(2 of 2)
Which would be much like his house. Dick's house is like Andy Warhol's Factory, only for stranger people. He is so sure someone will always be there--usually performers and musicians, in addition to his 19-year-old girlfriend--that he doesn't have his own set of keys. Dick's 11-year-old son, the child's mother and her boyfriend live downstairs, and his other two younger children by a different ex-girlfriend also live in L.A. Dick says he is heterosexual except when he is drinking. Outside his house are a trampoline, an Airstream trailer and a Zen-inspired enclosed garden, where he meditates daily. Right now he is strictly following a diet geared to blood type, which requires him to eat lots of red meat. "Type Os can eat chocolate, just can," he says, unwrapping an organic chocolate bar. And later: "Type Os are almost immune to cancer."
The second time it appears Dick is going to die is when he is rocking on a chair leaning against a window 12 floors above the pool at the Mondrian hotel. "It makes me a little nervous, but in a weird, comforting way," he says, momentarily straightening the chair. Looking down at the pool, where beautiful, half-naked European women lounge on giant pillows sipping cocktails, he thinks about his girlfriend. "You would really s__ if you saw my girlfriend," he says.
"Is she hot?" I ask.
"The hottest."
"Are you happy?"
"No."