One chick who used to come over was an obnoxiously overweight redhead who couldn't even fit through the window. But she had a Jaguar XJS, which was Tommy's favorite car. He wanted to drive that car more than anything. Finally, she told him that if he fucked her, she'd let him drive the Jaguar. That night, Nikki and I walked into the house to find Tommy with his spindly legs flat on the floor and this big, naked quivering mass bouncing mercilessly up and down on top of him. We just stepped over him, grabbed a rum and Coke and sat on our couch to watch the spectacle: They looked like a red Volkswagen with four whitewall tires sticking out the bottom and getting flatter by the second. The second Tommy finished, he buttoned up his pants and looked at us.
"I gotta go, man." He beamed, proud. "I'm gonna drive her car."
We lived in that pigsty as long as a child stays in the womb before scattering to move in with girls we had met. The whole time we lived there, all we wanted was a record deal. But all we ended up with was booze, drugs, chicks, squalor and court orders. That place gave birth to Mötley Crüe, and like a pack of mad dogs, we abandoned the bitch, leaving with enough reckless, aggravated testosterone to spawn a million bastard embryo metal bands.
THE BALLAD OF PAM AND TOMMY
In the Nineties, as Mötley Crüe's musical star waned, the personal lives of the band members exploded with the celebrity and tragedy that tabloid dreams are made of. The band fired its management and temporarily split with its singer, Vince Neil, who went on an orgy of dating – from porn stars like Savannah to TV stars like Shannen Doherty – until he discovered that his daughter was sick with a tumor in her kidney. He watched his four year old, Skylar, slowly die of cancer, which triggered a self-destructive, suicidal binge. In the meantime, Tommy Lee divorced Heather Locklear after seven years and married Pamela Anderson, creating, unexpectedly, the most discussed and scrutinized marriage in America. Here, Tommy Lee discusses the highs and lows of life with Anderson from his perspective.
My fate was sealed with my first crush on this red little girl who lived down the street from me in Covina. I'd follow her around on my bicycle and spy in her window at night like a pint-size stalker. All I wanted to do was kiss her. I had seen my mom and dad kiss, and it looked pretty cool I figured I was ready to try it for myself.
I've learned in life that if you chase something for long enough, pretty soon it will start chasing you. After a while, my neighbor started following me around everywhere, and we became crazy about each other. One time, we somehow ended up hanging out behind a bunch of bushes in this cool, grassy, shaded area that nobody could see. The little bushes had small, bright-red berries growing from them. They were the color of her lips. Without even thinking, I picked a berry off one of the bushes and held it between our mouths. Then we wrapped our lips around the berry and kissed for the first time. It felt so romantic and magical: I thought that if we kissed with this little red berry between us, we'd somehow become something else. Maybe she'd turn into a princess and I'd become a knight and take her out of Covina on my white horse. And we'd live happily ever after. Unless somebody destroyed the magic berry. If that happened, we'd return to Covina and be just two dumb little kids again. That's how it's always been in my life: There's always been a storm cloud lurking in the distance, waiting to fuck up everything good and perfect.
I inherited that storm cloud from my mother. Her life was like that: Everything good was surrounded by tragedy. Her name was Vassilikki Papadimitriou, and she was Miss Greece in the Fifties. My dad, David Lee Thomas, was an Army sergeant, and he proposed to my mom the first time he ever fucking saw her. They were married within five days of meeting, just like Pamela and I would be almost forty years later. He didn't speak a word of Greek, she didn't speak a word of English. They drew pictures when they wanted to communicate, or she'd write something in Greek and my dad would struggle to make sense of the characters using a Greek-English dictionary.
Just after I was born, my parents left Athens and moved to a Los Angeles suburb called Covina. It was hard for my mother. She used to be a totally red model, and now here she was in America, making a living cleaning other people's houses like a fucking servant. She was living in a new country, and she had no family, no friends, no money, and she hardly spoke a word of English. She missed home so much, she named my younger sister Athena.
My dad worked for the L.A. County Road Department, fixing highway-repair trucks and tractors. My mom always hoped he'd make enough money so she could quit her job and hire a housekeeper, but he never did. My mom would talk to me in Greek, and I wouldn't be able to comprehend a word she was saying. I had no idea why I could understand everybody else around me but I couldn't make out a word my mother was saying. Experiences like that led to the constant fear and insecurity I feel as an adult.
I met Pam on New Year's Eve, 1994. I went out with some of my best bros to a club called Sanctuary. We all sat in a booth popping E, drinking champagne and being fucking maniacs. In an hour it would be 1995, and we'd probably be too fucked up to even know what day it was. Suddenly, a waitress came over and said, "Tommy, here's a shot of Goldschlager. It's for you, from Pamela Anderson."
"She's one of the owners of the club."
"Is she here!?"
"She's right there." The waitress pointed to a table in the corner where Pamela was sitting surrounded by friends. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed her before. She was wearing all white, her hair was the most perfect shade of blond I had ever seen, her teeth practically glowed through her lips when she laughed, and she stood out so radiantly from everyone around her that it seemed like a beam of black light was shining on her from above. I lifted the shot, did something corny like winked or smiled, and slammed it. Then I grabbed the whole bottle of Kristal and guzzled it like a happy pig. I put it down, walked over to her table and blew up the area.
"Hey, Pamela, I'm Tommy," I said suavely. "But I guess you know that since you sent me a shot," I continued, not so suavely. "Thanks."
I needed to recover from such a stupid line. So I pushed my way into the booth, slid over her girlfriends' laps and forced myself a space right next to her. Then I grabbed her face and just licked the side of it, from chin to temple. Maybe if I had done that when I was sober, I would have seemed like some kind of invasive asshole. But I was on Ecstasy, so it was all good, and anything I did was innocent and full of love and a yearning to bond with all of humanity. She fucking laughed and, without missing a beat, turned away and licked the face of the girl next to her. Everyone started passing licks around the table.
On Ecstasy, Joan Rivers looks like Pamela Anderson, so imagine what Pamela Anderson looked like. She was so beautiful, I couldn't even bring myself to think of defiling her with thoughts of lust. I just stared at her all night, and she just stared back. We probably talked about something for those hours, but I can't remember what. I didn't even realize midnight had passed until ten minutes later.
At one thirty, Pamela said she had to leave. Her friends were tired and wanted to go home. In all my years of experience, I have yet to devise a way of separating a woman I want from her fucking friends who are bored because they aren't getting any attention. I walked Pamela to her girlfriend Melanie's car, asked for her digits for the tenth time that night (and finally got them) and laid a huge, fucking sloppy kiss on her. I was cocky on Ecstasy and Kristal. I later found out that when Pamela closed the car door, the first thing Melanie did was look at her and say, "Don't even think about it."
"What do you mean?" Pamela tried to ask innocently.
"Listen to me: That guy is a fucking maniac."
Pamela smiled guiltily. Melanie looked over at her and said, one more time to make sure it sank in, "No!"
The problem with meeting someone you like in Los Angeles is that everybody is always too busy to get together. Their first priority is their career: making a friend or going on a fucking date is like sixth on the list. So when I called Pamela and she couldn't seem to settle on a day to hang out, I figured this would be another one of those fucking L.A. hookups that never gets off the ground. Instead, they just sort of dwindle away as, with each phone call and promise to try to get together next week, each person grows more distant and the spark fizzles out.
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