jerry.
“It’s the general impression I’ve gotten by reading and talking to—”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Dice. Is that the general impression you’ve gotten by reading about Barbra Streisand? Is that the general impression you’ve gotten by reading about Sly Stallone? Because if these people are tough to work with, these people are like me. These people are perfectionists. They’re artists. True artists. They see a scene one way—the right way—and aren’t happy until the scene comes to life in precisely the way it’s been living in their imagination.”
By now Jerry was up on his feet and yelling. Jerry Lewis was yelling at me about how the great ones are all perfectionists and the great ones are all difficult because great artists can’t be compromised. Naturally I was a little taken aback that Jerry Lewis was standing in front of me screaming his head off. But who was I to argue? So I didn’t. I was nodding my head and listening and letting him go off for as long as he wanted. Which was quite a fuckin’ long time.
At the end of the meeting, Jerry had calmed down.
“You know what,” he said, “I can see you seeing doing this movie. I can see it happening, Andrew.”
“I can’t tell you what that means to me, Jerry.”
“What it means is that we’ll have a meeting with the studio—that’s what it means.”
Less than a month later we were in the offices of New Line Cinema—me and my management, Jerry and his management, and the studio’s top brass. As the meeting started, there was only one problem: Jerry was not being funny. He was stiff and withdrawn, and I could see the thing was not going well. So I excused myself and went to the men’s room, where I put on a pair of nutty professor glasses and pushed my hair down over my forehead in the nerdy manner of the character I wanted to play. I returned to the room in character, asking everyone—in the professor’s voice—whether they had a couple of quarters for the parking meter. The room broke up—even Jerry. The mood changed, and suddenly everyone was animated and excited.
At the end of the meeting, the man who ran the studio said, “We’re making this picture. This movie’s gonna happen.”
I was over the moon.
Then came a strange call. It couldn’t have been a month later when I was at home and Trini said, “Jerry Lewis is on the phone.”
Naturally I jumped.
“Everything okay, Jerry?” I asked.
“No, everything’s not okay!” he yelled. “And nothing will be okay until you get what you’re supposed to get and I get what I’m supposed to get!”
The screaming went on for quite a while. I didn’t know what to say. My managers hadn’t mentioned anything about the negotiations. I had no idea what we were being offered, and Jerry wasn’t being specific. He was just yelling about how neither of us should get fucked by the studio. I agreed, but I was seeing what everyone meant when they said Jerry was tough to work with.
No matter; we pushed ahead. Turns out we were both booked in Atlantic City, performing at different hotels at the same time. I saw that as a good sign. I went to see him perform and, afterward, I told him straight from my heart that he was fuckin’ brilliant.
“You’re the best,” I said.
“Thank you, Andrew.”
“I’m wondering where we are on the movie deal.”
“Where we always were,” said Jerry. “We’re holding our ground. You’re gonna get what you’re supposed to get. And I’m gonna get what I’m supposed to get.”
“Well, I think I’m happy with what I’m gonna get.”
“You can’t be. You can’t be happy unless I’m happy—and I’m not. I’m not at all happy.”
In short, Jerry’s unhappiness killed the deal. The studio got tired of his demands. They revered Jerry Lewis, but the simple truth was they didn’t need him.
I wouldn’t say that I was crushed—remaking The Nutty Professor was always a long shot—but I was deeply disappointed.
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
AFTER JERRY LEWIS there was one other person I really wanted to meet—and I knew the man who knew the man. I got close with Wayne Newton, a great guy, while working with him on Ford Fairlane. If his trailer door was open, I’d go in and start shooting the shit. One day I noticed a flashy diamond bracelet on his wrist.
“Man, that thing is gorgeous,” I said.
“It was a gift from Frank,” said Wayne.
“Sinatra?” I asked, knowing goddamn well that “Frank” meant Sinatra. But then again, talking to Wayne Newton like he was my costar—which he was—had me sounding stupid.
“Yes,” he said, “Sinatra is such a generous guy. Wonderful friend.”
All this Wayne Newton/Frank Sinatra talk got me excited and even more stupid, to the point where I asked Wayne an amazingly stupid question:
“Hey, Wayne,” I said. “Do you think Sinatra likes me?”
“If he does, I promise you that you’ll hear from him.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I felt like I’d made a fool of myself. I couldn’t believe I’d asked such a ridiculous question—Do you think Sinatra likes me? Was I really that needy? I guess so.
That happened in the summer. At the end of the year I was headlining at Bally’s in Vegas. I got to town with my crew a couple of days early. Not only was I being paid a ridiculous amount to play the hotel, I was also on a hot winning streak. First night out I won $69,000 at the blackjack table. The cards were smiling at me like I was their best friend. Making me even happier was the fact that, come the weekend, Trini was flying in from L.A., and my parents were arriving from New York.
The day after my winning night, Hot Tub Johnny, Club Soda Kenny, and I piled in the limo. I was dressed in my usual sloppy gym clothes. I told the driver, “Take me to the closest Mercedes dealer.”
The dealership wasn’t far from the Strip. I got out, walked into the showroom, and looked over the new models. A salesman, young guy, approached me. He smiled and got red in the face. He recognized me and happened to be a fan. I walked around a gorgeous four-door sedan the color of champagne. I peered at the sticker attached to the passenger-side window. “So, bottom line, what’s this gonna cost me, out the door?”
The guy cleared his throat and said, “Well, including tax, license, registration, other costs—a little more than sixty-nine thousand dollars.”
“And for me?”
He laughed. “I’m a big fan, sir, but, yeah, sixty-nine thousand plus. That’s all I can do.”
“I had this dream ever since I was a kid,” I said. “I always wanted to drive a Mercedes right out of the showroom.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wad—sixty-nine thousand dollars in cash—and pressed the bills into the salesman’s hands. “There’s sixty-nine K even. Can you make my dream come true?”
I thought his jaw would drop to the floor. “Well, I think, since it’s cash—”
“Bring the paperwork over to my hotel tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
We stood silently, awkwardly, for about twenty seconds, the guy’s eyes wide and still looking at the mound of cash in his hand. Finally, I said, “You forgetting something?”
He blinked at me. “Sir?”
I held out my hand. “The key.”
Five minutes later, me and the boys were cruising the Strip in the new champagne Benz. Next day I drove it to the airport and picked up my parents, my sister, and Trini. The girls all got in the back while my father sat up front
with me. Beaming like a little kid, he caressed the leather on the seat. “What a gorgeous car,” he said. “I’ve never been in one of these before.”
“Whenever you want a ride, just ask Trini,” I said.
“Me?” Trini said from the backseat. “Why me?”
I caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Because this is yours, baby. Merry Christmas.”
• • •
From there it only got sweeter. A couple nights later, Wayne Newton invited us all over to his fabulous house, treating us like we were family. One of the biggest stars in the history of Las Vegas was entertaining my parents and girlfriend, lavishing them with attention and talking about me like I was in the same league as him. I guess I was, but I still had to pinch myself to believe it.
“Hey, Dice,” said Wayne. “Have you ever headlined in Vegas on New Year’s?”
“This is my first time.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, after the show come to the Hilton. I wanna do something special for you. I wanna throw a party for you and your family. What do you say?”
“What can I say? Thanks, Wayne.”
The party was beautiful. We loved being with Wayne. After about an hour of schmoozing, he took me aside and said, “Grab Trini and meet me outside. We gotta do a quick getaway.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but where Wayne led, I followed.
Downstairs he pulled up in one of his many Rolls-Royces. He had me get in front. Trini got in the back with Wayne’s girlfriend.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“I made a promise to you a while back.”
“What promise?”
“You’ll see.”
We drove along the Strip and pulled into the Sands. Right next to the hotel was a little Italian restaurant—nothing super-fancy, just casually elegant. A small private party was already in progress. There was a nice buzz. Naturally I had an instinct about what Wayne was up to. I was hoping my instinct was right, but I was scared that I was wrong and didn’t want to be disappointed. As my eyes swept around the restaurant, I suddenly saw that I wasn’t wrong.
He was standing by the bar with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He looked just the way you’d think he looked. Beautifully tailored sports jacket and matching slacks. Cool as a cucumber.
Wayne looked at me as I was looking at Sinatra.
“Ready to meet him?” asked Wayne with a big smile across his face.
“I been ready my whole life,” I said.
We walked over to where he was standing. He turned to me with those piercing blue eyes and said, “So Wayne says you’re wondering if I like what you do.”
I was too nervous to say a fuckin’ thing.
“Relax, kid,” said Sinatra. “I think you’re funny. You’re funny as hell. Come meet the family.”
Frank was with his wife, Barbara, her daughter, and some other people. After Wayne introduced me and Trini, Sinatra tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come have a drink with me.”
We went to a little red leather booth by the bar. The waiter hurried over with two glasses of champagne.
“Thanks for coming by, kid,” said Frank. “I just wanted to congratulate you on all your success and wish you a happy New Year.”
Sitting there with Frank Sinatra, I was still speechless. I’d never been this tongue-tied before. Finally I got out some words.
“I can’t tell you what this means to me, Frank.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I wanna tell you how my folks went to see you at the Main Event in the Garden and how much I wanted to be there.”
“Why weren’t you?”
“I was only sixteen, but I did watch it with my girlfriend and her hundred-and-ten-year-old grandmother in Sea Gate.”
Frank laughed. God, it felt good to get a laugh outta Frank.
“I hear you’re gonna be playing the Garden,” he said.
“And you’re my inspiration to do it.”
“I know the media’s been after you, kid. How you dealing with all that?”
“It can be rough, Frank, but nothing compared to what you’ve been through with the media.”
“That’s why I’m asking you. Because I know that those bastards can beat you down. It took me a long time to learn to ignore them.”
“I’m trying.”
“You work for your fans, not the media. The media gets their tickets for free. If your peace of mind depends upon pleasing them, you won’t have peace of mind, Dice. But if you concentrate on your fans, and you keep entertaining them to where they’re willing to fork over their hard-earned cash to see you, that’s enough.”
After a few minutes, Wayne came over to the table.
“Boss,” he said to Sinatra, “would you like to borrow my plane to fly back to L.A. tonight?”
“No, thanks, Wayne. We’re staying over.”
I sensed my private time with Sinatra was up. But before I left, the Chairman said, “I wish you all the best, kid. And if you ever need anything, let me know.” Then he hesitated and corrected himself with a little laugh. “Actually, if you ever need anything, let Wayne know.”
• • •
I don’t know what was crazier—the celebrity theater I packed every night at Bally’s or the total insanity happening at the casino tables. Every part of my life was a whirlwind, a complete high.
Didn’t matter where I played—Bally’s or Caesars—I had my way at the tables. One night I got so hot I lost track of time. I was wearing my DICE RULES leather jacket with over ten thousand rhinestones and studs on it. Cost me over ten grand. I was starting to draw a crowd. Suddenly Club Soda Kenny rushed over. “You gotta get onstage, Dice. Your set is about to start.”
“Shit, really?” I shrugged at the dealer, gave him a nice tip, swept up the rest of my chips, and headed into the theater. That night I did my show with three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in chips bulging in my pockets.
Yeah, those days, I couldn’t lose.
Until, of course, I did.
TWO NIGHTS AT THE GARDEN
BEFORE I GOT to the Garden, something else happened that turned the industry on its head: against the advice of many, I put out a record called The Day the Laughter Died. But it is not the typical comedy album. My idea was simple: with no publicity beforehand, do a long late-night set at Dangerfield’s and put it on tape. Little or no editing. Just me and a small crowd. Heavy on the intimacy but no restraints on the material. Dice being raunchy and real.
“This record will not work,” said my original mentor, Mitzi Shore, when I played her a preview copy.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because no one has ever put out a double-disc comedy record. It’s too long, and this time you’re just too offensive. It’s gonna ruin your career.”
“I don’t think so, and neither does Rick Rubin. He thinks it’s funny as hell.”
“He produces music, not comedy. I know comedy,” said Mitzi, “and comedy albums are short. They don’t go on forever like this one.”
For a second or two, Mitzi’s comments gave me pause. After all, when it comes to comedy, Mitzi has heard it all. But my gut told me that I was right—that an after-midnight comedy set had the relaxed feel that fans would love.
And the fans did love it. After just four days on the market, The Day the Laughter Died went gold.
• • •
In February of 1990, I felt like I’d reached the top of the mountain; the corner of Seventh Avenue and Thirty-Second Street was the summit. Far as I was concerned, the Garden was it. Naturally my folks felt the same. The Knicks played in the Garden. Elton John. Aerosmith. The Rolling Stones. Paul McCartney. Sinatra. Elvis. They held political conventions in the Garden. Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus played the Garden. Michael Jackson. Guns N’ Roses. The biggest of the big. And yet not even the biggest comics had ever been able to sell out the arena. Until me. And not only for one night, but two.
&
nbsp; It wasn’t just a matter of getting up there and telling a few jokes. It was a matter of taking the already crazed energy of eighteen thousand fans who were on their feet—screaming, pumping their fists, standing on their seats, and waving their arms—and taking them even higher.
Because of all the other arenas I’d been playing across the country, I knew I was ready. But on that first night when I got out on that stage to the most thunderous ovation I’ve ever heard in my life, when I looked at the cavernous size of the place, when I realized I wasn’t at Pips in Brooklyn or Dangerfield’s on First Avenue or Rascals in West Orange but in the biggest entertainment venue in the biggest city facing the biggest, most enthusiastic, crazed crowd of my life, I felt my engine racing. They were roaring at me, and I was roaring back at them.
I kicked it off, and I kicked it hard.
“Korean delis, Indian newsstands, Greek diners, and ass-fucking parties every night—that’s New York. How are you?
“What a fuckin’ crowd! Madison Square fuckin’ Garden! Top of the world, Ma.
“We got some cute-looking whores hanging out. I’m all about pussy, I’ll tell you that much. I live it, I dream it, I fuck it. And we’ll talk about it, because it’s a new decade. It’s the nineties. I got a whole new act of fuckin’ filth right here.
“Because being back in New York, I feel that New York attitude all the time. Even birds—fuckin’ birds—have an attitude here. They don’t shit on you by mistake. They aim. You can be walking with your chick and some bird shits on your nose. And your girlfriend looks at you and says, ‘Honey, you have shit on your nose.’ And you give her your attitude. You come back with, ‘So what? Maybe I like it there. Now shut your fuckin’ hole!’ ”
From there it got better, racier, raunchier, more daring, more ridiculous, more of fuckin’ everything.
After the second night, I knew that, no matter how long I lived, no other night would compare to those.
I also knew that, to keep myself from going completely bat-shit, I had to anchor myself. That’s why right after the show I avoided the media and the after-parties and went back to the Brooklyn neighborhood where I’d been raised. Me and Trini went to the apartment that I’d bought a block away from my parents. I needed to come down, and there was no better way to do that than with Trini, who was radiantly pregnant. The two of us went to the 7-Eleven, bought some Breyers ice cream, and went home and made root beer floats. It was a sweet end to a very sweet run.
Filthy Truth (9781476734750) Page 19
