PARTYING WITH MICKEY ROURKE
ICAN’T remember exactly how we met, but the actor Mickey Rourke and I began hanging out together. Mickey’s career was hurting, he was down and out, having a rough time, and we shared a $3,000-a-night bungalow I rented in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Mickey alway wore a stupid scarf and he carried that little f- -king dog of his with him everywhere. Mickey and I went on a 10-day run of partying. Mickey had his crew of Hollywood wannabes, bottom feeders who clung to him like s- -t on a shoe, and we were all hitting the [cocaine] nonstop. I was supposed to have checked in at the rehab center Promises on the first of the month, and I was getting calls from theirthe staff every f- -king day. “Where are you?” “Don’t worry. I’ll be there,” I told them. We kept hitting the booze and the [cocaine] hard, and finally, on the 10th day oor so, I looked in the mirror and just about s- -t myself. I was lit up, and in a moment of clarity, it hhit me. I could see that I had Mickey’s scarf around my neck, and I was holding that little f- -kingkin dog of his, and I thought, Wow, this is f- -kinking bad. I look like the Crypt Keeper from “Tales from the Crypt.” This is an all-time low. “I need to get the f- -k out of here,” I told Mickey. “I’m done. Roll it up, man. I gotta go check in to Promises.” I checked out of the hotel, and the bill must have been 300 grand. And it wasn’t just my and Rourke’s bill. We both had our monkeys and group of chicks who drank and ate like there was no tomorrow, and they put it all on my tab. But I didn’t give a flying f- -k. I grabbed my s- -t, got in my limousine, a long-ass ride, and took my group of freeloaders with me to Promises. There was some s- -t left, so I parked my limo in front of Promises, right outside the gate, and I told my driver, “I gotta go in there and dry out. But when I go inside, I’m going in in a ball of f- -king flames. Let’s finish this s- -t up.”
That limo was parked out there for five days. It was me and the driver and a bunch of women, the LA f- -king pretenders. After five long nights of nonstop partying, we finished off everything we had. Finally, after the last line of coke was snorted, I walked up and pounded on the Promises gate.
“Open up, motherf--kers, and let me in. ” From the forthcoming book “House of Nails: A Memoir of Life on the Edge” by Lenny Dykstra. Copyright © 2016 The Third Chapter, LLC. To be pub-lished on June 28 by William Morrow, ann imprint of HarperCollins Publish-ers. Reprinted by permission..