Dirty Rocker Boys

by Brown, Bobbie; Ryder, Caroline

  “Yeah, he’s having lunch with his attorney.”

  “Well, is his attorney a woman? Because they’re making out in the parking lot.”

  Tony’s is a joint on Ventura Boulevard. I hadn’t been there in a while, but the manager and I had known each other since my early days in L.A. “Who is she?” I said quietly. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Some asshole named Shannon, apparently.”

  Shannon, Shannon . . . oh, Shannon. She was dating Robbie Crane, who used to be in Ratt and was now in Vince Neil’s new solo band. Jani and Shannon had seemed to get along okay—they shot pool together one night, I remembered. She was a model, a brunette with light eyes and a slim figure. I hadn’t felt threatened by her at all, so confident was I of Jani’s devotion, but I had noticed that she seemed to compliment Jani a lot. And Jani had always been a sucker for a quick ego-boost.

  A few hours later, Jani strolled in the door and laid his keys down. I had put Taylar to bed early. “I’m home! Man, it’s hot out there. I need a shower.” Jani went into our bedroom and started getting undressed. I followed him and sat on the edge of the bed. “So how was your meeting?”

  “It was great. We came up with some good ideas.”

  “So I have a friend that runs this restaurant and he said that you were there with Shannon. Is that true, Jani?” Jani carried on unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t be crazy, Bobbie.” His voice was higher than usual. “Well, Tony told me what y’all ordered, so I’m going to call the credit card company and just make sure that there are no charges for an order of the baby back ribs and spaghetti marinara. And some cheap red wine.”

  Jani spun around to face me. His breath smelled kind of ribby, come to think of it. “You’ve got no right, Bobbie,” he snarled. “What about you and Vince, huh? I know all about it, so don’t try denying.”

  “Oh, is that what Shannon told you? Well, let’s find out!”

  On my vanity table was our cordless phone. I grabbed it and dialed Sharise’s number, my fingers trembling, and put the phone on loudspeaker.

  “Hey, Sharise, so I’m here with Jani, and he wants to know if I have been having sex with your husband.”

  “What the fuck?” said Sharise.

  “Yeah, put Vince on the phone, please.” My voice was shaky.

  “Sure, babe,” said Sharise.

  Jani’s eyes were pleading with me to stop, but I was on a roll.

  “Hey, Bobbie, it’s Vince. What’s up, honey?”

  I told Vince to put the phone on loudspeaker so Sharise could hear.

  “So I’m with Jani and he’s wondering if you and I have been having sexual relations. I would like you to confirm that no, in fact, I have never once seen or touched your dick. Correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” said Vince, sounding confused.

  “Okay, thanks, Vince. Now, one more question—how well do you know Shannon? Because she was making out with my husband tonight.”

  “Wait . . . Shannon, Robbie’s girlfriend? I dunno, maybe you should ask Robbie, he’s right here.”

  Jani’s face turned from purple to deathly white.

  “Oh, great, could you put Robbie on the line too?”

  “What’s going on?” I heard Robbie say in the background.

  Sharise suggested we conference in Shannon, so that Robbie could ask her what was up.

  “Great idea, Sharise,” I said. Jani tried to grab the phone from me, but I pushed him away, furious.

  “Okay, hold on,” said Sharise. “What’s Shannon’s number, Robbie?”

  Shannon’s line rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Shannon, it’s Robbie.”

  “Hey, baby! I just got home from the gym. What’s cookin’?”

  “Please tell me you are not sleeping with Jani Lane.” Jani was having a small heart failure in the background. There was a pause at the other end.

  “Wait, Jani? What, you think I’m desperate or something?”

  “Well, I have it on good authority that you were just with him, Shannon, so stop lying.”

  “Robbie, just relax. I bet his wife is behind this. That bitch is crazy.”

  “Yup, you bet I am,” I chimed in.

  “Who is this?” said Shannon, confused.

  “This is Bobbie Brown. I believe you had your tongue down my husband’s throat earlier? Have a nice day.”

  I hung up the phone. Jani had already stormed out the front door. I didn’t see him for three days, which was no surprise. Even though he never abused alcohol at home, Jani’s drinking was becoming heavier as our marriage declined. He was drinking backstage, suffering blackouts and fits of anger. Jani’s erratic behavior was about more than just us; he was a damaged man in the throes of an identity crisis. It was no longer “cool” to like hair rock. When Jani walked into the offices of his record label, Columbia, and noticed that a framed poster of Warrant had been replaced by one of grunge stars Alice in Chains, he saw the writing on the wall, literally. He was in no shape to save himself or his career, let alone our marriage.

  Something I’ve noticed in all my male friends who have been musicians—it really affects them when their careers start to flag, even just a little. One minute everyone is kissing their ass, and when they start to slip, they don’t know who to trust. That musical talent they have (often the only talent they have) is no longer in demand, and all the admiration disappears, especially from girls. The declining rock star starts feeling insecure and desperate, and very often, the result is that he turns into an über-whore, sleeping with everything that moves, just so he can feel like a rock star again, even just for the night. To this day, if a girlfriend tells me she is dating a musician and he is messing around, I try to explain it to them. Anybody who seeks that much adoration at all times, who needs that much attention, is going to have trouble with fidelity. Date a rock star, and you are almost 100 percent going to get hurt, because there are very few guys in that scene who are going to reject hot pussy, ever. Unless you can deal with that, or get your own thing going on the side, I say run for the hills.

  MIAMI SNOWSTORM

  The shock of discovering without a shadow of a doubt that my husband was cheating could have sent me in one of two directions. I could have stayed home and faced the music. Or I could have gone to Miami and done a mountain of cocaine. I chose the latter.

  I got off the plane in Miami and headed straight for the house that had been rented by my modeling agency. I had been booked for several catalog and swimwear shoots, and Flame had hooked me up with a dope suite on the beach, as well as a shared house where all the models could hang out. I had told Jani that I still loved him but that I needed some space. I took Taylar to my mom’s en route to Miami, where my girlfriend Jennifer Driver, also a model, was waiting. Jennifer was a five-foot-eleven blond knockout with legs forever who had just been on the cover of Playboy, in their “Women of South Beach” issue, and would later date Axl Rose. She and I hung out at the house for nearly two weeks, while I pretended not to think about my problems back in L.A.

  My friend Jimmy Franzo, the guy who had forced my ex Kenny to get on a plane out of L.A. a few years ago, had reinvented himself as a Miami clubland honcho, and he co-owned the most happening spot in town, Velvet. It was a true South Beach bacchanal, a nocturnal carnival with drag queens and hot lesbians and go-go dancers, and a candlelit VIP area with blue walls, chandeliers, and velvet couches. That’s where Jennifer and I found ourselves most nights, sipping champagne and putting the world to rights.

  “So Tommy Lee is going to fly out and visit me tomorrow,” said Jennifer, looking a little excited, but not very.

  “Cool,” I said, feeling like I needed another bump. Miami coke is way better than L.A.’s, I thought. “Wait, Tommy Lee from Mötley?”

  “Yeah!”

  “That’s exciting, girl,” I said, thinking back to being a teenager. “Tommy is so damn cute!”

  Jennifer had been dating Tommy for a couple of weeks. He had seen her
Playboy cover and contacted her agency to set up a date. Jennifer thought Tommy was okay, but she really liked the other guy she was seeing in Miami, a billionaire with a stake in the Anheuser-Busch Company. “I think he, like, owns Budweiser?” said Jennifer, innocently shrugging her shoulders. She really was drop-dead gorgeous, and I didn’t blame her for playing the field. In fact, I felt old next to her. I was a mom, I was married, I had no dashing billionaires or Tommy Lees flying out to see me. Just one cheating husband, a head of freshly dyed black hair, and an eight ball of Miami’s finest.

  A couple of days later, Tommy arrived. Jennifer was busy working, or seeing the Budweiser guy, so she asked me to keep Tommy entertained.

  “Your hair looks nice,” said Tommy, peering over his sunglasses. We were eating lunch al fresco at some cute little Art Deco joint close to the beach.

  Tommy and I had met a few times, out on the scene, but only very briefly. Tommy was always charming, but I’d never hung out with him one-on-one before. The fifteen-year-old inside me couldn’t believe she was sitting across the table from the hottest rock star on the planet. But I wasn’t about to let Tommy know that I had had a crush on him since high school. No way.

  “So how’s Jani?” he asked.

  “Things are tough, but we’re working on it,” I said, forcing down some salad. I had just done a line in the bathroom and food was the last thing on my mind. “How’s Mötley?”

  “Oh, you know, we got rid of Vince. John Corabi’s on vocals now. We’re on hiatus before our tour, so I thought I’d come visit Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer’s amazing, huh?”

  “Yeah, she’s cool. She’s cool.”

  When Jennifer got home the three of us went out and partied at Velvet. I got ahold of more coke. I hadn’t slept in a few days, so I figured I’d just finish the rest of this bag and then relax before my mom brought Taylar out to visit, later that week. But every time I started to come down from the blow, all I felt was panic. I obsessed over Jani’s betrayal of me and our little family. I imagined him with Shannon, kissing her. I replayed the conversation on the phone. At least in the dim light of Velvet, unknown faces and bodies all around me, I could dance and forget my reality. My blurry Miami nights bled into one another until I had dissociated from reality almost completely, and by the time my mom and Taylar arrived to visit me, I was so agitated and confused I could barely string a sentence together.

  “Bobbie, come out of the bathroom, or I’ll call the police!” I had been in the shower for nearly two hours, sobbing hysterically, while my mom banged on the door. A few hours earlier, Taylar had banged her head on the side of a coffee table, and it had sent me into a tailspin. It was not a serious bang, but I should have been watching her more closely. “It’s my fault!” I screamed. “I’m a drug addict, I’m on coke, I’m too high to be a mom!”

  “Can I bring you a towel?”

  “No! I’m ashamed! It’s all my fault.” I was shaking.

  When I eventually emerged from the shower, my mom put me to bed and sat with me, Taylar on her knee, stroking my dark hair. “Don’t carry on like that, Bobbie, you’re going to get through this. We’re all going to help you. Your hair looks terrible, by the way.” I nodded, feeling calm for the first time since touching down in Miami.

  My mom called Jani and told him that I was in a bad way, that she was going to bring me and Taylar home to Baton Rouge, and that I was going to go to rehab.

  “No,” said Jani.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “That boy doesn’t have a grain of sense,” said my mom, hanging up the phone.

  My mom was baffled as to why Jani would be against my going to rehab. I think deep down, Jani knew that the second I got sober, he would lose me forever.

  DOING THE BATON ROUGE TWELVE-STEP

  My mom flew me and Taylar home to Baton Rouge, and Mr. Earl called SAG, the Screen Actors Guild, which agreed to pay for me to go to a local outpatient rehab for six weeks.

  “Bobbie, you’re gonna stay here and rest,” said Mr. Earl. Then he called to my mom, “I’m going to the store, honey. Bobbie is all skin and bones.”

  Being a fast-talking cocaine addict from Los Angeles, it was hard for me to adjust to Southern life again. The addicts in my twelve-step group, especially, spoke so damn slow it took half an hour for them just to say their names.

  “Hi, mah naaaame is Patty Mae, and ahm an allllllcohaaaaaalic.”

  I had never been to an AA meeting before, but it seemed like everyone in rural Louisiana had taken up smoking crack since I had left.

  “So how was everybody’s weeeeekend?” asked the therapist.

  “I went for a drive,” said a wiry balding crackhead called Elijah, sweat dripping down his temples. “And then I lost mah keys. So I looked for mah keys. And I said, ‘Well, darn. I can’t find mah keys.’ ”

  “Dude, who gives a fuck!” I blurted. “Did you use or not?”

  “All right now, shugah, hush yo’ mouth,” said the doctor, and the group tutted and shook their heads. “Bobbie’s ill as a hornet this mornin’,” said the doctor, giving me a sympathetic smile.

  I couldn’t believe I was in the company of actual crackheads. What with my being a glamorous model/actress coke addict.

  “Honey, you realize you talk about your husband nonstop?” said Elijah. “I think y’all are havin’ a toxic relationship over there.”

  “Yes, everthang’s awl messed up with y’all,” said Twyla Fay, junkie and mother of three. “What about you, Bobbie? What do you want? You’re a fahn-lookin’ woman.”

  “Yup, mighty fetchin’,” added Elijah.

  The crackheads had a point. I didn’t really know what I wanted. Not since leaving Louisiana to become a model had I thought about what I really wanted out of life, in the long term.

  “Well, I want to be a good momma,” I said, slowly. “I want to be happy. And I don’t want liars in my life.”

  The more time I spent in group therapy, the more I realized it would be impossible for me to achieve those things within my marriage to Jani. Especially now, with all the rumors I was hearing, how in my absence Jani was drinking heavily and up to no good. How he was seeing this girl or that girl; how he was bringing them back to our home. I called Jani, pissed. “I am not going to be in this marriage if you are fucking other bitches, you understand?”

  Jani denied everything and flew out to see me in Baton Rouge in a desperate bid to save our marriage. My mom and Mr. Earl made themselves scarce while Jani and I talked it out in my bedroom. “Your stories keep changing, Jani,” I yelled. “Can you just be completely honest with me for once?” I just wanted the truth. Finally, Jani told me what I already knew. There wasn’t just one woman—there had been many. Jani was a serial cheater.

  “Anytime I was with anybody else, I was always loving you, Bobbie,” he pleaded. “I was just selfish and insecure, and they were giving me attention. I’m so sorry. Please, let’s work this out.” Jani’s heart was breaking in front of me. But a sickness took over my whole body, and I started shaking. “Fuck that shit,” I said. “If you love someone, you don’t fuck other people and lie about it!” It didn’t make any sense to me back then. “Get your shit, pack your bag, and get the fuck out of here.” Then I ran into the bathroom and threw up.

  I remember how confident I was when Jani and I first fell in love. How I never ever thought he would cheat on me. Even when Joan Rivers asked me, on her show, “Aren’t you concerned about marrying a rock star? Once a playboy, always a playboy.”

  What a bitch, I thought.

  “No way would Jani cheat on me. Not in a million years,” I told her, indignant.

  Back in group therapy, my fellow addicts tried to help me understand that Jani’s cheating was not about me. It was about his insecurity. But it’s really hard not to take cheating personally, especially when you are married. I was getting calls from Jani’s mom. “Bobbie, Jani had a breakdown, he’s in the
hospital, saying you want to divorce him and he can’t handle it. Please, can you give him another chance? He loves you.” But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough to take him back. He was supposed to be the guy I could rely on. The one who loved me the most. The Cherry Pie boy and the Cherry Pie girl were supposed to be together forever. He had fucked it up, as far as I was concerned. “So I’m supposed to forgive and forget now just because he’s in the hospital? I already gave him a second chance. I’m still young; I can still find a partner who I can at least trust.”

  Three months after I came back from rehab, we officially separated. Jani fell into yet another tailspin, clinging to the people and the habits that were bad for him. I wish I could have stayed with Jani, but I couldn’t get past the lies. Sober, and with my eyes wide open, I filed for divorce.

  PRINCE CHARMING ON A HARLEY

  “Hey, it’s Tommy Lee, your Miami buddy. You and Jani should come over to my place sometime. Miss you!”

  Tommy Lee had been calling the house. I hadn’t had the time or mental capacity to get back to him—I was in the middle of restructuring my entire life and preparing to become a single mother, now that my marriage was ending. My mother flew to California and took Taylar back with her to Baton Rouge for a little while so that I could regroup. Being alone felt surreal. I was sober. I was single. I had a strange, raw clarity. My life was at ground zero and I was starting over, divorced in Hollywood at the age of twenty-four. The next time I fell in love, I told myself, it would be with someone completely different. Someone stronger, less insecure.

  Once word got out that Jani and I were splitting, the hair metal hounds came sniffing. “So Bret Michaels hit on me—while he was on a date,” I told Sharise on the phone. I couldn’t believe how the men in this scene behaved, not just toward women, but toward each other. They seemed to have so little loyalty toward one another.

  “Ew, really?” said Sharise.

  “Yeah, he sent his bodyguard to tell me to meet him in the kitchen of the restaurant, so I did, and then he asked me out. And I was like, ‘But what about your date out there?’ ”