Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation

For my parents, Bob and Bunny Hill. I apologize in advance for most of the pages that come after this one.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Desnudo en el Mar

Loving You Is Easy Because You Live Pretty Close to My Parents’ House

As of Now, I Am in Control Here

All the Right Moves

Photo:
This is the sixteen-year-old me trying to look as athletic as possible in my high school hockey uniform. I feel like I really nailed it.

On Manliness

Photo:
This is me somewhere around the age of five, being really manly without even trying. That’s my grandfather behind me. He used to make large, sharp knives for fun. Manliness runs in our family.

The Lord’s Work

Tasteful Nudes

Rocking Me, Rocking You, and Probably Some Other People, Too

Photo:
This is thirteen-year-old me with my first electric guitar, just moments before bringing the heat at another school mass. I just realized that I have the same hairstyle now as I did then. I can’t decide whether that’s sad or not.

A Funny Feeling

Northeastern Ohio Velvet

Pedicab Shmedicab

Witness the Fitness

Photo:
This is me in the hills of St. Gallen, Switzerland, going for a run for the very first time in my adult life. This is early in the run, before the tears.

I Kind of Remember You in the Chelsea Hotel

Photo: Room 732:
My room at the Chelsea Hotel that I decorated all by myself. If you blur your eyes a little bit, it’s really not so bad.

The Streets Are Hell

Big in Japan

Photo:
This is me roaming the streets of Tokyo in my spare time. I’m pretty sure that is a doctor’s office of some sort behind me. (photo credit: Dale May)

The Time I Went to Prison

Photo:
This flyer helped convince three hundred Sing Sing inmates to come to my comedy show instead of whatever else might have been going on that night in prison. I was pumped.

Bunny

Photo:
This is me and my mom. For some reason, I can’t remember where or when this picture was taken, but as best I can tell, we were having a really nice time.

Epilogue

Notes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

Introduction

(ABRIDGED)

Dear Reader,

Hi. How are you? I’m pretty good, mostly. Thanks so much for asking. I just wanted to thank you in advance for reading my book. I typed it all by myself and I really hope you like it.

You seem nice,

Dave Hill

Introduction

(UNABRIDGED)

Dear Reader,

When I was first approached by the editors at St. Martin’s Press about writing this book, I told them to go fuck themselves. I am an artist. I pride myself on my integrity. And there was no way in hell I was going to cheapen my most important and beloved life stories by writing some fancy, overpriced hardcover for a stodgy old publishing house that would inevitably share shelf space in a bookstore or library with whatever drivel is being passed off as literature these days. Then they offered me four hundred bucks.

The results of my efforts, of course, you now hold in your hands. And to that I say, congratulations. I also humbly thank you for buying (or accepting as a gift—I’m cool with it either way) my incredible book. I typed it all by myself, mostly in the privacy of my own home, usually while wearing absolutely nothing at all. Needless to say, I’m pretty pleased with it, partly because it’s my first ever book and partly because—wow—get a load of this font.

Still, it doesn’t matter what I think of my book—it matters what you think, because you’re the one who has to read it (yes, you have to). I just figured if I put the idea out there—the notion of my book’s overall incredibleness—that it might somehow stick with you as you turn its pages. Then by the time you’re done (yes, I am suggesting you finish it. Why are you fighting me on this? It’s not that long, so just get over yourself already!), you’ll be like, “Wow, this book was incredible! I can’t decide whether to start reading it all over again from the very beginning or to strip my torso bare and press the book tightly against my flesh so that I might feel that sweet, sweet friction that is so easily generated by rubbing up against a cleverly designed hardcover edition with a tasteful matte finish
1
that was undoubtedly a bit pricey to manufacture, but entirely worth it for everyone involved when you consider the fact that the words swim inside of it like a mighty salmon boldly fighting its way upstream at the height of mating season in search of hardcore fish banging with any and all takers until it is grossly disfigured and soon-to-be dead.”
2

Naturally, I encourage the former. However, if my experiences with a first edition copy of Drew Barrymore’s
Little Girl Lost
are any indication, I’m not exactly gonna call you names if you choose the latter. It’s your book—do what you want with it. Write in the margins, lick its pages, give it the finger—I don’t know your business and I don’t want to. I mean, sure, if you see me in public with my pants fully secured and everything, by all means say hello and take a shot at some light chitchat. But let me say respectfully that I’m not interested in what you get up to behind closed doors.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I really hope you enjoy my book. A lot. It took me a seriously long time to write it. I mean, not, like, Bible-long, but definitely way longer than I thought it would when I ran out of the St. Martin’s building with all the money. And it wasn’t even the typing itself that ate up all the time. It was the sitting and the thinking about what I was going to type. And also all the drinking that made it both harder to think and to type even though at the time it seemed like both were going really, really great. I think I checked my e-mail a couple of times, too.

But with my sitting and thinking and writing almost behind me, it just occurred to me there are all sorts of ways you may have come to be reading my book. You may not have bought it or gotten it as a gift—maybe you’re just standing in the bookstore reading this right now, which seems creepy to me, mostly because of this thing I saw on the news once. Those bookstores—some of them are full of real perverts: “I have an idea. Why don’t I grab a soon-to-be bestseller off the shelf, stroll on over to the New Age section, and expose my genitals to it. What the heck? I don’t have to be at the clinic for another three hours.” Promise me you’re not one of those. You want to get some cheap thrills? Head on over to the photography section. Trust me.

The more I think about everything though, maybe I’ve been coming on too strong and maybe even been a bit judgmental and, well, kind of rambly. For that, and all of the above, I apologize. Why don’t we just press restart on this whole thing?

Hi. My name is Dave and I wrote a book. This one. In it are stories from my life about things like stolen meat, prison, love, death, rock ’n’ roll, and other stuff I experienced firsthand while I was just trying to live my life. I hope you enjoy them. If there are any life lessons in here, let me know. I probably missed them myself. But if you happen to stumble upon some on your own, well, there you go—the book has already paid for itself. Also, just as a heads-up, I sometimes use swear words in this book, not to be provocative or “cool” or anything, but just for emphasis, and also because the people at the book company said I could if I wanted to. (In fact, Dad—if you’re reading this—the book company people said I had to use profanity. Seriously—they were kind of dicks about it. They say it “sells books.”) So if there are small children around, do the right thing—shield their eyes from this book’s pages, and for chrissakes, don’t read it out loud unless you want them to end up joining a goddamn street gang or something. Don’t worry though—you invite me to dinner, a Bar Mitzvah, a wake, or whatever and I promise I won’t be anything less than perfectly mannered, delightful even. Also, I smell really nice. Ask anyone.

Before I go, I’d like to address one last time those of you who might still be standing there reading this in a bookstore. Look, I’m not going to tell you how to live your life or anything, but, just as a suggestion, how about marching this bad boy up to the register? Not because I need the money, but just because I want the money. Yeah, I know, my book isn’t exactly cheap (unless it’s been discounted or put on clearance and, if so, what the hell?), but I promise you it’s worth every penny, even if you don’t read a word beyond this page. You take it home, you put it on your bookshelf with the cover clearly displayed, you invite someone special over to the house, and then you just stand there in your best outfit or maybe even nothing at all and lean in close to that spot where my book is impossible to miss. Take your time with this sexy, sexy pose—don’t rush it, make it count. Once you’re good and settled, whisper to that special someone (in a saucy kind of way, not in a “I’m calling you from a blocked number, I can see you right now, and I hate wearing pants” kind of way), “So—what would you like for dinner?” If my experience with Craigslist has taught me anything, eight times out of ten, his or her answer will be “You.” And for that, my friend, you’re welcome. In fact, I was going to call this book
The Date Impresser
but then St. Martin’s got all “
Impresser
isn’t a word” on me so I had to come up with something else.

Of course, if money is tight, you forgot your wallet, or you just don’t feel like parting with [insert really-high-but-completely-worthwhile price here], I say you slowly shut this book, tuck it under your arm, have a quick look around, and run, run as fast as you can for the exit. I’ll get my cut anyway, so don’t worry about me.

Once you get outside, the temptation will be to keep running as fast as you can away from the bookstore until you feel you are no longer in danger of getting caught, put on trial, and then thrown in a jail cell with someone who will sell you for a pack of cigarettes or maybe have sex with your face. I understand the thinking here. However, I encourage you to stop about fifty feet from the exit of the bookstore and wait for one of the employees (or maybe the security guard if it’s one of those really big bookstores. Don’t worry—he doesn’t really have a gun, no matter what he might tell you. It’s just his finger.) to come outside after you. At this point, you should hold my book high in the air, do a fun little dance, and yell, “You just got your ass handed to you, by [insert a good criminal nickname for yourself here]!” (A word to the wise: don’t use the Unabomber or the BTK Killer or anything. They caught those guys already. And besides—it’s just a book—keep it light. What the hell is wrong with you?) After that you should probably keep running.

Keep shining,

Dave Hill, famous writer person

Desnudo en el Mar

I’ve never been entirely comfortable with nudity, at least not my own, anyway. Even though I live alone, for some reason, I can never get myself to sleep in the nude, no matter how many great things I hear about it or how much I drink before bed. (And I’ve tried. A lot.) And just about the only thing I can do in the bathroom with the door wide open is that thing where you look in the mirror and say “Bloody Mary” three times.

When it comes to other people showcasing their goods, however, I say bring it on. In fact, you might say it’s been a bit of a thing with me for some time now. I spent my childhood dreaming that some doctor or dentist would accidentally leave an old issue of
Playboy
in the waiting room magazine rack. Or that my family would somehow stumble upon a nudist colony on one of our camping trips. And I remember being changed forever at the age of twelve when, one balmy summer day at Jones Beach, I saw one girl lose her top in the waves and another accidentally display her butt while trying to clean sand out of her bathing suit. In the car home later that day, I felt like a man, and it was awesome.