Official Truth, 101 Proof: The Inside Story of Pantera Read Free Page B

after your cash is something only learned after a lot of trial and error.
    Meanwhile the other guys—Darrell and Vinnie most of all—were out spending a thousand dollars a night and then wondering where all the money went. I remember one day when Dime turned up at my front door out of the blue. I guess you could say I was like a father figure to him and he looked to me as some kind of source of wisdom. At least I think he did.
    “Dude, I’m not sure but think I might be broke.” Even the way he said it sounded idiotic.
    Of course I said, “You might be broke? What does that even mean? What the fuck are you talking about, dude?”
    “Well, I got into this investment thing with tanning beds and the whole bit and it hasn’t worked out so well,” Dime explained. Darrell had set up his girlfriend Rita Haney (she was his wife in every way except they never actually got married) in a tanning salon venture in an Arlington strip mall, and business hadn’t been so good.
    “Really? So aside from that, how much are you spending each night?” I asked him.
    “I don’t know—maybe a thousand dollars.” (Trust me, that was the very least he would have been spending.)
    “Okay, so if you’ve got three hundred grand in the bank, how many nights can you go out and spend that?” I said.
    “Three thousand times?”
    “Think again, buddy. Try three hundred times. No wonder you’re fuckin’ broke—you need to work on your math,” I told him.
    The sad truth is that Dime and Vinnie were out of control with their partying, and with nobody to keep them in line as they paraded themselves around Arlington with a growing bunch of hangers-on, cash would always run dry fast.

    AS FAME TOOK HOLD, we couldn’t walk down the street without getting recognized by fans. I reverted to the quiet, unassuming approach that underpins my personality and started looking for little fuckin’ dive watering holes to hang out and drink in without being harassed, somewhere close to the house so that I could get totally fucked up and get home quickly afterwards. Flying under the radar, you could say.
    Even in interviews—a process I didn’t really enjoy anyway—I just kept to myself. I’d show up of course but then I’d just sit there behind a pair of dark shades and not do a whole lot of anything. I wanted to try to keep my personal life separate from the band—which was impossible—and I also knew the other three guys would have plenty to say. I was always the quiet guy that nobody knew much about. I just liked to fucking jam, and that’s the plain truth. If I’d wanted attention I would have had, like Vinnie, five bodyguards following me around.
    I hated being asked the same questions all the time. Other times the journalist would try to make something up, and I knew immediately when they were trying to do it. You could always tell if these people (a) didn’t know shit about you or (b) were trying to get you to say something off the wall so the extra little headline got them paid a bit more. The ones who were genuine were cool, though, but you’d run into those on maybe one out of ten occasions. I’d get irate with the bad ones sometimes, especially in Europe. They’d ask me a dumb question and I’d just say, “Eh, no” merely to piss them off. And then they’d get all irritated and ask, “Well, can you tell us why not?” To which I’d just say, “Then this interview is fuckin’ over with, how’s that ?”
    I remember one time in Paris this guy turned up in a motorcycle helmet and leathers to interview Dime and me for some fucking French metal magazine. He started getting all François with us, asking stupid questions like, “Well, why you don’t have two more guitar players in your band?” What kind of a dumb question is that? We always wanted to go for the one guitar player, Van Halen–type of vibe, everyone knew that.
    “Have you heard this one dude? Have you heard this motherfucker right here?” I said, pointing at