Ashley has many of the same problems that other really young women have.
She has “Princess Syndrome.” I’ll explain.
So many girls spend their entire life being told that they are “little princesses.” They’re catered and coddled to the point that they grow up feeling that the world owes them something. They feel they are a princess, and should be treated accordingly. It’s a horrible injustice that parents, particularly fathers, do to their daughters.
They wind up living in a fantasy world, and when they begin to discover that their world doesn’t really exist outside childhood, they get lost and don’t know what to do.
That’s Ashley. I love her more than I can explain, but the “Princess Syndrome” continually sabotaged the relationship. She’s smart. She’s got a lot going on upstairs. Unfortunately, there’s no life experience to back it up. It’s like learning to drive a car. You can know all the road rules, and everything about how a car works, but until you’ve actually done it, you don’t know shit.
Meanwhile, I get stuck trying to get Cinderella’s fucking shoe back on her foot! That is, unless she’s acting like an adult. She’s never been an adult, mind you, so she doesn’t have a point of reference. She’s had some jobs. She worked at Disneyland for three years, playing Snow White, and there’s been a few others sprinkled around since. Mostly, she likes to surf, boogie board, your basic California girl, and I couldn't help but be entranced by her! I proposed to her very fast.
I gave her a big ring while I was out on the road in 2007. She moved in with me, and while she worked, she never contributed anything to the household. This is our biggest source of friction. I’m not a Sugar Daddy. Never have been, and never will be. Refuse to be.
It was a struggle with her. When she was sweet, she was sweet and fine, and I loved her. However, she had a propensity to argue. Argue, hell; she was downright combative, and over anything at all. If I talk about the shape of a bottle, she will disagree with me. If I say the sky is blue, she will call it cobalt or something.
I liken it to a kid with their parents when they are trying to buck the system. It’s not to be insulting to her, but it’s what she has to work with as far as life experience. She’s got the princess mentality, and the natural sarcasms of someone who is still a child at heart.
So, in March of 2008, she moved out for about three weeks. When she moved back home, it was simply because we missed each other horribly. However, she continued to pay rent at the place she was at, despite the fact that she didn’t live there. Instead of contributing to the household she was a part of, she ignored it.
All I want was someone who would pitch in; someone who will help out. I’m not asking for someone to cover the whole thing. I’m not even asking for someone who covers half. I just want someone who behaves like they are part of my life, and not owed a piece of it.
We went through the summer like this, and by the start of fall, it was coming to a head. She was working at an aerospace engineering company as an administrative assistant. She wasn’t making great money, certainly not by Southern California costs of living, but she was making some, yet still refused to contribute.
I pushed her about it, and in November of 2008, she moved out again. I found myself in a familiar place. I was going out, meeting some cool girls and having a good time, but I still had this love for her that I couldn’t get past. I had to give it one more go. I had to at least try to get past our issues enough that we could make this work, because I knew the love was there.
We’ve spent the last year or so in this same routine. Move in, move out, fight, make up, break up, get back together. Round and round and round and round…sounds like a song I know!
On June 25th, I woke up and felt really bummed. I have felt this way before, but this time something was really bumming me out, and I didn't know what it was. I told Ashley that every time I feel this way, something weird is going to happen or has already happen; true story. I had decided to help Ashley get a car, because the one she had always had problems and I was always the one fixing it. Her parents weren’t able or willing to help, so I was the lucky winner to replace the junker.
We went out looking for a car. We stopped at the mall, and while she was spending a gift card in Victoria Secret, I sat in a chair still feeling the strange sensation that something wasn’t right when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey dad!”
“Hey! What's up?”
“Did you hear about Michael Jackson having a heart attack?”
“WHAAAAAT? NO! When?”
“It just hit the news.”
I said, “Well I doubt there's anything to it. He's just doing something for press to hype his new shows in the UK.” This was at 1:00 PM.
We arrived at Railway Motors, a used car lot in Valencia Ca. at 2:00 PM. I asked them to turn on the TV and told them what I heard from my son. I had been listening to the radio on the way there and there were unconfirmed reports of his death. I was telling the salesman Larry there.
He was like, “NO SHIT?,”
“Yes turn it on.” And we sat there for the next two hours in disbelief, shock and sadness. I was up the whole next week glued to anything and everything Michael.
I had a strong bond to Michael. We were the same age. He was 2 months older than me. I got turned on the Jackson 5 in summer of 1970, and loved every great hit they put out. I stayed with Michael and the Jackson 5 through their careers and all the way through June 25th like it was a brother who's career I watched and supported.
Every party I've ever had, we ended up playing Michael Jackson music. On my boat when we’re at the lake, come nightfall, the girls are up dancing to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. I promise to never let that end.
I really think he was a very special human being and a gift to the likes that we'll never see again. What do we have now to replace? Nelly? Jay Fking Z? Whom I can't stand. No one.
We'll never see the top three best ever replaced, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, and the Beatles.
Thank god I was here to have seen them while they were alive, to listen to their music on the radio and have them become a part of my core existence. As of this writing, I'm still having problems accepting this death.
The final breaking point came just recently. Ratt had booked a gig with Queensryche, Tesla and Skid Row on a pleasure cruise. It was good times to be had. Unfortunately, it was here that I learned what an actress Ashley really is.
We got into an argument that stemmed from her talking about our private issues to anyone and everyone. I had told her repeatedly, “Stop dragging our private shit out for everyone to see.” She wouldn’t listen, though. Every time I turned around, she would be talking it out with complete strangers or casual acquaintances.
I’d had several friends warn me that she was trying to set me up for something. Naturally, I didn’t want to believe it, but looking back….
When we would argue, it was always the same; regardless the issue. I’m the kind of guy who needs some space when I get upset. I just want a little time to myself to get my thoughts together and be rational. Ashley simply would never allow me to do that. She wouldn’t leave me alone. She would stay in my face, constantly. Yelling. Screaming. Saying the worst, most foul and inappropriate things to me or about me. Almost as if she was baiting me to hit her.
If I ever put my hands on her during these moments, whether it was to take her shoulders and lead her out of the room, or to take her hand to calm her down, it wouldn’t matter. She would immediately start yelling, “Don’t you touch me! That’s assault! Don’t you fucking touch me!”
Assault? Really? You mean, I’m going to have to call the cops to get you out of my fucking bedroom? Really?
Needless to say, the warning signals were there.
On the cruise, I hear through Robbie Crane’s wife that Ashley is at it again; talking about our private moments. It pisses me off, so the argument with Ashley begins. It’s three o’clock in the morning, a
nd while I’m ready to end the fight, she won’t let it go. I’m ready for bed, and she keeps going on and on and on and on… …and I put my hand over her mouth.
In hindsight, I can see where this move might backfire on me, but it seemed harmless enough. I wasn’t being physical or abusive, I simply covered her mouth so I could have a little peace. She bit me. HARD. Hard enough that my finger was swollen and blood-blistered.
She immediately jumps out of the bed, crying out for me not to hit her. Keep in mind that we are on a cruise ship. Robbie and his wife are in the room on one side of us. Stephen is in the room on the other. It’s clear that her “act” is intended for the band to hear what was going on. Finally, she jumps up and runs across the hall to the security office, crying “domestic abuse.”
The security officer comes in and checks it all out in his security officer sort of way. Ashley had told him that I “punched her in the face.” It’s clear that she’s full of shit, and nothing happened, especially anything where SHE was hurt or abused, nevermind the wound on my finger where she went all “Hanibal Lecter” on me. So, the whole thing became a non-event.
It was a non-event to everyone except me. She had done all of this bullshit drama at my place of work. This is the place where I have a public image to maintain, and an expected code of conduct from my band mates, and she’s making out like I’m some sort of gorilla out to beat her down.
God, what a depressing time. It’s times like that when you can wind up doing some kooky things. Which, of course, I did.
We had an empty wine bottle in the cabin on ship, and you know how the old movies always had the marooned castaway throw a bottle with a note in it out to sea, in the vain hopes of being rescued? Yeah, I did that. I was marooned in a relationship that I desperately wanted to work out, yet if anyone ever needed rescuing, it was me!
I wrote a note, tucked it down in the bottle, and threw it into the ocean from the observation deck of the cruise liner. It was symbolic, of course, and I simply forgot about it.
Funny thing – about three weeks after the cruise, I get an email. Seems the bottle had found it’s way to the shores of Florida, and a little girl from Canada had picked it up and given it to her parents. They were all vacationing there from Quebec, and were blown away by this unexpected, random thing that their daughter had found.
They didn’t know who I was, but the note said I was Bobby Blotzer, drummer for Ratt, and I was playing a show on the cruise liner…blah, blah, blah.
When they got home, they looked me up online and checked out the band, then contacted me to say they had my wine bottle! It was fun. I responded, and we had a good laugh about it. Now, they have a story they can tell for years to come about how they got a message in a bottle from a bummed out, love struck rock star!
Yeah. Relationships make you do some strange shit. The worst part is not realizing it’s over until it’s way too late.
When we got home from the trip, I was done. She was staying in my guest bedroom at that point, and I just couldn’t deal with her anymore. It was time for her to go. It was Christmas ’09, and we had plans made from before the holidays; parties and what-not. So, I decided to fight through the drama until the New Year, but the decision had made itself. I didn’t need to help it along. Come January, we were done.
On December 17, I went out with some friends to have appetizers and cocktails at a local restaurant we all like. Ashley was at the house, and we had passed each other as I was leaving. Feeling a little guilty, I called her and asked if she wanted to join us, which she did.
The night goes on, and we get back to the house around 10:30. She heads straight to bed, but I’ve got house stuff to do. I was checking the patio heaters I’d bought for the Christmas party we were throwing for the coming weekend, drinking a little Merlot, and checking the household out in general.
I was listening to some music, low and slow, while I was doing all of this. She starts texting me about how loud it is, and that she can’t sleep. It was the Beatles. It was barely on. How she could even hear it, when I could barely make it out was beyond me. The texts continued, getting progressively meaner. Finally, she comes out in full banshee mode. It’s on.
Before it’s over, with the yelling, screaming, cursing and bullshit that she normally brings to the fight, she added a few new wrinkles to the mix. After slamming doors (which had just been remodeled from damaged she had previously caused), she comes back out of her room and continues the fight.
Over the next several minutes, it gets heated, verbally. I wind up calling her a cunt (which women absolutely hate!) It’s at that time that I realize why she stormed back into her room. In her hands, she is concealing a video camera and is recording our argument from the upstairs landing.
I took the camera away from her. Keep in mind, this is the only time I’ve gotten physical with her in any way, and it wasn’t a punch, slap, bite, gouge, or any other physical trauma that occurred. I accidentally caught her hair in my hand while going for the camera. Did I pull it? Not on purpose, but probably. Ashley’s hair goes down past her waist. She pulls it when she sits down. So, yeah, it’s a good chance that it got pulled in the scuffle for the camera.
Once I had the camera (which I desperately wanted to smash on the tile, but didn’t), she immediately goes to the phone and calls the police, crying “domestic violence.”
I was done. I left, and went to a hotel for the night. She was absolutely out of control.
The next day, I go down to the police station. I figure that if I’m getting accused of God-knows-what, I’m going to at least make my statement. I’m soon to discover, though, that the story she told the cops the night before is significantly different from the truth.
She tells the cops that I hit her and yanked her by the hair, going all Cro-Magnon on her!
The cop behind the desk looks over the computer files, and then excuses himself to check another computer. Keep in mind, that because of the OJ Simpson murders, California now has laws where the DA’s office can file charges whether a victim wishes them to, or not. It’s a felony charge. It’s prison time.
They arrest me for domestic assault. Ashley never presses charges. In fact, the cops who took her statement referred to her as a drama queen. There wasn’t a mark on her, and she didn’t look like anything had happened. She just wanted the attention, I guess. However, that didn’t matter. The DA was the person to decided how this proceeded, not Ashley, or me.
$50,000 bail, and I’m back on the street sweating this trumped up charge that my immature fiancé brought on me.
I get back to the house, and tell her to bounce. Get your shit and get out. This relationship simply isn’t going to happen. It was a hollow feeling for me, especially since she already had most of her shit packed up to go.
In the end, nothing was ever filed by the officers, the DA or the courts. In their eyes, it was a non-case. Ashley was actually kind of bummed out about that. I sent her a text about it, talking about her out-right lies to the police.
She sent back the following: “Lies, oh wow. You need help, or serious punishment. I won’t miss you anymore. Enjoy your pity party. You’re guilty and soulless.”
Ten minutes before that, she was sending me texts with Beatle lyrics in them about missing one another and shit like that. Crazy shit.
In the end, had I not tried to do the stand-up thing by going to the police, I probably wouldn’t have been arrested or anything. It would have just went away. But, it didn’t.
Not by a long shot.
I suppose it’s my own base nature that puts me into these situations. From a certain point of view, one may think that I’m too co-dependent, or that I have no direction in my love life. That isn’t true.
I am a man who looks for, and expects to find, the best in people. When I meet a woman, it’s an opportunity for me to find a completion to my life; my missing piece, if you will. While it may seem naïve on my part, I can assure you that it’s not. Life is too short to not take a chance on lo
ve.
And, I can tell you that I’ve loved all the women in my life, for better or worse.
Ashley became the worst of the worse.
I was talking about all of this with Misty. Ex-M-1. We’ve stayed in touch and remained friends, so it was a friend kind of thing to do.
She could tell that something was wrong with me, and pressed for the story. I told her that it was in confidence, and she swore it would never leave her mouth. Unfortunately, so personal issues got in the way, and she was pushed out of the Christmas party that Ashley and I (now just me) had planned. I had to ask her not to come. It pissed her off, and hell hath no fury, right?
She blabs the story to some of these motor-mouth musician types here in LA. They are big gossip hounds. Robbie Crane calls me and tells me about it. This guy had called him and asked “What’s up, I heard Blotzer punched his girl in the face?”
The next thing I know, it’s all over the internet. Metal Sludge even ran a Photoshopped picture of Ashley and I where her face had been made up to be all bruised and shit. It was obviously messed with, and those guys did it for comedic factor, but fuck me!
It’s worldwide. Blabbermouth. All over the radio. Everywhere. My friends and family all know that I didn’t do anything, and that there wasn’t even a report filed, but the fans don’t know that. They form their own opinion, and it’s usually fed by what’s in print or online.
What a fucking drag. I was spiraling down over this stuff, and Ashley seemed to take great glee in it.
I truly loved this woman, so it was hard for me to really admit that it was over. It took a lot to make me admit that, because I still wanted to see the good in her. I still wanted to see the love. But, even my closest friends were stepping up and pointing out the obvious.
Tales Of A RATT Page 33