Nikki Sixx writes:
One night, after waking up and drinking all day, Vince and I arrived early for a show at the Whisky A Go-Go. When I walked in, a jock with feathered hair sneered, “Who do you think you are? Keith Richards or Johnny Thunders?”
I didn’t say a word. I grabbed his face and started smashing it into the side of the bar, shattering glasses and covering the counter with blood. The bouncer walked up to me, and, instead of kicking me out, smiled. “Cool, dude,” he said. “We’ll get you some free drinks for that. Do you mind if I call you Muhammad Ali, Sixx?”
He walked Vince and me upstairs, and we continued swigging Jack Daniel’s. But while I was getting a hand job from a girl at the bar, Vince slipped away. … It wasn’t until later that night, when I was leaving the club, that I found him passed out underneath a blue Ford Malibu, with his feet sticking out the side like a car mechanic. I dragged Vince home, where we found a girl handcuffed to his bed. Though Tommy was nowhere to be seen, she was one of his victims, the daughter of a famous athlete. I saw her recently, working on the pirate ship at Disneyland. It was good to see that she was still around handcuffs.
From The Dirt, the Motley Crue autobio, which is clearly the Word’s Greatest Book.
I’m only a hair-metal fan in the ironic sense, but nonetheless this glorious tale of four tight-pantsed heroes who wrestle with a cruel world could very well make me a Crüehead. To me the interesting one is Nikki Sixx, and in fact he’s now writing on the web: Rock n’ Roll Diary, part of the band’s official site. (he talks about Red Bull and Bukowski, the creative process, and vibrators). But it’s also cool to hear Tommy Lee say things like, “one of these days I’m going to have a fucking leopard. I want one on my couch just chilling when I get home from a tour.”
Oh, and stories about Ozzy Osbourne snorting ants and lapping up his own urine are always welcome. Always.