Send Porn Stars, Funk and Money: The Limp Bizkit Story
A convoy of black limos snakes through Marin County roads under a glaring midday sun. The vehicles head for the heart of George Lucas’ sprawling, idyllic Skywalker Ranch, where MTV film crews lie in wait.
The first car disgorges DJ Lethal and his girlfriend, plus Fred Durst and his significant other — none other than Carmen Electra, former Prince protégé, MTV game-show hostess and putative wife of NBA oddity Dennis Rodman (as well as a one-time consort of Tommy Lee). Electra’s charms are accentuated by a clingy pink sweater.
Fred Durst’s romantic judgment is still, apparently, less than razor sharp. It’s not that the terrierlike singer is an improbable match for a love goddess. It’s just that Durst’s most recent ex-girlfriend is one of MTV’s event coordinators. She is right now wearing a livid expression (and, as it happens, a clingy pink sweater). Bizkit label boss Schur rushes over and mollifies her as Durst slips into the crowd.
A small, pale dude with a backward baseball cap hails Durst with a “What’s up, bro?”
“Same shit, dude — just slangin’ and gang-bangin’,” Durst responds. His funky friend is Justin Jeffre of 98 Degrees. Limp Bizkit are sworn enemies of all boy bands, but it’s hard to carry that kind of righteousness into the real world. Especially when your management company has just added Backstreet Boys to its roster.
The assembled junior celebrities mill around on the lawn of Skywalker’s fitness facility, clutching their Phantom Menace goodie bags and dutifully supplying MTV with sound bites. Durst mingles with Katie Holmes, all three Hansons, Alyssa Milano and the guy from Third Eye Blind; representing the dark side of the showbiz force are Ozzy Osbourne, Rob Zombie and Andy Dick.
The Hollywood contingent is tricked out in the most au courant glad rags that Melrose Avenue can offer. Once again, Limp Bizkit don’t quite fit in. Their fashion sense remains defiantly downbeat and — except for DJ Lethal, a Puma man — they all sport the Adidas shell toes that the Beastie Boys ditched five years back. “We’re the ugly ducklings of the bunch,” quips Sam Rivers.
Crestfallen Star Wars buff Wes Borland gets back from his perfunctory tour of Skywalker Ranch’s main house. It’s time to go home — but hold on. Fred Durst has, without prior warning, spirited Carmen Electra back to San Francisco in one of the band’s cars. There is only one spare seat in the other limo (complete with champagne on ice), meaning that one individual will have to suffer forty minutes of mild discomfort on the way back to the city.
John Otto is not going to take it. “I ain’t squeezing in!” sputters the drummer with all the principle-of-the-thing fury he can muster. “This sucks — I’m gonna ream some asses! I’m sick of this shit!” Any talk of Limp Bizkit maturing is apparently a little premature.
Wes Borland is next to blow up, damning the whole event as “kissass bullshit.” Schur takes this rant personally — Borland has been riding him all day about his excessive cell-phone jockeying. So Schur takes the guitarist to one side and chews him out. Then Schur volunteers to make his own transportation arrangements.
An hour after Limp Bizkit exit the Skywalker Ranch, there is still no sign of Schur’s taxi. He asks Tori Spelling for a ride in her half-empty stretch — and the Beverly Hills 90210 starlet declines. It’s a tragicomic scene that would be perfect for Limp Bizkit’s allegedly “wild” and “honest” home video, to be released this fall. The document is titled Poop.