“Bobbie, I have to be honest—my ex came back around and she wants to try and work things out. I’m going to give it a shot, so you know, we have to go back to being just friends.”
I had mad respect for him for being up-front. Finally, a man who wasn’t afraid to just tell the truth.
“Simon, I’m glad you called me, and I think it is admirable that you guys are going to try and work things out. Thanks for being honest with me. You don’t know how much that means.”
Not long after, I was at a commercial casting, when this cute brunette actress girl sat next to me.
“Hey, are you Bobbie Brown?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I said, looking up from my Us Weekly.
“I hear you know Simon . . . Simon Rex?”
“Yes, he’s sweet.”
“You guys hooking up?” I was a little taken aback at being asked about my personal life by a stranger. But I had nothing to hide.
“We were. It was nothing serious, though, you know. We’re just friends now.”
I came home later that night to a hysterical voice mail from Simon.
“I can’t believe you told my girlfriend about us!”
Huh? I was confused.
I called him, and he was freaking out.
“You’re a bitch, Bobbie Brown!”
I had admired Simon for his honesty, until learning he hadn’t extended the gesture to his girlfriend.
“Listen, I had no idea she was your girlfriend. It was entrapment, dude!”
But he continued to call me names. That’s it, I thought, hanging up. I’m fucking done with this shit!
That night, while I waited for the club kids to come pick me up, I cried while scribbling furiously in my journal:
Tonight we go out. To seem somehow like a shining star to those who could care less, and to some who should care more. On the exterior, shiny and new for all to view. But they don’t see the real me, for today I’m empty and walking in the shadow of someone I used to be. What false feeling will I dress up as tonight? Will my soul creep out or will I be able to just be alive, at least pull off breathing? Who even cares? I pretend they do. And regardless I’ll shine, be blind and strut around with my ears closed. I wear a mask, as you do too. To hide what none has time to comprehend. A mask to hide how little I care for anything but to find real friends and true lovers.
At Grand Ville, Sharise nudged me hard. “Look, it’s that asshole Simon Rex!” He was hanging out by the bar, laughing and joking, looking nothing like a guy who had just lost the love of his life, and who had yelled at me on the phone just hours earlier. I asked Sharise if she wouldn’t mind going up to Simon and giving him a piece of her mind, on my behalf. “My pleasure,” she said, marching in his direction. I smiled as I watched Sharise tear Simon a brand-new asshole. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but when she pointed over in my direction, my eyes met with his. I slowly raised up my middle finger, stuck the finger in my mouth and licked it slowly up and down before flipping him off. Sharise, I could see, was bent double, laughing.
Chapter Ten
IF YOU WANT MY BODY
The year or so following my breakup with Tommy Lee in early 1995 had been a haze of catastrophic dates, failed relationships, and inappropriate hookups, punctuated by short-lived attempts to get sober, during which I would usually show up in Baton Rouge, tail between my legs, seeking refuge from Hollywood and the people in it. Inevitably, I would return to L.A., full of good intentions and AA-sanctioned gratitude, aware that I was powerless over my own life, determined to stay away from the things that were bad for me. Problem was, I was bad for me. I made promises I could never keep. I found love, then purposely lost it. As I got deeper and deeper into the groove of my addiction, I repeated the depressing cycle of using and sobriety, using and sobriety, until I hit a wall. By the beginning of 1996 (not long after my affair with Simon Rex), I declared myself celibate. My heart and body had shut down for business.
It was the great sealing of the gates, the self-enforced abstinence of Miss Bobbie Brown. My body was a machine than ran on methamphetamine, not love, not hormones. The army of platonic male friends that I had always kept close at hand were confused and titillated by my chastity—they could look but not touch. I was the whore turned Madonna, the drug-addled virgin mother upon whose bosom they could rest their heads, but between whose legs they could never venture. I was completely unavailable.
As the numb and barren years drifted along, I retreated so deep within myself, and so deep into my addiction, that I almost forgot what it felt like to have feelings for another human being. My life was the same old cycle of highs and depression-filled lows, of trying to be a mother to Taylar, who was now old enough to sense that all was not well, and of running to my own mother back home in Baton Rouge for help.
Then one day in 1999, David Navarro, Mephistophelean guitarist and legendary junkie from Jane’s Addiction, came into my life. It had been four years since I had felt anything for any man, but I knew there was something special about him the second I laid eyes on him. He was at Jones restaurant in West Hollywood, sitting with friends. I was at a table nearby. We hadn’t been introduced before, so I tried to work out a way to get his attention. I never, ever went out of my way to flirt and catch men’s eyes—I always let them come to me. If I ever dated someone, it was because they had chased me down. The fact that I was even trying to get Dave Navarro’s attention was unusual for me, possibly a first.
I wandered innocently toward his table, acting like I was looking for someone, hoping he would see me and invite me over. I might as well have been invisible—Dave remained engrossed in conversation with his friends. I couldn’t believe it. Later that night, as I left the restaurant, I pulled my car up to the door of Jones. “Will you tell Dave Navarro that Bobbie Brown said to meet her at Grand Ville later?” I asked the doorman, who nodded. I spent the night searching for his face in the club. But Dave never showed up. Hm. I wasn’t used to being ignored.
A month later, I was home alone, tweaking and scrapbooking like a weirdo, when I got a call from a girlfriend of mine called Linda. She and a few of our friends—Zim Zum from Marilyn Manson’s band and a guy called Fairy—had run into Dave at Crazy Girls, our favorite strip bar. “We’re going back to his house right now, and he said we should invite you,” she said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said, dropping the superglue. “Yes! I’m so there!”
Half an hour later, I was on Dave’s doorstep, ringing the doorbell. A few moments later, the door opened. It was Dave, holding a rifle, butt naked except for a pair of sunglasses, a feather boa, and a depraved smile.
“You’re the one who tried to get my attention at Jones, right?”
“Right,” I spluttered, trying to act cool. I was so embarrassed, though.
“So, I’m downstairs with this groupie chick right now,” said Dave, matter-of-factly. “We’re taking Polaroids. She’s kind of a star fucker. You mind waiting until I’m done? I’ll put a video on for you in the meantime.”
He led me to a couch in the living room, where Zim Zum and Fairy and a couple of other people were hanging out. Then he squatted in front of the TV, put a video in the VCR, and pressed play before leaving the room. Before me was a series of images showing Dave Navarro jerking off in slow motion. I watched, mesmerized, until this strange man ejaculated on-screen. Right on cue, Dave came back in the room, with the star fucker in tow. I knew she was the star fucker because Dave had put a sticker on her shoulder that said STAR FUCKER. She also happened to be my friend Linda, the girl who had called me. Before I even had a chance to say hello, he walked Linda to the door and showed her out. She didn’t look too happy about it.
By this point he was wearing skintight lavender leggings, a leopard-print hat, and the boa. No underwear. “Bobbie, would you like to look at these photos?” He held out the Polaroids he had just shot of himself having sex with my friend Linda. “That’s okay,” I said, mildly horrified. Dave led me to the kitch
en as he brewed some green tea. “So, did you like the video?” he asked. “Oh, yeah,” I said without skipping a beat. “I feel like I really know you now.” He laughed. “Yeah, it was really cute that you tried to get my attention at Jones,” he said, casually picking up the toaster, tying the cord around his arm, and shooting up, like it was no big deal. “What are you doing?” I gasped. Needles made me cringe. He ignored me. “We’re going to get married one day, Bobbie,” he said, and my heart froze. “Well I haven’t had sex in like, four years, so good luck trying,” I said, laughing nervously and lighting up a cigarette. This was the trippiest scene I had ever been in. But his eyes softened. “Really?” he said.
All night, he followed me around his little party, pulling me aside to talk to me whenever he could. Like me, he had no filter when it came to his life stories. “Shortly after I joined Jane’s Addiction, I thought it would be really rock star and cool if I fucked myself with a dildo onstage,” he said. “So I’m playing my guitar groove with a dildo sticking out of my ass pointing at the crowd, and I figure I’m going to turn around everyone’s going to be all, ‘Check him out, he’s so awesome!’ But the rest of the band was looking at me like, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ And then I turn around to an entire audience of people with their mouths open, not amused. I guess I don’t do that anymore.”
“Oh my God, what a fucking dork!” I laughed. “Dude, I would have been horrified too, seeing a dildo hanging out your butt. There are certain things you don’t need to share with everybody, Dave.” He smiled. “You know, Bobbie, it’s too bad you were born with only a charming sense of humor. . . . I mean, it’s a shame God didn’t bless you with good looks too. Because girl, you sure got hit by the ugly stick.” Then he broke into giggles. I stared at him, mesmerized. We talked until the sky outside broke into one of those magnificent L.A. dawns, the kind I’ve seen way more often than I’d like to admit.
CRAZY TOWN
The music scene of the late ’90s and early to mid-2000s had evolved far beyond the hair metal hangover that was under way when I first arrived in L.A., in 1989. Grunge had come and gone, ending in 1994 with the death of Kurt Cobain, spawning a mass of indie rock imitators. New sounds had emerged; the pop-punk of Green Day and Blink-182; the ska-punk of No Doubt and Sublime, and so-called nü metal as typified by rap-rock bands like Korn and Limp Bizkit, who would sell 40 and 30 million albums, respectively. There was the industrial metal of Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, Ministry, and White Zombie, and the Southern-fried hip-hop of Outkast. The few latter-day hair metal acts that had survived the collapse of the Sunset Strip scene, Guns N’ Roses in particular, had grown into household names, and the lesser-known second-wave bands retained a small but passionate underground following.
Being that I was always at the clubs, it was inevitable that I would find myself in contact with the new crop of musicians on the scene. I hung out with the guys in Marilyn Manson’s band a bunch and became close with his bassist and guitarist Twiggy Ramirez. We did each other’s makeup and posed for heroin-chic photo shoots, photographing ourselves with his fake guns and his headless baby dolls. Twiggy was always gakked the fuck out on coke, and I was always on speed, but we never hooked up. Not only was I celibate, I just wasn’t into that spooky Edward Scissorhands look they were rocking.
Jonathan Davis was a quiet kid from Bakersfield, California, who found himself in one of the top-selling bands of the late ’90s, Korn. Jonathan liked to hold boys’ hands, which made me wonder if he might be bisexual, but he was far from it. When I met him he was married, soon to divorce, and about to meet the love of his life, an absurdly pretty porn star called Deven Davis, whom he met on the road in a strip joint. I first saw them out together at Dublin’s, a seedy little rock bar on Sunset. Deven, who actually is bisexual, went bananas for me, wanting to kiss me, flirting wildly, asking me to go home with them. Outside the club she got on her knees and bowed to me and begged for a kiss. “Okay,” I said, and we made out on the sidewalk. “That’s my wife,” said Jonathan, nodding his head, smiling.
Fred Durst from Limp Bizkit was my club buddy; I liked to call him a “back hatter” because he always wore his baseball cap backward. He gave me a hard time for smoking, because he hated cigarettes. “Frankly, I don’t care what you hate,” I would respond, lighting up anyway—and then he would ask me for a cigarette. When the DJ played one of his songs he would always want to go dance, which I thought was kind of cheesy. But Fred didn’t care; he was having his moment. One time, at a club, he put his tongue down my throat, catching me completely by surprise. Nope, I don’t think so, I thought, pulling away. But Fred, for all his tomfoolery, was really smart and full of business savvy. A talented guy who knew what he wanted.
“If we don’t find anyone else, in five years we’ll get married,” said Bret Mazur. Bret was the front man of Crazy Town, and their song “Butterfly” had been topping charts the world over. He and Seth Binzer, his bandmate, had come up with the idea for Crazy Town while writing letters to each other in rehab. Bret had solid rock ’n’ roll pedigree—his dad was Billy Joel’s manager, and Bret, influenced by West Coast rap, had made beats for Bell Biv DeVoe while still in high school. He was House of Pain’s DJ for a while, and I knew him through Danny Boy and Jay Gordon. Bret and I had a shared natural affinity for hip-hop and a love for partying. He liked the company of pretty girls, and I was looking for that devoted male BFF in my life. We were best friends, the perfect couple that never was. I could tell him anything and everything, and vice versa. Then one day he crossed the line and kissed me. I was so embarrassed I froze him out of my life entirely. But I had warned him. I was damaged goods.
MY RIDICULOUS ROOMMATE
It was the middle of 1999. My constant partying had taken its toll on my career and my bank account, and I was no longer able to afford my cute little town house. It was a cycle that would repeat itself over and over throughout the years. Because as much as speed makes you feel like you’re in control, what it’s actually doing is robbing your mind of the ability to make sane, rational decisions. You’ll brush your teeth for four hours but forget to open your mail. You’ll take on home-improvement projects but neglect to pay your rent. Now, thanks to speed, I was thirty years old and about to enter the transient, couch-surfy period of my life, relying upon the kindness of friends (and sometimes strangers) as I ping-ponged back and forth between well-intentioned sobriety and the inevitable relapse into Meth Land.
Tommy Lee had heard I was in trouble, and to my surprise, I found myself on the phone with him, discussing becoming his roommate. It was surreal, and I wasn’t sure if my heart could handle it, but beggars can’t be choosers. “I just need somewhere temporary until I can get on my feet,” I told him on the phone, and he said, “Absolutely, come crash for as long as you need.” I asked him if Taylar could come too, and he said sure. Thank fuck, I thought, packing up boxes at the town house, breathing a sigh of relief. He and Pamela had divorced a year prior, in 1998, and he had spent time in jail for spousal abuse. I wondered if that experience had made him change. Maybe this is his way of trying to make things up to me, I thought.
Tommy was living in a huge house in a canyon close to Malibu. When I arrived, his two kids, Brandon and Dylan, were swimming in the pool. “Oh my God, look at your boys, Tommy!” I gasped. Brandon was very well-mannered, polite and shy, whereas the younger boy, Dylan, was more rambunctious, taking his shoe and beating Brandon with it, acting like a little badass. “He sure reminds me of you,” I said, and Tommy laughed.
As surreal as the thought of being roomies with my ex-fiancé was, it was the best (only) option I had, and I was grateful for his generosity. I brought a few suitcases of clothes over and went back to my place to pick up a few boxes before putting the rest of my belongings in storage. When I got back to Tommy’s house, I saw that my suitcases had been moved from the hallway.
“I put your stuff away for you,” said Tommy.
“Wait, where?”
“In my
bedroom.”
Indeed, all my clothes and belongings were unpacked and hanging in his closet.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“My closet’s really big, don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Well, where am I supposed to sleep? Taylar’s coming soon—there’s a guest room for us, right?”
“You can sleep wherever you like, Bobbie, don’t sweat it. There’s plenty of room.”
I looked around the bedroom. It was impossible to miss the giant Chinese basket—a hammock-like sex swing—suspended from the ceiling by heavy steel chains. “Um, who’s the idiot getting in that thing?” I said. “Dude, you know that’s kind of cheesy, swinging around with your dick all over the place. What the fuck?” Tommy started cracking up, and it was just like old times again. I sat down on the edge of the bed. This was a lot for me to take in. I still felt intensely attracted to Tommy. But even though my crotch was saying yes, my head was saying no fucking way.
“Tommy, I’m really grateful you’re helping me out. I just don’t have a dime right now. Maybe I should have made a sex tape—you know, to boost my career.” It was an off-the-cuff comment, but Tommy’s eyes gleamed mischievously.
“Check this out,” he said, walking toward a table with a pile of documents on it. He grabbed something, smiled, and held it up in front of my face. It was a royalty check from the company that had put out the sex tape. The check was for a lot of money, six figures.
“Damn!” I said. “You asshole! So was that shit even for real?” Something about the tape had always felt contrived to me. Not once had Tommy wanted to film us having sex. Yet after their tape was leaked online in 1996, it seemed like rather than harm Pamela’s career, it had made the public even more obsessed with her. When Pamela and Tommy sued the distribution company that had put it out there, Internet Entertainment Group, they were awarded $750,000 for their share of the profits. Not bad for a little home video. Tommy didn’t comment but shrugged his shoulders and winked.
Dirty Rocker Boys Page 16
