Van Nuys, noon

I’m reading On the Road by Kerouac again. I feel so connected to writers like Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs. I hear people say they wish they were old enough to have lived thru the ’60s and other people say they should have been around in the 1920s. This was a time when I would have loved to be alive. Their ability to shock society with their words and fillet the law with their freedom leaves me envious.

I’m drug-free (today) and feel sooo alive. It’s good to be home. So far the cockroaches of my life haven’t discovered I’m home yet. I’ll be outta here before they come to feed on my weakness. Karen seems amazed that I’m lucid. That makes two of us. Maybe I’m beating this thing little by little…

P.S. I love these lines from the book I’m reading. To me this describes Mötley to a T:

Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently…

KAREN DUMONT: Whatever he did, Nikki managed to put a good front on for me. He was stronger than anyone I know at making things look OK. The fact that he functioned so well while doing massive amounts of drugs shows how good he was at keeping things together.

There were times that he looked really rough, but I naïvely just put it down to him being a lazy slob. He’d laugh at me telling him off, but he was never nasty to me and I never realized how badly he was doing. I had always thought being messed up brought the nasty side out of people. Vince was more like that–he was scary.



Van Nuys, 3 p.m.

Home sweet home. I had breakfast this morning with Karen. I actually cooked…I think she was just being kind ’cause I could hardly eat the eggs, they were like rubber. I told her about the new video being based on the movie Taxi Driver. She said she didn’t know if MTV would have the balls to play it. That’s fine by me. It’s becoming so boring, a bubblegum channel, and there are all these cheeseball bands coming out and just ruining everything.

I honestly don’t think anyone understands what Mötley is or they wouldn’t try to copy us. We’re a train wreck, a bastard child between punk rock and heavy metal, and some people somehow think it’s cute. If only they knew. We would rather slit your throat than be part of this…so I hope MTV DOESN’T play it.

I went to the dog park with Whisky. Wow, there are a lot of hot girls there! Maybe I should have showered a week ago when I said I would…they probably thought I was a homeless guy. That’s better for me.

CHICKS = TROUBLE…and meeting a chick in a dog park is a perfect setup for disaster.

P.S. Today’s my last day home. Gotta go back on the road tomorrow.


Laughing like gypsies, show to show Livin' my life like a rolling stone This is how my story unfolds Traveling man, never at home Can't find love so I sleep alone This whisky river has a long way to flow All that I know is life on this road.


Van Nuys, 8 a.m.

Limo’s here. I have a noon commercial flight to New Orleans where our jet will take us to Mobile. I never unpacked (again). Maybe I’ll just throw these clothes away and buy new ones on the road…there are holes in most of them anyway.

On the jet, 5 p.m.

Sitting here on the jet waiting to take off. I think Vince must have pulled an all-nighter…he looks a little tattered around the edges. Me? Yes, it’s usually me that’s tattered, or better yet shattered. It’s amazing what a few days without a hangover will do for your disposition. I’m feeling creative, which for me means life. I struggle between creativeness and being somewhere between slump and completely dry.

Backstage, Mobile, 7 p.m.

Just got to the gig. I’m so tired I couldn’t sleep on the plane much. I’ve been thinking about my mother and father a lot. The last few days it seems, when I don’t do drugs, that’s what I do. I guess maybe the drugs are a part of me killing the pain, but for once thank God I didn’t do anything the last few days. It’s nice to not have been still up when the limo showed up.

I’m gonna go over and see Slash and the guys…they join the tour tonight. Now the bad news for them–Tom Zutaut told me they were a younger, crazier Mötley. Does that sound like a challenge or what?

SLASH: We were really excited to go on the road with Mötley. We had a lot in common–we were both from LA and were total hell-raisers. We had toured Canada with the Cult and played with Iron Maiden and Alice Cooper, but Mötley Crüe was cool and they were at their peak. It was a chance to hang out with a bunch of guys who had been around a lot longer and test the water to see if we were crazier than them.


TV says 10 dead for Christmas, stalker on the loose Another freeway shooting, and I'll be hangin' by a noose I can’t seem to shake it, I can't bend the spell Special thanks to Mom and Dad for bringing me to hell


Backstage, 6:10 p.m.

Spent the night in Mobile last night. So good to see Slash. Guns N’ Roses was awesome last night but our fans can be so brutal. They just stood there for the most part and stared–they just don’t want to see anybody but us. Maybe some day we will do “An Evening with…” but Doug says that is suicide. Anyway I think they’re gonna be huge but what do I know? I thought the same about the Ramones…

Last night I drank very little (half a bottle of Jack) but I can feel the demons in my head knocking and I don’t wanna let them in (or out).


Hotel, New Orleans, 1:30 p.m.

Today I’ve decided to write my mother a letter…probably with no real intention of mailing it.


DEANA RICHARDS: Tom always told me that eventually he would tell Nikki the truth of what happened when he was a child–that Nona and my sisters had taken Nikki away from me when I always wanted him back. I always prayed that Tom would tell him that, because I wanted Nikki to know the truth more than anything else in the world. But Tom never did.

One time in 2001 Tom had gone out to join Nikki on tour and they were passing through Seattle. I went to the airport to meet Tom for an hour and asked why he still hadn’t told Nikki the truth, but Tom just said, “He won’t listen.” I asked him, “What do you mean he won’t listen? Nona has been dead long enough now for you to tell Nikki the truth, and I think you’re dragging your feet.”

I looked at Tom and said, “I should have been strong enough to fight you guys. You could never have taken Nikki away from me if I had been strong enough to fight you.” And he looked at me and said, “Yes, we could have!” He had a look on his face, and venom in his voice, and I suddenly realized he’d been part of the plan all along.

My daughter Ceci has literally saved my life, because there have been a few times that I thought I just couldn’t go through the pain anymore and I wanted to end it all. Because Nikki and I were separated all those years, but I never, ever wanted it.

TOM REESE: Bullshit! I never said that to Deana. She is just on a big guilt trip. She twists the truth and she tells lies as she has done all her life. I’ve told Nikki the truth many times. Deana was so full-on on drugs for so many years that I don’t know how many brains she’s got left, really. I’ve told her before, the way that she goes through life…but I’m not going to get into this anymore. I’m seventy-eight years old and I just don’t need it.

CECI COMER: There are so many things that Nikki doesn’t know about the life my mom and I had back then. She always acted like everything was OK but often it wasn’t. She had a stroke in the ’80s and got really sick one winter, and we ran out of food and oil in the house we were renting. I ate ketchup on toasted bread and woke up with frozen hair so many times that year. Mom always loved Nikki and wanted him with us, but we had some hard, hard times.

I think Mom and Nikki’s relationship is too common and very sad. It takes the focus off the right things and keeps them in a dark place. By now all the stories are so convoluted and everyone seems to suffer from selective memory. But I do know this–whatever happened back then, Mom always wanted Nikki by her side. She’s never really given up. No mother does. The bottom line is that he wants and needs his mother and she wants and needs her son.


Backstage, 7:45 p.m.

Guns is onstage right now but the weirdest thing happened a few minutes ago. The band walked in and we had a line of coke about six feet long. I asked the Guns guys if they wanted a bump and they all just looked weird at each other. Finally Tommy said, Come on, you guys are supposed to out-Mötley us! So Axl bent down and did the smallest little bump and then coughed, then said they had to go onstage. When they walked out, we all looked at each other and then started busting up. Vince said, Fine, more for us, then we did the coke ourselves with Fred, Hawk and some of the road crew.

I gotta call Zutaut…fuck, it wasn’t that much blow anyway…

SLASH: Axl was never really a drug guy but Guns N’ Roses was a full-on heroin band and you can’t do that on the road so we were pretty clean on tour. Coke was never my drug of choice either. Our drug thing was more like a-day-in the-life, a personal internal crisis that we didn’t want to be known, whereas Mötley was hell-bent on being the band with the most excessive, outrageous public persona. Mötley pushed the envelope to be the most alcohol-and coke-consuming band going. That was their whole image.

NIKKI: They say be careful what you wish for…but we were never careful.


Backstage, 5 p.m.

Tonight’s show is gonna crush, the crowd is going crazy out in the parking lot. They’re already ripped, shouting Crüe! Crüe! Crüe! You can feel it when it’s on edge…rock ’n’ roll! Impending chaos is good…

Gonna go out tonight for a bit.



On the jet, 4:20 p.m.

We just landed–I’m hungover like a motherfucker.

Heather is here so Tommy hung out with her last night. Mick was with fucking Emi. Vince did the same thing as always–a strip club. So I took Slash out to some cool bars in the French Quarter of New Orleans after the gig. We got fucking smashed. I took him to the Dungeon but they wouldn’t let us in. Slash asked why and Fred explained that I had cut the bra off a girl in the club the last time I was there. Unfortunately for me it was the owner’s girlfriend.

P.S. I scored a balloon of Persian–no needles, just chasing the dragon. It’s so easy in New Orleans. I bought it right in front of everybody and nobody even saw it go down, not even Fred. I can spot a junkie a mile away…and obviously they can spot me.

NIKKI: When Mötley toured with Ozzy in 1984, we had a date in New Orleans in Mardi Gras. Ozzy Osbourne and Mötley Crüe in New Orleans on Mardi Gras = bad move! Our management was very nervous, and so was Sharon Osbourne. Ozzy went out with Vince and they got into all sorts of trouble. Tommy and I took Ozzy’s guitarist Jake E. Lee out to the Dungeon Club. As always I had a knife, and there was this girl in the club in a top that was basically exposing everything but there was just enough material there to piss me off. So I took my knife out, grabbed the top and cut it off. Her boobs came flying out and I said, “Now the party’s started!” All of a sudden this shadow appeared above me–the club security guard. She was his girlfriend. Then security took me and Tommy and Jake and threw us into the street and started hitting us with these baseball bats with spikes on them. We were all cut up and beat up and we ran off. When we showed up years later at the Dungeon, they told us we were banned. I said that was a long time ago and they said, “Not in our minds.”

FRED SAUNDERS: We spent hours driving around the French Quarter of New Orleans trying to find a friend of Nikki’s to score some heroin. I said that I wasn’t going to let him do it so he fired me. Nikki was always firing me left, right and center. Then we tried to go to the Dungeon Club and they refused to let us in, which, frankly, I was neither surprised nor bothered about.



Marriott Hotel, Huntsville, Alabama, Room 432, 4:30 p.m.

We played Huntsville a year or two ago and some kid claimed we had shot shattered glass into the audience and blinded him. Doc says he is suing us–the kid says we had cannons onstage (uh, that’s AC/DC) and shot glass outta them. I even heard we might have shot pieces of metal too…what the fuck? I hope that kid doesn’t come to see us tonight.

Oh yeah, he’s fucking blind, so he won’t.



Hotel, noon

Fuck, I just got a call from Rich. Me and Slash were drunk and wrestling in the bar last night and I guess he landed on his neck. He’s pretty messed up. He’s gonna have to wear a neck brace to support his neck. Fuck, I feel bad…it’s always fun until someone gets hurt…

P.S. I’m still wondering if that blind kid’s gonna show up to see the show.

SLASH: Nikki and I had been in the bar for hours drinking shots and we started wrestling. Nikki is a pretty big guy and he fell on top of me. The next morning I woke up with four dislocated vertebrae in Tommy’s drum tech Spider’s bed. I had to see doctors and have acupuncture for the next three weeks of the tour. And all the time I was onstage, I had to keep my top hat on and not move an inch.


Hotel, 3:10 a.m.

Battling everything. I feel like I’m at war with everything and everyone. I don’t understand…why don’t I feel anything but anger? The only time I don’t feel is when I’m numb. It’s just not working like it used to. I’m tired of writing about it, but this is my only way to vent. I’m so fucking tired, and I don’t know why. Why is it that the word why is always on the tip of my tongue–WHY?

Why was I treated like I was as a kid–like I was just in the way?

Why did my mom always want to be with someone other than me?

Why did my dad leave me?

Why do I have no belief or trust in a God?

Why am I here?

Why can’t I stop doing drugs?

Why can’t I find love?

Why, why, why…


All these years, an angry child Broken, shattered, torn inside I feel old, I feel dead Barely hangin' by a thread

Father, where were you?

To my father, how could you run? You walked away, abandoned your son Broke my heart, left me dying So fucked up, where I came from

What's a father without a son? It's like a bullet without a gun


CECI COMER: My own father has always questioned whether I am his child or not, and has made it clear over the years that he was more important to himself than I was. It’s different with Nikki’s dad because Nikki never had the chance to be slapped in the face like that. He’s just had to guess.

He may be better off that his dad wasn’t around like mine, but the pain eats at you that you don’t know the real truth–your own truth. I know Nikki wonders what it would have been like to have a dad, but it’s the could a would a-should a syndrome that is so hard to deal with because ultimately you will never know.

2:15 p.m.

Someone was just banging on the door over and over until I just screamed fuck off. Then Fred called and said it’s time for bags. I guess we’re leaving at 2:30. Fucking pills and smack…so what do I do? Roll over and start writing. You’re my only friend and I feel I need to talk to you. I can’t seem to find my smile, I can’t seem to find my passion, I can’t seem to find myself…I’m drowning.

I’m not sure which is worse, my addiction which haunts me or my gradual slide into insanity. I can’t even get into words what I feel–I know I don’t know, and that’s a crazy fucking feeling. I’m gonna try and pull myself up by the bootstraps and suck it up, but to be honest the decay is starting to show.


Backstage, 6:30 p.m.

Just got to the gig late because of me. I think I’m in Alabama. I ran straight into Duff, he was standing there in boxer shorts, no shirt and cowboy boots. I said, Hey Duff, nice look, and he said some girl stole all his clothes when he was passed out last night. Now that’s fucking funny. OK, I need a drink.

P.S. Hey what has 48 legs and 12 teeth? The front row in Alabama…

NOVEMBER 12th, 1987 Day off

Marriott Hotel, Savannah, Georgia, 4 p.m.

I called home and checked my answering machine. I had two calls. One was a wrong number and one was some girl (don’t know who) saying, Hey Nikki, fuck off.

That pretty much sums up my life back home.


Hotel, 2:40 p.m.

Just woke up. My eyes are crusted over. Nice look. Been nose deep in Animal Farm by George Orwell for the zillionth time. I just love this book. It’s something so parallel to rock ’n’ roll. After all we are sorta the animals taking over society, never really thinking out what the end will be-and if we do, it’s tainted. Great book.

Last night me and Tommy filled the elevator with all the furniture from our rooms and then Tommy ran and phoned Slash and Duff and told them to meet us in the lobby. We waited and then jumped in the elevator and pushed Lobby. When the doors opened they were waiting. We were just kicking back and everybody started laughing, so we all just rode up and down the elevator drinking and doing lines until the hotel said they were gonna throw us out.

Ah, rock ’n’ roll…

TOMMY LEE: One night Slash was drinking with me and Nikki and trying to keep up with us shot-for-shot on the Jack Daniel’s. We were sitting at the bar for hours drinking, then suddenly Slash put his head underneath the bar and puked everywhere. He was starting to go down so we took him to his room, where he immediately passed out. We set him on the bed and took a Polaroid photo of Slash lying on his back passed out, and Nikki put his balls sac on his chin. That picture became Slash’s tour laminate: lying unconscious, with Nikki’s nuts sitting on his chin.


Hotel, 4:30 p.m.

I look back on my diaries and half the time I don’t even write down when the dealers show up…it seems too redundant. But I said I would try to capture every moment, good or bad, in my diaries, so here goes.

It’s been snowing again. I haven’t been sleeping more than an hour or two for a few nights. I’m starting to hide in my room again. I feel like I might be getting back to my old habits and it’s like a car skidding out of control, there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t want to do the drugs but it’s all I think about. If I don’t do it (well, I can’t not do it)…I found a few old rigs in my suitcase and shot up my last bit of junk, after snorting tons of coke last night…so I’m outta junk. Wish I’d found the rigs when I had some blow–a speedball would have been nice. I’m so sick.

DOC McGHEE: People ask why we never confronted Nikki about his addictions, but we’d always try to talk to him and it just did no good–it got ugly really quickly. Artists die on the road and fans say if the other band members really loved them, why didn’t they help them instead of letting them die on their own in a hotel room? They probably tried loads of times to intervene but eventually, when somebody is obnoxious all the time, you get numb to it.


Backstage, 7 p.m.

Bored. Can’t wait to get onstage to have something to fucking do.


Hotel, Knoxville, 5:30 a.m.

Got into Knoxville two hours ago on the jet. Went down to Tommy’s room, did some lines and listened to music. We ran out and went down to Fred’s room for an Ace in the Hole but he just had a tiny bit. Fuck! I have a day off tomorrow and I’m in the mood to get high. Now I’m fading…goodnight.

FRED SAUNDERS: I had a little trick that I would sometimes play when Nikki was hounding me for coke late at night. He would ring my room saying, “Dude, Ace in the Hole,” and before he turned up I’d crush up a sleeping tablet, make it into a line and give it to him to snort. We’d start talking and within five minutes he’d be yawning and saying he was tired. Then I’d walk him back down to his room and put him to bed. I don’t think he ever figured out I was doing that.

3:25 p.m.

Great show last night in Greensboro. I really felt like I was in one of the world’s greatest bands for an hour-and-a-half. I felt there were no soured decaying souls up there. We punished the audience with volume and it hasn’t been that tight in a long time. After the show was different. We were trying to get some blow–it was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen! It’s like we mention it and the airwaves go quiet. Nobody will respond or they say they’re busy and will get back to us. I think someone’s been telling the crew and staff not to give us drugs.



Sitting here alone staring around this room wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do when I’m not onstage or on drugs.

I have moments of complete lucidity and I ask a lot of questions, and they hurt, ’cause I don’t have most of the answers.

SLASH: I was amazed on that tour how Mötley Crüe always had this whole intricate system going of people with walkie-talkies looking for blow. They always seemed to know where the nearest blow was, but to be honest, trying to stuff as much coke as I could into my face seemed pretty boring to me. Had it been a dope thing, it would have been a lot darker and more dramatic.


Hotel, 1:40 p.m.

Some nights when I lay my head down all I hear is ringing, and it’s getting worse every year. I never really mention this, I guess it’s just become normal to me, but lately I hear it when I wake up too if it’s quiet. I guess as long as it goes away when I’m done touring it’s OK.


Hotel, Knoxville, 3:15 a.m.

Show was good, sold out as usual. Drugs yes, alcohol yes, groupies yes, depression yes. Some girl asked me for an autograph and I asked her why. She said ’cause she admires me. I said maybe she should see a shrink then! She started crying and I started laughing.

Fuck this. I don’t wanna be a star.

I don’t understand anything anymore. Bob Timmons keeps calling asking me to consider rehab. I ask him if there’s one that won’t preach God to me like the last one. He just sighs and has that nervous laugh. Nobody understands me…nobody.

I’m lonely…I don’t know how to live and I can’t seem to die.

Backstage, 6:15 p.m.

Just flew in to the gig. No hotel until we get to Atlanta. I feel like my skin is rotting off me. I smell like shit and my shit has more and more traces of blood in it. I can’t explain how I feel other than I feel like I’m about to burst into tears at any moment. I walk around in circles in my room night after night…I can’t seem to find a path. What the fuck is happening to me? I can’t wait to get this show over so I can hide. You know, I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m calling Bob and asking him for a number of a psychiatrist. I’m crying out for help on the inside and pretending I’m OK on the outside. But I know it’s not a good façade at all.

TOMMY LEE: Nikki was never that stumble-around-fall-down guy who gets told to get his act together. He would just go to his room and get high alone. We all sort of did it. After months of being on tour with the same three guys, when it was travel-eat-sleep-fuck together, we just wanted to go to our rooms after the shows sometimes and not see each other. I’d sit in my room and do a couple of grams of fucking cocaine by myself. The guys would phone my room and say, “What are you doing?” and I’d say, “Nothing–’bye!” Then a couple of hours later I’d be calling them: “Hey, dude, you got any blow?” We were just all apart, playing these games in our own little worlds.



Ritz Carlton Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia, 8 p.m.

Did a lot of nothing today. Played guitar a little, read, nobody to call really except the office…Doc is MIA again. I guess he’s on vacation somewhere. It kills me to think of him laying on a beach somewhere with a drink in his fat little hand watching the sun go down and being able to enjoy some of this fucking money we make for him while Doug and the band are just slaves to the grind.

Spoke to Slash at his hotel, told him to meet me here around 9 or so and we’d go out…maybe hit a strip club. I asked him to invite the guys but only Duff and Steven ever show up. I’m really trying to get outta this funk. I talked to Bob Timmons and asked him if there is a drug for depression. He told me yes, but getting sober would cure a lot of this feeling. I have to admit as I sit here with a whisky in my hand and a plate of half-eaten eggs…it’s scary but intriguing. I know when I’m losing my mind on drugs I would do anything to stop, but when the drugs wear off and the head clears I feel the need to try and control it one more time. But now something else is eroding me and I don’t know what it is.

Bob said he could find me a psychiatrist in LA who deals with addiction, but I said this is deeper than that. My wounds are bursting at the seams and the original pain is filled with pus. Is it childhood issues or am I just losing my sanity?


Ritz Carlton Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia, 5 a.m.

I’m drunk and in a great mood. Slash and me sat at the hotel bar and got smashed. He threw up spaghetti all over the bar, and then ordered another drink. I always wanted a little brother, I think I just found him…goodnight.

TOM ZUTAUT: From one glass of whisky to the next fix of junk, Nikki and Slash were both on the same train at the same time, skipping from one party to the next, looking for the most fun to be had by all in their wildest rock ’n’ roll fantasies. Slash was also very social, fun to be with, kind and considerate, and appreciative that Nikki gave Guns the shot on the Crüe tour. He was also always the last one to leave the bar, so it wasn’t hard for Nikki to find him when he wanted to have fun or get high.

Axl was different. He was very serious about working hard to move G N’ R to the next level and was not happy about the excessive partying his band was falling into. What Nikki didn’t know at the time was that Geffen was about to give up on Appetite for Destruction at around the 200,000 mark and tell Guns to make their next record. Instead, the Mötley tour kept the G N’ R night train on full-speed overdrive and tipped the scales in favor of Geffen continuing to promote Appetite. It ended up selling more than 20 million.

4:20 p.m.

Got a sold-out show here tonight then another show back here in a few days. Fucking weird routing. Writing some music, poetry, reading…nothing much on TV. My life is all about the rock ’n’ roll grind of hotel-gig-hotel-gig-hotel-gig…the repetition just wears you down. Then add a few hangovers, a pill or 10, a bindle or two…and oh God, don’t forget the girls who can barely count to 10 and the hangers-on who say they’re your friends…

It seems like a never-ending cycle, so I get a lot of pleasure out of fucking with room service people. I’ll answer the door naked or have my knife out, only wearing cowboy boots, and ask them which city we’re in (still having my makeup on from last night’s gig)…it’s fun to watch people trying to act like nothing is wrong. Sometimes I get a call from Rich or Fred and they say, Siiiixxxxxxxx, you’re scaring the people in the hotel again! OK, off to the gig…

Backstage, 7:45 p.m.

Just got off the massage table here in the dressing room. We were having a few drinks and Doc just came in and said Axl got arrested for jumping into the audience. Slash is up there singing a Stones song and it’s not going well. Guess I’d better get ready…I think the crowd is probably getting unruly.

11 p.m.

Slash wants to go out ’cause he’s pissed off at Axl, so I’m taking him to a killer strip club. I guess they need to wait for their singer to get bailed out tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll offer Slash any junk ’cause I know he used to have a problem…one of us slipping back is bad enough.


DOC McGHEE: Axl Rose was onstage in Atlanta when he saw one of the security guards, who turned out to bean off-duty cop, pushing their fans around. Axl jumped off the stage and started fighting the guard, so security grabbed him and took him backstage. So Slash sang a few songs, and Guns’ drum technician sang “Honky Tonk Woman”–four times, not terribly well. I told security, “Look, let Axl finish the show then shoot him for all I care,” but they called the police. I said to Axl, be nice to the cops and they’ll let you go. Then a cop walked in and asked him for his full name, and Axl said, “Fuck you!” That was it–he was arrested and in the cells for the night.


Hotel, Atlanta, noon

We’re leaving for Chattanooga in a few hours. I’m so hungover and I don’t remember much. I woke up with some black girl at 6 a.m., don’t have a clue where or who the fuck she is. I kicked her out. I think I broke into Doc’s room and sawed his bed in half last night but I’ll have to wait and see–maybe I just dreamt it.

I need coffee. There’s a line on my bedside table but I think I could puke if I did it. I think I remember something about zombie dust.

Backstage, Chattanooga, 6:40 p.m.

Fuck I feel like dog shit. I can’t wait to fly back to Atlanta and go to bed. I puked in the bathroom on the plane twice. I guess I did saw Doc’s bed in half…my memory is clearing. I also tried to throw Fred’s bed out of his window (that’s why I have my black eye) and Mick tried to jump out of the window…he was fucking outta his mind. Doc told me we all had our dicks out on the bar and poured Jack on them and lit them on fire too. What the fuck, I have no pubes left. Gotta do a show. I can hear Guns up there playing, so I guess everything is back to normal.

DOC McGHEE: Nikki and Tommy cut my bed in half with a knife so that when I got in it, it collapsed. Two days later they got a pellet gun, put a load of records at the end of the hallway and lay shooting at them. By the time security came, the hallway was littered with pellets and shattered vinyl.

One time in Switzerland they bought what they thought was a pellet gun but it fired flares. They got it back to Vince’s room, Vince fired it, and this flare shot out and bounced off the wall. They all ran to my room to tell me, but of course when we got back to Vince’s room, the door had closed behind them. So I went down to reception to get a spare key and there was this guy with the whole hotel’s room keys on a huge chain on his neck who said, “Sure, I’ll come and let you in.” I said, “Nah, just give me the key”–I was almost wrestling him to try to get it off him. In the elevator to the room I was telling him what a great hotel it was, and as soon as he opened the room door, smoke poured all down the hallway, the sprinklers came on and the bed was on fire. So we got kicked out of that hotel.

Spent a million dollars on amphetamines Crashed a lot of cars Fucked all the stupid stars in Hollywood Because I could


Hotel, 1:10 p.m.

Fuck, I went straight to bed last night. I slept 12 hours straight. Wow…I felt like shit yesterday. I have no idea how I got so fucked up, but I did. Doc still can’t figure out how I got in his room and cut his bed in half. We do it to Rich Fisher all the time–go in his room and steal his pills. I think I might go down and take a steam in the gym and get a massage. I feel fucking great today. So is this what sobriety would feel like? Hmm…

11 p.m.

Wow, just offstage. A while ago I was standing in the hospitality room and this black chick came up to me with her son, mom and dad, and introduced me to everybody: “This is Nikki, blah blah blah.” I had no idea who the hell she was but I went along with it. I asked if anybody wanted a drink and went to my dressing room to get some beers for them. I pulled Fred aside and asked him who the chick with the kid was. He said that was the girl from the strip club I was with the other night.

What the fuck? OK, so I guess I was fucked up, but why did she bring her kid and mom and dad? What the hell did I say? All of a sudden I came down with a really bad stomach ache and had to excuse myself. I was polite but I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. So I’m sitting in my dressing room hiding until they leave…what the fuck?


Off to the Mötley jet…going to Orlando…


On the jet, 2:45 a.m.

Tommy and Vince are fucking smashed and bickering. Mick is looking sick of it all and I’m just staring out the window into this darkness. If we don’t get off the road, we’re gonna break up…trust me on this one.

Stouffers Hotel, Room 1267, Orlando, Florida, 11 p.m.

Just back from the bar. I tried to talk to Tommy about how I’m feeling and I just don’t think he understands. He’s happy all the time…makes me feel even crazier. Maybe I’ll try Mick…

11:15 p.m.

Went to Mick’s room to talk to him but Emi was there so I left.

3 a.m.

I just took a handful of pills. If I’m lucky maybe I won’t wake up…goodnight.

NIKKI: A few years later I was put on an antidepressant and my life turned around in three days. It was an experimental drug at the time, now known as Prozac. I had been off tour for months and had only left my house a few times. I was finally off drugs but the depression was getting worse. In 1987 I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what.

MICK MARS: Did I know how depressed Nikki was then? Not really. Not at all. I didn’t really pay attention except when he was bullying me and Emi. I just did my gig, did what I was supposed to do and I was normally drunk anyway. I didn’t really care. The band was self-destructing so I just thought, Fuck it.


I'm feeling rotten today I guess I forgot I am shot I'm not OK So long to pain, So long to games So long say goodbye Someone tell me why, I'm feeling cold inside Do I wanna, do I wanna die? Someone tell me why, It's building up inside Do I wanna die and Kiss it all goodbye?

I'm a sinking ship On a sea of bliss, I’m not OK I'm blind to this Is this just a test To help me see?


Backstage, 6:45 p.m.

We took a chopper to the gig here. Izzy just came into the dressing room (miracle) and introduced us to his girlfriend. Oh my God–can I say Bruce Dickinson all over again? It’s this chick Suzette that I fucked in a reh room in Hollywood when she was 17. Then I used to buy drugs from her later. She would come over and I’d tie her up and treat her like a farm animal. She’s cute as long as she doesn’t talk. I used to gag her so I wouldn’t have to hear her coke babble. Life is weird and getting weirder all the time.

When she came in with Izzy I acted like I never met her. Then when Izzy left, Tommy said, Sixx, dude, that’s the chick from the Whisky A Go-Go bathroom floor, remember that? Oh fuck, I forgot about that, too.

We chopper back to the hotel after the gig–we have another show here tomorrow. Guns is at the same hotel as well as our road crew. Tim needs to lighten up. I have him dressed as a priest onstage and he looks like a broke-dick dog over it. Maybe I need to get him drunk. He loves me, I know, he’s always looking worried, like he’s my Jewish auntie or something. Tim, I’m not gonna die…I’m not that fucking lucky.

P.S. Finished reading Animal Farm and I’m starting in on Queer by Burroughs again.

NIKKI: Suzette made me think of Bruce Dickinson because Dickinson used to hate me because I fucked his wife. I would just like to point out in my defense that a) I had no idea she was his wife, and b) it wasn’t my fault that she climbed in my hotel wind o win England, asked me to fuck her, then afterwards said, “Thank you” and climbed out again.


ROSS HALFIN: Bruce Dickinson actually wrote the song “Tattooed Millionaire” about Sixx. He hated Nikki because he was fucking Dickinson’s wife at the time. Then again, so were Vince and Tommy, come to think of it…


Hotel, 4:20 p.m.

I just woke up. I was up till noon doing blow. We hired a big conference room and just fuckin’ went crazy…Slash, Tommy, Steven, Duff, some crew guys, a bunch of whores and cases and cases of booze. We have a dealer here who just gives the shit to us. He gave us each an 8-ball and we did our best to do it all. It was insane…we piled it all up on the table. I’d never seen so much coke. Me and Tommy were trying to figure out how to cook it up so we could freebase it but we didn’t have all the needed supplies. We tried our damnedest and ended up smoking it wet outta a glass ashtray. My fingers are fucking blistered. I got about two grams sitting here on the table next to me. I should just flush the shit but the guy will just bring more so I might as well do a line and go to the chopper…fuck, I need a drink…my hands are shaking.

P.S. Suzette came to my room before the party and wanted to fuck me. Tommy was in here with me doing a bump and I told her to leave. She got all crazy and I threw her out the door and she slammed into the wall and started crying.




Backstage, 7:30 p.m.

Here at the gig. The show last night was loose and tired. The fans didn’t know. Guns is getting better, the crowd is digging them more and more, I have a good feeling for them. If the label will support them they have a shot. They’re not like the other bands who came after us…they’re more like us.

On to more exciting news…I don’t feel so depressed (probably ’cause the drugs are keeping me from feeling) but I have been having bad side aches like my liver is going south. I don’t understand why I get traces of blood when I shit. I wanna get a doctor out to one of these gigs and ask, but I know what he’s gonna say.

I can’t figure Vince out lately. He seems to be slipping away. When I talk to him it’s like he doesn’t hear me–is it me? He only cares about the pussy but then I only care about the drugs…we’re not so different. I miss him, but his eyes are always darting around when we’re talking, or he says he has to go.

I miss music, new music, and I miss my friends that I started this journey with, but most of all I miss my sanity. I can’t wait to get off this fucking tour. I’m so tired of touring. I wanna kill management for not listening to us. Something bad is gonna happen, I just know. We can’t be this close to each other and be slipping away from each other at the same time and expect this to last.

P.S. Supposed to go out for Thanksgiving Dinner…I’d rather order room service.



Sheraton Hotel, Fort Myers, Room 538, 2:10 p.m.

Played a show in Jacksonville last night, got in about 3 a.m. I met a friend of my old dealer Jason’s last night with a gram of Mexican tar but no rigs. I had to order aluminum foil from room service when we got in. Man, my mouth was watering. I smoked a bit and hit the sack…woke up today feeling sick. I know it’s not that. Had Slash, Steven and Duff fly on our jet last night. Izzy wouldn’t come ’cause I threw his girlfriend against a wall. Hey, Izzy, I fucked her first so fuck off.

Axl never comes. He’s a twat.

DOUG THALER: I joined the tour in Jacksonville and Nikki was pretty fucked up on Jack Daniel’s. He showed me some gummy black substance he had that he claimed was some kind of exotic cocaine that he was going to snort. I thought, Good luck snorting a gummy substance! Then the next morning he said he had lost that weird shit, and he asked me what had happened to it. I told him I had absolutely no idea.

TOMMY LEE: We hung out with Slash every day on tour but Axl was a lot more reserved. There were times he would be really cool, but then at other times he just had that fucking singer thing that they all get–LSD: Lead Singer Disease.


I gotta find myself some love I gotta find myself some drugs I gotta find some liquid sunshine I gotta find myself, I gotta find myself I’m a sick motherfucker I’m a sweet sucka mutha Ain’t no one tougher I’m a wreck, I’m a sleaze I’m a rock ’n’ roll disease I’m a pusher, I’m a shover Ain’t no motherfucker tougher I gotta find myself some glue I gotta find some suction Now my aim is destruction I gotta find myself, I gotta find myself I got to deal with my neurosis I got to deal with my neurosis I gotta sniff myself some glue I got to find myself


On the jet, 2:05 a.m.

Had a show tonight in Fort Myers. Right now we’re on the jet on our way to Fort Lauderdale. I just got done fucking with Emi. Everyone except Mick was laughing their asses off. She’s always talking about God and she was on one of her rants. It makes me sick so I stood in the middle of our jet with my pants down with two middle fingers pointed towards her God, yelling, “Fuck you, God! If you’re so real, strike me down!” over and over. Emi kept crossing her heart and started crying and the more she cried, the more I got into it. Needless to say I’m sitting here in my seat, still alive and well. She’s just like my mom and Vanity, full of shit, and in the end she’ll take Mick for everything, ’cause one thing I can smell is a fucking gold digger.

P.S. Tommy got the pilot to do a barrel roll–I bet Emi pissed her saggy little panties after all I said…


MICK MARS: Nikki was pretty horrible to me and Emi through the whole Girls tour. He was nasty when he was on smack, Jack Daniel’s, Halcion, sober, whatever. He used to pour food on us, pour drinks over us, hassle me a lot, make a lot of threats–he just could not bear the idea of Emi and me being together. He made that tour a nightmare.


TOMMY LEE: You know what? Maybe we went a bit too far. It pissed us off because we had this protocol about not fucking the hired help and then suddenly there were Mick and Emi sneaking down staircases and into each other’s rooms together. But Mick is a pretty sensitive guy and, let’s face it, he just fell in love with Emi–I mean, he ended up marrying her!

But once Emi got involved with Mick her attitude changed and she got all fucking diva with us so we wanted to teach her a lesson. I remember we were always accidentally-on-purpose spilling Jack on her on the plane, pushing her buttons, seeing just how far we could piss her off…we were just fucking around and being really retarded, stupid kids.


She carries Mother’s Bible Mixes Valium with her beliefs


Hotel, 3 p.m.

Just woke up. Tonight is the last show of the US tour…thank God. Gonna order some breakfast…but it’s scary ’cause I’m going home…

Backstage 6 p.m.

At the gig. We’re gonna have our pyro guys shoot off a ton of shit during Guns’ show in a little bit. They have never used pyro so I’m sure it’s gonna freak them out…should be fun.

8:20 p.m.

Now that, my friend, was insane. We loaded up about 25 pyro blasts and when Guns kicked into Welcome to the Jungle they all went off at once. The band looked like they were gonna shit their pants and then got the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. Axl was wearing a Mötley T-shirt…THAT was unexpected. Gotta get ready…last show…



Airport, noon

Sitting on the plane waiting for it to take off for home. I still haven’t been to bed…last night topped all nights of debauchery. We got a huge conference room again, about two ounces of blow, but this time we had the goods to base with…tons of pills, booze. We lined these chicks up, six or seven of them, snorted coke off one’s back then stuck our dicks in her, then go on to the next one, do a line, on and on…talk about farm animals! We were outta our minds.

Lots of hugs and gonna miss yous and thank yous. We smashed the whole room up pretty good and then when it was about time for the airport, T-Bone took some sleeping pills and passed out. We had to push himin a wheelchair to get him on the plane. They sat him next to a little girl and she started crying.


Oh God, we need a break…I’m so tired, my eyes are sunk into the back of my head. I see it on everybody’s faces. I love these guys and I know we’re a great band but it’s all spinning outta control and nobody is taking the wheel. As long as we make money we’re the darlings of the world…

Goodnight…I’m on my way Home Sweet Home…

TOMMY LEE: Fuck, dude, the Sportatorium show! We called it the Snortatorium, because all these fucking coke dealers turned up at the show. One even had a license plate that said D-E-A-L-E-R. There were just endless amounts of free cocaine. The second that the last show was over, Nikki and I both stuck our faces in these huge piles of coke and didn’t come up. I remember them wheeling me in a wheelchair through the airport, because I was fucking done–I couldn’t walk, talk, think, nothing. Maybe there was a little drool.

DOUG THALER: After the last U.S. date everybody was just fucked up on blow and alcohol. Tommy took a bunch of downers at about eight or nine in the morning and Rich Fisher had to wheel him on to the noon flight back to LA in a wheelchair. Some horrified guy in first class nearly shit his pants when they started to plop Tommy, semiconscious, into the seat next to him. The stewardess wisely positioned Tommy in a lone first-class seat by himself. It was about the only time on that tour that Tommy was more of a mess than Nikki.


It’s been the hard road, edge of an overdose No matter how high you’re still too low I've been the dancer, the wicked romancer It's a never-ending nightmare, edge of disaster