than with some tawdry beer-hall scuttlebutt.
In another case of “Damn it, I should’ve got a picture.” I had the joy of watching Andy Dick get flung out of my local watering hole like a frisbee.
On Wednesday night at White Harte, Dick had been camping out at the bar with a very meager entourage, knocking back shots like they’re going out of style. Aside from a few equally sloshed patrons, he goes largely ignored.
We were near the dartboard, about 30 feet away from it all.
Between the six-odd pints of Guinness and U2 blaring, I never heard what he said that started the whole thing. But as I was prying my cellphone loose to snap a pic, he groped one of the barmaids. She slaps him; he tries to lunge after her.
At that point, a bouncer pops out from the back room, grabs Dick by shoulder and whips him through the door and out onto Ventura. I figure Dick only weighs about 130 lbs, so it must’ve been like tossing a sheet of paper.
Moments later, a throng pours into the room to watch Dick shuffle away into the shadows. Such are the vagaries of fame. Forgotten for his achievements (and yes, the jury is still out on those), lampooned for his fallacies.
Unremarkable, you say?
Certainly.
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