Bigmouths Strike Again: Tiny Predators Edition

Today’s drug-addled Bigmouth delivers a more vivid than usual spin on Behind The Music’s classic third act. Here we learn about hallucinations induced by a night of shooting coke at an Arizona hotel:

That’s when my little buddies showed up. They always looked like the creature in Predator to me, but a fraction the size and translucent blue-gray; they were wiry and muscular with the same pointed heads and rubbery-looking dreadlocks. They’d always been a welcome, carefree distraction, but this hallucination was sinister. I could see them gathering in the doorway; there was an army of them, holding tiny machine guns and weapons that looked like harpoons.

The rocker’s friends then tried to make him go to rehab. He said yes, but quickly checked out, downing half a liter of vodka on limo ride home. Hazard a guess, take the jump for the answer…

(Book excerpt via The Observer, Pic via Lewzworld)

We tip our top hats and livers to you, sir. Since Slash is already on fire, might as well toss along this nugget:

I did what anyone with new money should do after renting for a while: I bought a house like my business manager told me to. I still had no clue as to my future or how to handle finances; I had no material aspirations at all. I didn’t spend much on anything at that point; money was still an abstract concept to me. I found a house just off Laurel Canyon, and it was forever known as the Walnut House. I was pretty out of control at the time. I remember showing up to meet the contractor to talk about redoing my bathroom and thinking that breaking out a few lines would be a good way to break the ice. He and I stood in the bathroom as he walked me through the work that needed to be done. ‘Yeah, yeah, cool, man,’ I said. I slapped down the toilet-seat cover and cut out four thick lines of coke. ‘You want one?’ He looked pretty uneasy. ‘No, no thanks. I’m on the job,’ he said. ‘OK, right, that’s cool,’ I said. ‘I’ll do yours, then.’ ‘It’s not just that, it’s also eight o’clock in the morning,’ he said, smiling apologetically. At that moment I was every single nightmare cliché of what that guy had ever heard about rock stars, rolled into one – even more so because he had been hired to turn my extra bathroom and its huge corner Jacuzzi into a massive snake terrarium that took up a quarter of the room.

Those craving more tales of rock debauchery can pick up Slash’s autobiography on 10/30.

Weiland, your turn.