After upchucking my guts, I returned to the shitter, where—like a lovelorn woman awaiting the return of her long-lost seaman—she anticipated my return. How romantic. Even though she knew I’d just barfed up my intestines, she was right back into playing tonsil hockey. If that wasn’t distasteful enough, she sat on the nasty toilet seat and started going down on me.
Due to the bad booze, the stifling heat, and the shitful ambience, it required some serious grabbing and massaging to stimulate some blood flow. I finally managed to get my limp noodle inside of her. Technically, it hardly qualified as intercourse. At that point, it could best be described as “rammin’ the ramen.” My perception of a good time had become seriously skewed.
During that first Mayhem Festival, things got more and more bizarre. I had no clearly defined boundaries. That was never more on display than the night I was in a venue bar, talking with Adam from Machine Head. Midsentence, my attention turned to this chick that came strolling past us, giving me that let’s-get-it-on look. When she meandered into the women’s restroom, I cut short my conversation with Adam and followed right in after her. Another chick, who’d apparently had her eye on me, saw me disappear into the john. The first chick and I were in the stall—starting to go at it—when I heard a sultry voice say, “You wanna be with that ugly bitch?”
Before I could even react, a head appeared over the top of the stall. Here was this super-tall goth girl with rad lip piercings. For some reason, I got instantly turned on—so much so that I walked out of the stall, leaving the first girl behind. The abandoned chick was still talking shit when the goth girl and I left to return to the bar. When I asked what it was like trying to kiss with lip piercings, she started macking on me. We were going at it right there in the bar when I realized we were attracting a crowd of onlookers.
I said, “Come with me.” I dragged her back to my bus, straight to my bunk.
She was wearing a skirt, so it was easy access. Without even asking her name, I went down on her. This was after a whole day in the sweltering sun, but I didn’t care. I have a pussy-eating fetish, and—hammered as always—I ate her out until she got off; then she started pleasuring me. In addition to her lip ring, she also had a tongue ring. Bonus!
Following my usual modus operandi, I had unprotected sex and got off relatively fast. I gave her an old sock to clean up with—one I’m sure I’d jerked off into numerous times. (We call those “bunk socks” or “dream catchers.” When it comes to cool, rockers have no peers except maybe swine.)
She tidied up and we went outside to smoke and continue drinking. I enjoyed her so much I dragged her back to the bus for round two . . . though I was completely obliterated. What a guy.
Later in the tour, I ran into a chick who used to be married to one of the greatest rock guitar gods of all time. I’d gotten a message on MySpace from her, just before the tour reached her town. It was a brief message . . . and somewhat unusual, even for me. (Skip this if you have a weak stomach. You, too, Mom—this is seriously disturbing!)
The message read: “I wanna have piss play with you.” At that point, had she said, “I wanna shit down your neck and cover you in pig’s blood,” I’d still have signed on. It speaks to the depths to which I had fallen. However, in my overly stimulated brain and deadened soul, it seemed pretty rad. Like a pathetic puppy panting with its tongue out, I answered back, “Cool . . . can’t wait.” I gave her my number.
We started talking back and forth and made plans to get together when the tour arrived in Phoenix. Darrell and I decided to go to the house where she and another chick, who was into Darrell, lived together. They arranged for some shady dude to pick us up and take us back to their house. No sooner had we entered than a weird vibe washed over both of us. Darrell was immediately uncomfortable and decided to leave; ignoring my intuitive voice that warned, “RUN, you dumb shit, RUN,” I stayed.
I hadn’t been there two minutes before the chick began showing some of the dominatrix videos she’d made. In one, she was wailing on some guy who was bawling like a baby. I sincerely hoped she didn’t think I was going to be a submissive slave like that pathetic pussy. To bolster my courage and take the edge off, I started seriously pounding booze.
She asked if I wanted to go to her room.
I said, “Cool, but first I need to use the john.”
Little did I know these very words possessed magical power, like “Open sesame!” or “My parents are gone for the weekend.”
Though urinating was normally a solo gig, it suddenly became a duet. She latched on and guided me into her bathroom. I had been boozing all evening and my bladder felt like a bloated blimp. I pulled out my johnson and began taking a long, record-setting Austin Powers–style whiz that sounded like a racehorse pissing on a flat rock. We’re talking urination that was lining up to be one of those two-to-three-minute specials.
As if she were grabbing the brass ring at the fair, she knelt down by the toilet, glommed onto my dick—and directed the spewing piss snake into her gaping mouth.
Holy fuck! She was gulping my golden shower like it was vintage champagne, letting some of it dribble out of her mouth all down her front. She must have swallowed a two-liter of UnMello Yello before my spigot finally ran dry. Why did I find this so gross, yet such a radical turn-on?
The minute she’d lapped up the last drop, she started giving me head. I pulled her back into her bedroom, where she continued to gobble my knob. In spite of the labial glissandos and arpeggios, it was taking a while because I was buzzed and more than a little weirded out. “Are you ever gonna come?” she finally asked with a look of disdain.
Insecure—I’m not one to eagerly embrace criticism—I looked at her as if she were the cause of my flaccid cock. “Yeah, if you don’t stop,” I answered accusatorily.
My selfishness knew no bounds, and her boundaries were nonexistent . . . a lethal combination. Though I could tell she was a little offended, she went at it even more determined. I finally got off and she swallowed it with an audible slurp. Nothing like a urine cocktail with a semen chaser.
Next up: more booze. She quickly got wasted. Then, without warning, she began crying and acting psycho. I mean, she was wailing like an abandoned banshee. By the time I’d calmed her down, I once again required use of the pissoir. I was perfectly content to go it alone—in fact, I hoped to—but, right on cue, she followed me into the bathroom and began quaffing my wastewater once more.
I couldn’t believe it. Like a camel preparing for a long, waterless trip across the arid desert, she consumed it all . . . every last disgusting drop. Fortunately, I’d skipped the asparagus earlier in the day, though this bizarro chick would probably have found the sulfurous odor to be another kinky turn-on.
We ended up back in her bed, and she started sucking me off like she was hoping to extract the elixir of life. There was no way I was going to get off with only mouth music, so I suggested, “What say we fuck?”
It seemed to be a normal request, but nothing about this was normal. When she didn’t answer, I knew something was up. I finally asked her to stop fellating me, and her response was to begin sobbing again—uncontrollably—except this time it really flipped me out. It took a while to talk her down, but by then I’d had enough of this freak show. I insisted I needed to get back to the bus so I wouldn’t miss bus call (even though we were already in the city where we were playing).
Leaving her behind on the bed, I walked out to the living room, where I encountered a disturbing S&M scene in progress, this one involving her roommate and another chick. The chauffeur dude had assumed the role of director and photographer. I couldn’t discern whether the chick was crying because the roommate had her in a dog collar, or because that was the role she’d assumed. Did I still possess enough humanity to come to her rescue, or at least ask if she needed help? Not I . . . the conquering coward. Instead, as I tiptoed past them, I whispered, “Sorry to interrupt, but would anyone have the number for a cab?”
Nice timing, right? Th
e chauffeur gave me the name of the cab company and I bolted out the front door. I called the cab and waited curbside—pacing, but no longer pissing.
Back at the bus, I tried to process that bizarre scene. My reflection posed more questions than answers. The most prominent being: What the fuck was that? Any doubt that drinking leads to poor decision making was pretty much validated then and there.
I tried to examine the weird shit I was getting myself into from partying, but that kind of introspection really isn’t available when you’re ankle-deep in the quagmire of alcohol-infused drama. If I appear to be judging the Golden Shower Goddess, know that I later judged myself even more harshly. No doubt about it . . . I was lost.
Turning away from the light: I was walking in the shadow of my own creation. It was only a matter of time before everything would get even darker.
PHOTO SECTION
Black-eyed, three years old, and always getting hurt!
Natalie, Grandpa Dutch, Grandma Helen, and four-year-old me (not knowing in two short years I’d be drunk for the first time at Grandpa and Grandma’s house).
Mom, Dad, Nat, and me, five years old. Good ol’ choreographed family photo . . . interesting framing.
As captain of the school safety patrol in sixth grade, I used to help kids cross the street. Sweet Jesus, help us!
Stealing the show in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 1982.
Pint-size defensive back in Junior League Football, sixty-eight pounds of pure fury, 1983.
Me at twelve years old, jammin’ in my bedroom to a one-member audience: Prince!
Practicing in the basement and going deaf from the concrete walls, 1987.
Playing the lead role of Jesus in Godspell.
The band glossy for Cornucopia of Death, which we sent out in promo packs to get gigs.
Jason Hook and me going to opening night of the KISS reunion tour in 1996.
The original Five Finger Death Punch lineup behind the scenes of “The Bleeding” video shoot, 2007.
Shooting my closeup in “The Bleeding” video.
Me and Bobby “Rockshow” Watson partying on the tour bus, 2007.
Drinking with the legend Vinnie Paul, 2007.
Probably the first good picture of me behind a drum kit: headlining the Death Before Dishonor Tour, 2008.
Tying one on with Ivan. (Never give him brown liquor.)
Signing at NAMM with some of my drum idols, bloated and looking like Elvis right before he died in 1977.
Share the Welt Tour, 2011. We had finally arrived.
The “white beast”: Trespass America Tour, 2012.
My original book cover, under the title Cheers to My Sobriety. (On cocaine you feel like Ron Jeremy from the neck up and Christopher Reeve from the neck down.)
On the red carpet with Alice Cooper at the 2013 Revolver Golden God Awards.
Coheadlining the sold-out Mayhem Festival (and waving to Mom) in Chicago, 2013.
My newest endeavor, entering the acting world as Uncle Colt and Cletus.
CHAPTER 8
ROCK ’N’ ROLL REBEL
1987–89
Freshman year of high school marked the beginning of all kinds of great new shit, very little of which I can be proud of, but all of which contributed mightily to helping form the future me—the musician and the addict . . . the two being inseparable.
High school meant marching band, something I’d been looking forward to for years. But the band I most anticipated was the one I formed with this dude named Neil, a guitar player.
I’d known Neil since grade school. We’d both wandered aimlessly in the outfield during Pee Wee baseball games, poster boys for attention deficit disorder. I remember once when Neil was staring off into space, a fly ball magically landed in his upturned glove. Shocked, he looked at it like it was some alien object. (How dare someone hit a ball in our direction—disturbing our daydreaming and endangering our craniums?) This could have been Neil’s first and only chance at a double play, but mesmerized by how the ball ended up in his glove, he failed to throw it to the second baseman.
Not long after school began freshman year, he began routinely coming over to my house with his rig. We’d noodle around for hours. I was just starting to get into double bass. Dad had recently surprised me with two matching sets of Tama Swingstar drums. They were shiny silver, and I couldn’t believe how awesome they were. I combined them to form one big double-bass kit. He also built a drum riser in the basement so, in case it flooded, my drums would be safe. I was stylin’!
It was about this time that another classmate, Jarred, introduced me to a band that would change the way I thought about music: Metallica. I immediately fell in love with them, especially the way Lars Ulrich made drums such a key element. I was determined to be a killer shredder like my new hero, Lars.
Neil and I jammed Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy” for hours on end. Inspired by that song, we began making up originals. However, it didn’t take long before I grew tired of just guitar and drums. Before we could be considered a real band, we needed to expand, add other players. Neil was also friends with Jarred. He asked him to join us as our bass player. Now all we needed was a singer. We couldn’t find one for a while, so we had to be content as a strictly instrumental group. We chose to call our band Anesthesia, copped from Metallica’s “Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth)” bass solo off the Kill ’Em All album.
After weeks of daily practice, we started to gel. Equally as important, we started to get fucked up together. For me, this was like striking a vein of gold: a band composed of friends who liked to get loaded.
Even when we weren’t playing, we hung out as much as possible. Every day before school, we met and smoked weed and as many cigarettes as time permitted. We’d wander into first period tardy and completely baked out of our gourds. Like a pro, I always carried Visine in my pocket to mask my glazed eyes, and cologne and gum so I wouldn’t reek—fooling no one.
High all the time, I was useless in the classroom. I survived by cheating. (I should point out that the majority of my classmates—especially those in honors classes—also cheated occasionally, but it was my standard operating procedure.) Mostly I just tried to blend in; however, in speech class it was hard to go unnoticed.
The first time I had to give a speech—standing in front of a class full of kids with my knees knocking like maracas—I nearly flipped out. When it was my turn, I had a full-on anxiety meltdown, certain everyone knew I was high. Everyone did, in fact, know—including the teacher. Lucky for me she was a cool artsy-type lesbian who preferred to be everyone’s “friend.” Had she been a traditional teacher, I’d have failed miserably.
The innocent-looking Jeremy of my youth had now completely morphed into “that troubled Heyde kid,” and I looked the part. In recent months I’d developed a dark, disheveled, downer vibe, letting my hair grow long and wild. Honestly, it looked like it had been styled with an eggbeater, but back then I thought it made me look like the punk I wanted to be. My smile, once admired for its sweetness, had permanently disappeared in public, replaced by a sullen, rebellious sneer.
In addition to being a shitful student, my reputation as a little troublemaker spread quickly. I was disliked by most of the faculty. Can’t say I blame them. I was a total douche who hated authority. That meant teachers, principals, and anyone who tried to tell me anything. Forced to go to school, I made sure everyone suffered.
My math teacher was really zaftig (that’s a nice way of saying she was a fat cow). I couldn’t stand her, so I put a needle in her chair. When she plopped her fat ass down on it, she sprang to her feet like she’d been speared. Frankly, I was surprised the needle could penetrate her beefy bovine buttocks. Even though she was a grumpy asshole of a person, she didn’t deserve that.
My judgment wasn’t just clouded, it was nonexistent. I was popping as many pills as I could without tossing my cookies: black beauties, tranquilizers, and truck-stop speed. If I could get it, I did it. My grades sucked but my cheating skills we
re still intact, and they kept me from failing. My care factor was at an all-time low except for music and, of course, pot, pills, and booze.
Some friends told me about LSD and how rad it was. I was ready to try some pro-level drugs. I’d been in the minors long enough. It was time to progress to the pharmaceutical major leagues. I’d heard lysergic acid was trippy and might cause weird hallucinations; some said it could even “fry your brain.” I was scared yet intrigued. Good ol’ Rob acquired some and convinced me to try it. It looked like tiny little squares of cut-up comic-book paper. He instructed me to put it on my tongue and let it dissolve. I had no idea what to expect. After waiting almost an hour for the effect to kick in, nothing was happening. I was disappointed because I’d heard that acid was so incredible.
“What’s with all the hype, Rob? I feel nothing,”
“Just give it a little more time. It’ll kick in.”
At first, the transformation was subtle. I noticed a plastic cup from Hardee’s restaurant. Picking it up, I was amused to find a picture of Ernest from the movie Ernest Goes to Camp. The absurdity of seeing that goober on a drink cup struck me as the most hilarious thing ever. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. After a couple of minutes, I noticed I was still laughing, which made me guffaw so hard I practically shredded a lung.
“What’s up, Vern?” kept repeating in my addled brain. No sooner had the laughter subsided then I’d hear myself say, “What’s up, Vern?” and start in again. This went on for hours. It was ridiculous, but it was also one of the best times ever, even though it came at the expense of poisoning my brain.
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