Brown Bobbie - Dirty rocker boys: love and lust on the Sunset Strip

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Gallery Books

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2013 by Bobbie Jean Brown

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books hardcover edition December 2013

GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Interior design by Julie Schroeder

Jacket design by Bau-Da Design

Jacket photograph by Barry Rosen

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Bobbie, 1969

Dirty rocker boys : love and lust on the Sunset Strip / Bobbie Brown with Caroline Ryder.

p. cm.

Summary: An uncensored Hollywood tell-all filled with explicit tales of love, sex, and revenge from the video vixen made famous by Warrants rock anthem Cherry Pie.Provided by publisher.

1. Brown, Bobbie, 1969- 2. ActorsUnited StatesBiography. 3. Rock musicians spousesUnited StatesBiography. 4. Models (Persons)United StatesBiography. I. Ryder, Caroline. II. Title.

PN2287.B6965A3 2013

791.43028092dc23

[B]

2013026429

ISBN 978-1-4767-3470-5

ISBN 978-1-4767-3473-6 (ebook)

I would like to dedicate this book to my family;

Mom, Dad, Taylar, Adam, Mr. Bill, Mr. Earl,

Jani, and the Ex-Wives of Rock family .

My father, Bobby Gene Brown, as a rough and tumble youth.

High school yearbook photo of my mother, Judy Ann Faul, age sixteen.

Me, around age three.

Me, around age nine, holding my baby brother, Adam, almost one. He is still the apple of my eye, and the sweetest man I know.

Wait, what happened? Last week, Tommy Lee was my fianc. This week, hes married. To Pamela Anderson.

It was February 1995, and in the aftermath of Tommys shotgun wedding on the beach in Cancn, four days after our breakup, my coping strategy was twofold.

1. Get high.

I had a line on some of the dopest trucker speed in Malibu. It was a killer buzz, lasting for daysback in 1995, the meth was clean as a bean. I had been secretly using throughout my relationship with Tommy, as a way to maintain the rail-thin Barbie-doll figure that Tommy liked, and as a way to escape the growing sense that my life was fucked-up, on all levels. Very few people knew about my little problem, even though my pupils were dilated in broad daylight and I shouted at invisible dogs. I drove to the corner store for soda, came back eight hours later with gardening tools. My glitter gun became my best friend as I embarked on endlessly elaborate middle-of-the-night crafting projects, just to give my racing mind something to focus on. I was spun, a member of a long-established club known as the Hollywood Speed Freak Societya long line of celebrity tweakers who, like me, were afflicted by a cursed disposition for that unsavory mistress, methamphetamine.

2. Get even.

A few years prior, a voodoo doctor in my native Louisiana had warned me about messing with revenge. Dark energy, he said, will come back and bite you. But after seven years of having my heart shredded by Sunset Strip cock rockers, I wanted to teach those assholes a lesson. Im going to flip the script, treat the guys the way they treat us, I thought. I had reached my tipping point. I was ripe for revenge.

I looked in the mirror. Twenty-six years old. My peroxide mane was messy; my roots were showing. I was Courtney Love meets Malibu Barbie, with the gaunt yet chic figure of a runway modelaround ninety-five pounds on a fat day. Thank you, crystal. The world knew me as Bobbie Brown, fiance of Tommy Lee, ex-wife of Jani Lane, cutie-patootie from the Cherry Pie video on MTV. Theyd yet to experience Bobbie Brown, wrathful, world-weary drug addict with no pride left to lose. I put on lipstick, a Wonderbra, and some assless chaps. I was ready to hit the clubs.

After a year playing Malibu Rapunzel, holed up in Tommy Lees beachfront fortress, I couldnt wait to fall back into Hollywoods welcoming arms. I had always been a club kid. I loved the darkness, the anonymity, the feeling of being underground. The velvet ropes that melted as soon as I arrived. Tommy may have tossed me aside, but in clubland, I was still queen.

In 1995, Thursday nights at Grand Ville were where it was at. The club was a hub of the 90s neo-burlesque scene, full of corseted girls with shoe-polish-black hair, a whirl of rhinestones, glitter, and feathers. Grand Ville was the toughest door in town, but the promoter, Rick Calamaro, a dear friend of mine (may he rest in peace), always greeted me with a smile.

Welcome back, Bobbie.

I stepped inside, through the looking glass, and into a different reality. A pleasure dome, decadent and carnivalesque. Everywhere I turned, I saw the ghosts of my past loves. There were the Tommy Leeswild, tattooed romantics, who turn mean when the roses wilt. The Jani Lanessweet, tortured artists weighed down by their demons. The Matthew Nelsonsblond angels destined to fly away. The exes in my life are no different to the exes in any girls lifeexcept mine all happened to be rock stars.

Who better to confide in about my problems than a wide-eyed actor named Leonardo DiCaprio, who had about as much life experience as a Care Bear? Thing is, I told him as we chatted at the club, if youre not grown-up enough to deal with their musician issues, then rock star lovers can send a girl down some very dark and dangerous rabbit holes. You know what I mean?

Leo did not know what I meant. We were in the VIP lounge at Grand Ville, and he was looking at me like I was insane. I was insane, kind of. The stress of being married to one rock star (Jani Lane), engaged to another (Tommy Lee), and then jilted thanks to my professional rival (Pamela Anderson) had taken a toll. I was tired, jaded, defeated. The speed was playing tricks on my sanity, and my behavior had grown notoriously unpredictable. But how could Leo possibly understand? He was so fresh and upbeat. He looked like he should be drinking milk, not martinis.