This Book Has Balls Page 17

  Round 11: “You Fuck My Wife”

  A shocking yet classic line that goes down in the annals of history of cinema’s greatest dialogue. “If you build it, they will come” is meaningful, the janitor’s speech to Rudy will pull you out of the dark, but Jake asking Joey if he fucked his wife is a moment you can never forget. It’s so disturbing that my sister pinched me on the arm in 1980 when we saw it for the first time in a movie theater on Second Avenue. The danger and dysfunction of that scene is beyond any sports film moment.

  Round 12: Editing

  This was the start of an incredible partnership between Martin Scorsese and film editor Thelma Schoonmaker. She has cut and pieced together every Scorsese film since. They’re the Joe Montana and Jerry Rice of filmmaking.

  Round 13: “Get Your Shine Box”

  You know Frank Vincent even if you don’t know his name. He’s the shiny, gray-haired, raspy-voiced actor from almost every mafia TV show and movie of the last thirty years. He’s the guy who tells Joe Pesci to “Go get your fucking shine box” in Goodfellas. Frank made his film debut in Raging Bull and is so real that you think he’s just being himself.

  Round 14: Marty Scorsese

  I got to interview Martin Scorsese about Raging Bull. If you listen to the interview, I sound like I’m floating in outer space for the entire time because I couldn’t believe it was happening. He told me this, a golden nugget I will never forget for as long as I live: “I took everything I knew and everything I had and put it into the film. I put everything on the line—my money, my health, everything. The film was everything I was looking for. For me, it was about finding my soul again.” Martin Scorsese was cemented as a true artistic genius after Raging Bull. He went as deep as he could go to reclaim his soul, and you can see and feel it all up there on the screen.

  Round 15: The Eighties

  Raging Bull was nominated for six Academy Awards in 1980. It lost Best Picture to Ordinary People. But in perfect poetic justice, after ten years, all of the most respected film critics in the industry took a vote on best film of the Eighties, and Raging Bull won by a landslide, solidifying the masterpiece for what it was. No sports film has ever been voted best film of an entire decade. None. The people knew, they knew!

  Caitlyn, Caitlyn, Caitlyn

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a fan of Bruce Jenner’s since the dude won the decathlon in the ’76 Olympics. The shot put, javelin, sprinting, high jumping, winning it all with Marlboro Man chest hair; that shit makes you one of the greatest athletes of all time. I was only six, but I was ready to grow some chest hair after watching his run for gold. Bruce was on the cover of Wheaties and Playgirl, two covers that don’t have shit to do with each other, but that’s how insanely popular he was. He was one of the most famous people on the planet. Came from nothing and made something of himself. Dude was married, making nine grand a year while his first wife was supporting him, and he was training his ass off in his spare time. He was a man out of his time. After competing, he was writing books, racing cars, and making money. Bruce was a corporation. And then it happened. He got mixed up with the Kardashians and ended up on that show, and it all went fucking south. Didn’t you get the memo, bro? You go into that house a man and you come out fucked up. I don’t know what sort of voodoo pussy is happening over there, but no one is safe. Especially not a man. Check the records. It hasn’t been pretty for any of them.

  Lamar Odom goes in as a first-round draft pick NBA superstar with amazing potential and comes out hanging on for dear life after overdosing on crack cocaine, fuck pills, and white girls from a whorehouse in Nevada. That’s an epic downfall of sad proportions. Then you got my little man Ray J, who starts out with a promising career, sleeps with Kim on camera, dives into that legendary apple, and never makes another good track again. The dude got that snapper, and where’s his voice? Check the snapper. Is there a recording studio in her ass? I have no fucking clue, I’m just calling it like I see it. Then Kanye, one of the best beat makers and rappers in the game, goes in, and two years later he’s crying onstage and referring to himself in the third person. What the fuck part of the movie Get Out didn’t you get? And shit, I’m not even blaming them for everything.

  I know you were confused, Cait; you said it many times: you felt like a girl growing up, you had female feelings. I get it; I’m confused every day of my life. It’s the fucking way you’re going about it all now that you’re Caitlyn. I’m not a fan, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you being transgender. That might be my favorite thing about you. Someone wants to be what they feel deep inside and wants to transition, then guess what, I’m all for it. Come on out. Let’s go. I’ll hold your hand and throw on some heels for the fuck of it. I grew up in Manhattan, I saw it all, I didn’t discriminate. I walked out of my place on the Upper East Side, said “What up?” to Genie, the giant transgender woman on the stoop, and went about my day. Shit did not bother me at all. Never has, never will. But there’s just something I’m not feeling here about you, Caitlyn, and I think I know what it is. You should not be the face and the voice of the trans community. I don’t think I’m alone in my thinking either. As a matter of fact, I know I’m not alone. Anyone who lives in Hollywood knows Yum Yum Donuts is a great hang for the trans community, and when I’m getting my coffee-and-donut game on, we talk. And they ain’t happy either.

  These Hollywood streets are talking, Caitlyn. You think you represent what they’ve been dealing with for most of their lives? You’ve got $50 million in the bank from that fucked-up TV show, and now you’re the self-anointed voice of the transgender people? You may have started with little, but you’ve led a privileged life for at least the last thirty years. Many of these people have been ostracized, beat up, left for dead in the streets, and addicted to drugs and all other types of bullshit, and you’re wearing Manolo Blahnik shoes and $6,000 orange dresses, popping up on Diane Sawyer talking about voting for Trump. I don’t think you represent them at all, girl. You’re with Trump, and you think you’re representing the LGBTQ community? You aren’t clear how Trump and his crew feel about the LGBTQ community? You’re on national TV talking about not regretting that you voted for him? Trump doesn’t give a fuck about proven scientific facts; you really think he gives a fuck about you? We got a problem here, my friend.

  Where the hell is your head? Oh, I know where it is—it’s in the bank, where all your money is! You know if Trump could, he would lock you in the closet and never let you out. This is the guy you’re voting for? The guy who said people can’t use the bathroom they identify with, the guy who opposes nationwide same-sex marriage? This is your guy? Who are you fighting for, LGBTQ, the transgender community, or the rich white motherfuckers who make sure your money is safe? Because it can’t be for everyone, my friend. Think it over, Caitlyn, before they turn on you. And let’s be honest, you ain’t that exciting to watch on TV to begin with. Yeah, I said it. Maybe you’re just not that interesting.

  If you’re on the number one reality show in the world as a famous man and then you’re transitioning into an even more famous woman and your own spinoff show gets canceled, guess what? You’re fucking boring, Caitlyn. Once again, I’m not here to bash your choices, and I’m damn sure not here to bash your community, but I am here to let you know that it’s offensive to the people in the struggle when you’re popping up as the public face of the transgender world with $24,000 worth of gold on your neck and voting for that fuckface Trump, who can’t stand you.

  And on a side note: you claimed to have known that O. J. Simpson was guilty and you kept it to yourself. Yeah, I read the article. You told my man Andy Cohen that you and Robert Kardashian both knew that fucking guy was a murderer and you didn’t say shit about it. Get with the program, homegirl. Come get some coffee and donuts with the me and the good folks at Yum Yum’s sometime.

  Stickmen: The Ultimate List of Great Stickmen, Part 1

  I was lucky enough to work with Sylvester Stallone on the great ensemble film Copland. I
knew when I got the part that I was going to fan out on Stallone, so I had to keep it all in check. Rocky is one of the reasons I first considered becoming an actor. I’m not joking. I saw the movie, I ran outside, I challenged every kid on the Upper East Side to a fight, and then I decided to become an actor. That movie changed my life for real. I don’t trip out on a lot of people, but here was one of my idols in life. On the first day of shooting, I spotted him smoking alone off to the side, enjoying his peace and quiet. First off, the fact that he was smoking a cigarette threw me the fuck off. John Fucking Rambo doesn’t smoke cigarettes, does he? Instead of leaving him in peace to enjoy his smoke break, I walked right up and told him how Rocky inspired me. He could tell I wasn’t joking around and was cool as shit about it. I threw a few Rocky lines at him, and I’m telling you the god’s honest truth: Sylvester Stallone was coming right back at me with the next line in the movie. I was tripping out. All of a sudden me and Sly are straight up doing scenes from all the Rockys. I was Pauly, he was Apollo; I was Adrian, he was Rocky; I hit him with some Mickeys and he came back with Rocky. It was unreal.

  It was a dream come true until the director came over and said, “Michael, you have to stop talking to Sly about Rocky, man; we’re shooting Copland here.” So, I had to quit distracting him. But before I left Sly alone, he dropped some shit on me that I’ll never forget. I asked him about Burgess Meredith, the legend and actor who played Mickey in the Rocky films. Without missing a beat, he tells me, “Not only was Burgess an amazing actor, but he was a real stickman.” A what? “Oh yeah, the man was great with the ladies. He was a notorious cocksman, one of the best of all time.” I was stunned. Seriously? The little old guy from Grumpy Old Men was a world-class stickman? A cocksman?!

  This is the actual day on the set of Copland that Stallone declared Burgess Meredith the Consummate Stickman, and life was never the same.

  I had to recalibrate my whole thought process. I had heard about Warren Beatty in his day, and of course I heard about Elvis and the ladies, but Burgess? What was I going to hear next? Abe Vigoda had his loaf out on the set of The Godfather ? Stallone was dead-ass serious. Burgess Meredith was a World-Class Stickman. So, in honor of all the great stickmen out there, here is a completely-fact-checked-yet-absolutely-based-on-nothing, guaranteed-not-real list of the real stickmen.

  Webster-Rapaport definition of a Stickman: A man with the innate, god-given ability to bed many, many women while having none of them speak poorly of him and continue on with his blessed wonderful life of sleeping around with no strings attached or regrettable repercussions.

  Now, let me be clear: there’s a big difference between a stickman and an irresponsible scumbag. Anyone can use fame to pull out the loaf, drop it on a stranger’s shoulder, and roll the dice. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m NOT talking about Trump’s “Grab ’em by the pussy” shitbag talk. That’s scum-bum, bush-league bullshit. That’s shit people say when the only way they get laid is by paying for it or “owning” a building that’s not really yours but saying it is. I’m talking about a gentleman who does what he does and no one gets hurt. A man of honor, who, when it’s all said and done, women don’t bash or slam to their friends. I’m talking about a man who does his thing and gets street compliments and receives wonderful praise in certain circles. I’m talking about the All Stickmen League of America. And I’m only dealing with America because I don’t feel like getting into Latin American bullfighters, European soccer players, and any of that Australian rugby shit. They can make their own list. This is ours. Good old American stickmen. Let’s begin.

  Prince and the Purple Loaf

  Prince was a World-Class Tiny Purple Stickman. Rest in peace and test the Purple Piece. Prince was the eighth wonder of the world. He was four-seven, wore high heels, was better looking than most women in makeup, could still do the splits when he was fifty, and ran shit like the mini-pimp of Minneapolis. Prince was pulling out the Velvet Loaf and laying down high-level game for years. He had white, black, Asian, all mixes, all races, all religions, all nondenominational orgy-type shit on lockdown. Prince’s bedroom looked like an orphanage full of beautiful female adults and sometimes animals. Who the hell knows what was going on in there? Prince had a velvet rope in front of his bed! He had Apollonia and Vanity all in the same decade, same movie, and same city. You ever been to Minneapolis? Do you have any idea how tight your high-heel guitar game must be to lock down two 10s in a city that lives in snow? You have any idea how tight your game has to be to wear a long, flowing dress, black fishnet stockings, high heels, and a painted-on mustache and lay it down like that? Prince was crossing borders before the shit was okay to do. And he wasn’t afraid of big women either. Prince showed up with Kirstie Alley at an awards show in the Eighties, and she was carrying him like a baby. He didn’t give a fuck, and neither do I. He rolled into the Grammys with two models and a baby bottle around his neck. Prince recorded a stick session with Kim Basinger in her prime, and her moans made it onto the Batman soundtrack. Are you hearing what I’m saying here? He put her moans on one of the biggest-grossing film soundtracks of all time. Yeah. Basinger’s getting the Raspberry Beret peter-piper-picked-a-pepper-pussy treatment, and she was so happy with my man that she let him put it on the record. Did she have a hard time getting another acting job later? I don’t know. I don’t discuss careers here. The point is, Prince had it all on lock, and he’s first ballot. Prince had a “Don’t talk, just walk next to me and look straight ahead and nod” rule with women. So, RIP to Prince and the Purple Loaf. He’s one of the greats, and I’m proud to acknowledge him here at the top of the list.

  Derek Jeter

  He’s sometimes referred to as Your Favorite Stickman’s Favorite Stickman. I gotta talk about my man Derek Jeter ’cause he kept his shit low, but we knew what was happening. Yeah, Derek, we read it in the papers, we saw it in the Post, we knew you had shit poppin’, but you never talked about it in public, and that’s a true prerequisite for a gifted stickman. And you did it in the greatest sports market in the world. This wasn’t some small-town smash-and-grab shit. This was New York City, where everyone knows everything, and they follow you around all day every day, and no one knew where the fuck you were, and then you just pop up on a street corner with a five-foot-eleven brunette fresh off the boat from Brazil sent to America to model her feet, and no one hated you for it. We loved you. You did it all under the radar and incognito. We respect that. You weren’t on that “A-Rod clip Madonna, get some press, send pictures back home to show off to your boys” fame shit. You’re a gentleman. Well raised by good parents in Kalamazoo, Michigan, dreaming of a better life in the big leagues, and hoping one day to put up Hall of Fame stats on and off the field. Well, you did it, Derek. You did it big. I know people, Derek. I’m from New York. It’s my town. I hear shit. I’m in the streets. I don’t read rag magazines or get my info from TMZ, I hear shit they talk about in the pizza spots and the back-alley entrances to nightclubs and shit. Yeah, I don’t really club a lot because of my knees and age and whatever, but you get where I’m coming from. I know about you. I like it all. And you had the ability to keep high-profile chicks low. That’s a great gift that’s not talked about much. You had the skill of a World-Class Stickman.

  You handled Mariah Carey like she never even had a song out. You know how tough that is? You had her on lock like you went to high school with her. She’s out there now in the news taking dudes’ money just for dating them, and you had that on platinum-selling silence! That’s real stickman shit right there. And you didn’t brag or put women on your arm to parade everywhere; you did it all like a gentleman. And you didn’t judge either, Derek. You had women I wouldn’t even call back. Yeah, man. You let your small-town roots bloom and made ’em all feel like they had a shot. Sure, you loafed out with pop stars, actresses, and models, but you, my friend, were not afraid to wind sprint your way into a cleaning lady just to let motherfuckers know you were from Kalamazoo. You didn’t come out here and go Ho
llywood with it; you were a man of the people. And everyone got treated nicely. That’s what I like to hear. Rumors were floating around that postcoital women got gift baskets! You bring a woman in, you put on some music, you take out the loaf, make magical things happen, then you hand out T-shirts, hats, and signed hardballs when it’s over. That’s real shit, Derek. You’re a multipurpose Hall of Famer. Thanks for the memories, man. Seriously.

  Dominique Wilkins

  I know it seems out of left field, but so is this book. Dominique Wilkins was known as the Human Highlight Film both on the floor and in the bedroom. Dominique spent the Eighties and Nineties flying through the air slam dunking on every dime piece in sight. We know, man. The respect was earned, not given. When people still discuss your sexual prowess almost seventeen years after you’re out of the league, we know some real shit went down.

  There are women in Atlanta in their late forties and early fifties who still have your picture in their living room hanging right next to real family photos. Yeah, it ain’t in the bedroom, because no real husband of Atlanta wants to see Nique on their woman’s wall. That just upsets other men. I know these things. Please trust me here. I don’t name names here, and I never reveal my sources, but let’s just say that since my foray into the sporting world, your name has come up many, many times when it comes to fantastic stickmen who handled entire regions. It wasn’t just Atlanta—Dominique Wilkins had the entire Southeast on lockdown. You ask anyone who played with, for, or against Dominique Wilkins, and they will tell you: home or away, in a house or in a stadium, a nearby park or a southern garage, even a nightclub or pub, when Nique came through your town, Loafzilla showed its face, and people locked their fucking doors. Yeah, not everyone could come out and play. People put their kids to bed early if Dominique was playing in town. And he kept it scandal free and gentleman heavy, which I must repeat is the sign of a true stickman. Dominique scored a 10 in the dunk contest and a 10 at the after party. That’s what he did. So, I don’t want to hear shit from any of you new-school dudes on Snapchats and Insta-Dick-Pic. I’m talking about that old-school, old-fashioned shit where you had to have real charisma and charm coming off that visitors’ bus after a hard-fought game in Utah. Miss your style, man.