by Tommy Lee
Taking the Monkeys to the toy store is tough enough. I sound like a man much older than my years when I say the toys they got today, that shit is crazy. PlayStation 2, Xbox, all kinds of remote-control jeeps and cars, quad racers, and little gas-powered buggies. I had a red wagon full of rocks that I collected in the yard, and I thought that was rad. Being a little kid right now is insane, and I wish there were some way for me to communicate that to them—especially when they get bored. They’ve got it all here and they’re already over it. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to as your point of reference. Some days I think I’m way more into their stuff than they are. I’ll set them up with a new video game and in a matter of minutes I hear two voices in stereo: “Dad. Dad! We’re bored.” I can never believe it and say, “Dudes, entertain yourselves. You guys don’t have anything to play with? Let Dad write a song for a minute.” But you know that deep down I’m really pumped that they’d rather hang out with Dad than go off and play by themselves.
I am concerned though, and I talk to their mom about this all the time, that our boys have too much shit. You need to be careful, because if they’re all overstimulated this young, they might not ever use their imaginations. We need to stop buying them a million fucking toys! Let’s give them some pens and let them draw. Let’s give them whatever instruments they like and listen to them create. It’s crazy with these toys, dude. I mean, I had a fire truck—one fire truck. And I took care of that motherfucker! My kids have eighty fire trucks and they’re not afraid to break them. I’ll watch them just bash the thing into red plastic rubble and ask them, “What are you guys doing? You broke it.” They’ll turn to me and say, “It’s okay, Dad. We can go to the store and you’ll get us another one.” Great.
Before it gets any worse, I’ve been doing my best to give the Monkeys a sense of reality. I’m trying to introduce the concepts of money, earning, and spending into the program now. These days when they break their shit and want something new, Dad and the boys go to the piggy bank to see how phat they’re rollin’. And they’re not living off handouts either. I told them that any change they find lying around the house is theirs, but that’s not it. When their mom or I curse in their presence, we owe them a quarter. Since you’ve gotten this far in my book, you can probably guess that the boys have made plenty of bucks off Dad already. I’m getting better, but shit, I just can’t fuckin’ stop godammned cursing, you know? So the boys are learning about earning. In addition to their little trust fund built on Dad’s foul language they also get Tooth Fairy cash. When we go shopping now, they can buy whatever they want—if they can afford it. Brandon was pretty dumbfounded when he was confronted with how much the stuff he likes costs. Since they don’t know, they’ll just point at something in the store and I’ll say, “Well dudes, that costs forty-two bucks. Let’s see what you’ve got.” They’ll count it out and have like forty-one bucks and three cents. So I’ll say that I’ll loan them a dollar if they do their chores. Of course the toys they really want are like sixty bucks and they’ll just start pointing. “Dad, Dad, look at that. Dad. I want that. Hey Dad, Dad! Dad? We don’t have sixty bucks, but you do.” I stay strong; I don’t give in.
I hope our boys are starting to understand how the world works a little bit. If they’re not, at least they’re learning that toys don’t just magically appear. And best of all, this whole process is cutting down on the amount of toys around here, which, trust me, is getting close to ridiculous.
I’m so glad that Pamela and I agree that we will do everything we possibly can to keep them out of the public eye. We do not take the boys to events where there is going to be some dumb-ass red carpet bullshit and when we’re with them, we avoid photographers as best we can. Of course that makes all the leeches who wait in cars with lenses long enough to shoot professional sports or African wildlife even more hungry for pictures of all of us together outside my kids’ karate dojo. We’re like some endangered Siberian white tiger to them—a rare fucking big-game trophy that the paparazzi poachers could turn into a fucking gold mine. Hey, let’s send my writer, Anthony, to talk to one of those guys and find out what the hell is wrong with them.
“Hey, man, how are you doin’? What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m just out here enjoying the weather and the beach.”
“Oh, really? The beach is behind you. Are you getting gas? C’mon, man, who are you stalking today? I’m just wondering because I’m doing a story on what makes paparazzi tick.”
“I’m not paparazzi and I’m not stalking anyone. I have a right to be here. I can take pictures of whomever I want. What is that, a tape recorder?”
“Yes, it is. So you ="9%"are="9%" here taking pictures then. How much does a picture of Pamela and Tommy and their kids go for these days?”
“Please leave me alone. I’m just doing my job.”
“So you ="9%"are="9%" working then. It’s Saturday, bro. You should take a day off once in a while.”
Ladies and gentlemen, from where I’m standing I can see ="9%"that this man has all the paparazzi essentials: lots of camera equipment, a cell phone, and empty coffee cups. I see what appears to be a sleeping bag in the backseat too.
“Sorry to pry, sir, but for the sake of curiosity, may I ask what you get out of your occupation? Is it satisfying? Seems to me that if this is your ride, you can’t be cleaning up like I hear some of you do.”
“This is my work car. I have another car. I do fine, buddy. Why don’t you take a walk.”
“Why don’t you take a ride and let those two be alone with their kids. Actually, wait here, I’m going to get my camera. I want some pictures of you. Would you like to meet Tommy? I can get him over here.”
“I’ve met Tommy before. He’s old school, he’s got a bad temper. I’m not interested in Tommy. I want pictures of Pamela. She doesn’t care about this shit. She knows the deal.”
“Cool, man. Sit tight then. Can I get your name?”
“Just call me John.”
“Okay, ="9%"John.="9%" I’ll be right back.”
I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, but before I could snap a few party pics of John and me at the beach, he sped off, circled the block, then disappeared—for now. This is Anthony Bozza, live from the parking lot. Back to you, Tommy.
Thanks, Anthony. We protect the Monkeys as much as we can, but they’re getting old enough to start realizing what Mom and Dad do. I mean, when they talk to their friends and hear what a lot of the other parents do most of the day, they’ve got to realize that something is up. And if they’re being bad by staying up too late watching TV, they might see Mom on Celebrities Uncensored —it’s definitely sinking in no matter what we do. I heard Brandon tell his schoolmate the other day, “My dad’s a rock star and he works really hard.” As usual, I don’t know where Random Brandon got that one—I didn’t tell him anything. I’m assuming that my being gone on tour a lot means, to him, that I work really hard. He doesn’t quite know yet that my work is fun. But it’s not as much fun as being home with my sons. I had so much fun in the summer of 2003 for just that reason. I didn’t tour for once—I just played with those guys in the pool, barbecued, and enjoyed my home life with them to the fullest. And those moments are better than any tour or any concert I’ve ever played, please believe.
It’ll be cool one day to sit down and show them their dad’s legacy. They’ve seen a few videos and things once in a while, but they have no clue. Dylan has a Mötley shirt that he wears. But he doesn’t even know who Mötley Crüe is, the same way he doesn’t know who Korn is—he’s got a little shirt of theirs too. He just likes the way those shirts look so he throws ’em on. I love that. Yeah, it’ll be cool to sit the Monkeys down and show them what their dad has done. Then again, maybe it’s not such a good idea.
I LOVE YOU GUYS,
YOUR DAD
12 STATE OF INVASION*
a.k.a.
STOP THIS RIDE, I WANNA GET OFF!
This chapter runs way too long. I’d make it two chapte
rs if I were you.
Well, Pippin, you’re not me. Why don’t you go make some tea and munch a crumpet?
Disclaimer:† All of the following events may or may not have occurred. All similarities to purportedly true events as reported by the celebrity/tabloid “press” should be considered opportunities to interpret fictional works. Said “press” can, after all, create so-called history with a few thousand dollars and a picture. Let it be known that the author, Tommy Lee, insists that what follows, to the best of his knowledge, must be regarded as a nightmare, as such is his only experience of these events, and should be treated thusly and equally as a fixture of nonreality. Any coincidence herewith that any persons, living or dead, believed to exist, is strictly accidental, in every sense of the word.
Let me tell you how fuckin’ craise it is being followed around everywhere you go. I thought I’d gotten used to the paparazzi when I was married to Heather, but I had no idea. The level of attention Pamela got in the midnineties was insane. She was more than a Baywatch TV star and a Playboy icon—she was an international sex symbol. The invasion of our privacy was constant. I’m not complaining about what comes with fame, like those bitchy little fucking Seattle boys who hate success.* I can never understand that attitude. Everyone in entertainment chooses this path. And none of them should be surprised when they find a huge target on their back. (See the back cover of this book, dudes—you painted the target and I’ll wear it.) It’s part of the deal.
But you gotta know where to draw the line. Pamela and I are both public figures, but we were also a couple. And when you’re in love and someone disrespects your girl and stalks your family, none of that fame matters. You do what any man would do: You become the man of the house, you defend your loved ones, and you hold down the fort. That’s how I was raised. Despite what the tabloids say, I don’t feel like I’ve ever lost my temper just to lose it—there’s always been a legitimate reason for my actions.
Before we had Brandon, Pamela had a miscarriage,† which is traumatic for a couple waiting for months to have their first child. After you grieve, you have to accept that something was wrong and that it wasn’t meant to be. For the woman, it’s much worse: The emotional pain is combined with physical pain. The day it happened, Pamela went to the hospital and when we were ready to leave, we went out the back door and found a crowd of paparazzi waiting up on a roof across the street. It was the worst photo op either of us could imagine—but it was their dream come true. Anyone could see that we weren’t leaving the hospital happy. I’m still not sure why anyone would want a photo of me walking her to the car, with one thing in mind: getting her home so she could rest.
We took off down the 405 freeway and, of course, we were followed. A little family of French paparazzi—a man, a woman, and their dog—chase us, speeding in front of us and on Pamela’s side, snapping pictures. It was so fucked and I was in such a bad mood that I start running them off the road in my truck. Eventually I did so, driving them over to the shoulder of the highway and cutting in front of them, Starsky and Hutch style. They try to back up, so I back up, fully trapping them. They’re right next to us and Pamela loses it—she opens her door and starts bashing it into the side of their car. I’ve had it too. I get out of the truck, jump on their hood, and smash a hole in their windshield with my boot. Before my foot went through the glass, I saw how scared they were and I remember thinking, “What the fuck am I doing? I’m on the 405 destroying some fucker’s car.” The dog is going crazy in the back and they didn’t speak English very well, but they understood what I told them. “If you follow us after this point,” I said, “I will fuck you all up.” They didn’t come after us—in fact, I bet they probably quit the business.*
We definitely weren’t going home after that episode—we figured more photographers were waiting for us there. We decided to go to the Ritz-Carlton in Marina del Rey to hole up for a few days. We get there safely, charter a yacht the next day, and start to relax. Then one evening, a few days after the miscarriage, we’re heading back into the hotel, my arms are full of our stuff, and as we make our way to the elevator, I drop my cigarettes. Pamela bends over to get them, and right behind her is this guy who had come out of the bar or restaurant ahead of his wife and kids. He was clearly wasted, and he says to Pamela, “Nice ass!” I look at this family man and I can’t fucking believe it. I say, “What did you say?” He says, “You heard me.” I say, “I’m just checking that I heard you correctly. What the fuck is wrong with you?” And he says, “Fuck you.” That was it. I say, “Fuck you?” I had, among other things, my Motorola cell phone in my hand. The year was 1995 and back then, phones still came as big as walkietalkies and so tough that you could drop them from your roof and they’d still work. It was time for this motherfucker to go night-night. So I wound up and cell-phone-whipped his ass, watching the birdies circle his head as he dropped like an amateur on the receiving end of a punch from Iron Mike Tyson. While the guy’s kids watched the concierge scraped him off the marble floor, his wife asked me what had happened. I said, “He’s a fucking asshole. He told my wife she’s got a nice ass when she bent over.”
After that, we went to our room and bolted the fucking door. It wasn’t long at all before the police came. I told them what happened, about what we had just been through at the hospital, and how this drunk fuck was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They weren’t going to take me in and they said the guy wasn’t going to press charges, so I thought everything was cool. A month later, here comes the lawsuit—and there goes some money.*
You might not agree with me after what I just told you, but I don’t have a bad temper at all. I’d say that I actually let too much shit slide. After that incident, I was pretty shaken up about what I did, so I asked my dad what he thought about it. He thought I’d done the right thing and said that any man on the planet would agree. He said he would have whupped his ass too—and that’s all I needed to hear. I’ve walked away from many situations like that one: I’m not a fighter, I’m a lover. But right then, on that day, I just thought, “Fuck this disrespectful piece of shit.”
The paparazzi problem got worse—they creeped around our house like pedophiles at a grade school waiting for recess. One day, just after our son Brandon was born, I was in the driveway when I noticed a pine tree across the street swaying—and there wasn’t any wind. I go over there and some motherfucker is up in the tree with a camera, waiting to snap the first picture of Pamela and our son. I look up at him and say, “Dude, what the fuck are you doing up there?” He says, “Bro, listen to me. If you can just get Pamela to come out here with your son, I’ll take the picture and split the money with you. She’ll never know.” What is wrong with people? What kind of a guy did he think I was? I thought about grabbing my chainsaw and putting an end to this guy’s future as a stalkerazzi, but I was too fucking disgusted and stunned.
Change “stalkerazzi” to “pinerazzi”?
Yuk, yuk. That’s pretty funny, Paddington. Do you moonlight as a standup comedian? I can call the talent booker at ="1%"The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
="1%" if you need a hookup.
I just went inside and locked the door. I didn’t even tell Pamela—that situation was just way too stupid. That day I realized how crazy people can get. I started to look at the pictures of us in the tabloids in a different way after that. I’d check the angles to figure out where these guys were posting up.
What is ="1%"American Journal
="1%"? I’ve never heard of it.
What? Heathcliff, I thought it would be one of your favorite TV shows. ="1%"American Journal
="1%" is the most lowbrow, scandalous, tabloid shit show on stun. It’s a TV show version of ="1%"Hello
="1%"! I thought a bird like you would know all about that shit.
The plot of land on one side of our house is state-owned conservation land. I thought that was fucking awesome when I bought the place because it meant no one could build a house there. What I didn’t realize is that anyone
can legally be on state-owned land.† Great. That meant the Papanazis could build a shantytown out of tripods, coffee cups, and old doughnuts if they wanted to. Pamela’s dad, Barry, went for a walk one day just after Brandon was born ‡ and noticed three guys with cameras rustling around in the brush, just on the other side of the wall around our house. He came inside and told me about it, so we went to check it out. Sure enough, they were there, hiding behind some bushes with duffel bags full of photo equipment—tripods, lenses, cameras, all of it. We snuck up on them and surprised the fuck out of them. I grabbed a tripod and held it up like a baseball bat. One of the guys pulled out a can of mace and a cell phone. I say to them, “I’m taking all of your shit. You’re on private property.” I’m wearing a hooded sweatshirt, so I pull up my hoodie to protect my eyes and I tell that fucker, “You’ve got one shot. You’d better hit me with that mace because if you don’t, I’m taking you out.” Barry and I snatch their duffel bags and throw them over the wall, back onto my property, as the three of them back away. They were trippin’ and ran the fuck out of there.