Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation (21 page)

Much to my and his surprise, I managed to complete what ended up being about an hour-long run. And by the time we got back to the club, I felt like a champion, a really pathetic, beaten down champion who was about to lose control of all his bodily functions, but a champion nonetheless. If one of those low-budget movies where they use a raggedy old dummy to simulate throwing a human body off the top of a building happened to be filming in the area, I probably would have been kidnapped.

“Thanks, Walter,” I told him. “This was really great.”

At least the run had me sweating profusely for the next several hours, so I was still completely drenched by the time we hit the stage, which made even my guitar solos on the very first song look extra cool.

Against my better judgment, I went running with Walter again the next day and then the next couple of days after that through cities like Vienna, Munich, Berlin, and some of the other ones they have over there in Europe. At each new city I knew I had to keep running with Walter if I ever wanted to make it back in time to play the show. So my survival instinct kicked in and I would run through whatever pain, tears, and occasional blood loss came my way. I think you’re probably supposed to build up a bit more slowly than I did, but I decided to just run each day as far as Walter felt like dragging me. I have no idea how far we went each day, but I do know it usually lasted about an hour. And when we were done—despite still being worried that someone might try to throw me off the top of a building—I felt pretty great. Sometimes it was just because I was so relieved to simply not be running anymore, but I felt great nonetheless.

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.

Thanks to all that running I was doing, I felt better equipped to become the one-man Oktoberfest I had originally set out to be on the tour. I ate and drank as much as I wanted each night. And while all that eating and drinking definitely made it harder to go running, I knew I’d feel great once the run was over, so I just powered through. Plus, if I didn’t go running, I wouldn’t be able to fit into any of my stage outfits, so I had no choice by then.

When the tour was finally over, I was pretty destroyed. I could sleep off all that alcohol and maybe even some of the bratwurst, but after going from never running at all to running an hour each day for two weeks straight I could barely walk. I decided I had to take a break for a couple of weeks or my legs might have snapped in two. Eventually, however, I was ready to rise like a Phoenix and take to the streets again.

Having regained use of my legs, I went to one of those fancy running stores where they videotape you running and tell you how you need to spend a couple of hundred dollars in their store if you ever expect to be able to run properly.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need some prrrretty special shoes if you hope to keep this up,” the guy at the running store told me.

Since I already had the swishy pants, I figured I might as well throw down on some decent running shoes, maybe even magical ones, and bought a really fancy pair that made me look like I was even better at running than I actually was.

Since I bought my super professional, space-age running shoes, I have gone running several times each week. Without Walter there to convince me that I might die or at least get beaten up by a roving street gang if I even stopped for a breather every once in a while, it was a little hard at first, especially since I live in New York City and tend not to get lost very often, even when I’m several blocks from my home. But eventually I just decided that every time someone on the street yelled for some reason or a car horn went off in the vicinity, that it was people cheering me on, and that was enough to keep me going as I high-fived anyone who would let me.

As it turns out, running is even better than the elliptical machine as far as making me feel great afterward and helping me get rid of that doughy flab even faster. A nice run seems to release a level of endorphins (the science behind “runner’s high” I’m told). And making my way through the streets of wherever I happen to be at the moment provides much better stimulus than watching some exercise machine’s LED display mock my every move until I finally give it the finger and head for the door. It’s also a good time to do some thinking about, I dunno, whatever you want really.
2

Aside from all the stuff I just mentioned though, I have to admit that I absolutely hate everything else about running. I hate the outfits (cool swishy pants aside), I hate the amount of time it eats up out of my day, and, most of all, I hate the actual act of running, the part where you have to put one foot in front of the other over and over and over again.

A very close second, however, is other runners. Unfortunately they are impossible to avoid. Even during a rainstorm or a blizzard or even the middle of the night, there always seems to be at least one other bastard out there who’s got the same idea as I do. I see them from afar, panting and padding their way down the street, easily recognizable by their ridiculous attire (none of them dress as cool as I do). They usually go with some combination of criminally short shorts, an absurdly tight spandex garment, and a hat that makes them look like they’ve accepted a dare. They usually spot me from about fifty yards away as we come toward each other. At about fifty feet, they start to try to make eye contact and then, when they’re finally right upon me, they give me the look, the one that says, “Hey, look at us! We’re both running! You and me! We have something in common! We’re part of the same club! We’re runners! Yeah! Let’s keep on running! It’s what guys like us do!”

And to that I just think, “Calm the fuck down, sunshine! It’s great that you’re running and all, but let’s get something straight—you are not my buddy, mister! I hate running and, the more I think about it, I hate you. I am completely miserable right now, and I’m not looking to bond with you over the fact that we’re both hurdling down the street, barely hanging on for life. I’m just trying to get this over with, not revel in the experience with some bastard in quasi-athletic hot pants.”

Trying to bond with someone over running, to me, is like trying to bond with someone in a truck stop restroom. Imagine I’m making a mad dash for the toilet, about to lose control of all of my bodily functions, and—just as I’m about to sequester myself inside the nearest stall—I stop and try to make some sort of brotherly connection with another guy who’s about to redecorate the place with the contents of his intestines if he doesn’t keep it together.

“Hey, buddy,” I’d grunt. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re all red in the face and rushing toward a bathroom stall, too. I mean, I’m not a detective or anything, but, uh, are you about to shit your pants like me? Because I’m totally about to shit my pants. In fact, wait—yup, there it is—I’ve actually started to shit my pants. I should probably get into that bathroom stall already. Ha! Ha! Did you go to that Cracker Barrel a few exits back? Because I did and, while I hate to point fingers, well, anyway, you get the picture. Ha! Ha!”

I apologize for the graphic detour, but hopefully you see my point. That’s just not how I operate. When I’m doing my business, whether it be in a restroom or on the street, I am an island. Still, the threat of making eye contact with other runners can’t stop me from running. I’m probably still at least a couple of weeks away from being a candidate for the cover of
Men’s Fitness, Men’s Health
, or any of the other magazines in which I plan on showcasing my hot, hot bod, but running is still the thing that makes me feel like I still might one day be able to get those goddamn Wheaties people to finally come to their senses and slap me on the box after all. It also keeps me consistently looking like I probably won’t die of a heart attack for at least a few weeks, maybe even months. I’m not the only one who’s noticed, either.

“You fucking dork,” one of my recent YouTube video comments read.

“You are such a douchebag! LMAO! Suck it,” read another.

“Fuck you, you fucking jerkoff,” read a third.

I might be reading into things, but I think it’s pretty clear that all my hard work is really paying off. And I gotta admit—it feels pretty nice.

I Kind of Remember You in the Chelsea Hotel

It was 2003 and, after showing up in New York City with just a duffle bag for what was supposed to be “a long weekend,” I got an offer to write for a cable television show and decided to stick around for a while. I was doing the usual new-guy-in-town couch surfing for a few weeks until one day my friend Brad suggested I check out the Chelsea Hotel, the legendary (or infamous, depending on how you look at it) residence of more writers, artists, actors, and musicians over the years than you can shake a stick at. People like Mark Twain, William S. Burroughs, Jimi Hendrix, Jean-Paul Sartre, Patti Smith, Stanley Kubrick, Frida Kahlo, Robert Crumb, Iggy Pop, Jasper Johns, Tom Waits, Robert Mapplethorpe, Madonna, Dylan Thomas, William de Kooning, and so many more I could probably fulfill my contractually obligated word count for this book simply by listing them all here. Since I exhibited signs or at least delusions of being a creative type myself, Brad thought it might be a good address for me.

Like most rock devotees, I was already a bit familiar with the Chelsea. It’s where Sid Vicious stabbed Nancy Spungen, Leonard Cohen banged Janis Joplin,
1
and—at least according to his song “Sara” anyway—where Bob Dylan wrote “Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” I’m guessing he did a fair amount of banging while he was there, too—it just stands to reason. Either way, I couldn’t wait to put my stamp on the place, assuming I didn’t have to actually kill anybody, that is. More important, though, I just needed a place to live.

I swung by the Chelsea on a rainy weekday morning and asked for Stanley, the hotel manager, part owner, and guy largely responsible for curating the myth surrounding the place. I felt like I was meeting an icon. With his cardigan sweater and reading glasses hanging around his neck, Stanley appeared nebbish at first but quickly assumed a relatively large-and-in-charge presence.

“Go get yourself a cup of coffee and wait in the lobby,” he told me, barely looking up from whatever he was doing. “I’ll come talk to you in a little bit.”

I headed down the block to grab a coffee just like Stanley told me and returned a couple of minutes later to take a seat on a bench in the lobby. The place oozed history.
2

“Wow, this is where Dylan Thomas stumbled home to after drinking himself silly
3
at the White Horse Tavern!” I thought. “And where Andy Warhol shot
Chelsea Girls,
including the naked parts!”

Paintings by dozens of the hotel’s current and former residents lined the walls, as they did just about every other inch of common space in the building
4
and it seemed like just about every person who walked by me was, at the very least, thinking about something really cool.

As I took it all in, Stanley stood just a few feet away at the front desk, sorting through stacks of mail and seemingly observing me for a bit. It occurred to me that having me sit and wait was a power move or maybe even a test to make sure I was really interested in living at the hotel.

“You can’t break me, Stanley,” I thought. “I’m already in too deep!”
5

Finally, as if he were responding to some imaginary timer that had just gone off, he walked over to me.

“Tell me about yourself,” Stanley said.

I told him how I was mostly a writer and a musician.
6
I also told him that part about how I had come to New York for the weekend and never left. He mostly just listened before waving over a concierge standing nearby.

“This is Dave,” Stanley told him. “Show him what rooms we have for him.”

Without saying a word, the concierge motioned for me to follow him onto the elevator. Over the next few minutes, we got off at a few of the hotel’s twelve floors as he unlocked a handful of single rooms and waved me inside. Most of them were cramped and appeared as if they hadn’t been renovated in decades (which they probably hadn’t). Each room was completely different, too, seemingly decorated with whatever midcentury rugs, curtains, and other odds and ends might have been lying around, but still looking pretty great to my impressionable eyes nonetheless.

“Here you go,” the concierge said as he unlocked each door.

He didn’t say much else and, if I lingered in any room for more than a few seconds, he just stood in front of the nearest mirror adjusting and readjusting his Kangol as if he’d been planning on coming up to the room to do that anyway whether I was there or not. It was an undeniably cool move, so I made a mental note to get one of those hats as soon as possible.

“So which room did you like best?” Stanley asked me once I got back down to the lobby.

“The room with the double bed and floral wallpaper was nice,” I told him.

“And it’s only three thousand dollars a month. Can I assume you’ll take it?”