by Tommy Lee
That day I realized how small our world is. Back in 1994, I recorded “Welcome to Planet Boom.” It was my very first solo effort and it was all about rhythm. I couldn’t believe it when she told me she didn’t know anything about Mötley, but instead that’s how she knew who I was. I remembered hearing once that Prince used to play that song all the time. (I freaked when I heard that one of my favorite artists loved my song!)
Mayte and I bonded right from the start. It felt natural when we spent time together, so we started to see each other a lot. I had always wanted to be with a woman who could share my love of music. Mayte sang, she danced—fuck, can she dance—
I’D JUST LIKE TO ADD A HELL YEAH TO THAT! HER DANCING IS CONTAGIOUS… .
EVERY TIME I SEE IT, I JUST HAVE TO DANCE TOO!
and she loved being with me in the studio, writing and creating until the sun came up. I’d never experienced that before and I was lovin’ it.
During the first year of our relationship, I was going through a heap of shit. Mayte had no idea what she was coming into, but she was so supportive that there is no way I can ever thank her enough. She lived with me and lived in my house through some of the worst shit I’ve ever dealt with: custody battles, probation, and all the emotional fallout from my breakup with Pamela. All that shit was open wounds that I was trying to sew up. She was amazing with my kids—she treated my boys like they were her own. She loved them and they loved her—they still ask about her, all the time. She was the only thing that kept me going most days, and I feel completely unable to put down here in words how much that meant to me. Most women would have bailed after learning what my day-to-day reality was like at that time and how hard it was for me emotionally. It was ugly. Thank you, my Lit.
Mayte and I had an amazing relationship. We helped each other heal and grow. We also had a lot of fun together. We had our own language in which we talked like a couple of strange Europeans. She’s Puerto Rican, so she did that accent to the fullest, and I’d answer her in my best slimy Greek Guy imitation. People didn’t know what the fuck was up with us. I’d say, “Hhhello My Leetle. What arrrre ju doingk?” She’d say, “Nuthingk, Paapi. I waantt to suhhk jour dickkk.”
For my fortieth birthday, Mayte threw me an amazing party. She did it in my favorite place, the place where we first got to know each other, the place I call the Garden of Truth—my Japanese garden. It was a surprise and I had no idea. She did it right. I wasn’t home that day, so she picked me up, blindfolded me, and handed me a watermelon martini—the official house drink in Tommyland. As she drove us up the long winding road to my house, I knew where we were going and I became Mr. Bummer Surprise-Party Guy. “We’re going up to the house, right?” I said. She tried to keep the mystery alive and said, “No, we’re not! No way.” Believe me, I know the roads around my house better than the cats who repair them. I was like, “Oh. Here we go, we’re going through the tunnel!” She’d say, “No, we’re not!” And I’d say, “Okay, one more turn and we’re there!” When we got there, Mayte led me down to the garden, while I kept saying things like, “So we’re walking by the pool now, right?”
It didn’t matter that I knew where we were. When we got to the garden I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had transformed it into the best present I could imagine: an outdoor sushi restaurant full of my closest friends. I had told her that I had always wanted to do that. She heard me and made that dream come true. There were tables all around the koi pond, candles, the sushi chef doing his thing, and familiar faces as far as my eyes could see. I had it all: I was in my favorite place with my favorite people. What more could you want?
My birthday party was a lot smaller than Puff Daddy’s—thank God. Mayte and I went to that one, and if you haven’t read any of the magazine or newspaper articles about it, let me tell you—it was crazy. He threw it in Morocco and chartered two 747s to fly hundreds of his closest friends in from New York and Paris. Mayte and I went with my friend and coproducer Scott Humphrey, and we realized we were in for it right away. We’re taxiing down the runway, and Puffy gets on the PA and says, “Once we get to forty thousand feet and this motherfucker levels off—it’s on y’all!” And on it was. Champagne, the Hen, boom boxes, dancing—all of it—and his mom is on the plane!
Everyone is feeling Irie,* even the stewardesses, and at one point I think: “If I see the pilot walk back here and party up I’m gonna freak!” It reminded me of the Crüe on our private flights but with a helluva lot more people. This was the Nonstop Hip-hop and We-Don’t-Stop Airbus to Africa.
After ten hours on the soul plane we finally land in Morocco and the big red carpet is rolled out for us motherfuckers. We exit the airport and we see everything that is Marrakech: camels, snake charmers, men playing those long, crazy Middle Eastern trumpets, belly dancers, and drummers everywhere. The first thing I heard was women singing in traditional Muslim style: that strange yell that is somewhere between a chant and a yodel. All of us pile into a shitload of Mercedes limos that are lined up, waiting to take us to the hotel, while Puffy cruises to this crazy palace he had all to himself.
It was a four-day party. There were a few pre–birthday party parties, the birthday party, the day after the birthday party party, and the afterparty for the day after the birthday party. Somewhere in there, everyone spent a day at a lake riding camels, Jet Skis, four-wheelers, horses, chicks—just ripping it up and eating barbecue. There were models from New York and Paris getting all crazy all over the place. Puffy was walking around in one of those Moroccan white linen suits, taking it all in. (Everyone had bought one by the end of the trip. Mine is upstairs in my closet. It’s almost like a dress, or a muumuu. Nah, I guess it’s more like a tent. Now I know what girls feel like when they wear a dress with no underwear—it’s fuckin’ cool.)
YEAH IT IS. YOU KNOW I LOVE MY FREEDOM.
LET A BROTHER BREATHE!
Mayte, Scott, and I spent a day walking around the souk, which is the huge maze of an open-air market that is fucking crazy. We were having a great day—until I got bit by a monkey. This guy comes up to us, pimping the little guy for money. Morocco is a Third World country, so people make money however they can. I love monkeys because we had one in my house when I was a kid, so I was psyched. When I go to touch this monkey he grabs my finger, puts it in his mouth, and chomps down on it, hard as fuck. Oh, damn. I’m thinking about all of the diseases going around Morocco and how I’ve probably just gotten all of them. I was lucky, that fucker didn’t break my skin. I couldn’t believe it when the guy asked me for money! I wasn’t going to pay for a monkey bite. That’s fucked up.
Mayte and I were together for two years. She moved in with me and we shared everything. I asked her to marry me in 2002 on New Year’s Eve. We were at my house with my sister and her children, Mayte’s parents, and my boys. After we ate dinner, as it got close to midnight, I couldn’t wait any longer. I asked her father if I could marry his daughter and he gave me the go-ahead. I hadn’t planned to do it that night, but I got so excited that I couldn’t wait. I took a Gummi Bear ring from the kids’ candy jar and put it on her finger. I promised her that I’d get her a real ring, told her that it would be something special, but I had to know if she’d marry me. She said yes.
Everyone was happy, everyone was hugging, and everyone was drinking champagne. We had cans of Silly String and we shot it all over the place. It felt so right: Mayte is amazing, she was my best friend, my partner, and she brought so many new things into my life. She has a huge, warm, loving family and I loved being around that. They have a tradition around the holidays—they make pastellas. They’re wrapped in banana leaves and made of plantains, yucca, pork, garbanzo beans, and stuff I don’t even know about. It was amazing to watch Mayte and her family tear up the kitchen, making a huge batch of those things. They’re delicious. Of course they are—they’re made with love.
While Mayte and I were together, I recorded my most recent record, Never a Dull Moment. She was supportive, she had ideas, she was an honest
critic, and she helped me in so many ways. I love that record and I’m proud of it—it was an evolution for me. I was able to express myself more honestly than I ever had, because I knew myself better than I ever had. I was truly on my own this time: There weren’t many guest stars, it was just me. To make that leap with my best friend and lover by my side was a first for me and it was amazing. I would play her songs, she’d be excited to listen, and she had great ideas of how to make it better. We wrote songs together—another first for me. I felt that everything I was doing was in the right place. Mayte got it. My ex-wives supported what I did but they weren’t musicians. Maybe I expected them to understand what they really couldn’t—music wasn’t their language.
Mayte sung on that album and when I toured she danced in the show. She was hot as fuck—she is hot as fuck! She had showed me a video of her dancing with Prince, and I freaked. Mötley had had dancers, but let’s face it—they were more like strippers. Mayte is a real dancer. Our friend, Brian, a choreographer, came down to rehearsals and worked out a routine with Mayte. I put together some crazy beats for her to dance to and we arranged a light show to highlight her dancing. I loved playing a show with my girl every night. I loved sharing the high you get after a show with the woman I was sharing my life with. It was the first time I’d been on tour with my girl. And most girls would be jealous of so much shit that happens on tour, but Mayte wasn’t. Every night I’d go to the front of the stage with a camera that was hooked to the big screens behind me. It was the Titty Cam because I’d only point it at all the girls flashing their tits. If that wouldn’t piss off the average woman, I don’t know what would. Mayte didn’t care—actually, she fucking dug it. She’d either be down in the audience filming all the crazy chicks with her own camera, or she’d be at the side of the stage checking out the video Breast Buffet.
I don’t think Mayte ever got over losing her first child. She had always wanted to be a mom and that was the only problem we had in our relationship. She really wanted children right away. The timing was terrible for us: She was talking about having children while I was fighting just to keep mine. I had never thought about having any more children than my boys. For a minute I thought that it would be rad to have a little girl. Then I thought about how protective I’d be when she became a teenager. I thought about her going on dates with guys and how motherfucking horny teenage dudes are—fuck, how motherfucking horny all dudes are. I didn’t like the thought of that one bit—until I figured out how I would handle it. When the guy showed up to take my daughter out I’d pull him aside. “Whatever you do to my daughter, I’m gonna do to you,” I’d tell him. “You kiss her, I’m kissing you. You suck her titties, I’m gonna suck your titties. You fuck her, I’m fuckin’ you.”
WOAH, WOAH, HEY, DUDE! NO WAY!
I’M NOT GOING IN THERE!
I felt a lot better after that.
I DIDN’T!
The straw that broke the camel’s back came one day when I was sitting by the pool studying a deposition, preparing for an appearance in court the next day. It was the middle of the trial surrounding Daniel’s death, and I was taking the stand the next morning. Mayte came and sat next to me because she wanted to have “A Talk.” Again, bad timing—really bad. We had been engaged for more than a year and Mayte wanted to know where the relationship was going, when we were going to get married, and when we would start a family. A part of me thought that she was being really selfish and that turned me off. The other part of me didn’t blame her. We had been in limbo for a while, mostly because of the drama going on in my life. Her biological clock was ticking and her life was on hold: I couldn’t give her everything she needed and deserved. I told her that if she wanted to go she should because she should be in a relationship with someone who could give her what she wanted. Right then, there was no way I could be that guy. She asked me why I asked her to marry me. I said, “Because I love you.” Sometimes that isn’t enough.
We had been through so much bullshit together—bullshit that had nothing to do with our lives together but that affected us to the point that we started fighting a lot. Please believe, you do not want to fight with a Puerto Rican woman—you will lose. There wasn’t any solution for us: She wasn’t happy, I wasn’t happy, and neither of us would budge. We broke off our engagement in the summer of 2003, and I’m happy to say that we’re still friends. It is hard for me sometimes, because in my heart I think that if we had met at a different time and place in each other’s lives we would have been together forever. I’ll always love you, my Little.
21 STATE OF BEGINNER’S LUCK
a.k.a.
T-BONE’S WINNING
STREAK,
LAS VEGAS, JULY 2003
I went to Vegas in the summer of 2003 with a bunch of my friends. We went to The Palms hotel, up to the Ghost Bar, which is at the very top of the place. It’s got this amazing deck with a clear piece of Plexiglas in it so that you can see the street, hundreds of feet down, while you dance. We’re partying up there and it’s fucking retarded. Later we go back to the Hard Rock casino to gamble. I’m not a huge gambling guy, mostly because I don’t know how to play most of the games. My friends want to play craps, which I’ve never played before. But I don’t care! I take two hundred bucks out, throw it down, and pick up the dice. My friends are like, “Dude, just roll the fucking dice. But no matter what, do not roll a seven. You roll a seven, you crap out, and we’re fucking done.” I roll the dice. Boom! Everyone at the table is all “Yaay!” Everyone wins. I have no idea why or how. I just know I did something right. I don’t know how to bet or where to place my chips, so one of my boys bets for me. And I roll again. Boom! Again, the whole table blows up. They’re yelling, “Fuck! No way!” I hit it again somehow.
Twice in a row would have been good enough for me, but dude, I keep on going. I roll the dice for almost an hour without crappin’ out. I must have had a fucking horseshoe up my ass that night. Everything was just right. I would roll whatever my boys said we needed. We need an eight? Boom! They’d put a thousand dollars on the table, and they’d tell me to roll a six. I’d be like, “Six? Okay.” And I’d roll it.
By the time I was done, the combined winnings at that table were $101,000. My friends loved me. The strangers who won loved me. The hotel hated me. The host from the Hard Rock came up to my room in the morning to inform me that security watched the tape several times because they thought I had been cheating but had decided that I hadn’t. How could I cheat when I’d never played craps before? According to him, never, ever in the history of the hotel has anyone ever rolled the dice nonstop for almost an hour. I thought that was awesome and I asked him if I could get the tape. It was the most epic night that will never, ever happen again. I’m not even gonna try.
22 STATE OF ADORATION
a.k.a.
FANATIC
I love my fans, I always have. They keep musicians going, and if it’s going well, they keep musicians eating too. Mötley always made as much time as possible to sign stuff, just hang out for a minute, whatever we could do. I can’t even tell you how many times my manager, or security, or road manager has thrown me over his shoulder and carried me to the bus or plane or wherever because I was signing shit or taking pictures until I was in danger of fucking up the schedule. There are times I’m not into doing stuff of course, but you know, if any bit of music I’ve ever made means that much to people that they want to shake my hand, talk for a minute, or just have my name on a piece of paper, fucking bring it on—that rules! Sure, sometimes I do just want to get through the grocery store and buy my kids their Capri Sun juice boxes, get some steaks, and bail, but I’ll always try to stop to say hello. Of course some of these well-wishers just want an autograph to go sell on eBay. I’ve learned after all these years to pick them out a little better—they’re the ones who have no idea about my music.
I see it all: Some people want to tell me all about their lives, some people want to hug me, push me, and get all kinds of physical.
&nbs
p; So if I could take a moment here and lay down a rule to my people out there, I just want to ask you all to please understand that when I’m with my little Monkeys, please just say hey from afar and let us be. My time with them is precious, and I want it to be all about them. Those are the times when fans are not the first thing on my mind. I’d like to think that although I’ve had a pretty unique life, I’m led by common sense. And common sense says that if someone is hanging out with their children, it is family time! I don’t care if you’re famous or not, if you’re a parent spending time with your children, no one has the right to interrupt you. I’d like to add that a meal is sacred, people. No matter how much you love your favorite entertainer, don’t bother them while they’re eating. We need to eat, and we love food as much as you do. So let us do it in peace.
I’ve had people walk right up to me while I’m feeding my boys out in public—which is a double whammy fan no-no: interrupting family time and meal time. At those moments, yes, I’m still Tommy Lee, but before that I’m Dad. The worst kind is a fan who has the balls and the lack of brains to come up and disturb me, then isn’t the kind of fan who’s going to go away quietly. Nope, that guy or girl doesn’t only want an autograph or a picture, they want to talk to me like they know me. They want to tell me about that show in Boston that changed their lives back in 1989. I mean, that’s great and all, but right now, I’m just trying to get some ketchup on the boys’ fries, okay?
The worst it’s gotten for me was the time I was taking a shit—just trying to drop a log—and a piece of paper with a pen on top of it came sliding sideways under the stall wall. I just hear, “Dude, could you sign that?” You’re fucking kidding me! I’m dumping, dude. I’m busy, I’m stocking the lake with brown trout. It was everything I could do not to grab some poop, slop it on there, and send it back. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just signed it, slid it back under, and went on with my business. By the time I got out of the stall, the cat was gone. I was desperate to see who he was. That cat had the biggest balls on the planet—he defines fanatic.