Hella Nation - Evan Wright [134]
Donna D’Errico bounces into the room, wearing a white-polka-dot slip. As she adjusts a strap on her top, a tanned, freakishly large breast tumbles out. She casually pulls the top down and puts her breast back into place, before extending her hand to a reporter and introducing herself.
She turns to Heidi and offers her a compliment. “You have stick legs. I’m jealous.”
The Crüe women bond, comparing notes on such topics as silicone versus saline and anything else related to their shared interest in breast augmentation surgery.
“I’ve heard that something like seventy-five percent of all American women have them,” Robbie states with complete certainty.
“All I know is”—Heidi laughs—“my first job was a disaster. I got stuck with a set of baseball tits.”
When the live taping of the Letterman show pops onto the dressing room monitor, Heidi glances as Dave introduces the first guest, Daisy Fuentes.
“Daisy Fuentes was right next door to us,” Heidi states, blond hackles rising. “She could have said hello to us.”
“Look at those Farrah Fawcett boobs,” one of the Crüe girlfriends observes, commenting on Fuentes’s prominent nipples, visible on the monitor.
“Total doorknob nipples,” another Crüe mate chips in.
BY SIX P.M., the height of Manhattan’s rush hour, the studio audience, now crowded outside on the stage on Fifty-third Street, applauds as Letterman introduces Mötley Crüe.
In their agreement with CBS and the NYPD, Mötley Crüe has consented to cease performing at six-thirty.
At seven o’clock, Vince is still screaming out Crüe songs. Nikki has switched to his bass guitar that has a “Stop AIDS! Aim for the Chin” sticker on it.
Several of the show’s producers are at the edge of the stage angrily gesturing for them to stop. A huge crowd is spilling out from Fifty-third Street, slowing traffic on Broadway. Vince and Nikki look down at the angry producers, exchange grins and promise the crowd one last song.
THEIR FINAL NIGHT IN NEW YORK, before flying on to Europe, is spent at a dinner the Crüe girls have organized at Madame Chen’s, a Chinese restaurant downtown that features transvestite waiters. Throughout most of the dinner, Mick stares in stern, midwestern disapproval, shaking his head at the antics of the cross-dressed waiters. “Hideous. I don’t get it.”
Before their food arrives, Nikki leans forward to huddle with his bandmates across the table and share a sentiment that overcame him during their outdoor Letterman appearance. “Today, when we were up on that platform playing, I looked up at the clouds moving across the sky, and it felt like the platform we were on was moving. Like we were all moving together, gliding through the sky. Then I looked at you guys”—Nikki’s eyes move from Tommy to Vince to Mick—“and suddenly, it all felt good, so right that we were back playing our music together.”
Their moment is interrupted by the approach of their waiter, an Asian transvestite in a slinky, low-cut dress. “Dude, check out the rack on our waiter,” Tommy enthuses. “Maybe we can boost ticket sales on the big fall tour if we have Vince get a pair of tits.”
“The only problem is, I’d get stuck backstage feeling myself up,” Vince says.
“Tits are fucking awesome,” Tommy says. “I mean I really fucking love them.”
The rest of the band members agree. Tits rock.
PAT DOLLARD’S WAR ON HOLLYWOOD
The day before Thanksgiving 2004, Pat Dollard, a Hollywood agent who represented Steven Soderbergh, sent an e-mail to just about everyone he knew containing one word: “Later.” Friends worried it was a suicide note. Dollard, forty-two, had spent nearly twenty years in the film business. On a good day he seemed little different from any other successful operator, a sort of hipper version of Entourage’s Ari Gold. But often in his turbulent career, bad days outnumbered the good. Once a rising star at William Morris, he was fired in the mid-nineties for chronic absenteeism brought on by drinking and drug abuse. He attended 12-step meetings and