After all he’s been through, how much therapy does funny guy Andy Dick need?
You Don’t Know Dick
A half-hour of canned quotes and guarded conversation has passed, and fidgety funnyman Andy Dick is finally starting to open up about his roller-coaster career, the tragic deaths of old friends, his former all-consuming addictions, and his numerous sexual adventures.
Just as Dick is admitting to his appreciation for adult magazines that feature barely legal women, there’s the metallic clink of a key turning a bolt. and the front door of his Spanish-style duplex in West Hollywood flies open. A tall, stunning blonde who looks like she just stepped out of a Guns N’ Roses video storms in and slams the door behind her.
Dick leaps up from his black leather chair. “Lisa, I’m in the middle of an interview,” he sputters. The intruder, I realize, must be the 21-year-old he says dumped him last week because he wasn’t spending enough time with her. “You know, you’re really disturbing me,” he tells her.
“Well, you really disturb me!” she spits back, eyes burning with resentment. “Can’t I just sit in? I know you’re talking about me! I’ve heard you talk about me before.”
Dick meekly excuses himself and scurries upstairs to his bedroom with Lisa. The door shuts, and the muffled sound of angry voices rumbles overhead. Figuring they need a few minutes alone, I take the opportunity to explore the surroundings.
If the way a man furnishes his home reveals something about his personality, then Andy Dick is either deeply disturbed or happily oblivious of all notions of taste and interior design. Perhaps both.
The downstairs living room where we’ve been talking is painted lime green, and on the walls hang several large framed paintings from Dick’s performance-art show Andy Dick’s Circus of Freaks. The freaks, garish Coney lsland—esque caricatures of Dick with a huge, misshapen head and tiny body, were rendered by the comic’s ex-wife, lvone, who until three years ago lived on the first floor of the duplex with their son, Lucas. (At the same time, Dick was living upstairs with his then—girlfriend, artist Lina Sved, with whom he has two children, Jacob and Meg.) At one end of the large rectangular room a pair of purple lamps shaped like children’s jacks sit atop tiny end tables; near them are a fifties-era maroon boomerang-shaped couch and a similarly contoured wooden coffee table boasting several sprigs of black glass grapes and a book about Kids filmmaker Larry Clark. On the opposite side of the room looms a ten-foot-long green brontosaurus that Dick bought from a Sinclair gas-station owner, and a dozen curvy fluorescent vases that could be bongs from Mars.
Fifteen minutes pass, then 20, and still no Dick. What’s more, the yelling upstairs has ceased. I continue casing the joint, and encounter collages by Dick hanging in the hallway. One, titled There’s Always Room for Jell-O, is composed of a wooden box bordered with bottle caps and decorated with three metal stars and several rusted springs. Another, Troll Bowl, features a plastic troll riddled with nails inside a brown wooden bowl. Similarly crucified trolls decorate other areas of the house.
Supposedly there’s a piece here somewhere that contains a glass shard from the lamppost into which Dick smashed his Nissan Altima two years ago. He’d been driving home after a long night of partying when he lost control and skidded into the pole. Witnesses detained him as he tried to flee the scene; he was arrested for driving under the influence and possession of cocaine and marijuana. He spent the night in jail, an experience he’ll never forget. (“I remember them closing the door,” he recalls. “It made this clanging sound, and I almost shit my pants. I prayed all night that they wouldn’t put someone else in the cell with me.”) Dick was sentenced to three years’ summary probation, and ordered to pay for the lamppost. He was also ordered into rehab for a second time-ending a ten-year bender that had nearly totaled his career.
or Dick, shock tactics are a way to force-feed audiences something they normally wouldn’t order from the menu. Don't forget the zinc!
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And So They Say
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