Hella Nation - Evan Wright [128]
IN ADDITION TO BEING SOBER, all of them are currently attempting to live under the gentle tyranny of committed relationships with wives or long-term girlfriends.
An hour before showtime, Nikki is on his cell phone speaking to his wife, former Playboy model and Baywatch star Donna D’Errico, about a medical problem with one of their four children.
“My six-year-old is having dizzy spells and headaches,” he says, flipping his phone off. “He’s having a CAT scan next week, but you never know what can cause it. I just finished reading a book about all the problems drinking milk can cause.” Nikki looks up portentously. He is the band’s deep thinker. “Do you realize we are the only species on earth that drinks milk as adults?”
“Cats drink milk,” Vince counters.
“You’re right.” Nikki laughs, with a huge grin that spreads out beneath the shadow cast by his cowboy hat. “Fuck that stupid book.”
“When Pam was lactating,” Tommy recalls, “I was wigging on the sweetness of her milk. A while ago Pam and I were in the kitchen with her mother. Her mom bent over in the refrigerator, and Pam started squirting me with it. Her mom saw us, and was like, ‘Can’t you guys wait!’
“We freaked out Pam’s doctor. We were screwing eleven days after Brandon was born.”
“Donna told me she’s coming in to New York tomorrow with her suitcase stuffed full of stuff she bought at Trashy Lingerie.”
“Heidi’s coming in tonight.” Vince stretches back in a Barcalounger draped in leopard skin, smiling at the thought of seeing his girlfriend, Playboy model Heidi Mark. “I can’t wait to crack her open.”
“Donna told me I have to wait four hours before I bang her,” Nikki states grimly, then brightens with a scheme. “Maybe if I can have Frosty deliver flowers to the hotel room when she arrives, I can get in sooner.”
“What works with Heidi,” Vince says, with the confidence of experience, “is beer. It works a lot quicker on her than flowers.”
THE SOUND OF TWO THOUSAND FANS all chanting “Crüe, Crüe, Crüe!” outside in the auditorium rouses Mötley Crüe from reveries of reuniting with their women.
With twenty minutes to showtime, Mötley Crüe begins to dress, demonstrating about as much concern as a high school punk band gearing up for a performance in the neighbor’s garage.
Nikki sprays his hair so it spikes up Sid Vicious style and dons a fishnet top, knee-length leather shorts and fishnet stockings. He wraps himself in a floor-length coat that looks to be made of bright orange, shag carpeting.
“Do I look like Pimp Daddy Orange?” he asks.
“You look like a cheap whore,” Vince says.
“Cool!” Nikki enthuses, attaching orange space goggles to the brim of his cowboy hat.
Vince matches his shiny black patent-leather pants with a silver sequined top and saunters down to the stage with a “See you later.” He will start the show suspended twenty feet above the stage, swinging atop a Gothic chandelier.
Mick, who put on his platform boots earlier, performs in the same clothes he wears offstage. His preparation consists of smoking a final Marlboro Light. The excitement of going onstage makes him grow talkative.
“Uh-oh,” Mick warns, “Nikki hasn’t greased a towel yet.”
“We can tell how good the show is going to be,” Tommy explains, as he clips a microphone transmitter to the back of his rubber thongs, “depending on how much dick cheese Nikki wipes out of his balls before we go onstage.”
Ignoring the gibes of his bandmates, Nikki hunts for a place to take a leak, before settling on a trash can.
Nearly buck naked, bone skinny and as brightly inked as the Sunday comics, Tommy resembles a strange white savage. He leans against the cracked brick wall of the dressing room and graffitis, “We’re back, motherfuckers! —Mötley Crüe.” He throws the pen down, spits into the palms of his hands, smacks them together several times and runs down to the stage.
IT WAS FIVE YEARS AGO that Vince left Mötley Crüe to pursue his interests in golfing, fast cars and babes. Before his departure, things had not been going well in the band. Vince had seriously