Last Friday, Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, Threatened To Kick My Ass

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: You’ve probably seen those posts that occasionally pop up entitled “AITA” which stands for “Am I the asshole?” This is my version of events and it’s entirely possible that I’m, somehow, the asshole in this situation. Andrew may decide to write his own version but I doubt he will do so, if only because I suspect he’s illiterate.]  

It’s a well-known geographic quirk that the craziest shit happens in Florida. Nobody understands why. Is there some sort of electromagnetic anomaly that turns ordinary man into Florida Man? Hard to say. All I know is that nothing good ever happens there, unless you happen to count getting threatened by the star of The Adventures of Ford Fairlane a good thing. And, friends, I do.

So I got booked at this club in Naples, FL called “Off the Hook.” Good, well-run club. Nice staff. Friendly crowds. I’m booked for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, one show each night, which is a little weird because normally comedians do two shows Friday and Saturday, but I didn’t question it because I am always happy to do half the work.

As it turns out, the club booked Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, the same weekend as me. He was doing Thursday through Saturday, early shows. I was doing Friday through Sunday, late shows. No problem.

Friday night, I arrived at the club in time to see the last fifteen minutes of Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, perform his set. I’d never met the man nor had I ever seen his act live. If I had an opinion of him at all, it was that he deserves credit for creating a well-known character in the same way Paul Rubens deserves credit for creating Pee-Wee Herman. I’ve never thought about this before, but in some ways, the two characters are mirror images of each other, cartoonish images of stunted American masculinity. In fact, when you really boil it down, the most significant difference between the two it’s that Pee-Wee Herman was funny.

Anyway, I went to the side of the stage to watch Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66. He wore the black jeans, the sleeveless tee and leather vest, the fingerless gloves, the whole 50’s greaser vibe working overtime. Was he funny?

Here’s the thing: normally, I would never talk shit about another comedian. It’s a tough job. People have off nights. With that caveat out of the way, I watched for a few minutes before texting my wife: “Andrew Dice Clay just finished the early show… he sucks” The only reason I include that detail is because I think it’s important that you understand that I was of the opinion that he sucked even before he threatened to kick my ass. Why does it matter what I think of his act? For the purposes of this story, it does not. I just need you to know that he sucks.

Pictured: Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, sucking.

He goes long, which means the club now has less time to turn the room over the next show and I’ve got less time to get ready. It’s a small annoyance but no big deal. When he finally wraps up (and yes, he ends with his forty-year-old nursery rhyme bit), I head towards the green room. You need to understand: this is a perfectly normal thing to do for comedians at a comedy club. As I’m walking through the kitchen, the club manager stops me, telling me that Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, does not want anybody in the green room until he leaves.

“When is he leaving?” I ask.

The manager does not know.

Keep in mind that the kitchen is a very small and busy place. There’s nowhere for me to stand without being in somebody’s way. Moreover, comedy club etiquette is as follows: the green room is for the performers to hang out in. That is the green room’s purpose. Once the first show is over, the green room becomes, essentially, the temporary property of the second show’s headliner. In essence, Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, was squatting in my dressing room.

I didn’t know what to do. Servers are rushing by me, people are trying to get the room ready for the second show, and I’m standing against a warming table like an idiot because I’m not allowed in my own dressing room.

Several minutes elapse. He’s not leaving. My wife happens to call and I tell her about the situation. We talk for several minutes, several minutes in which Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, remains barricaded inside the green room. I tell my wife I’m going to give him another 90 seconds and then I’m just going in.

Which is what happens, although I probably waited longer than the time I said because I’m scared. Anyway, after a couple minutes I walk into the greenroom. Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, is sitting on the couch hunched over his phone. His opening act and ex-girlfriend (who is also my opening act) is in the room as well.

[Note: I am shortening the conversation but not leaving anything out, if that makes sense.]

“Hi,” I say to her. “I’m Michael.”

She says hi. We have a short conversation about how much time she’s going to do. Very pleasant. I turn to the doo-wop singer sitting on the couch. “Hi, Andrew. I’m Michael.”

He grunts in my direction but does not look up. No problem. I put down my bag and sit on a stool in the corner. After a few minutes, Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, looks up and says, “Ay, can you step out? I have to an important call.”

This is the first time I have heard him speak not in character and I surprised to discover that he sounds exactly the same out of character as in. In other words, for the first time I’m starting to think that maybe he’s actually not playing a character.

“How much time do you need?” I ask.

 “Until the call is o-vah.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ve got a show in half an hour so I’m happy to step out for a few minutes but I’d like to know how much time you need. Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“I dunno,” and now he’s starting to get visibly irritated.

I tell him when he knows much time he needs to let me know and I’ll step away but I need the greenroom, too. He doesn’t like this.

“Get the mana-jah,” he says to me.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” I tell him. “If you have a problem with me, you get the manager.” Now he’s definitely pissed.

“Alright,” he says, “Now you’re gonna leave.”

“I think I’ll hang out.”

He goes, “Leave or you’ll find out who I am.”

I say I know who he is. He’s Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66.

“No. You’ll find out who I really am.”

I’ll find out who he really is? I feel I already know - he’s a guy who used to be funny. And now I say the words that I have only ever heard in the movies and I say them in the same incredulous tone of any middle-aged white dude who finds himself unexpectedly confronted by the promise of violence. I say, “Are you threatening me?”

Spoiler alert: he’s definitely threatening me.

His ex-girlfriend now puts her body between ours, arms outstretched as if she’s holding him back. He has not left the couch. It’s clear this is not the first time she’s done this on his behalf. She tells me I should just go. I tell her no, I’m going to stay. She leaves to get the manager. I sit back down and text my wife again.

Now the manager comes rushing back into the room with the ex-girlfriend. The manager, by the way, is a very nice guy. I don’t say anything in my defense as Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, explains the situation except to say that the greenroom is for the comics; I’m one of the comics so I’m allowed to be in the greenroom. The manager tells me I should just leave.

I tell him I’m going to stay.

Real-time texting with my wife. Notice the full battery!

Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, is furious. It’s clear he’s used to getting his way. As I said to my wife, fuck that. I’m not rewarding infantile behavior. He had his show. His show is over. If he has an “important call,” he can take it in the kitchen or in his car or on the way back to wherever he’s going. But let’s be honest, it was after nine o’clock at night and he’s Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66 – he didn’t have an important call. He was just throwing his weight around. The manager is looking at me with pleading eyes but I’m not budging. If Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, wants to hit me, he’s free to do so but sometimes you have to stand your ground over something stupid and that’s what I’m doing.

It seems like everybody’s freaking out except me. I’m calm. I’m just on my phone texting my wife updates. Finally, he goes, “Let’s go back to the hotel.” He and the ex-girlfriend stand and bustle out of the room, the manager trailing behind. His phone hasn’t rung during all this time, by the way, because there was never any call. So now I’ve finally got the greenroom to myself but it seems like maybe I’ve lost my opening act. Which I have. She doesn’t return. Which is so shitty for her; not only does he ruin his own night, but he’s got to ruin hers. As I said, I’m guessing it’s not the first time.

After a long while, the manager returns. I get the sense he’s pissed at me instead of the other comedian. If that’s the case, so be it. I don’t defend or explain myself, saying only, “I’m so sorry for the way that went down.”

Even as I’m saying the words, I’m thinking how ridiculous they sound coming out of my mouth. Sorry for the way that went down, like I just shivved a guy in a prison yard.

“The show must go on,” he says, and, trouper that he is, he then goes on stage himself and does about ten minutes of jokes to warm up the crowd. He’s quite good but instead of doing my normal fifty minutes, now I’ve got to do my time plus an extra fifteen or so to fill the time the opener was going to do. What will I possibly talk about? Oh! What about the fact the first guy just threatened me? So that’s what I do. The audience loves it. By the end of the story, they’re convinced that Andrew “Dice” Clay, 66, is a petulant child, wears glue-on sideburns, and is a hack comic who went from parodying shitty men to becoming one.

Florida, your record remains unbroken.