Crash and Burn (19 page)

During the fifteen-minute segment they recorded for the studio audience after we went off the air, I lit up a cigarette against Joe’s wishes, and that was, as the French say, the coup de grâce, in which Joe lost it. He’s usually a very controlled, well-spoken commentator, but if you listen to him at that moment in the show he sounds like a kid whose voice is about to crack as he yells, “Don’t!” to the school bully stealing his lunch, which in this case would be me. I can’t blame the guy! I had taken over his show, driven him crazy, and would not stop for anybody. The thing about me is, even if I weren’t being paid to be funny, I’d be somewhere busting someone’s balls the best I could if it made my friends laugh. That’s just what I do; I’m lucky enough that I’ve found a way to make money off it.

I’m sad to say that this train wreck was the first of a very short run of
Joe Buck Live
shows, because the thing never really took off, and I feel bad for ruining that first episode for Joe. He didn’t deserve it at all, that’s for sure. I thought I was delivering the kind of performance they were after and since I was in a drug and booze cloud I didn’t notice how wrong I was and how uncomfortable I was making everyone. In the moments when I caught a glimpse of it, I didn’t even care because I was having one hell of a time! I’m serious: watch the video, I’m having a ball! The tension onstage is flying right over my head as what was supposed to be a civilized program becomes an out-of-control situation, while somewhere at least fifteen HBO executives regret their decision to let the show broadcast live. In any case, Joe, Jason, Paul, and show producer Ross Greenburg did their best to handle things in a very diplomatic way, but that didn’t work because I was on a roll like the drunk uncle at the wedding who won’t give up the microphone as he gives a speech that insults the groom’s family and reveals that the bride was a slut in high school. Just like that asshole always does, I interpreted the crowd’s attention to mean they loved my work.

I know a lot of my fans, plus people who don’t like Joe Buck, still think this performance was fucking genius, and I suppose some of it was, but let’s be honest, it’s not an appearance on a talk show. It’s a guy having a meltdown in an inappropriate way in the wrong place. I was in my own world that night and I overreacted, took no hints from anyone that I was going too far, and continued on, making everyone visibly uncomfortable. Joe even told me very clearly that I was doing this, but I didn’t stop. I wish I could say that I had made a choice to deliberately create that awkwardness as some kind of tribute to the late, great Andy Kaufman, but I’d be lying. I swear to God I had no fucking idea that anything was wrong; I thought I was killing. I thought the producers and Joe would be grateful.

In my professional life, that appearance represents what drugs had become in my personal life. In the same way that I kept doing drugs while telling everyone I was quitting, I sat there on Joe’s show saying whatever I wanted to, thinking it was funny and fine, even when I got very clear signs that it wasn’t. I left the stage that night thinking I’d be a regular guest without a doubt. The next day I was literally the only person surprised to hear, via the
New York Post
, that HBO and Joe Buck were “dissatisfied” with my behavior on the show. The
Post
had a field day because they have much more fun reporting my mistakes than my successes, so they gave me a nice write-up explaining that I was banned from appearing on any HBO Sports program for the rest of my life. They also took great joy in describing just how tasteless and embarrassing I was to Joe on live television. What they failed to report—and this is true for any gossip website or column—was the follow-up story. Gossips never follow up, which is one of many reasons why I hate them—they’ll never report anything that exposes them as being full of shit. Anyway, this whole Joe thing “went viral,” as they say, and it got so much attention that two days later, the
Joe Buck Live
producers called me to ask if I’d film an intro piece for the second episode. Either they weren’t as angry as everyone in the media let on or by then they just realized they needed ratings
fast; whatever it was, everybody knows that controversy of any kind never hurts when it comes to publicity.

Of course I agreed, because, I’d like to say it once again, I never bore Joe any ill will. To be honest, once I got the memo that I’d really offended him and possibly hurt his show I was overjoyed to have the chance to make that right. He and I taped a funny little bit for the opening of the second episode where he’s minding his own business, hanging out on the street when suddenly he sees me and runs full speed the other way. Clearly HBO hadn’t banned me for life—I mean, I was on an HBO Sports show literally one week later, making this the shortest lifelong exile in history. Like I said, none of the gossips that covered my first appearance picked up that story at all, because they’d gone for it too hard in the first round to backtrack. Some of them even claimed I’d purposely tried to ruin Joe’s show, without giving a reason for my so-called vendetta, by the way. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

I was just being funny the way a wiseass from Jersey knows best: by busting balls. I was also very high, and looking back I’d say I treated the show as if it were a Comedy Central roast more than a sports talk show. I thought I was Don Rickles on
The Tonight Show
in the seventies. He used to make fun of Johnny Carson and every guest for the whole show—and everybody loved him! That’s who I wanted to be that night. The only problem is, sober or wasted, I’m never as funny as Don Rickles. I didn’t meant to hurt Joe or the show, so I’d like to officially apologize to him once again right now. Joe Buck and Ross Greenburg, I’m sorry for what happened, guys. I was busting balls and I went crazy, thinking we should push the envelope there on HBO, and also because, watching the interviews with Brett and Chad, as a fan, I was bored to tears. I was trying to “liven things up,” but I went way overboard. It was a bad call on my part, and I’m very sorry about it. Can we be friends again?

A lot of people in comedy supported what I did, and still do, for various reasons. Some of them have something against Joe because
he may not like their hometown football team, and that kind of thing goes a long way. Others just think it was cool and subversive, and comics love that shit. For the record, I’m not proud; I feel horrible about it, because whether you like his style or not, Joe Buck is a good guy and I regret putting him through those moments of awkwardness, because the guy really didn’t know what to do. Imagine that happening on your first episode! I’ve done a bunch of sports-related comedy on
Conan
and
Letterman
where I had to be clean language-wise, and that’s what they wanted, but instead they got Artie unleashed. One last time—sorry, guys.

In June 2009,
the
Stern Show
went on its summer hiatus as usual and since I didn’t know what to do with myself, I booked nonstop stand-up gigs. The Buck incident, regardless of how we patched it up, still weighed heavily on my mind. It was the start of an unraveling that had begun just after taping
Jack and Coke
and continued, gaining speed with every passing week as I started to lose my footing. Here is a list of my schedule that month:

6/1–6/3 stand-up and book signing in LA.
Stern Show
all week in NYC.

6/8–6/10 stand-up and book signing in Pittsburgh.
Stern Show
all week in NYC.

6/15–6/17 stand-up and book signing in Cleveland.
Stern Show
all week in NYC.

6/22–6/24 stand-up and book signing in Vegas.

6/25 fly to LA to meet Rick Rubin at his home near Malibu.
Stern Show
all week in NYC.

I insisted to everyone who asked that I was sober, because I’d had Joe and Mike on hand for so long. I’d let them go, by the way, in terms of paying them to keep me sober, but I kept them on the payroll as
my private transport. So to the outside world, meaning those closest to me who cared about my well-being, it looked as if I had those two still in charge, still looking after me and keeping me away from temptation. But like the Pope or the Queen of England, they were only really there in theory; they were figureheads of my sobriety. And like any figurehead, they had no real power. People close to me had gotten so used to seeing me high that they had no real measure of my sober-to-high ratio anymore. I had been high around them so much that me being a little bit high seemed like me sober. They had seen me so far gone that I was able to get away with being a little bit high by that point.

Anyway, once Mike and Joe had been downgraded, I had a lot of free time without them on my heels all the time, so I got into everything: booze, painkillers, heroin, and amphetamines occasionally. I’d met a stripper a year or so before who shared my appetite for narcotics and she’d shot me up, just under the skin a few times. I had just started seeing Adrienne, and we weren’t completely together yet (it was the very beginning of our relationship), so I took the opportunity to see that stripper again when the occasion presented itself and she and I got into everything. She always had a huge stash of pills, so I’d steal her Adderall, her Oxys, and whatever else she wouldn’t notice missing whenever she’d leave me alone with her pill case. I didn’t even care what the pills were; I’d just crush them and snort them the way normal people take Advil. I figured I’d find out what they did soon enough, and I’ve always liked surprises. I’d do all of this on my own time, late at night and on the road away from my family, my employers, and everyone else in my life. I continued to tell them I wasn’t using drugs and for as long as I could I swore I hadn’t been drinking either, until they saw it with their own eyes.

The book signing in Cleveland that month was touch and go, because I got more drunk than I had in a long time, on whiskey, as usual. It was obvious to everyone by then that I was no longer sober, but they did believe me when I said I was clean, and as if to prove
it, I managed to avoid taking any drugs in Cleveland, drunk as I was. This might not sound like much of an achievement, but it is. Any addict can tell you that once you indulge yourself in one of your appetites, the rest are not far behind, so I was proud that I managed to stay clean, at least for that one event.

That was short-lived, of course, because the next weekend in Vegas I dove back into being a mess on all levels with enthusiasm and gusto. After a week at
Stern
that came off without incident, I flew out there to do stand-up and a book signing, and I’d agreed to host a poolside beauty contest that would be filmed for Howard TV. It was going to be a long weekend: Adrienne was going to join me out there, we’d hang out for a couple of days, and then she’d accompany me to LA to meet Rick Rubin at his house in Malibu. She couldn’t make it the night of my gig, so I had that night to myself, and being me, I got into plenty of trouble.

I was still trying to keep up a front, so I called ahead to a drug connection I’d had for years in Vegas and lined up (get it—lines?) some heroin. At the time the two cops were still traveling with me, which made everyone, including Adrienne, feel that I’d be all right out there alone for a night. I was staying at the Hard Rock and since I was being somewhat watched, the guy couldn’t come to my room. That didn’t matter; we figured out what to do.

My flight landed at five the morning of my show, so about that time my dealer left my heroin under a garbage can outside the hotel, just right there on the street. The plan was that he’d come to my gig as my guest, come backstage to say hello, and that’s when I’d pay him. As soon as I said good night to the cops, I snuck down the hallway to the elevator and out to the street to get my stuff. I looked under the first garbage can I saw and found nothing. Second garbage can—nothing. Finally I went half a block down the sidewalk to the third garbage can and there it was, my goodie bag. Like anyone who’s gone to that much effort to get anything I had to sample it right away, so I did a few lines and went to sleep.

The next morning I was still high—and loving it—and Mike and Joe could tell because I’d scored some really good shit. The cover was blown and they were pissed as hell at me to the degree that they threatened to call my agent and ask him to cancel the show. There was no way I was going to let that happen, not only because I’d be sued by the casino and lose a shitload of money, but because these guys worked for me, so I wasn’t taking orders from them. Suggestions were fine, but not orders, not so much.

They were fuming, but they stood by me—literally—making sure I didn’t go on a bender. The only problem was paying my dealer, but it turned out okay because there were about 100 people backstage, so he and I could have an inconspicuous conversation and make the exchange. By the way, I did go on a bender, because I’d bought a lot of heroin and I continued to do it all day. I did my show in a complete blackout, yet somehow got through my contracted hour and earned my check. Another crowd filled the backstage area after the show, which allowed me the chance to lose the cops and slip out. I partied the whole night away and even managed to get back to my room, thinking I was home free. Hardly—when I opened the door I saw them both sitting there. They got me into bed, making sure I was alone and safe, and they took my drugs. What they didn’t know was that I’d stashed some just in case they busted me.

The next morning every fan I ran into in the hotel told me that I’d seemed fucked up onstage and that it was all over the Internet that I was back on drugs. Apparently I’d thrown out a kid in the front row for saying something I didn’t like. I stopped my routine cold and yelled, “Get the fuck out of here,” and was scary enough about it that the guy just got up and left. My after-party involved taking the Howard TV guys and many others to Nobu—a party of thirty in all. My friend Richie Notar, who is a co-owner of Nobu, gave me a break on a few things, but still, a party of thirty at Nobu? Am I Jerry Bruckheimer? I thought I was a billionaire because I made 100 grand on the show that night. My bill was upward of six thousand dollars
with the tip. And then I went and gambled, and to this day have no idea how much I won or lost.