by Tommy Lee
Once Barry and I hopped back over the wall, we grabbed the bags and dumped them in the fountain at the front of our house. I was glad that I wasn’t the only one who was that pissed off: Barry had seen enough of this bullshit on his routine patrols of the perimeter. It felt good to know that I had a partner, another father, and someone else besides me who was tired as fuck of seeing his daughter stalked.
By then I was on a first-name basis with everyone in the Malibu Sheriff’s Department, so when they rolled up in their black-and-white, I thought it would be a friendly visit. I wasn’t worried about the mace-wielder calling the cops—I thought it would be all good. Well, this time it wasn’t. Great. They ask me to return the photographers’ shit, and they aren’t happy at all when I pull it out of the fountain. A month later, of course, here comes the lawsuit—and there goes more money.*
One day when Barry and I traded shifts and I was on day patrol, I was in the backyard when the sun reflecting off of a distant camera lens hit me right in the eye. I tracked that fucker to a hill behind the house, and like any good security guard, I went to check it out. I hopped in my car and left the compound by the back exit where the distant cameraman wouldn’t see me. I drove to where I knew his car would have to be and there it was, a nifty sports car pulled off on the side of the road. My house isn’t exactly in a populated area: Unless it was broken down, it had no business being there. I didn’t want to be hasty, so I went down to the equestrian center just down the road from the auto in question. I asked everyone in sight if that sporty ride belonged to anyone on the premises. No one claimed it. (I’m glad I asked though, because every time I go in there, everyone who works there tells me how considerate they thought that was.)*
Anyway, I headed back to the perpetrator’s car and then the craziest thing happened. I turned away for a minute to admire the beautiful foliage all around me when suddenly I heard the crunch of safety glass being smashed. I don’t know how it got there, but when I turned around to look at that guy’s car again, his windshield was gone and a huge boulder was sitting in his passenger seat. “Woah, hey, that’s craise!” I thought to myself. Fuck I still don’t know what went down. There must be bad-ass gnomes with an attitude in them thar hills. Mean-ass gnome, I owe ya—you did what I never would have done. As I drove home, I smiled, thinking of that Papasnotty meeting his new pet rock for the first time and enjoying the wind in his hair and the bugs in his teeth as he cruised home in his brand new magically improvised convertible. I was even happier when, a month later, for once, there was no lawsuit—and Mr. Wallet stayed closed. Can’t sue what you don’t see, people—but I figured he’d try anyway. It’s a good thing because I still don’t know how it happened. Do you believe in unexplainable phenomena? I do.†
The whole Nonstoparazzi situation had hit an all-time high that was more ridiculous than the worst joke I had ever heard. I never minded that the public wanted to know about our lives—I just had a problem with the way these hacks with cameras were going about informing them. Pamela and I were trying to start a family amid something that was so unreal. It got so bad that I started to daydream that there was a way for us to give it back to them. I dreamed that there was a totally legal way for people who were hounded day and night to get back at those who made a living out of making us miserable. It didn’t have to be negative—it could be something fun for everyone! I imagined a sport called Scum Chucking where those who suffered from the Poopernazi problem could—legally—collar the most obnoxious Lenserazzi and use them to redecorate the pavement. In my mind, I ran with it—I saw it as an Olympic sport that took place right on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Whoever’s chosen bottom-feeding parasite left the biggest divot won. There were bonus points for scattered zoom lenses and double bonus points for creating human yard sales. It was a good dream—and one I knew would be popular among the famous residents of Malibu and Hollywood. I figured in the world arena, the U.S. team would be hard to beat.
After a month of being under siege and nurturing our newborn son, Pamela and I needed a night out on the town. We made all the arrangements and headed to the Viper Room* to see some music and cut loose. We had a blast, hung with some friends, and for the first time in a while it seemed like we might get home without any bullshit.
When we left, we were swarmed like a porn star at a gang bang. There were a ton of photographers, but one dickhead took the cake. He was right up in our faces with a video camera, blinding us with a bright light, saying stupid shit to provoke us. “It’s two in the morning!” he said. “Why aren’t you home with your child?” Pamela had a freakin’ conniption fit. “Fuck you, you motherfucker,” she yelled. I grabbed the guy by the camera and chucked him to get that light off us. His wrist was in the video camera strap, so he went flying the Friendlee Skies.* I think I still hold the record for distance and points: The guy whizzed down the street and when he landed, his camera and his pelvis were busted, even though I only meant to take out the camera. His fellow Snooperazzi blasted both of us with mace as we shoved our way to the car, while EMTs scraped him up off the sidewalk. A month later, of course, here comes the lawsuit—and there goes the most money ever! †
When Pamela and I were first married I took a lot of things into my own hands. I tried to be Mr. Security Guy—the one thing I never wanted to be. I always thought walking around with a bodyguard was wack, ostentatious, and just way too rock star. Looking back, it would have been a fuck of a lot cheaper than all those lawsuits. Not to mention the other shit stains on my record: that peeperazzi outside the Viper Room earned me probation, which came into play later when I violated it.
All of this undue stress wasn’t exactly what I’d call healthy for our marriage. We are both intense people and we were so deeply in love that we wanted to start a family right away, in the midst of two very busy careers: I was still going on tour, she was still going to work. We felt invincible; there was no way we were going to slow down. And that’s when all hell broke loose. The fact that we’re still friends is amazing, because I don’t know another couple who’s been through more fucking bullshit in the first two years of their marriage. Name one, I dare you.*
While we were having our house gutted and rebuilt during the first year of our marriage, we lived in Pamela’s condo, while the band and I used the construction hell that would become our home as a recording studio.† The whole place was open and fucked up and unlivable—and perfect for our purposes. We had the instruments set up in what would be the living room and the control room was in the garage. I had a safe in that garage too, hidden behind a carpeted wall. Pamela and I had locked up all our valuables in it: mementos, watches, jewelry, cameras, guns, knives, ammo, money, pictures, videos—everything. That year, Pamela and I went to London for Christmas and when we came back, the remodeling was behind schedule and nowhere close to being done, so the band and I resumed recording there. One day I went to the garage to get something out of the safe—and the whole thing was missing. I’m sitting there, kind of laughing, thinking, “Dude, where’s the safe?” We already know I sometimes have a bad memory, so I thought I had forgotten that it had been relocated. I had to ask my road crew guys if they’d moved the safe. I even called the pool guy thinking that he had to move it to install pipes for the hot tub. Nope.
It was such an inside job: It required keys to the house and a gang of guys to move that thing. My recording gear was in there blocking the wall that hid the safe! That included a huge Neve recording console that weighs hundreds of pounds, as well as a few racks of outboard gear, each of them about six feet tall, awkward, full of wires, and heavy. There’s no way one guy could do it alone and there’s no way any random burglar would think to move any of it—not to mention find the hidden room that held the safe—unless he knew there was a payoff.
After I called everyone who knew it was there, my heart stopped for a second when I realized that it had been stolen. That meant, in one theft, we’d lost a big wad of cash and all our jewelry, guns, and irreplaceable memories. We d
id not expect to see one of those memories being sold on TV a few weeks later. We were having dinner, watching the news in the kitchen, when we see footage of clerks stocking the shelves at Tower Records with copies of a videotape of Pamela and me fucking. We were horrified. We were under enough stress already: home reconstruction, my recording a new album, her nonstop career, the birth of our son. We did not need this. I just dropped the remote and we sat there speechless. We knew that the tape was in the safe, but we never thought that the thieves were after anything but the guns and money. We got on the phone to our lawyers immediately. It was crazy, probably the craziest time in my life—and my life hasn’t been normal, as you can tell by now. It was the straw that broke these camels’ backs. I don’t know how any human being could have fucking dealt with it.
There were a ton of workers in and out of the house who knew about the safe—a bunch of them helped us move it. Now that thing wasn’t easy to move—it was as big as a fridge and weighed five hundred pounds when it was empty. It was made for holding guns, and it was full of them. There was no way it was going anywhere without a crane, a flatbed, and a crew of guys. A lot of the guys were gun freaks and I remember they were drooling when I showed them my collection. When I found out later that one of the workers used to be in the porno business, it all made sense to me how this could have happened once he found what else was in the safe.
We got our lawyers on the case and they put together a lawsuit that got bigger as more and more outlets sold and broadcast the stolen tape of Pamela and me having sex. The guy responsible for distributing it is named Seth Wasarsky, who had a company called Internet Entertainment Group. He basically went into hiding when all this started, then out of the blue one day, he called me on my cell phone while I was on tour with Mötley. I have no idea how he got that number, but he did. “Hi, Tommy, this is Seth Wasarsky,” he said. “I’d like to offer you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to settle this lawsuit.” I said, “Dude, you can suck my big fat fucking cock. Don’t ever call me again.” What, was I supposed to split that with Pamela for our trouble? He was offering us beer money. Seth is on the run now, and no one can find him. His company was in Seattle, and now it’s gone. It’s crazy that we could never find this guy. There had to be a paper trail linking his old company to whatever new one he was using to cash the checks. Whatever. I guess he’s hanging out with Osama Bin Laden, jerking off to web porn in some cave. Unfortunately, our Constitution also protects scummy little Internet businessmen.*
The lawsuit we put together to try to stop this tape bullshit was fucking huge. The tape could be seen in every hotel in the world, so we hit just about all of the pay movie channels and the hotel chains that were showing the video without a release, which is fucking illegal. But we got nowhere with it and it’s unfathomable. The tape was ruled newsworthy because Pamela and I are public figures. How the fuck could that be newsworthy? Last time I checked, 60 Minutes never launched an investigation to determine if Ben tapped J. Lo’s ass proper like a real man should have.† I couldn’t believe this was happening to us. All I could think about was how I’d explain it to our kids one day. And I’m still working on that one.
We took our case to appellate court and to federal court, but it was a useless battle. After the first judge deemed it newsworthy, the others seemed to fall in line. I’ll feel bad for the rest of my life for all the unpaid work our lawyer, Ed Masry, did for us. He took the case on contingency, and it went on for years. It’s not like Ed was hurting for cash—he was a part of the legal team who won the Erin Brockovich* case, and that homeboy rides around in a Rolls-Royce—but he did keep on it and never saw a dime. If we had won against any of those big corporations that broadcast the footage, Ed and everyone else would have cashed in. But we didn’t. I’m still sick to my stomach that people believe that Pamela and I released the tape on purpose for profit. The Wall Street Journal named the tape the most profitable porno release of all time, estimating that it grossed close to $77 million. Considering that there weren’t any production costs or actors’ fees to take care of, that number was pure profit—for the fuckers that fucked us. That’s tight. I wish I could say we had the last laugh and financed our kids’ future off someone trying to rob us, but the truth is, I can’t.
Our lives were crazy already: Pamela was working seven days a week on Baywatch and the movie Barb Wire while I recorded with a new version of Mötley.* When we had time together, we sat home and watched the insane bullshit around us unfold every time we turned on the TV. The stress of all that attention started to wear on our relationship. After Dylan was born, it got worse. The lawsuits, the porno tape, our schedules, learning to parent, and learning to be married to each other was insane—it was a fucking accident waiting to happen. But I didn’t even see it coming, because trouble doesn’t wear a bell, it just shows up, and you either have the tools to deal with it or you don’t. And I didn’t have them back then.
After children are born every marriage changes. You are no longer just lovers living for each other. You’ve got other responsibilities and we had done everything so fast—and had so much bullshit happening to us—that we could not fucking deal. We were both kids ourselves who were learning as we went along and didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. When everything got overwhelming for us, Pamela focused on the children and let our relationship slide. She let us slip apart because her life became about being a mom. Of course I felt that the kids were num ber one, but in my mind we had to find a way for everyone to be number one. I don’t know, I guess something has to suffer when you add two new spices to the soup. But I didn’t want that to happen.
Babe, we both had pagers. I was on call for you too. Isn’t that why we got them?
Yo! P, hold up. We’re missing some information here. We were fighting a lot then, so it’s not like I just showed up at Baywatch one day to rearrange your trailer. We were having an argument that day—clearly you don’t remember what it was about, and neither do I. I do know that I wasn’t going to take out my frustration on you, so the cabinets had to take one for the Lees. Looking back now, I did the right thing—I had a head start on all those lessons I learned in my anger management classes a little later: 1) I did something physical to get it out of my system, and 2) I walked away. Well, not exactly. I drove away—same thing. And for the record, I didn’t do a doughnut in the parking lot. I did a burnout—because I wanted to get the fuck out of there as fast as I could.
We had back-to-back kids, in just two years, and I didn’t have the tools to deal with the changes, as I’m sure many new fathers don’t. Kids don’t come with a manual, and there’s no tried-and-true how-to book on raising a family. I started feeling needy and wondering what happened to me in Pamela’s priorities. I kept thinking, “Where is the love?” (Sorry to get off the subject for a minute, but I love that Black Eyed Peas song “Where Is the Love?” It was my favorite song of 2003—what a great message. I just had to say that.) I started to feel like a fucking baby-sitter to her and nothing else. I just didn’t know how to deal with my own insecurities when I went from being the most important thing in my girl’s life to number 3 on her Billboard chart. In my heart I know we could have worked it out if we hadn’t been fighting the world at the same time. But timing wasn’t on our side, so we started to get into little pissy arguments.
I’ll say it straight up: Pamela and I are passionate people by ourselves. Put us together, and it’s off the block. We make each other crazy and when it’s good it’s so fucking good. But when it’s bad, it’s all bad. I have a tattoo on my arm of two switches and one says “reset.” I push it when I wish everything could be done over. That thing got a workout during this period, but nothing changed. These weren’t problems that a button could fix.
Everything snapped one night just after Dylan was born. I was making dinner, we had just cracked a bottle of wine and were splitting the first glass together. It was one of those moments that started innocently enough and got more intense than I would ever have
imagined: No one was drunk, no one was already pissed off about anything—it just exploded. Neither of us really know what started it. I think I was looking for a pan and one of us said something that rubbed the other one the wrong way. I threw the pan back in the cabinet, and I remember her saying that she was going to call her mom to come over because I was scaring her. I didn’t want her mom over anymore—she was at our house a lot as it was. I asked her a bunch of times not to call her, but Pamela did anyway. With Dylan in one arm, she picked up the phone to call her mom. I went over and pressed the receiver button down as she tried to dial, and asked her please not to call. She picked up the phone again, and I hung it up again and asked her please not to call. She did it again, and then again, and each time I hung it up. And then, blam! she turned and clocked me in the jaw. I was stunned. I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing?” I didn’t know what to do—and I couldn’t believe this was happening. Both of our boys were crying, watching Mom and Dad fight. Pamela still had Dylan in her arms and she led Brandon with her into the playroom off the kitchen. As she did, I kicked her in the bum, and I’m so sorry I ever did that. I am—I still regret it to this day. I just want all of you readers to know that I’m not in denial about what I did. I take full responsibility, and I also want to be clear about this: I was not wearing steel-toe boots and kicking her like some drunk guy in a bar brawl. I was wearing my UGG slippers and it was an emotional reaction of mine to the punch I just took in the chops. At this point, I’m losing my mind. I just want the boys to stop crying and I want all of this to stop. I go into the playroom and ask Pamela if I can take Brandon outside for a walk. I needed one too. She didn’t want me to and she corralled the kids around her, as if I were going to hurt them. Now I was running on nothing but emotions—and that is bad, at any time. Neither of us were thinking straight—we went back and forth verbally, and no one was letting up. All I wanted to do was separate everyone—the boys and us. We all needed time apart to cool down, to just breathe and remember how much we loved one another. Emotion ruled over reason and I grabbed Brandon to take him outside with me. She fought me, pulling him away from me, so I pushed her away. Dylan was still in her arms and unfortunately he bumped his head on the chalkboard next to where she was sitting. I’m so sorry, Dylan, I never meant for that to happen—and I regret it every single day. And as it was stated in the police report, Pamela broke a nail. They even have pictures of it.