Chunk’s main weakness is that he’s confused. He’s half Asian and half German, so he doesn’t know if he’s a Nazi or if he just wants some dim sum. He’s skittish, he’s shy, and he’s my lover. If I could have sex with him, I wouldn’t, because I find it unsettling when I see his penis. This unfortunately happens every time he gets in a car or on a plane, because he loves to travel—even if it’s for just a couple of yards.
He has jumped out of the windows of my dog walker’s car into an intersection upon the car turning the corner to my office building, jumped off the second-floor balcony of my house upon seeing me below at the pool, has waited behind the gate of my driveway for days in a row when I’ve been on vacation, and sleeps next to the gate every night when I’m not at home. So the idea that Chunk disappears because he is running away from me is not something I’m willing to accept.
I know this because I’ve watched the surveillance videos in order to find footage to use on my show of my book agent, Michael Broussard, throwing himself and his dog over the gate. To be clear, Michael threw his dog over the gate to a taxi driver waiting for him on the other side. When I asked Michael what kind of taxi driver is trained in catching dogs, he deflected that question and instead regaled me with the difficulty he himself encountered climbing over my gate. “Chelsea, I had taken an Ambien, okay? One of the full, white, rectangular ones. You try taking a brick of Ambien and climbing over a fucking gate.”
Even that time, after the gate opened, Chunk did not leave the property. He stayed put, and I respect him for that. I do not respect him for pulling the bullshit he did in Telluride.
“I have never lost my dog, Brad. Chunk has transgressed, and I have always forgiven him. If you’re bringing up Telluride last Christmas, I would like to go on record and say that my family left for skiing that day and Chunk most likely followed the car because he thought I was in it. I had no idea he was gone until two hours later.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! I would know if my son was gone.”
“Not if you were watching porn.”
“Were you watching porn?”
“No. I was babysitting my nephew, Jake.”
“Really, Chelsea? Isn’t Jake sixteen?”
“Well, I don’t know, but he needs me more than ever. He’s got pubic hair now.”
That was a lie; Jake did have pubic hair, but I was not babysitting him. Once I realized Chunk wasn’t in the house, Jake and I walked through the neighborhood and yelled Chunk’s name repeatedly.
During that time, three separate dogs appeared out of the woods and nearby driveways to answer my call, although none of them belonged to me. I followed one of the dogs back to the house next door and was walking up the driveway when I heard from within the house, “Chelsea, Chelsea,” and then clapping, “Chelsea! Come on in.”
I thought it rather rude that this man was beckoning me over to his house instead of walking outside like a gentleman and saying hello, but because I am so stupid, I walked through the open front door, exhausted.
“Hello, everyone,” I announced. “I am Chelsea Handler, and I’m looking for my dog Chunk. I’m not here to hang out. I need to find my dog and I’m happy to take pictures or sign any memorabilia you have, but this is not a social call or a book signing.”
A man appeared in the front hallway of the house and looked at Jake and me standing next to his dog.
“Oh, thank you so much,” he said in an English accent.
“No problem,” I said. “I’m actually looking for my dog. You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s half chow and half German shepherd. His name is Chunk.”
“Oh, Chunk. What a cute name. I’m sure he hasn’t gone very far. Chelsea always runs around the neighborhood and plays with the other dogs.”
I looked at my nephew Jake who was biting the inside of his cheek and then down at the midsized terrier who was kneeling beside me, and realized I wasn’t the only Chelsea in Telluride.
“You’re a real piece of work,” Jake told me on our way out. “Memorabilia?”
Chunk ended up being at the local animal shelter, and I would like to thank them again for giving my dog shelter after he was found roaming on a freeway.
I have learned over time to blame Chunk’s disappearances on his respect for our relationship. He knows it is shameful to empty his bowels while hunched on his hind legs, scrambling around in a circle in order to avoid eye contact with me—a move I have come to refer to as the “helicopter.” I believe he snuck outside to relieve himself when the shuttle showed up to take the rest of the family skiing. I stayed home to write, and as per usual had done absolutely nothing but surf websites looking for dolphin rape videos until my nephew alerted me of Chunk’s absence.
On a completely separate note: my mother loved the snow and disappeared all the time.
Chunk in Telluride after he was returned to me.
CHAPTER 10
YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK
I hooked up with a man I literally passed on the street when I was in London for the Summer Olympics.
I had been in Montreal for a comedy festival with a bunch of friends when I casually mentioned the Summer Olympics were only a six-hour plane ride away. Dave Grohl was guest-hosting my show the next week, so there was no reason I had to go back to LA. Everyone at dinner stopped what they were doing, and Sue put her hand on my hand.
“Chelsea, that’s a long flight to a foreign city that is going to be filled with tourists because of the Olympics. Are you sure you’re thinking this through?”
“Sue, is there a reason you’re talking to me like I’m an eight-year-old?” I asked her.
“Yes, Chelsea. There is. Because you act like an eight-year-old. When you travel alone, disaster ensues. You can barely use your phone or a computer to gather information and if you get into a jam alone, which you will, there’s a chance you could die.”
I wasn’t even serious about going to the Olympics, but after that conversation, I left on the next flight to London.
I was staying with my homosexual friends Kevin and Brian, who had several other houseguests visiting for the Olympics, all over the age of seventy. It was more ridiculous than I could have ever imagined.
A picture I am proud to have captured of Brian and Kevin in Mykonos.
We all went to a pub for dinner on the first night I arrived and the main topics of conversation were hip replacements, osteoporosis, and Alzheimer’s. When we were all home and ready for bed at 9 p.m., I realized I was staying at the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel—and needed to get some air.
I was walking through their neighborhood (Bloomsbury) and locked eyes with a man—a big one. I passed him, stopped, and then turned around. He had stopped and turned around, too, so we stood there on the street staring at each other.
I took a few steps toward him, and my mouth got away from me before I could figure out anything better than “What’s up?”
“You.”
“Would you like to buy me a drink?” I asked.
“I would.”
He didn’t buy me a drink. We walked two blocks back to his place and he made me a drink. Then we had the most outrageously sexy sex I have ever had. I could never do this incident justice by trying to paint a picture, so I won’t, because (1) this isn’t Fifty Shades of Grey, and (2) I hated that book.
We had sex, danced, had more sex, and danced some more until the sun came up. Somehow, in between the time I met him and got to his place I had learned how to dance. My body was moving in ways it had never moved before, and I—Chelsea Joy Lately—had rhythm. It was the strangest night of my life, and the most intriguing part was that we barely spoke a word to each other.