Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (19 page)

I’ve never been the type to opt for staying home, ordering takeout, and plowing through my laser disc collection alone—not when I can be out with friends. L.A.’s club and bar scene was a perfect fix for what little free time I had. I also looked the best I had in ages, thanks to all that juicing and gymming, so slipping into tube dresses or leather pants was fun for once. Going out also created a stronger bond with girlfriends like Soleil Moon Frye and China Shavers, who played Dreama on
Sabrina.
We’d grab sushi, have a gin and tonic, dance, and get home by 1
A.M.
, so I could still function at work the next day.

After two years of the same routine, though, I got bored and needed a change. I decided to open my own nightclub. I’d become close to one of the promoters, Dave Osokow, who knew I’d always fantasized about having my own bar and had the cash flow to back it. He asked me to invest in a small club that he and some other guys were opening on Sunset Boulevard called Trocadero Sunset Lounge. It was named after the first iconic Hollywood bar that was owned by
Hollywood Reporter
founder and nightclub legend Billy Wilkerson. (No relation to my future husband, but I did wonder if Mark’s last name was a sign when I met him.) The original Trocadero was a black-tie supper club, now demolished, that in the 1930s was filled with movie producers and stars such as Fred Astaire, Bing Crosby, Cary Grant, Jean Harlow, and Lucille Ball. It was a hot spot for movie premiere parties. The Troc is still a small, intimate scene with a nice patio and French doors, and dark, old-school art deco décor inside. The bar was the perfect place for me to entertain friends and hold parties, take casual meetings, and hang out after we’d hit the louder clubs. Every time I directed an episode of
Sabrina,
I treated the crew to a Friday night there. I also made out with my longtime crush Josh Hopkins (Grayson Ellis on
Cougar Town
) in the women’s bathroom on a drunken St. Patty’s Day, hosted Soleil’s twenty-fourth birthday, and later celebrated one of my bachelorette parties there before I got married. The Troc was officially my spot—literally.

*   *   *

Sometimes I feel bad for Hollywood’s younger stars who are constantly stalked by paparazzi whose job is to get a high-paying shot of their cellulite, dark under-eye circles, or fashion faux pas. I’m so relieved that back when I was sowing my naughtier oats, there were no TMZ, Splash, or Flynet photographers to harass me as I left the latest club or piss me off until I felt tempted to chase them down. I could stash my most uninhibited moments and mistakes under wraps, unlike a lot of today’s bigger names, who may just be bumping around their twenties like the rest of us did. I often suspect that the reason I’m able to maintain such an untarnished image isn’t that I’m such a good girl, but simply because I’ve never been caught with my pants down, so to speak. Though one time I came dangerously close.

In the summer of 1999, I was invited to my first Midsummer Night’s Dream Playboy Mansion Party. This is a tawdry annual event held on the first Saturday in August. I couldn’t wait to drive through those famous iron gates, past the “Playmates at Play” street sign, and get a glimpse of what really goes on in the grotto. Since I was single, I asked my new crush Jonny Moseley, who’d won the Olympic Gold in freestyle skiing in 1998 in Nagano, Japan, to join me and a few mutual friends for the party; earlier that year we’d met at the X Games, where he took the silver. The Playboy bacchanalia’s dress code called for sleepwear, to put it modestly, so I spent days working with my
Sabrina
wardrobe team, choosing just the right set of bra and panties that would complement my curves and keep me from feeling too exposed and slutty. I chose a pair of vintage-inspired cream lace bikini bottoms, and a matching bra that was trimmed in red and printed with cherries. I paired them with a red silk robe and matching heels that had fluffy caribou feathers across the toes. I looked like a pinup from a 1930s issue of
Esquire.

When our limo pulled up to the circular drive, the Playboy Mansion reminded me of an old Scottish castle. This was before
The Girls Next Door
was on E!, so I didn’t know what to expect. I passed through a grand foyer to get to the tented backyard. If you’ve seen
Bridesmaids,
it’s the same area where Kristen Wiig’s character destroys the chocolate fountain. To the right was a pool and grotto area with beanbag chairs for hanging out, and to the left, a zoo with peacocks and monkeys. A nearby guesthouse held a pool table, pinball machines, and private rooms for getting it on, though you could pretty much do that anywhere on the property without causing a stir. The Playmates working the party were sprayed to look like they were wearing bathing suits or lingerie, though they were actually nude and completely shaved. When I was talking to one of the waitresses, I didn’t even realize her naughty bits were exposed and painted until she told me.

Not long after we got to the mansion, some friends and I decided to drop ecstasy. I’d used it before, but here I thought the elaborate décor, grounds, and sensual atmosphere would drive my touchy-feely senses into overdrive in a fascinating way. It made me feel sexier, more talkative, and gave me a little swagger around guests like James Woods and Vince Vaughn. After a few hours, I grabbed Jonny, and, on the limo ride home, me and another half-naked lady began putting on a show for our dates. I’m not sure if she was black, Hispanic, Asian, or maybe a combo of all three. I’d kissed some girlfriends in high school and college for shock value or to get in the “gay door” at a club, but this was the only time I’d really made out with a woman to this kind of lengthy degree. On X, my tongue tingled and my libido surged. Of course, after twenty minutes of this, I looked over and noticed that two of the guys we were with had passed out and the other was on his phone. All that hot girl-on-girl action did more for us than for the boys.

When the limo dropped me and Jonny off, I crashed, but wasn’t asleep for thirty minutes before my car service arrived to take me to a shoot for
Maxim
. Earlier that year, I’d made
Maxim
’s “Hot 100” list, and they ran a photo of me in a long skirt and tight sweater, so I didn’t realize their audience was horny men. The magazine’s readers wrote in a lot, asking to see me on the cover, so an editor called my people about it, and since I had an adult movie coming out (okay, PG-13), I was down. What I didn’t realize was how long the X would last after the Playboy party, and that I’d still be high when I got to the studio.

Senses impaired, I knew I was there for a cover shoot but felt unfazed when I saw the wardrobe rack full of bras, panties, and nothing else. (I’m sure my publicist was there to protect me, but I was in no position to remember details.) I’d been at shoots before where they tried to get me to wear barely anything, but I would never consent to that. This time, however, after having just come from a party full of naked people, with me in my skivvies, and still coming down from rolling, I wasn’t feeling like my more modest self.

I was in hair and makeup for nearly two hours and spent most of it asleep. Nobody said a word to me about the state I was in, and thank God the magazine had scheduled an interview on a different day, so I didn’t need to be articulate. The shoot began with pics of me half-naked in bed—first, with a white sheet concealing just my breasts, which is the shot that made the cover, and then with my legs open to the camera but the private stuff covered. After lunch, the photographer wanted to try a picture from below and between my legs, but I had the good sense to at least say I’d need to approve a test shot first (this was before digital cameras came along). It was a terrible and trashy photo, so I tore it to pieces and turned to the side, which turned out to be my favorite picture from the day. I’m leaning forward, tits heaving, on a set of stairs. In the final photo, I was lying on a sofa, and I’m pretty sure I passed out a few times, because I remember the photographer yelling, “Wake up!” When it ran in the magazine, I can’t guarantee that they didn’t airbrush my eyeballs onto the image.

For publicity reasons, the story was timed to hit the stands with the release of
Drive Me Crazy.
During the after-party for the New York movie premiere at Planet Hollywood, I was sipping a martini when my concerned-looking lawyer pulled me aside, very seriously, and insisted that I avoid the press until further notice. Apparently,
Maxim
had just hit the stands and Archie Comics wanted to have me and my mom fired from the show for breach of contract since I was allegedly representing their character in a tawdry way. Hearing this, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I stepped outside to have a cigarette and called Mom. We were both really scared, and she was also pissed off at me, wondering what I’d done on this cover that was so damn sue-able. (Archie dropped it after my lawyer and I sent an apology letter.) Frankly, I wondered, too—I could hardly remember. All I could hope was that it’d be good press for
Drive Me Crazy,
and at the very least, show some range and sex appeal. That month I was also on the very first cover of
Cosmo Girl,
which targeted young teens—a very different demographic.

Sure enough, the Archie threat only made the press more interested in me,
Maxim,
and my first starring role in a major motion feature. My name and the movie’s were mentioned almost every day in the media, including by Jay Leno, Regis and Kathie Lee, and in the
New York Post.
(“Melissa Joan Hart Sheds Teen Image: Sabrina, the Bare Witch Project”—
ba dum bum
.) Suddenly, everyone cared about whether the star of ABC’s biggest Friday night family sitcom should be posing suggestively on the cover of a men’s magazine. Good thing they didn’t know I did it while coming down from a high. Mom publicly got my back by saying we were just showing people that I was a grown-up, which was true to a large extent. I mean, I was in my twenties, far from underage, and had already been in my panties for the cover of
Details
magazine a few years prior, which nobody seemed to bat an eyelash over. The real problem, I later learned, was that
Maxim
’s cover line said, “Sabrina: Your Favorite Witch Without a Stitch,” and using Sabrina’s name, near an undressed image, allegedly made it look like I was playing the character naked, which was against the contract. But I’ve never heard of an actor having any say over what a magazine writes on its cover, so to my mind, Archie should’ve tried taking
Maxim
to court, not me. I didn’t do anything illegal; I was just promoting my film. Anyway,
Drive Me Crazy
opened to great numbers, thanks to all the scandalous press, and I took some friends and cast members to Cancun for a celebratory margarita to toast the fact that the movie grossed more than it cost to make.

*   *   *

As you can tell, I’ve always liked to take a risk, push my limits, and feel some kind of immediate gratification from it all. This is the main reason I got into racing cars. In 1997, the Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach asked me to be in their competition and offered to send me to training camp to learn how to drive like a pro. I turned the invite down, since I was busy with
Sabrina,
but for the next twelve months, I regretted the decision every time I sat at a red light and wondered if I could take the car next to me. So on and off for the following five years, I jumped at their invites and raced a white Celica beside George Lucas, Alyson Hannigan, Donny Osmond, and Coolio. I did really well each time, but I never won. Also revving my engine: pro driver and NASCAR hottie Casey Mears, who I dated for a few months during this time.

While living in my house on Wonder View Drive after James and Parker had moved out, I constantly threw parties—it was the go-to spot for weekend BBQs or a dip in the hot tub or pool after a long night of dancing. A lot of chlorinated, wasted strangers came and went, often without an invitation. Most of the memories are an intoxicated blur to me. I do remember that twice I tried to kick Ashton Kutcher out, when he made smartass remarks to me after I asked him not to smoke in my house, but he never wanted to leave, and since I’m not burly enough to intimidate him into going, I eventually gave up. And another time, I went to soak in the hot tub and found Marlon and Shawn Wayans hanging out, though I’d never met them before. Others who came and went included Andy Dick, Geoff Stults, Wilmer Valderrama, and Ben Foster. They were usually drinking, smoking, and having a good laugh. During this party phase, I met another young actor—let’s just call him “Weenie,” since I later found out that’s what my friends called him behind my back. He and his brother ran in similar circles, and I liked his charm, persistence, and intense features. It was also clear that he was a loose cannon. He had delusions of grandeur, acted like he was invincible, was occasionally paranoid, and got obsessive about a monthly interest, whether it was working out, art, or acting. Weenie’s personality was dizzying, but since he held down a job on a TV show for teens, I figured, how messy could he be? We were a couple in no time.

After six months of dating, I began to find strange things lying around Weenie’s place and mine, like broken lightbulbs. His apartment was really dark, because he’d screwed every bulb out of its fixtures except one. Then, while cleaning out his pockets on laundry day, I found the outer casing of a pen, with the ink cartridge removed. I called a friend in town, since I suspected drugs; I thought she might know better from being around Hollywood types longer than I’d been. I’d done some shrooms, ecstasy, and pot, but that was it; I didn’t know much about anything harder. I’ve never snorted or shot anything into my body, and the one time I was offered coke, which happened to be by Paris Hilton, I turned it down. (She asked to bum a Parliament Light, and, as she dipped the recessed filtered end into a baggie, asked if I wanted some. It pissed me off that she wasted my cigarette for that.)

My friend told me to touch the tip of the pen to my tongue to see if it was bitter. I did and it was. If Weenie was doing drugs, that could explain why he’d act so focused and upbeat one day and then tired, irritable, and depressed with me the next. I broke up with him after this, but we got back together and were on again/off again for the next few years. We went to counseling together, where he said things like, “I think you need therapy more than me.” He told me he still got high before auditions to help him focus, and before shrink appointments, just to see if the doc could tell.