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.

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.

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.

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 did 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.

We separated and I carried Brandon outside to the fountain at the front of our house. He liked to go down there to listen to the frogs, so that’s what we did. While I was outside, Pamela called the cops. After our walk, Brandon and I were sitting in the playroom when I heard a man’s voice asking me to stand up and turn around. It was a cop, already in the house, and I hadn’t even heard them come in. Pamela had already told them her side of the story on the phone, so I was arrested without question. While I was sitting in the cop car, handcuffed, I asked the sheriff why he wouldn’t listen to what I had to say. His answer was, “In California, it’s whoever gets to the phone first. If you would have called, this whole thing would have been reversed.” That was February 24, 1998, just five days after our third-year anniversary.

The next day, I was labeled a wife beater by the media. That’s tight. At some point in her story to the 5-0, Pamela mentioned that there were guns in the house, which violated my probation. Guess I should have read the small print on those court papers. Fuck! My whole collection, the one I replaced after the first one was stolen, was confiscated and that’s when this situation and whatever I was going to be booked for was bumped up a notch. I had everything under the sun, from .38 Specials to fully automatic Uzis and Mack 10s, shotguns, riot guns, .44 Magnums, Berettas, Glocks, and FNC assault rifles. Those were my toys, and most of them were illegal. When Pamela led the cops up to the gun safe, I knew I was fucked.

I was in jail for two nights. I called my good friend and producer Scott Humphrey twenty-three times in thirty minutes that day. He had gone out to do some quick errand and couldn’t believe it when he came back and saw that many messages on the answering machine, each one of them saying, “This is a collect call from the L.A. County Jail.”

On my third day in jail, a piece of paper was handed to me. I sat there and read it, and at first I thought it said I needed to post $100,000 for bail. When I looked at the number again, I thought it was an optical illusion. It wasn’t—I had to post one million dollars for bail. I fucking lost it. I felt like I was being treated like one of the Menendez brothers, like someone who had committed a hideous murder. Needless to say, my lawyers posted bail and got me out of there. Pamela had taken the kids and left our home. When I got back there, I tried to relax, but the media logjam outside and all around our property was worse than it had ever been. I tried to ignore it and sort shit out, but after two days, I was ready to jump off the fucking roof and really give them something to photograph. I called in Scott to help me out. He said he would take me in, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to have the media circus pitching tents outside his house. I thought I’d be able to get over there without being followed, but that wasn’t happening. As soon as I left my driveway a convoy of five cars, a couple of vans, and a fucking helicopter tailed me. I was on the phone with Scott as I was driving, saying, “Um … dude? We have a problem, there’s a fucking helicopter, a few news vans, and a shitload of paparazzi behind me.” God bless Scott. He and my engineer Frank came up with a plan: We met at the top of Runyon canyon at night when it was pitch-black. He told me to go to a certain street and look for the blinking flashlight. I get there, I see the flashlight, and there’s Scott in the bushes holding two mountain bikes. He’s shouting at me to jump out of the truck, into the bushes, and to leave my keys in the ignition. I’m shouting, “What the fuck?” as I dive into the shrubs on the side of the road. Scott hands me a flashlight, tells me to get on the bike and follow him. We took off in the dark, down a steep hill, leaving my truck and a line of photographers scratching their heads in the dust. Scott had planned our escape route, all along the fire roads in the canyon that he rode all the time. He had never gone for a spin in the dark though, so there we are, flying down dirt paths with two little beams lighting the way, getting a little bit lost and at one point just tearing through brush. We get to the end of a road that Scott thought would be open and we find ourselves staring down a twelve-foot gate. We throw the bikes over it, onto someone’s property, and climb over. As we ride away all the security lights go on in the house and some big fucking dogs start barking. We’re sitting there, freaking, trying to peel out and going nowhere because the driveway we’re trespassing on is gravel. That’s tight. We finally made it to the pavement, thinking we were lost, way out of our way, and totally fucked. Then we looked down the road and realized we were just a few hundred feet from Scott’s house.

Scott was the best—the next day he ordered a shitload of tall ficus trees and had them planted on his back balcony so no one could shoot pictures of me from the hills around it when I wanted to go outside and get some air. He saved my ass in so many ways. When we got back to his place, he turned to me and said, “You’re at the house of music, man. I’ve got a room for you.” He set me up with more than a room: There was a studio downstairs and all the instruments I could play. He knew that I needed a place to figure out what the fuck was happening to my life and get out a lot of emotions. And he realized the practical side of getting out of jail: You are going to fucking have diarrhea until you get used to eating regular food again. He had stocked the place with all the basics I’d need to get myself back to normal.

Downstairs in Scott’s studio Rob Zombie was recording Hellbilly Deluxe and one day while I was there, he and Scott realized that I was upstairs, sitting around, thinking way too much.

They came up to my room and asked me if I wanted to play some drums on the album and I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready to answer a question: There has never, ever been a time when I wanted to beat the fuck out of some drums that badly in my entire life. I wanted to fucking hit shit—hard. It was epic; that invitation was the therapy any good, honest doctor would have prescribed: “Tommy, as your physician, I advise that you find some drums to destroy as soon as possible. Continue the medication every day until you feel better.” I had a lot to get out, so I ended up playing drums on four or five tracks of that album. I’m grateful for it: Scott, Rob, thanks dudes. Fuck! I needed that.

I lived with Scott for a few months and started to work on the music that became my solo project, Methods of Mayhem. Scott gave me a computer rig for my bedroom and I had my home studio computer brought over as well after Pamela and the kids moved back into our house. I worked every day and it was the only thing that kept me going as everything else in my life got worse. I was already on summary probation, which is the lightest variety, for flying too many assholes first class on friendly skies. After my arrest and Pamela’s accusation of spousal abuse, I was in deep shit. On May 21, 1998, I was sentenced to three years in jail. In the end, I served four months and was let out early for good behavior with probation. That was the time that changed my life. It’s not anything I can sum up without losing the plot right here.

Between the time I was arrested and went to court, and then went to jail, Pamela and I were still talking, still fighting, still at each other, and still so crazy about each other that we could not leave each other alone. We were trying to work things out, and let me tell you it was minute-to-minute. It was a fucking box of dynamite in a gas station and I was sitting on it lighting a cigarette. It felt like everyone in the world was part of our breakup, which didn’t help. I didn’t want to go public with all the bullshit, but she did. She really did. She went for the full-on media blitz and made me look like shit in every available media outlet.

I’ve always tried to take the high road when I get into fucked-up shit with people. I try to never judge anybody and if I’m gonna do it, I never do it in public. So I didn’t say anything about Pamela even on those days when I felt like going the fuck off on her. To me, being Silent Guy was the right thing to do, but it sucked because when you say nothing people automatically assume you’re guilty. Fuck ’em. Let ’em talk. They don’t know shit about me.

After I did my jail time, which you’ll learn about in a moment, my readers, it looked like things stood a chance of being normal again with Pamela and me—and there was nothing that I wanted more. I tried my best to work things out with her when I was behind bars. It wasn’t easy. She started dating her old boyfriend, that surfer, Kelly Slater, and if you don’t think that hurt, you don’t know shit. We did start getting along again though, and it seemed like we were on our way to getting back together. We would spend time together with the kids, as a family, hang out, and it felt like we were finally enjoying each other again. But it didn’t last forever. I went on tour with Mötley in support of our Greatest Hits album in 1999, and when we were separated, the lines of communication got twisted again. Both of us were still angry: We were going through our ups and downs—and they weren’t in bed.

On one of our good nights, which happened to be New Year’s Eve, Pamela came over and we hopped in the hot tub and I made the mistake of cracking a bottle of champagne to celebrate what felt like a new beginning. I was on probation and consuming alcohol violated the fuck out of it—if I were to be tested or if someone testified that I had consumed booze at all, I was heading back to jail. That night, celebrating with Pamela felt right to both of us. I didn’t realize for a second that the champagne we shared was a full clip of hollow-point bullets served to her on a platter. Bad move.

On May 26, 2000, Pamela pulled the hammer back in court and shot those hollow points at will. While I was on tour with Methods of Mayhem, I was informed that she’d told the district attorney I’d violated my probation by consuming alcohol. I was fucked. And I went back to jail for four days. I got out on May 30. I don’t remember dates too well, but let me tell you, those who have been to jail remember the day they get out.

Around the same time, this shitty situation went from worse to worst. Pamela had been hanging around with a mutual acquaintance of ours named Bob, and before I knew it I started getting emails from hell from her, which of course I fired right fucking back. That was great. What was better was the wack-ass courtesy call I got from Bob, all stuttering, saying, “Uh...hey, bro? Uh... I need to tell you something, dude. Um... Pamela and I hung out in New York...and...uh... dude, one thing lead to another.” I said, “What are you talking about, dude?” He stumbled on, like a drunk guy walking home, saying things like, “Dude, I know we’re buds and all, dude.... Ah, dude, I don’t know what to do, dude.” I’m on the phone, listening to this fucking idiot fumbling, knowing I know the deal, thinking, “Of course. Pamela made him call. Because she could never fucking do it.” When my patience ran out and I couldn’t take it anymore I said, “Thanks for the courtesy call, asshole.” Click. Later. Whatever.

Shit, Bob! I thought we were boys! I reminisced back to 1999, when ol’ Bob* came by while I was working on my Methods of Mayhem album. He rapped or whatever you want to call what he does on one of my tracks. Thank God he didn’t do any of that country shit he’s doing now on my record. I thought about how I’d met him: I’d invited Fred Durst over to be on the record and he showed up with Bob. I didn’t give a fuck—hell, I didn’t even really know who he was. Those guys were early and partied with their posse down in the studio while I had dinner with Carmen Electra, my girlfriend at the time. After Bob made many trips to the bathroom, and I was done eating, it was time to throw down. I’d only planned on recording Fred that night, but Bob was hell-bent on getting on the mike. What the fuck did I care? We worked for hours and at the end of the night, when I went to save all the work we’d done, I hit the wrong key and deleted all those files—Fred and Bob were gone. Karma? Fate? I don’t know. For better or for worse, we eventually rerecorded them. Anyway, that was the first night I met Bob and I had met him only one other time after that, just chilling in his hotel room after some show or other. We had made music, we had partied, we were friends—and I thought this cat was my bud. After that phone call, all I could think was, “Why you gotta raise up on my ex, dude? There are so many other hot ladies on tap.”

Whatever. The two of them started hanging out. Bob has custody of his son, so I’m almost positive that he got in Pamela’s ear about getting full custody of our kids—at least that’s what she told me recently. That’s when it became a war, because I love my boys too much not to be a major part of their lives every step of the way. Within six months, the full court custody battle began.

I hated having to put our boys through the weirdness of us separating. Divorce is difficult for anyone at any age, but I’m very glad that my boys were young enough that they might just forget the details of the time that Pamela and I were butting heads. We were like two fucking rams. It was just terrible to be so mad at someone you love so much. But I think back to when I was around six and I can remember things about that time—generally, it’s good shit, like my dad taking me fishing in Minnesota. The things that remain in your soul or your subconscious or whatever are snapshots that you feel more than see. It’s the same way the smell of gardenias takes me all the way back to my mom’s garden when I was a little kid.

I only hope that the tough times between Pamela and me—all the custody shit, all the divorce rage that went back and forth between us—did not register in our boys’ memories. Because that time and the way we treated each other was not and is not their mom and dad. We were getting things out that they’ll only understand much later, when they’re older. On the divorce, on the lawyers, it was such a ridiculous amount of money we spent. We dropped six figures on all that fighting, and if we had been adults, we would have figured out some way to communicate, work out a plan, and put that money in the boys’ trust funds instead of funding new wings on our lawyers’ Beverly Hills estates. If we had had the tools to talk to each other, we could have avoided the legal system and the whole fucking endless train of paperwork—damn we killed a ton of trees. Pamela and I threw rocks at each other’s glass houses, in transcripts hacked out by court stenographers, in arguments acted out by lawyers before a judge, in motions filed with the court—all the money we wasted went into everyone else’s pockets. The boys got none of it. Looking back, I wish we’d just piled it up and lit it on fire. At least the Monkeys could have roasted some marshmallows on it.