"...based on his headshots, you were left with the impression of Jon Hamm.."
"...but in person he was more like Robert Downey, Jr. or Mel Gibson. Before the rehabs."
Jake's all-time favorite fantasy gal, the legendary Candy Loving:
"Who let the dogs out?"
Really bad picture of Jake on the cover of Just for Men hair-coloring:
Ah Jake! Like Russia, I could write ten million posts ‘bout that guy. Ten million posts for the ten million laughs we had. The guy was a nut--figuratively and literally. What man of greatness isn’t?
But Jake was fun--a whacky nut; only rarely a dangerous one. Except maybe to himself. Because of his good looks the agents always tried to cast him as the hero cop. Or the straight man. This was based on his head-shots, which left you with the impression of a Jon Hamm crossed with a young Harvey Keitel. The Irish-dark hair and eyes. The thick brows. Chiseled jaw. But in person he was more like Robert Downey, Jr. or Mel Gibson. Before their rehabs. A tight, restless energy. Almost skittish, yet comfortable inside it. At home in his mania. “Oh, you’re quirky,” one casting agent told him after an audition. “I didn’t get that from your pictures.”
I’ll tell you something quirky ‘bout Jake--he loved a hairy pussy. Why I should know this is anyone’s guess, but if you had any kind of extended conversation with him the subject somehow came up.
“You don’t have one of those shaved clammers do you?” I heard Jake ask a drunken girl before he decided to take her home. “ ‘Cause I can’t stand that.”
“Uh, no,” the girl answered, more amused than you might expect, “I guess I’ve got more of...a landing strip.”
To which Jake would roll his eyes derisively and look in my direction.
“Man, none of these young gals has a real bush anymore!”
That was Jake. The sick fuck loved big tits and a thick bush. And he liked to shock your sensibilities or throw you off balance--perhaps cause that’s where his mind was. Readers may remember a song a decade or so back called Who Let the Dogs Out? A moronic pop tune (aren’t they all?) that asked the age old question referenced in the title. Well, for a long time after we re-connected in New York Jake got into the habit of telling me a story. It’d be a good one--usually sexual in nature to maintain my interest. An example might be something like:
“So anyway Lodo, I’m banging this chick in the bathroom with her panties off to the side. Normally I’d have her take ‘em off, but she’s got that shaved twat which I can’t look at!--so at least I can stare at those panties as I watch my junk going in and out. Anyway, I’ve got her bent over the sink and I’m going at it when she suddenly turns ‘round and you know what she says to me?”
“...What?” I’d ask, clueless, but now completely invested.
“She’s like, ‘Who let the dogs out!’”
At which point Jake would break into a sort-of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch break-dance all over and around the sidewalk.
“...Wait? What?” I asked the first time he’d done this to me in my blunted confusion. “Why’d she ask you that?”
“She didn’t really ask that Lodo,” he’d respond with a sardonic grin. “I’m just fucking with you.”
There was a whole summer where Jake would do that. Spin some extraordinary tale, which only sounded plausible cause it was from him. ‘Course he was a real good actor too, so I’d follow along ‘til he got to the climax of the story, at which point he’d turn and say,
“...so then the manager walks right up to me. He’s really big and pissed and gets right in my face. We look at each other for a few seconds, neither of us backing down. Then he suddenly says to me ‘...Who let the dogs out!' ”
And then back to his God-awful break-dancing that amused him so much.
And I guess it amused me too. At least those first few times. It was funny. But after awhile it got so that we couldn’t carry on a conversation. He’d begin to detail one of his adventures and I’d have to stop him in mid-stream.
“Hey,” I’d say as I spun Jake ‘round on the sidewalk,” this isn’t gonna end with who let the dogs out, is it?”
“No Lodo,” he’d answer with a countenance that suggested otherwise.
“You sure?...’Cause really, I couldn’t take that. Not anymore of that--okay?”
You had to do that with Jake. Let him know your limits cause he didn’t have any.
I recall one time, a fight night so it must have been a Saturday. I’d gone to his house early; maybe 6:00 or so, where to my surprise he offered-up a couple lines to snort. I’ve never been a coke guy--it’s just not my drug; but if you’re gonna throw a line or two my way I won’t say no. Particularly at that time since I’d just injured my back.
So I snorted a couple meager lines and man did that rush feel good! Jake and I exchanged a conspiratorial smile of shared, altered experience, at which point he snorted half of the last line.
“Go ahead Lodo,” he said as he pointed toward the mirror, “finish that.”
So okay, in total I snorted just over two small lines. That was at about 6:00. Then we walked a full lap ‘round Central Park, smoked a few cigars, killed a fifth of Johnnie Walker and watched two championship fights. Suddenly it was past midnight, yet I felt exactly the same as at 6:00. I mean, I didn’t come down at all!
“Hey,” I said to Jake as we turned off the TV and prepared to leave for the night, “that wasn’t coke was it?”
“I never said it was Lodo” he responded with a Cheshire cat’s grin and a firm squeeze of my trapezoids. “But you like it, right?”
Actually reader, not so much. Freaking degenerate that guy could be.
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into another part. Part 2 should be in a few days.
** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics of famous people were stolen off Google Images. In fact, even the Just for Men box may be copyrighted. All rights reserved on my pics.
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