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.

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.

I’m cool hanging with fans as long as no one gets too crazy. I go to local bars to play foosball and video games, and just have a few rounds with the regulars. I’m definitely not on some ego trip and I’m not at all trying to be trendy and cool—you should see where I hang out. Considering some of the situations I’ve ended up in, I should probably roll with security, but I usually don’t.

I’m not tripping, y’all, really—I’ve got the mad fan love, but there are some fans I just don’t understand. I was in Bora Bora on vacation not too long ago. It is by far the most romantic place in the world. It’s not the kind of place where anyone cares who you are: It’s so free that no one bothers anyone because the place inspires this natural high that I’ve never experienced anywhere else. The ocean, the trees, the sand, the raw beauty, is all so insane that the people there are completely in heaven, feeling lovely and forgetting about the rest of the world for a while.

That last time I was there though, I’m on the beach, just chilling, and out of the corner of my eye I see a guy coming my way. I think “Uh-oh... oh, no... Oh, damn... okay, here we go.” He’s carrying a book and I know what book it is when he’s still fifty yards off. It’s The Dirt —of course it is. Here he comes. Okay, fine. I’m ready.

“Hey Tom! Hey man! Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’ dude. Just chillin’.”

I’m thinking, “Oh, shit. Of all places for this to happen. Great.” He starts talking to me, telling me he’s on his honeymoon and when he comes up for air, I congratulate him. Then he starts telling me about his wedding. After that he drops the fanatic bomb: He says, “Hey man, I don’t mean to bother you, but, could you sign this?” No problem, dude.

Okay. I’ve gotta say this because it’s been chappin’ my ass for years. Whenever people anywhere say they don’t mean to bother you, they are fucking lying. They’re lying like a rug in a flophouse. They’re lying like politicians on the campaign trail. They’re lying like a married man on a business trip. They’re lying like a computer nerd in a singles ad. They’re lying like that girl who says she never does this on the first date. They’re just fucking lying. All of ’em—always.

And they ask you to believe their lie anyway. If they really listened to themselves, they would realize that they just said, “I really don’t want to bother you.” And if they heard that, maybe they’d already know what I’m thinking: “Well...if you don’t want to bother me, then don’t.” But they do want to bother me, and hey, man, that’s cool. It could be worse. No one could be asking me for my autograph.

Anyway, so I’m on the beach and this dude asks me to sign his book, which, as I predicted, is The Dirt, the autobiography of Mötley Crüe. I’m thinking to myself, “You’re on your honeymoon, and right now you are standing in the most beautiful place on earth and you’re reading about Mötley Crüe? Woah.” That’s crazy. This guy is just married and he’s more interested in learning about some of the gnarliest rock-and-roll debauchery that’s ever been. I sign it and say, “You brought this on your honeymoon? Are you out of your mind? Where is your girl?” He told me that his girl was back at the hotel doing her own thing. Woah. Hey. Dude, that’s not good. While he kept going on about how amazing the book was, I kept thinking about how his poor newly wed wife must be wondering why he was reading that book on their honeymoon. Then again, maybe she bought it for him to inspire him to new heights of nastiness. You never know these days; people are weird and love comes in all kinds of craise. Even I’m confused.

So I signed it, on one condition: that he find something else to read while he’s in Bora Bora. I said, “That’s not really a beach kind of book to read, my man. But I’m really glad you like it.” He wasn’t having that at all. He said something like, “It’s perfect for right now. Everything I need to know is in here, bro.” I found that totally fucking scary. I guess to some people a lot of drugs and retarded excess is postnuptial bliss. Whatever. God bless the freaks. I wish those two and all the rest of you well, wherever you are.