My Date With Andy Dick
If you encounter a wild Andy, do not panic, calmly leave the area. If you need to continue on, make a wide detour around the Andy. If the Andy has not seen you, do not disturb it: retreat calmly and quietly, and then make ample noise when you are well away to prevent future chance encounters.
“Look at my palms,” I heard a voice say from behind. Startled, I pivoted see Andy Dick, frozen in jazz hands. “I jerked off with self tanner,” he explained.
His palms were orange, the right more so than the left, leading me to conclude that Andy Dick is right handed.
“They sell self tan corrector at Sephora,” I offered, having previously fallen victim to similar misfortune. Not on my genitals. I think it was my ankle, where the bumpy canvass seems to preclude an even finish.
“Oh, I don’t really give a shit,” Andy replied, already tipsy as night fell on the Land of La.
“Are you okay?” I asked, which granted, was a somewhat intrusive question, but I was concerned. Andy’s trials and tribulations are well documented in the news, blogs and even on Celebrity Rehab. And here he was: standing before me on the corner of Melrose and La Cienega with orange palms.
“Why does everyone ask me that?” He asked somewhat indignantly. “Of course I’m okay.” And he looked pretty good, in his tailored blue suit and dressy man shoes.
dick
“Where are we going?” He never even asked for my name. He just linked his arm in mine.
I was on my way to a screening of Kris Kristofferson’s new movie, The Motel Life. And now I had a D-list, sexually ambiguous, orange palmed, booze bag date.
As if out of the ether, Andy produced a can a Budweiser and took a hearty gulp.
“How did you….where did you….never mind….” I had entered an alternate reality. Questions were pointless. I just had to go along for the ride.
And so this magic carpet ride led us into the Silent Theatre on Melrose, where I found a group of my friends clustered in the lobby.
“Andy,” I began, “These are my friends: Allison, Maxine, and Anson.”
Andy opened strong. Like he does.
“Hi faggots,” he began. “I like to greet people like that. What’s going on, faggots? What are you faggots doing?”
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even homophobic. It was just Andy being Andy. Disturbing, jarring. But also fucking awesome, particularly since neither Allison nor Maxine nor Anson would qualify as a “faggot.”
Popcorn time.
“Can I get you some?” I asked Mr. Dick.
“No thanks,” He replied, toasting me with his Bud. “I’m good.” But he seemed to change his mind when I returned with my buttery tub, and plunged his hand in.
The hand. The orange hand. Andy Dick’s orange dick hand. In my popcorn.
“I’m not hungry. Here, you take it.”
So he did, and now it was time for us to take our seats and watch a searing portrait of brotherly love in the timeless Sierra Nevadan frontier. Only on the way down the aisle, my ADD D-list date got distracted by a buxom blonde, and I didn’t see him until the after party, when he flagged me down just to show me a picture of him with Kris Kristofferson.
“Look who I met,” he gushed like a Belieber who had just met the great JB….. and thrust his iphone in my face.
And then he was gone again. Into the night.
Was it a fantasy? Was it all a dream? Did it mean anything to him? Did he ever make it to Sephora?
Andy, I miss you. I miss us. Call me. …
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