“Dice,” he said, “you’re beautiful.”
Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “From here on, your problems are my problems.”
I went back to see Mom and Dad and told them where I been.
“What!” screamed Mom. “You went to the social club?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“That’s no association you want.”
“I got no association. I merely went and met a man. We didn’t sign no contract. Besides, Ma, all this started when I was back with Dollface and brought her to Brooklyn and you took me to that gambling joint. That’s when you said you wanted me to meet Downtown Ronny.”
“I never said that, Andrew.”
“Yes, you did. You were the one who said Downtown could help me.”
“Not me.”
“Dad,” I said, “you were there. You remember what Mom said.”
“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” said Dad.
Mom said, “Go back there and tell him you didn’t mean to go there in the first place.”
I said, “That’s a stupid idea. It’ll make me look like a putz.”
Mom said, “Better an alive putz than a dead putz.”
I said, “What are you talking about? This guy loves me.”
“Now he does,” said Mom. “But what about tomorrow?”
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“Who knows? That’s my point.”
“My point is let’s just forget about it. All that happened was that I had a harmless meeting.”
Turns out I was wrong. I should have listened to Mom. Always listen to your mom.
SAM
I BELIEVE IN the fairy tale, the everyone-lives-happily-ever-after, the scenario that says true love wins out and even old enemies become friends. It was my hope that would be the case with me and Sam Kinison. When he got a part in Rodney Dangerfield’s Back to School, I was glad for him. His career took off before mine—and that was fine with me. That even inspired me, ’cause it showed that there was a future for rock-and-shock comics. I only wish he had felt the same way when my career went through the roof. It hurt me—and I believe it hurt Sam even worse—when he got consumed by jealousy and insecurity. But even that didn’t matter, ’cause I never lost my respect for Sam’s talent, not to mention the courage it took to do his material and do it so fuckin’ brilliantly. I never forgot those struggling Store days when the two of us would steal pork chops from Ralph’s and spend long evenings cracking each other up. So you can imagine my shock and horror and sadness when I got the news in April of 1992: driving to a gig in Laughlin, Nevada, Sam had been killed in a horrible car crash. Thank God his new wife, who was in the car with him, survived. They hadn’t even been married a week.
I wept for Sam. I weep for him now. He was a crazy Christian from the Midwest. I’m a crazy Jew from Brooklyn. Our styles couldn’t have been more different, but, on the deepest level, our comedy was connected. He didn’t accept limitations. He didn’t accept any rules. He said a stand-up could stand up and say funny and outrageous shit about anything or anyone. He thumbed his nose at the rules. He broke boundaries and caused a sensation. I know that his fans—and that includes me—will never forget him.
CONNECTED
EVEN AFTER THE shit storm of Fairlane I was still making good money. In addition to my million-dollar spread in L.A., I’d bought a four-thousand-square-foot house on Avenue V in the Bergen Beach section of Brooklyn. I liked it, but when Dennis Arfa saw it he said, “It’s great, Dice, but it looks like it belongs to a successful dentist.” Getting to the gigs wasn’t bad either. I was flying coast-to-coast on MGM, a chartered luxury airline catering to the Hollywood set. The flights were beautiful, first class all the way. MGM set up the big stars in private booths where you could have a drink, hang with your friends, play a little cards . . . whatever.
Traveling with my entourage on one flight, Downtown Ronny was especially excited because Robert Wagner and Jill St. John were sitting in the booth across from us. Starstruck, Ronny kept eying them. He couldn’t stop sneaking peeks. So when he got up and went to bathroom, Hot Tub and I decided to have some fun.
“Hey, Ronny,” I said when he got back. “I was just talking to Bob Wagner. I told him you were a big fan, and him and Jill wanna meet you.”
“Serious?”
“Serious. Go tell him hello.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I better go back to the bathroom and prepare, ya heah?”
Dressed in his polyester plaid sports coat, powder-blue trousers, and orange-tinted aviator glasses, Ronny made his way to the men’s room, where he splashed on Aqua Velva and got his approach together before walking over to Wagner. Hot Tub and I couldn’t hear the conversation, but a few minutes later when Downtown returned to our booth, he had the facial expression of a hound dog.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Fuckin’ guy,” he said, “fuckin’ guy.”
“Fuckin’ guy what?” I asked.
“I throw roses at him, ya heah? I go over and I says, ‘Mr. Wagner. You’re looking at your biggest fan. Ya heah me, Mr. Wagner, I’m Downtown Ronny, and I’m your biggest fan.’ And Wagner, he’s looking at me like Who? And I say, I tells him, ‘I’m with Dice and I manage Dice’s man Wheels, and I’m thrilled—ya heah?—I’m thrilled, pardon my French, but I’m fuckin’ thrilled to be making your acquaintance and the acquaintance of your lovely lady here, because the two of you, I’ve seen the both of youse on the silver screen and I wanna convey my deepest congratulations on your career, and when you did that thief movie, the one with Audrey Hepburn, wow, Mr. Wagner, you was sensational, ya heah?’ So I’m throwing roses at him, but I’m getting the idea that my roses are stinking up the place, ’cause him and his lady, they keep looking down into their drinks like they can’t wait till I get the fuck outta there—ya heah?—but I keep talking ’cause, like you said, Dice, the guy knows I’m a fan and he likes to hear from a true fan.”
“So what made you shut up?” I asked.
“I shut up when he says, ‘Excuse me, but I have work to do.’ No ‘Thanks for stopping by.’ No ‘Nice to meet you.’ No nothing. Ya heah?”
“Yeah, I heah.”
• • •
But Downtown could be more than an amusing guy. There came a moment when I figured that he might also be a useful guy. I was working my ass off trying to maintain my status as the biggest comic in the world and working on my new special, called No Apologies—a title that explains just how I felt about my act. It was the first pay-per-view comedy event ever. I stood to make a fortune. But it needed to be promoted, and I was thinking that maybe Downtown could help hype it. After all, I was using his client Wheels on the pay-per-view, so maybe Downtown could use his connections to beef up my marketing.
Me and Downtown met at a coffee shop on Ocean Parkway near Pips.
“I want you to go to your guy for me,” I said.
“Anything,” said Downtown. “He likes doing favors for friends.”
“This ain’t a favor. This is business.”
“He likes business even more than favors. What’s your angle?”
“I got a good one. He’s hooked up with the unions, and the unions control every truck in the country. I want every truck plastered with an ad for the pay-per-view. Will he do it?”
“Naturally he’ll want something.”
“Naturally he’ll get something. He’ll be in for a piece of the action.”
“How much of a piece?”
“You’ll work it out with my father. He’s good with numbers. I’m not.”
So they worked it out. The problem was that nothing really happened. The trucks didn’t carry the posters, even though Downtown claimed there were thousands that did. I never saw one. Anyway, my father said it wasn’t worth arguing about. So after the pay-per-view was aired and they came to our office to collect their c
ut, Dad gave them all that was coming to them.
This was when I knew it was time for me to break off my association. It wasn’t doing me no good. But that break didn’t prove to be all that easy.
CLUB 33
TRINI DECIDED THAT we’d be more comfortable if we also had a suburban place on the East Coast. We chose Saddle River, New Jersey, ’cause Trini’s from Jersey and it was nice and quiet with a big yard in the back. We went east for the holidays and the summer. Back in L.A. we moved from Metz Place, as much as I loved it, to another big house in Beverly Hills, a two-million-dollar fixer-upper, ’cause it was a better school district for Max.
I remembered the day we moved from Metz Place to our house on Doheny, and how choked up I got that afternoon. All those memories at Metz Place, the parties, barbecues, dinners, Sunday afternoon hangouts, flashed in front of me like scenes from a movie, the movie of my life, my life of show-business success and sometimes even excess—Sly Stallone and his wife horsing around and laughing by the bar; Mickey Rourke diving into the pool with his clothes on; a whole group of us singing karaoke on Christmas Eve, Trini singing loudest and best of all; walking in on Rodney Dangerfield and his wife making it in the master bedroom, with Max, still an infant, asleep on the bed (Me: “Rodney, the baby’s sleeping”; Rodney: “I hope he doesn’t wake up”). But in the Doheny house I created what I consider one of my masterpieces. I called it Club 33.
That was Trini’s age when I completed work on the project. My motivation was not only to have the greatest private party room in California, but to make sure that our marriage stayed fresh and strong. At first glance, you might think it was a teenage fantasy—and maybe it was. Maybe I never got past the teenage part of wanting to have a good time with the woman of my dreams.
A former guest quarters, the room was attached to the house but had a separate, apartment-like feel. I put in wall-to-wall tiger carpeting, a hundred-thousand-dollar sound system worthy of a Sunset Strip disco, and patterned puffy fabrics on all the walls, each wall a different wild color. None of it matched, which is just what I wanted. There were blackout shades. There were custom-made couches and lounge chairs and a hammock hanging from the ceiling. There was a Murphy bed that came out of the wall with a fur blanket. The lighting was spectacular: lava lamps in groovy shades of pink and blue and orange and red.
It’s where I entertained my closest business associates and friends. For years I’d been going to Joe’s Tape World in Brooklyn, where I created my own mix tapes. So you know that the sound track at Club 33 was sizzling. I don’t care what kind of music you like, I had it covered. My specialty was disco—I’m a guy who never got over the get-down get-funky super-sexy disco—but I had big bands and Sinatra and Sammy and Aretha together with Led Zep and Aerosmith and the Stones.
Club 33 was my escape, but also the place where I struggled like hell to renew the romance with my wife. In that regard, I didn’t do all that good. We had some great nights up there, beautiful nights I’ll never forget. But the truth was that, no matter how hard each of us tried, we were moving in different directions. She felt that I was too wrapped up in my career to see who she was and what she needed; I felt she was growing distant and not giving me the support I needed. But because we both loved our Max, we weren’t giving up. I clung to the vision that came to me years before in Chicago when Trini and I had seen an old couple holding hands and looking at each other like teenagers falling in love. That would be us—in love forever.
ELVIS CALLING
ON THE ROAD, I kept things light and easy. I kept myself going by goofing with the boys. My favorite goof had to do with my Elvis thing.
It started with Ed the Machine Regine, a guy who worked very blue and was very funny until his woman insisted that he work clean. That ruined his act. When Ed came aboard, though, he was still working dirty. Wheels set him up. He took him aside and said, “One thing you gotta know about Dice is that he’s a little crazy. A little psychotic. Sometimes when we’re on the bus, he’ll go into his Elvis routine and start singing Elvis songs. That’s okay. You just watch him and smile. But then he’ll get angry and go into this fuckin’ trance where he really believes that he’s Elvis. That’s when you gotta go along with the program. You just gotta humor him.”
Next thing you know we’re on the bus driving somewhere out west and it was the middle of the fuckin’ night. Me, Hot Tub, Club Soda, Happy Face, and Wheels had it all planned. Ed the Machine went back to his bunk and fell asleep. The rest of us stayed up. At three A.M., I cranked up the monster sound system and started blasting “Hound Dog.” The lights went up, the music was so loud that Ed fell out of his bunk, and there I was in the middle of the aisle doing Elvis while the boys were cheering me on. At the end of the song, I started calling Hot Tub “Sonny” after Sonny, one of Elvis’s Memphis Mafia pals, and Club Soda became “Red,” another Elvis buddy. I told Wheels to call Priscilla and tell her we’d be rolling into Memphis before sunrise.
Seeing all this, Ed the Machine couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Is he serious?” Ed whispered to Wheels.
“Very serious,” Wheels whispered back.
“He’s out of his fuckin’ mind,” said Ed. “You gotta do something to help him.”
“If you don’t go along with him,” said Wheels, “he gets even battier.”
That was part one. Part two happened in L.A., where I was living in the house alone ’cause Trini and Max were back in Jersey.
Wheels and Ed the Machine were gigging at the Comedy Store.
“Dice wants us to come by his house,” Wheels told Ed at the end of the last show.
When they got there, I was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” asked Ed.
“He sounded a little fucked-up on the phone,” said Wheels. “I’m worried. Let’s check the bedroom and make sure he’s okay.”
Wheels opened the door, and there I was—in bed in my underwear, a DICE RULES leather jacket, and big black boots.
“Everything okay, E?” asked Wheels.
“Why are you calling him ‘E’?” whispered Ed.
“He’s in his Elvis trance,” Wheels whispered back.
I got out of bed and, in my best trancelike Elvis voice, said, “Sonny, can I talk to you, man?”
“Sure thing, E.”
“Where’s Priscilla?”
“She’s back in Memphis.”
“I gotta see Priscilla. I gotta talk to Priscilla.”
“Well, E, she decided not to make the trip, remember?”
“Get her on the phone, Sonny. Get her on the phone now.”
Wheels took Ed into the hallway and said, “Look, you go into the den, and when the phone rings, pretend to be Priscilla.”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” asked Ed.
“Do it. I’m afraid of what Dice might do if you don’t. Last time this happened he drove up to the house on Truesdale where Priscilla Presley actually lives and nearly broke down the gate. They called the cops, and we just got outta there in time. I can’t let that happen again.”
So Ed went into the den, and when the phone rang I said, “Cilla? Is that you, baby?”
In a ridiculous high-pitched voice, Ed said, “Yes.”
“Cilla, baby, I’m just calling to say I love you and I miss you and I can’t stand being without you.”
Silence.
“Are you there, Cilla?”
High-pitched Ed: “Yes.”
“Good. Now put Lisa Marie on the phone.”
Pause before high-pitched Ed said, “She’s asleep, Elvis.”
“Just tell her Daddy called, Cilla. Tell her I’ll be home tomorrow. Love you, Cilla.”
Pause. High-pitched Ed: “Love you too, Elvis.”
TERI AND ME
IN 1993, I made a movie called Brain Smasher . . . A Love Story. The ad line said everything you need to know: “Rescue a supermodel. Battle killer ninjas. Save the world. No problem.”
This wasn’t a zillion-dollar Hollyw
ood production, but it wasn’t shabby by early nineties budgets. And I had some killer lines in it. Plus my name and Teri Hatcher’s were above the title. At thirty-six, I was looking to keep my mug on the silver screen. And Teri, a talented twenty-eight-year-old actress, was happy to have nailed her first starring role in a feature. It was good to be back in the Hollywood game, and besides, it was a cute story. I played a nightclub bouncer who turned into a hero, rescuing Teri, the damsel in distress.
Naturally I’d heard of on-the-set romances between the leading man and leading lady, but that wasn’t gonna happen to me. Even though I was going through hell with Trini, I was still determined to work it out and keep my family together. My live-happily-ever-after family dream would never die.
The film was shooting in Portland, and the minute I met Teri in the producer’s office I knew there could be a problem. The vibe between us was powerful. Whether on purpose or not, the producer put her hotel suite next to mine. That first night she came over to rehearse in my living room. She wanted to go over the lines of the script we were set to shoot the next day.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off her: she had a gorgeous face, thin frame, big luscious boobs, and a perfect butt. Every move she made was sensual. I loved the way she stood with both hands on her hips. I loved her little-girl laugh as she brushed one side of her hair behind her ear. I could feel her nervousness, so I said, “Sit down, relax. I’m not what you heard I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m Andrew. Not Dice. Unless you want me to be Dice.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Dice just wants to get it on. Andrew will take you to dinner first.”
“I’ll take Andrew . . . for now.”
That was Teri—a mix of coyness and vulnerability, a flirt but also a great professional. She was serious about her acting. She came to read her lines with me—and that’s all we did. Naturally I wanted to do more, but I remained a gentleman.
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