Dave Hill is a comedian, writer, musician, and highly boneable public figure. He is the author of the book Tasteful Nudes (St. Martin’s Press, 2012), host of The Goddamn Dave Hill Show on New Jersey’s WFMU-91.1, frequent contributor to This American Life and singer-guitar player for the power-pop band Valley Lodge. His new comedy album Let Me Turn You On is available now, as is his second collection of essays, Dave Hill Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (Penguin/Blue Rider Press). Dave also smells incredible and can play sweet guitar solos without even really trying. You can follow him on Twitter here.
Hot Love is a column by comedian, writer and musician Dave Hill wherein he helps the lovelorn with advice on love, relationships and porking. Please send your questions to email@example.com.
How do you suggest I deal with unwanted dick pics?
Scarred for Life
Do not even get me started on this topic. While, personally, I don’t think I could even bring myself to frame up my genitals with my iPhone — much less actually take a picture and send the results to another human being — I’m told it’s quite popular with the less charming. Once, however, in what I choose to believe was a case of a prank by a government official gone wrong, I, Dave Hill, was in fact sent several pictures of — to quote the late, great Jim Thompson — a dingle dangle you could skip rope with. As you can probably imagine, I was equally puzzled, embarrassed and jealous upon receiving them. And after staring at the photos for a good forty-five minutes, I replied to the sender with what I would suggest you also reply with next time someone sends you an unwanted dick pic: “Hi. My daddy got me my first iPhone for my thirteenth birthday today. He’s the best! Anyway, who’s this?”
I promise you will never hear from this person again. Ever.
Anyway, my song for you is “Return to Sender” by Elvis Presley, a guy I bet probably wouldn’t frame up his genitals, either. We’re both classy like that.
I had matched with what I thought was an average but trashy chick on Tinder. When she mentioned her nude modeling career, and frequent flights to both Miami and L.A., I inquired over dinner if her career was in making skin flicks. Sure enough, she’s a moderately well-known porn starlet. She’s away shooting for the next couple of weeks, and we text frequently. Do I continue having groovy times with her when she gets back or cut the cord before feelings may be involved?
Confused in Reno
Before I get into things, let me be absolutely clear: moderately well-known porn starlets need love, too. In fact, I’m counting on it. But it sounds to me like maybe you’ve got hang-ups about being in a serious relationship with a porn starlet, presumably regardless of her level of starletness. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. We all have our own limitations. For example, I won’t date a woman who’s willing to see a jam band in concert without a fight.
Anyway, if I were in your shoes, I would just tell your new friend exactly how you feel about things and that maybe you’re not that into the idea of having a serious relationship with a woman who has sex on camera for money, most likely with a guy who has an armband tattoo and a soul patch if my research tells me anything. And while, yes, there is a chance she will scratch your eyes out or simply walk away as soon as you tell her this, it might also open up a line of communication between the two of you that will lead to a better understanding of things for both of you and, who knows, maybe even some weird butt stuff (not saying whose butt).
Let me know what happens.
My song for you is “Burning for You” by Blue Oyster Cult. It just came into my head for some reason and it’s seriously the best on like nine different levels. I bet the starlet likes it too.
I really hate my ex right now, Dave. Like, a lot. The thought of her fills me with rage. How do I handle this? It would be great to let go, but it would also be great to call her and yell at her.
Thanks in advance,
She Thinks I Still Care
Dear She Thinks,
You know, at least a couple of times per week, someone in the Port Authority men’s room tells me I remind him of Gandhi, and it’s because of stuff like what I’m about to tell you. In this case, you just have to let go and get on with your life. And since that’s not easy, I would also suggest you get yourself a pair of running shoes, strap them on and run until you just can’t run anymore, like you’re training for a community theater production of Forrest Gump or something. Running is strenuous, boring and usually pretty sucky in general, but I promise you that once you’ve finished, your mind will be in a different place, one where you aren’t too concerned with calling up your ex (or anyone really) and yelling at them. I’m not a doctor, but I think it’s the endorphins or something. Or maybe the pulled groin if you failed to stretch properly.
If the above doesn’t work, I would suggest taking a laxative and knocking it back with a shot each of espresso and hot sauce. I promise you what happens next will leave you with no time to even think about calling your ex. Personally, I’d try to focus on the running thing unless you aren’t exactly opposed to the idea of good times all the time.
My song for you is “Running Free” by Iron Maiden, a song that applies to both scenarios I’ve suggested, the more I sit here thinking about it right now.
Glad I could help,