Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation (31 page)

9
A&R stands for “artists and repertoire.” No one knows what that means, but the A&R guy is the person at the record label in charge of making sure a band doesn’t suck, overdose, or try to make a concept album.

10
The “more” I am suggesting here, of course, is sex and other stuff usually offered by groupie types. Since I was the bass player in the band, however, I have no way of knowing for sure if this was the case. I’m just going on assumptions here.

11
And, needless to say, I painted the fuck out of that bedroom.

A Funny Feeling

1
I guess you could mentally add a rimshot sound effect here if you feel like it.

2
Note to my family: I have since learned that the odds of this ever happening really aren’t very good at all. Seriously, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Except for you, Rob.

3
Seriously, McDonald’s, this has gone on long enough, so for chrissakes please stop toying with our emotions. You know everyone loves the McRib. It’s delicious and the fake rib impressions on the “meat” only add to the fun. Just leave it on the menu for good already. What—do you hate money?

Northeastern Ohio Velvet

1
A three-pack of underwear? Really, Santa? Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with here? Pull that crap again and I’ll stab you!

2
Also, a small part of me still refused to discount the possibility that Santa simply employed stunt doubles and other seasonal help to fulfill the demand, which went a long way toward poking holes in Libby’s “Santa isn’t real” theory. I let go of it eventually, but at the time it helped soften the blow.

3
Ask anyone.

Pedicab Shmedicab

1
This is an old trick to circumvent that whole “restrooms are for customers only” thing. Works like a charm. You just have to make sure there’s an exit you can easily slip out of that won’t require you to pass the register once you’re done with your business. Otherwise you’re stuck paying for that cup of overpriced hot bullshit I just mentioned.

2
Actually, scratch that about the Girl Scout cookies—everyone likes those. Especially those Samoas. They’re so good, sometimes I can’t decide if the person who invented them is a god or just an asshole.

Witness the Fitness

1
Note: I am “this guy.”

2
Especially weird shit that you don’t want anyone else to know about.

I Kind of Remember You in the Chelsea Hotel

1
If you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to get busy with Janis Joplin, check out Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel #2.” He goes into pretty good detail about it. Maybe even a little too much detail. Oh, and the title of this essay is a bastardization of the first line of that song.

2
It was also a little musty, but I didn’t let that get to me.

3
Legend has it he died there, but he didn’t. He died at the Chelsea. So there.

4
I later learned that many of the paintings had been given to Stanley in lieu of actual rent checks. It was a friendly system, I thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder what options the dancers and poets had when funds were low. “Stand back, Stanley. This is a sexy dance about how I’ll jump in front of a bus if you ever kick me out of here.”

5
You know, because I had already bought the coffee.

6
I had yet to go into show business at this point in my life.

7
And, as it turned out, it was probably good I left when I did. Not long after, the hotel was sold, Stanley was ousted, and, by most accounts, the place was never the same. I’m glad I missed that part.

The Streets Are Hell

1
The cops won’t even give me an honorary badge, cool hat, or anything. It sucks and it’s also really lame. To be honest, I’ve just about had it with their bullshit.

2
Cop talk for “being a cop.” According to Travis, it can also mean “carrying a gun.” For example, if an on-duty cop asks an off-duty cop if he is “on the job” and the off-duty cop says yes, it means that—despite the fact that he’s wearing a pair of Dockers, a Hawaiian shirt, and a promotional Newport Lights golf visor—he’s still packing heat. Travis taught me all this because he thought it would help keep me from getting shot on wing night and stuff like that.

3
When you clench your teeth, throw the word hell into a sentence, and then space it all out for emphasis, people know you mean business and the woman in the pink jacket was no different. Try it sometime. It’s great.

Big in Japan

1
Like most not-exactly-great band names, it seemed like a good idea that one day at practice.

2
Osaka is pretty much the Chicago of Japan. It’s an awesome city, but you can tell most of the people living there would really like to move to Tokyo someday.

3
Or would it? My friend Charlie Todd actually did this to a band from Vermont playing their very first show in New York City.

4
If you ever want to just plain shit your pants, go to Kyoto, as it’s quite possibly the most beautiful place on the entire planet, full of centuries-old temples, strolling geishas, and so much natural beauty your camera will explode trying to document it. A bit of history: During World War II, when America decided it might be a good idea to blow up Japan completely, the U.S. government was especially keen on dropping an atomic bomb on Kyoto because, as one of the country’s intellectual strongholds, they figured its residents would be “better able to appreciate the significance of the weapon,” which is to say they thought the people of Kyoto were smart enough to really “get it” when their entire city was torched. In the end, though, Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson insisted Kyoto be the one place spared of U.S. crosshairs because he’d gone there for his honeymoon and, presumably, shit his pants, too, something one can only hope Mrs. Stimson was cool with.

5
Nagoya is pretty much the Philadelphia of Japan. You can take that however you want.

6
And I assure you 99.99999 percent of it has nothing to do with prison sex.

7
I’m hoping some of the more attractive readers of this book get to find that out for themselves in the very near future.

8
Apologies for the graphic details here, but, among other things, I am a journalist and am obligated to present the facts as I see them.

9
I’d like to think I don’t need to tell you this, but—in case you don’t already know—the taint is that little patch of skin between the anus and whatever you’ve got up front. My doctor told me this bit of anatomy is actually called the perineum. But what fun is that? If you ask me, that guy just needs to get over himself already.

10
I know what you’re thinking. Does having an especially clean ass and taint area really make that much of a difference? And to that I say: you bet your ass and taint it does.

11
The Japanese are a delightfully hospitable people.

12
You know, with the liquid soap, the sponge, the cowboy hat, the disco ball, and whatever else I think might really help take things to the next level.

13
This is knitting lingo. I looked it up.

The Time I Went to Prison

1
In case you haven’t seen it, Otis was the town drunk on the show. He’d sleep all his benders off in one of Mayberry’s two jail cells, letting and then locking himself in with the sheriff’s key as he did it. It was funny every time.

2
Alright, our conversation might not have gone down exactly like that, but it’s my book and that’s how I choose to remember it.

3
A shank—or shiv, as it is also sometimes called—is a makeshift knife. Inmates use them because, as you might imagine, their access to actual knives in prison isn’t great. The fun thing is you can make a shank out of whatever you want—a screwdriver, an old toothbrush, or whatever. As long as you can somehow get it sharp enough to puncture flesh, you’re in business.

4
There are plenty to choose from. What can I say? I look a lot like my mother. And sometimes I dress like her, too.

5
You know, for number two. Think about it.

6
This is in case you don’t feel like just calling him a sycophant, which admittedly doesn’t sound nearly as prisony.

7
Also, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a long piece of wood between me and any outraged attacker should things go south right out of the gate.

Bunny

1
My mom’s given name was Bernadette, which was eventually shortened to Bernie, which in turn somehow morphed into Bunny, the name everyone knew her by.

2
I know what you’re thinking: but Dave, that’s impossible because you’re a major, major celebrity and there’s no way you live in anything less than a sprawling New York City apartment like the one from
Three Men and a Baby,
where you do indoor rock climbing, work on choreography, and even put on the occasional laser show. But it’s true.

3
As you can probably imagine, though, I do all right for myself.

4
See
Tasteful Nudes
.

Epilogue

1
If you just skipped everything else before this part, that’s not only cheating, it’s just plain weird. Stop it or your funeral will almost definitely be poorly attended and those that do show up will only be there for the donuts and the dunking machine anyway. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

2
I realize I didn’t actually use the word honorificabilitudinitatibus anywhere in my book until now. But since it apparently means—according to its Latin origins anyway—something along the lines of “the state of being able to achieve honors,” I thought I’d throw it in now since I plan on achieving all sorts of honors and prizes and stuff for writing this book, some of which may come from Oprah or those Pulitzer bastards, some may not. Whatever. I’ve got plenty of space on the mantel and I’m not picky, so as long as the plaque or trophy goes with all the other stuff in my apartment, I’ll probably hang onto it, at least until all that stuff I ordered from the Franklin Mint shows up. Also, as long as I’m on the topic, honorificabilitudinitatibus is the longest word in the English language featuring alternating consonants and vowels, which is not only something I just read on Wikipedia but also a really fun thing to bring up at parties, the free clinic, or wherever. Try it.

3
It occurs to me that this book will also be read by dudes, something I am not only totally cool with but also encourage as they will no doubt find it instructive. However, I should probably tell you now that if you are a dude, the odds of me coming back to your apartment aren’t very good, even if you live with “two totally hot twins who should be home from the Sunglass Hut any minute.” But if you want to go for a quick drive around town in your car after the reading while taking turns giving the finger to other dudes we run into at stoplights and stuff, I’d be into it as long as I get to work the radio.

Acknowledgments

1
What does this even mean? I looked it up on the Internet and all of the explanations sounded totally made up. I’ve had it!

2
Even those of you who appear to be going through some sort of awkward phase right now.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Most people think writing a book simply entails one person with a lot of time on his or her hands sitting down at a desk and typing for three or four days straight, sometimes even longer, until the whole thing is done. And while that’s pretty much the deal in a lot of ways, the greater reality is that it takes a bunch of other people to see to it that that dog-eared stack of ink- coffee- and sometimes even urine-stained paper sitting at the bottom of some desk drawer, perhaps otherwise never to be seen again, is somehow transformed into an attractive volume people are actually willing to pay as much as $24.99 (USD) for. In my case, there were many and I would like to take this opportunity to thank them now. Before I do, however, it should be noted that I’m not even including this section of the book as part of my contractually obligated word count, so please know this comes from the heart. Plus, while I realize I will probably one day be nominated for an Oscar, the Nobel Peace Prize, or some other cool award at some point in my life, there’s no guaranteeing I will win, so I figure this is my chance to really swing for the fences in the thank you department.

Now let’s get started.

The first person I would like to thank, of course, is you, the reader (especially if you actually paid for this book). But let’s face it—that could potentially upset all the people who actually did something to help make this incredible book a reality, so if it’s cool with you, please mentally and arbitrarily slip your name somewhere in the middle of this section (unless, of course, you didn’t actually pay for this book, in which case I kindly request that you mentally put your name a little closer to the end where it belongs. Sorry, but I need you to be cool with that).

Okay, now that I’ve placated the reader, let’s get down to brass tacks.
1
I would like to start by thanking my lovely and talented editor, Kathy Huck, who jumped into the breach when I found myself wandering the halls, stairwells, and basement of the Flatiron Building editorless and agreed to bring this ship into the shore as long as I wouldn’t make her wear the lab coat and goggles I found on eBay. I thought they looked pretty cool, but whatever—you proved on a daily basis that you didn’t need either of those things to do a super job and tear the world of publishing a new one in the process. The same goes for all the classy people you work with at St. Martin’s Press who helped turn this book into an actual physical object that really hurts when it falls from a high shelf and hits someone on the head.

Next I would like to thank the lovely and talented Alison Strobel, my first editor on this tome, who plucked me from literary obscurity and set me on the path to becoming one of America’s most cherished authors even though I was wasted and talking gibberish when we first met and for the majority of our meetings after that. And even though you decided to leave publishing altogether shortly after we began working together, I refuse to read into things. That said, if you didn’t want me calling at three a.m., why did you always pick up the phone? It’s a mixed message if you ask me.