Traveling out of the country was always the worst, because it was simply too risky to attempt to pass through customs while carrying illegal drugs or any other medication without a legitimate prescription. I toyed with the idea from time to time, but never had the balls to follow through with it. And here’s the reason why.
One time I was traveling from the States to a foreign country and decided to take a gamble and tape an eight ball of coke inside the sole of my sneaker. It was a long flight and I dozed off on the plane after a pill and a couple of drinks. While I was dreaming I got a terrible premonition that when I landed and got off the plane, I would be busted inside the airport and thrown in jail to rot. I woke up in a pool of sweat and decided no drug was worth the risk of incarceration. Especially in a foreign country. I remember the stewardess announcing over the intercom, “We’ll be landing shortly. Please fasten your seat belts.”
In a panic I jumped up and ran to the bathroom. The stewardess intercepted me and instructed me to return to my seat.
“If I do, I’ll piss in my pants,” I said.
Reluctantly, she allowed me to enter the lavatory, saying, “Only if you’re quick about it. We’re on our descent, sir.”
Once inside, I locked the door and quickly pulled off my sneaker. I ripped the inner sole out and peeled off the tape that was holding the coke in place, and proceeded to flush it down the toilet. At first it appeared to get stuck in the bowl and I began to panic. The intercom went off again.
“Please prepare for landing.”
Desperate, I stuck my hand in the toilet bowl, pushed the coke down, and watched it finally disappear into the darkness. When I looked at my hand it was slightly stained from the blue liquid in the toilet. I rushed to wash it off, just as the stewardess interrupted by knocking on the door and directing me once again to return to my seat. I hurriedly dried off, slipped my sneaker back on, and unlocked the bathroom door. The crew was giving me the evil eye, so I rushed back to my seat and fastened my seat belt. Within minutes we were on the ground. I took a few deep breaths and waited patiently for the seat belt sign to go off. Then I grabbed my carry-on bag and exited the plane with everyone else. It was extremely hot and humid in the airport, and I began to perspire heavily.
When I entered the customs area there were two officers with drug-sniffing dogs screening everyone getting off the plane. I tried to remain cool but couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. As soon I passed by the agents, one of the dogs started barking. The agent allowed the dog to approach me and it immediately began sniffing my sneaker! The first thing that passed through my mind was that perhaps there was some residue left over from the coke in my sneaker. For a second, though, I wondered if I had forgotten something. Had I put one or two eight balls in my sneaker? Momentarily unsure, and more than a little anxious, I must have appeared suspicious to the officer. He politely asked me to remove my sneakers and started to inspect them thoroughly. The nightmare that I envisioned on the airplane suddenly began racing through my head. I was about to come up with some sort of excuse when the customs agent handed me back my sneakers.
“Okay, go ahead. Sorry for the delay.”
I was totally drenched, sweating so profusely that it reminded me of the day I wrote “Rocket Ride” with Sean Delaney.…
It must have been at least 90 degrees and the air-conditioning had just broken down in our town house in Irvington, New York. Since heat rises, my studio in the attic was becoming unbearably hot. We were sweating our balls off up there, but we kept working because our creative juices were flowing—as were the ice-cold beer and two eight balls of uncut cocaine. Sean and I had decided that nothing was going to stop us in our quest.
“Rocket Ride” was a song that over the years has become a favorite among fans worldwide and I want everyone to know exactly how it was born. I had this great guitar riff and Sean started coming up with a few lyrics and melodies. I can still see Sean’s face, red as a beet, covered in sweat, but completely frozen from all the blow, as he chanted, “She wants a rocket ride! She wants a rocket ride!” I was laughing hysterically and hitting the record button on my eight-track reel-to-reel tape deck at the same time.
“Hey, Ace. That rhythm part works great,” Sean said.
“Yeah, good idea. Let’s double the length of this part!”
On and on we went, at a frantic but productive pace… until we had completed a decent demo of the song. We finished at around dinnertime and were so exhausted from the heat and pace of the session that we both passed out on the couches downstairs in the living room and slept till the following morning.
The next day we put together a rough mix that was good enough to give “Rocket Ride” a resting place on the next KISS record, Alive II! “Rocket Ride” went on to become the second KISS single on which I handled lead vocals; it peaked at number 39 on Billboard’s Hot 100, making it KISS’s seventh Top 40 hit.
When I think back on that day it still amazes me how the whole creative process developed. Sean and I must have sweated away at least five pounds apiece and were almost delirious from the heat and everything else we had consumed by the end of the day. Somehow, though, it all worked out and we created magic that afternoon. Sean went on to work with Peter and Gene on other projects and we never got the chance to work together again on a song. “Rocket Ride” will go down in KISStory as the only Frehley/Delaney composition, but I’ll never forget the experience and I’m sure he never did, either.
I’ll always have fond memories of Sean; he was a character, to say the least. Sean was with us practically from the inception of KISS. He contributed ideas for our costume designs and stage sets, and also came up with most of the moves we did onstage; he basically choreographed those early KISS shows in our formative years. Sean was always there to lend a helping hand when anyone needed it. He had a limitless amount of energy and never turned his back on us when something needed fixing, on or off the road.
Sean was always there for me and Jeanette, too, and we treated him like family. I’ll never forget the time he planted a big kiss right on the mouth of my father-in-law, Vinny, on our wedding day! Vinny was so taken aback that he just stood there for a second in shock. Then he burst out laughing. I mean, what else could he do, especially with so many people standing around watching?
Sean knew how to break the ice with people and defuse any tension in the air. He was Bill Aucoin’s live-in lover and he had the gift for making people around him feel at ease, especially about his sexuality. Sean never tried to hide the fact that he was gay, and neither did Bill. They were both very open about it in our inner circle. Sean was a good friend and trusted confidant, and I’ll always miss his big smile and grandiose personality. He was one of a kind.
From working with Sean and Bill I learned never to judge people by their bedroom tastes or fetishes. As far as I’m concerned, if it feels good and doesn’t hurt anyone else, go ahead and enjoy yourself. Life is just too short to worry about what other people are thinking. There are just too many people out there who are leading miserable lives because they didn’t have the balls to take some risks when they were younger.
Regrets are a son of a bitch. Thank God I’ve learned to live my life without them!
One day back in Wilton, I received a call from Buddy. He invited me to go out on his boat, which was docked on Candlewood Lake in Connecticut, about thirty minutes from my place. He hadn’t checked on his boat in a couple of weeks, and he figured we could also do some fishing and get a little R&R. Buddy brought a cooler full of beer and I supplied the blow. After checking out his boat, I started laying out long lines of coke on the deck. A few minutes later Buddy remarked, “Wow, this is really good shit. I can hardly feel my face!” I was pretty frozen myself, and just laughed while guzzling a can of beer from the cooler.
Before long, minutes turned into hours and the sun began setting in the distance. We never even untied his boat from the dock to go fishing. We were too occupied with just having a good time. Once it got dark we sta
rted getting a little frisky and decided to come up with Plan B. Buddy told me he had two cute friends who lived not far from the lake and they both loved coke. I told him to give them a call, and with a little coaxing (which meant letting them know we had some dynamite blow) they decided to invite us over. When we got there, they were just sitting around looking disinterested. I decided to lay out a bunch of lines, and pretty soon the party was in high gear. We still had half a cooler full of beer—icing on the cake, you might say—and we continued to party until the sun came up. That morning, after thanking the girls for a very nice stay, Buddy picked up his Rolls-Royce and we invited two other gals to go waterskiing back at the lake. We finally succeeded in getting his boat away from the dock, but we really weren’t too interested in waterskiing with the girls. Instead we indulged in other forms of entertainment, which of course included drugs and alcohol. As the hour grew late, Buddy thought it would be a good idea to head back to the marina. Everyone was pretty loaded and I somehow talked Buddy into letting me drive his boat back to the dock. Unfortunately I’m not a very good sailor even when I’m sober; under the influence I’m even worse. I confused reverse gear with forward and ending up taking out his neighbor’s dock! The police showed up, but we somehow talked our way out of it by blaming the accident on the boat’s faulty transmission. I think the cops suspected foul play, but when they discovered who I was, and saw the big silver Rolls-Royce in the parking lot, they just decided to let it go.
Little did we know that many years later a funny coincidence would take place. In 2008 I had asked Buddy to help me out with security at an autograph signing I was doing in New Jersey. He agreed, and ended up working security on the line of fans waiting to greet me. Suddenly a fan struck up a conversation with Buddy. The kid was going on and on about what a big fan he was, and eventually told Buddy, “Nobody knows this little tidbit of information, but when I was a little kid Ace destroyed my dad’s dock on Candlewood Lake!” The kid wasn’t sure that Buddy really believed him, since Buddy was grinning from ear to ear after hearing his story. The kid started offering even more details about the incident, thinking Buddy didn’t believe him, when Buddy interrupted.
“Hey, that was my fuckin’ boat!”
When the kid finally got up to meet me, we all had a good laugh about it. I signed some of his stuff for free, feeling a little guilty about what had happened all those years earlier, but it seemed like he wasn’t holding any grudges. He was just really happy to finally meet his favorite guitar player in the flesh, so we let bygones be bygones.
My drug dealer in Connecticut turned out to be a real character. When I wanted to score a large amount of blow, he’d usually deliver. When he showed up at the house he’d often try to hang out for a while, but I’d always come up with some sort of an excuse to get rid of him. He wasn’t much fun to be around, since he always appeared paranoid and edgy. I tried to complete our transactions as quickly as possible, but when I was buying five thousand dollars’ worth of coke, I liked to test it chemically for its purity and weigh it on my scale to make sure I was getting the right amount. One day he showed up at my door with his shirt turned inside out; he was covered in sweat. He told me he thought he was being followed by narcs. I just laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re letting your imagination run wild. Nobody’s out there. Relax.”
I gave him a beer and a couple of Valium, and sent him on his way. About two weeks later I called him and told him I wanted another ounce of the same stuff. He said he’d just gotten a new shipment in, and that it was even better than the last batch. The only hitch? His car had broken down, and if I wanted the coke right away, I’d have to come pick it up. I started to get a little suspicious, but my desire outweighed my fear. I told him I had to stop at the bank and get some cash, and then I’d be over.
I got a little sidetracked shopping and ended up being a few hours late. When I arrived I found him acting crazy and paranoid. He thought he was being watched, and that whoever they were, they were closing in on him. To ease his anxiety I told him that I had looked around outside before I came in, and hadn’t seen anybody watching the apartment. The whole scene was weird, and I thought to myself, It’s probably a good idea if I just make the exchange quickly and get the fuck outta here. I dropped the cash on his living room table and grabbed the ounce of blow, and off I went. As I exited his place I started to get anxious, but I had taken a lot of Valium that day and decided to ignore any of my reservations. I jumped into my Chevy 4x4 and made a beeline for my place. I kept checking my rearview mirror to see if anyone was following, but there was nothing there.
A few days later I got a call from a friend who informed me that my dealer had gotten busted. He said the guy had been under surveillance by Drug Enforcement Administration agents for some time, and that his apartment had been raided and he’d been taken away in handcuffs. I started envisioning scenes from all the movies that dealt with this sort of topic, and how they played out. You know—where a cop tries to make a deal with the criminal, extracting information in exchange for a lighter sentence. I started to panic.
What if he talks? What if he tells the cops that I’m a customer?
I started throwing away all my drug paraphernalia: my scales, chemical testing kit, coke vials, etc. I buried whatever coke I had left in the woods behind the patio under a big rock. The days passed slowly, eventually turning into weeks. Finally I decided that I needed to clean up. And not just for health reasons. I figured that if my dealer had in fact ratted me out, it would look much better to a judge if I was actively seeking help.
My first and only real experience with traditional rehab was a mental hospital called Silver Hill, in New Canaan, Connecticut. They also specialized in alcohol and drug rehabilitation. This was classic inpatient rehab—a monthlong stay at an extremely expensive facility in a lovely country setting.
Silver Hill was an interesting place, and mostly catered to the rich and famous. At Silver Hill I was led to believe that a rebirth was right around the corner, and the journey would be conducted in a spa-like atmosphere, complete with gourmet meals, a pool, tennis courts, and even arts and crafts.
The first order of business upon arriving at rehab was filling out a ton of paperwork. They needed my signature on at least a dozen documents. Next came an evaluation—physical and psychological. The primary purpose of the evaluation was to determine the patient’s level of dependence, so that the detox process could begin immediately and be handled as efficiently and comfortably as possible. Some people naturally lied about how much medication they were taking, thinking they’d be started on a much higher dose to help ease the weaning process. I took a different approach. I decided that honesty would be the best policy. Because I was taking such a large amount of Xanax, I figured any exaggeration would make me appear to be dishonest from the outset. When I told the nurse I was taking around twenty 1-milligram pills of Xanax a day, she stopped writing for a moment and tried to size me up.
“Around twenty? You sure about that?”
“That’s right.”
She sighed deeply and continued writing, unfazed by the reports of my alcohol and cocaine use, which by comparison must have seemed reasonable. After the consult I went back to my room and rested for a while, until one of the doctors stopped by for a visit.
“Mr. Frehley,” he said with a wry smile. “How much Xanax are you taking… really?”
I shrugged.
“Like I told your nurse. Around twenty pills a day. Really.”
The smile went away as he gave me a hard look.
“That dosage would kill most people.”
“What can I tell you, doc? I’m here.”
He nodded. “So you are. Okay… I guess we’ll have to take the Ativan Challenge.”
The Ativan Challenge was something devised to test a patient’s drug tolerance. It basically involved feeding a prescribed dosage of Ativan in consecutive intervals until the patient showed signs of impairment. This would allow the s
taff to determine the true level of drug dependence.
After dinner they started me on two Ativan every forty-five minutes. Three hours into the challenge, I was stone cold sober, talking smoothly, walking a straight line with ease. Four hours passed, then five. Around midnight the doctor came in and examined me. I still seemed relatively sober and at that point the doc became frustrated and quickly walked out of the room and shouted to the nurse.
“Start him on a hundred and twenty milligrams of Valium tomorrow and we’ll see how he does.”
The following day he stopped by to look in on me.
“I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of tolerance to tranquilizers,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”
“Well, doc, being a rock star is a very stressful occupation.”
The dosage the doctor prescribed kept me floating around the joint for a while and made the whole process more tolerable. After a few days someone mentioned that my cottage was the same one Gregg Allman had once occupied. I guess it was reserved for VIPs, but that really didn’t make it any more appealing. What did make it more appealing was that it was occupied mostly by women. In fact, the only other guy on the premises was about seventy years old. He had been dropped off by his family a week before I got there. The poor old guy was detoxing off alcohol and appeared to be very shaky. I felt bad for him since he looked like he had been drinking most of his life and may have been experiencing the DTs.
Among my fellow residents in the cottage were two girls in their mid-twenties and a couple of housewives: one in her thirties, the other in her early forties. The only other woman in the cottage besides the nurses was an older woman in her late sixties. An interesting and diverse group of characters, but we were all in the same boat. I obviously gravitated toward the two gals in their twenties, and they both were quite eager to get to know me. There really wasn’t a chance for any real fooling around, but I enjoyed flirting with the younger gals and we all became quite friendly over the next few weeks. After dinner and an AA meeting we usually watched TV together or played cards. Sometimes we exchanged some of our drug and alcohol stories and laughed about what we were experiencing.
No Regrets Page 25
