Andy Dick’s Turbulent Journey: A Glimpse into the Chaos

Back in 1999, I found myself in the back room of Star Strip Cabaret, an all-nude club in West Hollywood. That’s when things took a turn. Andy was in the middle of a heated exchange with a dancer. After indulging in a few drinks and shots, he was getting a bit too personal, trying to wrap his arms around her. The dancer, visibly frustrated, gave him another chance. But Andy, in a sing-song tone, couldn’t help but shout, “Oh, shut up, you bastard,” right before the bouncers escorted us out.

At that time, Andy was starting to make waves as a comedian, having gained recognition from his role on NBC’s “News Radio.” A few days later, I traveled to Los Angeles for an interview. Little did I know, just a week prior, there were troubling reports surrounding him.

In a shocking moment I later witnessed, Andy collapsed on the sidewalk, apparently from an overdose. Video footage captured this startling scene. He had been revived with Narcan after reportedly using crack cocaine. I mean, he seemed surprisingly nonchalant about it, almost stating that he “didn’t care.”

Through my time with him, it became evident that he was far from stable. I watched him get sick after taking a significant hit from a pot pipe at a party. During our time together, he made some bizarre claims, like wanting to “slap” comedian Chris Kattan, who’d impersonated him on “Saturday Night Live,” and even boasted about a ridiculous stunt he could pull involving a certain part of his anatomy.

Frankly, there was so much going on. I mistook a bizarre moment at a bar, thinking he was sharing a friendly hug with another guy until that guy yelled out about being bitten. The night was filled with a strange mix of laughter, tension, and unsettling moments. Andy also shared a story about an encounter with Wesley Snipes that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. He even described it with a strange sense of pride—something about being punched in the chest after making a comment.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, yet it was undeniably surreal. I saw him tending to a tiny frog in his backyard, a scene somewhat charming compared to everything else. But then came the heavier topics. We ended up discussing his late friend David Strickland who took his own life after a wild night in Vegas. In a hopefully joking manner, he told me he wished Strickland had waited until he was alone to do it, before quickly transitioning to a high-five, brushing it off as a joke.

Throughout our conversations, he slipped in some dark humor about his nickname around town—“The Angel of Death.” He even recounted his childhood antics, suggesting that his career resembled the chaos he’d caused as a kid smearing messes on walls.

Overall, I thought we left things on decent terms. I promised a meal at his choice of restaurant, secretly hoping we’d hit a Hollywood hotspot. But we ended up at Red Lobster, and afterward, he headed to the Viper Room.

However, after my article titled “Life as A. Dick” was published, Andy called me, furious. He accused me of being a terrible person for writing it, hurling insults at me while expressing his discontent over the portrayal. He was in New York and wanted to meet in Central Park to confront me, even saying he wanted to kick me.

I reminded him, “Andrew, everything in this story is true. You didn’t want me to write it. Why did you let it happen?” His response was simple, almost baffling: “Hey, I thought we were in this together.”