The Fall and Rise of Andy Dick, Part One – The Legend

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She storms out of the restroom of Akbar. I can’t help but notice her, fuming down the runway from the powder-room to the sidewalk. She seems annoyed; over it.

I nudge my friend Lammy, who’s off processing something else. He misses her. He’s looking over at Pete Zias, a sultry comedy genius who’s doing my show on the 29th. Lamy is caught up in thought, and I’m trying to bring him back to focus on this spurned, lovely, fresh-faced ingenue vamping out of Akbar. She seems straight, I think. I bet her gay friend did something major, and she’s not having any more of tonight.

I check my phone. It’s still early.

I love watching women fuming. I like seeing them angry. I like seeing the veneer peel back. I don’t want to see everything, but watching a woman get furious is like watching a force of nature in action – a hurricane or a tornado.  When my mother was younger, she covered some spider veins with nude pantyhose. I mentioned it to her once, wondering how she got them, and she said, oh, those are from your brother. Yours are here, she then said, and pointed somewhere else on her leg. I never mentioned it again, but I felt humbled in the moment. I really love women.

When raised into ire, they show a hint, a whisper of that age old anger I identify in myself. Sure, it’s not at all the same situation as being a gay man, but it’s a very similar, equally complicated dynamic. Trying to be the prettiest version of yourself, getting punished for it. Trying to be an uncompromising, high riding bitch, getting punished for that, too. Trying to be a boring version of yourself, getting criticized. I could keep going:

I have always loved women. Nurturing and twisting, empathizing and uncompromising, thoughtful and self absorbed and generous to a fault, and sometimes just plain selfish. I love women for what they are, when they are, who they are. Even when they act ridiculously entitled, I’m apt to make excuses for them. They’re women. They understand.

We all need each other. We have to love one another, the men, the women, the gays, the straights, the colors and the whites – people somewhere in the middle of those “either, or” paradigms. And most women understand that. Sometimes you have to draw it out, but most women get it.

Trust me though, this particular chick has had it. She’s done with tonight. I can tell that on the storm-out.

Bonus footage: there’s a storm-back-in. She’s tapping on the lady’s room door! By this time Lammy and I have migrated over to say goodbye to Pete, and his lovely friend Marcel, who has the bright heart of a mime, and the sensitivity of Proust. Kind men, I think to myself, as we bid goodnight. I see the upset woman walking back out again, out of the corner of my eye. She has short hair, and a pixie’s face, and blackberry red lips. It’s something thin and gauzy draped from her. Maybe, it’s a sundress? I can’t tell.  It looks effortless and smooth but maybe she’s pissed? She leaves again. We move to leave behind her. I look back to try to catch a glimpse of Pete and Marcel laughing. I want to leave Akbar with that image in my mind, so I turn my head, expecting to see these bright, funny boys.

But, instead, right behind me, it’s Andy Dick. Andy fucking Dick.

He gives me a sigh and a look like, yes, it’s me, you’re recognizing me, it’s not a good time, let’s move things along. He even does this thing where he takes one finger, aims it sideways, and rolls it at me. That gesture people do, when they want you to wrap something up in a business meeting, or maybe even over coffee. But I don’t care. It’s Andy Fucking Dick.

“You’re Andy Dick!” I say, immediately out on the sidewalk. The fuming woman perches in a shiny red convertible with a handsome male driver. He’s tan and has a pencil mustache. Mischievous, smirking, he looks well-heeled. I turn back to Andy Dick. “I’m a huge fan of your work. News Radio is a brilliant piece of Americana.” I grasp his hand to shake it, and hold it, squeezing his opposite shoulder with my left hand. Eye contact, mutual respect, meaningful touch. “Just brilliant,” I say.

“Thank you,” he says. You’re a kind person. He says it with a sort of sadness in his eyes.

(Once I was allowed to go to a carnival. It was high school and I could drive, and I was going there with my friend Fred Woodchord. Things didn’t work out like I’d wanted them to, and my friend left early. I stayed. I was there when they were wrapping up and I saw all the artifice packed up for the night. Carnie folk, like I’d seen working at my parents’ laundromat in Brooksville, Florida. They come and do huge loads of laundry. The soap turns brown! But somewhere in my memory castle I access the night of the carnival. I stayed too long; ate too much sugar. Played too many penny arcade games. I drove home feeling mildly ashamed and kind of sad, like how Andy looked at me.)

“Hey,” I say. “You did a really good job, bud. You’re a classic.”

Andy’s smirk softens and he stares deep into my eyes.

“You’re a good person,” he says.

“You’re brilliant.”

And that’s it.

Andy breaks the spell, moves toward the red car, with the smirking, handsome, 40 something driver. The young woman is almost girlish now. She’s back to neutral, dreamy – checking her cuticles.  I move to try to introduce Lammy, but the moment has passed.

Andy hops into the convertible, I move with Lammy, northwest, to my car. Oh my god that was Andy Dick. I know. Did you ever see News Radio? What’s that? It’s a sitcom from the 90’s – brilliant cast, Steven Root is in it! It was Phil Hartman’s last major project. Maura Tierney.  Dave Foley. I could go on.

He’s an American treasure, I tell Lammy. We get into the car to flyer more at Gold Coast, and possibly Trunks. Maybe Motherload while we’re at it.

Did you know Andy Dick was an inspiration to me, I ask Lammy. Lammy shrugs. Oh yes! He probably has something similar to chronic hypomania! Certainly, he’s an addict – he’s very open about that when he interviews. Not sure if he’s in recovery now, or not. I’m so proud I met him! He was clearly gay and making it as an actor when I was young, I say. Lammy loves to say little, and chime in to disagree about semantics. He reminds me that Andy Dick is bisexual. I don’t care, I say. In my head, when I was a kid, watching Andy Dick star in (hands down, no arguing) the best sitcom of its era. In my head it was a gay man succeeding in comedy, and not toning it down. Not even trying. For the 90’s, that was as badass as you could be.

Lammy smirks and shrugs and I drive us west. He’s much younger than me. I’m blathering about mania, and how it can trigger brilliance, and how I’m so blessed at this time in my life, and how the world, life, the Holy Spirit, the Great Spirit, whatever it is – is lining up synchronic vibrations for me this year – is being so kind this time around. It’s not nasty like five years ago. It’s good this time.

I’m so proud of me, and of Lammy, who did some pretty awesome communications today, as a friend, at his business. I’m so proud of bisexual Andy Dick, and how even a cruel, ugly world sometimes can’t keep those special people who hold a small light inside apart. Not for long. Not forever. It lines itself up for us, just as it does for the meanies, the bullies, the awful, grabbing, fear-mongers. Sometimes, it synchs for us, too.

We turn left on Fairfax. Lamy puts his hand on my knee. He’s worried about a man crossing the street. I joke about how, he wouldn’t be walking so slowly if I wasn’t trying to turn left. Lammy misses the joke.

He’s off somewhere for a split second. He’s in his memory castle. He’s processing something else.




Her: Can I have some more wine? I burned my finger and I want to take my mind off it.

Her friend: Know what’s good for a burn? Raw honey. It has antimicrobials that help the burn.

Her: Know what else helps the burn? Wine. Will you pour me some more wine?

Me: Know what else helps the burn?

(long pause)

Me: An unhappy childhood.


Me: Because the burn doesn’t hurt compared to the childhood. You barely notice it!!!

Her: Ladies and Gentlemen, Michael Martin!!!

Me: Thank you. I’m here all week. Please tell your friends.

Don’t Write About Me

photos by eryc perez de tagle

Him: Hey. I know you.

Me: Hey. Do you?

Him: Yeah I think so.

Me: From where?

Him: You’re the guy online.

Me: Oh shit. Yeah. I guess I am. Hi.

Him: Hi.

Me: What’s your name?

Him: Kelley. 

Me: Oh wow. I really like that name for a guy.

Him: Thanks. You’re…?

Me: Michael. It’s nice to meet you.

Him: You too. (pause) Oh my God. Do you have pie?

Me: What?

Him: Did you bring pie?

Me: To a Brooklyn gay bar?  No.  I didn’t.

Him: Well. You’re supposed to be the one who has all the pie, aren’t you, mister?

Me: I suppose I am.

Him: Well see?  You should have brought some.

Me: I’m hoarding it.

Him: You are?

Me: Yeah. I’m hoarding all the pie and nobody can have any except people I like.

Him: Aw!  That’s not fair.

Me: Also I tried bringing pie here before but it made my coat pockets sticky.

Him: Really?

Me: No. But you’re cute.

Him: Really?  So are you.

Me: Thanks. So are you hungry? Wanna get some cheap Mexican food?

Him: Right now?

Me: Yeah, or later. It’s always there, on Grand and Graham.

Him: You know what?  I better say no.  No offense.

Me: I’m… What? I’m not offended.

Him: Yeah but I better say no.

Me: Why?

Him: I’m just more of a prude than you are.

Me: So?

Him: So I’d better not accept a date invitation from you.

Me: ‘Cause you’re a prude?

Him: Yeah. I’m a super prude. I’d never have a website where I do what you do.  Post revealing photographs like that.

Me: They’re not that revealing, are they?

Him: Don’t you think they’re slightly dirty?

Me: Not really. I feel like I’ve seen worse in fashion magazines.

Him: Maybe. But there’s this context. It’s jarring.

Me: That’s on purpose.

Him: Well, mission accomplished.

Me: So, okay. So, don’t start a website where you post photos and stories like I do. What’s that got to do with having some cheap Mexican food with me?

Him: I just think I probably wouldn’t be the best person for you, is all…

Me: Well that’s why people go on dates. To find out if that’s true or not. And to have fun along the way.

Him: Thanks for asking. I’m going to decline.

Me: Okay. I respect that.

Him: Partially, too, I don’t want to get written about.

Me: Oh, I’m probably going to do that.

Him: No!  Why??

Me: Because it’s a slow news week, cutie.

Him: Stop.

Me: I don’t know why. ‘Cause that’s what I do. I probably would write about you either way, but now that you’ve implied I’m too slutty to qualify for a date, I’m definitely going to.

Him: Oh jeez.  That’s not what I meant.

Me: I know. But I have to capitalize on what’s going on in front of me – as a writer.

Him: I’m not an extrovert. I don’t want to be part of your thing. I like it, but I don’t want to be part of it. Why isn’t that okay?

Me: That’s fine. But I might write about it.

Him: Why?

Me: Because I write about conversations I have.

Him: I know, but just don’t write about me.

Me: You’re trying to censor my writing, and you just met me, Kelley.

Him: That’s not true.

Me: What else would you call limiting what I can write about? I’m kidding. I don’t think you’re really trying to censor me. Except for the censorship part.

Him: Okay, fine. Please don’t write about me?

Me: Sure. On one condition.

Him: What?

Me: Come have cheap Mexican food with me. Sit with me and chat for half an hour and I promise I won’t write about you, ever. You don’t have to ever talk to me again.

Him: No. I already said no.

Me: Okay. There it is then.

Him: But, don’t write about me.

Me: Eh. We’ll see…


Hey Michael,

Before I begin on the matter of importance, I just wanted to say that I enjoy your blog very much. It’s gotten to the point where I check it everyday to see if there are any updates. 🙂

So, I was hoping maybe you could help me out with some advice. I’ve been seeing this boy…his name is Michael too. We started talking on an iPhone social networking app in January. Things were going great, and we eventually started dating. He is 18 years old. and I am 21. Our relationship only lasted one month because he ended up not wanting to be in a relationship with me. He said he still had feelings for his ex. So we stopped talking for about 2 months after our breakup. Now he is texting me a lot and we actually went out to dinner last week so we could talk things out and be on good terms. It all went great, we laughed and talked seriously about how thing ended between us. He tells me now that he really still likes me and thinks about me all the time. He told me the other day that he wants another chance with me. I’m not sure if I should tell him have it because I feel like he still has feelings for his ex and things will just be the same as last time. He will also be leaving for college in the fall…in another state. I just dont know what to do really. I like him, I think he’s a great guy. What do you think?



Thanks for writing in.  You’re sweet and kind, and not a douche.

At least, I get that from your letter.  Am I right?

So this guy wants you back eh?  Okay.  You seem to like him.  So maybe let him have you back?  A little.  But hey, make it difficult for him.  Make him prove that he’s not just trying to see if he can get you back out of some emotional existential boredom. On the other hand, don’t make it TOO hard for him – gay people are frequently emotionally ADD.

You think he still has feelings for his ex?  You’re right. He does.  That’s how love works.  You don’t ever stop loving someone, once you fall in love with them.  You just find ways of muting it, when it’s over.

So, okay,  here’s my advice:  Do it.

Let yourself fall for this guy.  Let yourself love him.

But only a little.

He’s leaving.  He’ll be gone in a few short months.  That sucks, but there’s a power to that.  It means that even if he doesn’t act like a douche about his ex, he’s still going to break your heart by leaving.  So, either way, it’s going to hurt.


You like him.

You should fall for him.  You’re 21.  He’s 18.  You’re supposed to be having epic romances.  Let yourself.  See where it leads?

You will heal if he hurts you.  Let him.

Do you want to go through life as an emotional daredevil?  Of COURSE you do.  You will heal if he hurts you. Always keep one eye open and know this might be treacherous. I love you.


Kinda Awkward,

Okay so im 18,and ive had sex a few times..i bottomed now for the 4th time and cant help but feel that its not for me. I hate to say it but, it just feels like im pooping :p

if it wasnt for this constant feeling of pooping when he fucks me,i think i might like it…I know what ur gonna say, poop before, but i do and i still feel it..then im worried ill poop.
is every man suppose to like anal sex? I feel like im a bottom, but i just dont know what all the fuss is about getting fucked. Is the moans and growns in porn, moans of pleasure or just discomfort?.will it become more enjoyable with practice?all i want to do when im with  guy i like is to please him,how can i get around anal sex?How can i keep a guy i like without letting him in?

-Awkward and lonely

p.s. whats ur views on unprotected sex
I bet you’re a beautiful guy.   I know you are.  All Gay people are beautiful and perfect, because all people are.  I believe that.
Here are a few things to consider.
1) Maybe you’re not a bottom?  Hey.  When you’re young and gay and pretty?  EVERYONE wants to fuck you.  But, maybe you’re not a bottom?  That’s a possibility to keep in mind.  Maybe you’re a top?
Or maybe you’re one of those weird Gays that only likes oral sex?  I love those weird Gays!
2) However, it sounds like you want to bottom, or try to learn if you are a bottom. In which case:  Keep Doing It.  Let yourself try it… oh I dunno…  ten times?  If after ten times bottoming you think it’s a nuisance, then try finding a cute boy to top.
I want to ask – are you cleaning out?  Are you giving yourself an enema before you let someone penetrate you?  That can make all the difference.  I know lots of bottoms that fuss about whether they’re going to poop everywhere.  Most of those guys just clean out, so the sex is not filled with… er… smudges…
(if you need more information about this, awkward, just email me and i’ll be more specific)
Here’s my advice:  I frequently think Gay men have the short end of the stick.  We are a cultural bogeyman.  People hate us.  We’re even prone to hating ourselves.
I think we should enjoy the few privileges we have.  One of those privileges is that we get to enjoy both passive and penetrative sex.  Please revel in that.  Please enjoy the benefits to being Gay. Seriously.
BTW.  That constantly pooping feeling?  It goes away. Keep practicing.
How do you get to Carnegie Hall?  Practice Practice Practice.
P.S.  How do I feel about barebacking?
Please be safe?  AIDS is still real.  HIV is still a pain in the ass.  It’s not a joke.  It’s your life.  Please be smart?
Don’t. Let. Anyone. Bareback.  You.


Him:  I didn’t like it.  You called me an imp.  You said I was drunk and negative….  You made me really mortified.

Me:  I didn’t like it either.  You were hammered.  I expected you to be more functional… We chatted for a long time online.  We video chatted… I had high hopes you would treat me better than you did.  You were really kind of mean, and you don’t even know it…

Him:  You have a lot of nerve.  To say that stuff about me, so publicly.

Me:  I’m pretty sure I said: you are mischievous when you’re drunk, and you have a lot of emotions that have to be dealt with immediately.   That’s not completely unflattering.  That’s actually semi-mundane.   Lots of people act like that drunk.

My mistake was, I was too nice.  I should have said exactly how much of a jerk you acted like…

Him:  I was mortified.

Me:  I was mortified. Some of your friends were hostile to me, for no reason.  One of them stuck his hands down my pants.  EVERYONE seemed way drunk or coked out.  It was a lot of energy.  And you were breaking up with your boyfriend.  You put me in the middle of that, and I don’t know you very well.  You threw a tantrum about wanting to go home, and then got alternately maudlin and flirty with me on the train. – IN FRONT OF YOUR BOYFRIEND.  Then you insisted that you wanted to go out some more.  I had an awkward evening that got more so at every turn.  No.  That’s not accurate.  I got my feelings hurt.  It was more than awkward.  You treated me like some sort of dog and pony show you were trotting out.

Him:  You should have left and called me out on it.

Me:  I should have not come.

Him:  Maybe.  Take down the post.

Me:  If I’m hurting your feelings I’ll take it down.  I hate that I hurt your feelings.  I thought I made you seem like a charming guy that got a little too drunk one night.

Him:  Good.  Take it down.  Take it all down.

Me:  Hm…  I dunno.  This is my blog.  My online diary.  I don’t want to be censored.   I’ll take down your pic.  How’s that?

Him:  Okay.  Take it down.

Me:  Sure.  Just say one more thing.

Him:  What do you want to hear?  TAKE. IT. DOWN.

Me:  I know but…  ‘Take it down,” and then what do we say??  What do we do?  When we want our friend to do us a favor?  We say what?

Him:  Take it down or hear from my lawyer.

Me:   We say please. I’ll take it down if you ask me to.  But you don’t bark orders at me.  Just say please.

Him:  Take it down.

Me:  If you say please.

Him: I won’t

Me:  Neither will I.  We’re still not showing respect for each other.  I’m big on that…

Him:  Then hear from my lawyer.

Me:  Okay.

(long pause)

Just know that it came down to just one word.  You could have said one word.  Please.