sophie gyarmathy age 18
Instead of college I think I will migrate to California
I won’t even have to go into the clubs,
just stand out in the warm Los Angeles night
and wait for you to get kicked out of them
I follow you
on every social media account I have, I follow you
through your cocaine jungle of a life. It is easy to keep up with you
because you keep on stumbling, stumbling pantsless through L.A. alleys,
swinging punches at paparazzi,
arms pale and wrists limp
but booze on your breath like fighting words.
I find myself making excuses for you
because you have touched my life in the same way that you wouldn’t stop touching Ivanka Trump’s leg on Jimmy Kimmel until you were forcibly removed from the set.
Yes, you exposed yourself to an audience at the Yuk Yuk Comedy Club…
but at least you’re able to laugh at the little things.
You managed to get kicked out of the AVN porn awards…
well, I can’t say I’m not at least a little bit impressed.
It is not okay that you’ve pulled down women’s blouses in public,
it is not okay that you took as many pills as you did to get in that situation, a film
over your eyes, it is no wonder you are looking for love in completely opposite places
when you continue to get so smashed you can’t see where you’re going. You went
on Tyra Banks, told her you’re trisexual,
viewers cringed, thinking of you with anything with a heartbeat
and maybe some things without one
but I understood: you would gather up the whole world inside you if you could-
you feel so intensely- you wouldn’t even need the drugs anymore
with that much conversation coursing through your bloodstream
so you told Tyra you were trisexual. I thought,
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, it is he does not discriminate.
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, it is he does not even know HOW.
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, it is his alcoholic heart beats so loudly,
draws everyone around to him like a homing device or a call
for help. But…
there is no “one thing” about Andy Dick,
your persona one confusing vomitous pile
containing some identifiable ingredients:
you are Matthew on News Radio, heavy sweaters knitted around scrawny body,
glasses and a lisp,
long before Phil Hartman’s murder, long before
you were accused of giving his wife the coke she was on when she shot him twice
in the head, once in the side, he was 49 years old, you are just Matthew;
you are your standup self, when the Andy Dick show was on air, when you were calling the shots instead of tanking them one after another at a bar in West Virginia where you couldn’t keep your sad hands off the bartender until his picked up the phone and you heard sirens;
you are your mugshots. All of them.
You are the butt of an episode-long joke on American Dad!,
you are getting clean,
you are relapsing,
you are the frontman of Andy Dick and the Bitches of the Century,
you are the only funny part of “Employee of the Month”,
you are sensitive, you are crass, you talked shit about Howard Stern
and it came back to bite you in the ass,
you are a father.
you are marrying the mother of your children,
the ex whom you’ve been posting pictures of,
trying to get back with, for months.
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, it’s he can’t quit.
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, the general public is quick to tell you what it is:
and overall a fella who lives up to his name,
you admit you have a problem, but you’ve been to rehab 8 times;
you know the 12 steps, but you don’t mind
retreating and then repeating them
like a two-step, shuffle, you put on a suit and pulled on a new image,
long body full of wear snapping back into action, spinning
Sharna Burgess, you won the hearts
of Dancing with the Stars viewers-
you had a demographic that consists mostly of the elderly screaming “TEAM DICK!”
You gave a speech about your daughters, gave them a Viennese waltz,
and when you started to cry
everyone on the other side of their televisions mirrored you.
flashed your broad white smile pinned up with dimples,
curly locks looking more blonde than gray,
you made a fraction of the nation fall in love with you; in that moment,
the only difference between you and Shirley Temple was public urination charges.
You got eliminated, as a story
of recovery is only a funny commodity for so long, as you dance
like such a lively marionette that it is obvious you have a few strings broken,
you got eliminated.
And that streak of sobriety, the promise you had made to abstain for your entire run on the show,
which lasted those whole 7 weeks that Hollywood forgot to forget about you,
it shattered when you got eliminated.
You wrecked havoc on the Hamptons
losing your cell phone and your wallet and your public image,
groping the party’s host and the party’s host’s husband.
You are the things you can’t quit.
If there is one thing about Andy Dick, it’s that it is only a matter of time.