We had a guy who played in Fozzy for a few years (who shall remain nameless, faceless) say to us after we fired him, “Come on, guys. You honestly don’t believe Fozzy is ever going to get any bigger than you are now, do you?”
We most certainly did, and his negativity and lack of belief were two of the reasons we sacked him. We strived to get bigger almost just to spite him, and since then we’ve toured the world with Metallica, KISS, and Shinedown, played to hundreds of thousands of amazing fans, and our last record, “Do You Wanna Start a War,” debuted at number 54 on the Billboard Top 200. I’d say we proved his naysaying ass wrong, haven’t we?
“The only people that are ever gonna tell ya you can’t accomplish something are the ones who failed.” Those words have become a mantra for my life and everything I ever dreamed of doing when I was a kid—like being a father, husband, wrestler, musician, author, actor, podcaster, comedian, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker—I’ve done (actually, I’ve never made a damn candle in my life). Besides being the first Canadian James Bond AND an adventuring archaeologist named Indiana Jonesicho, I’ve done pretty much everything I ever wanted to do, all with the help of Paul’s wise words.
Another dream of mine was to someday actually meet Paul Stanley himself.
I even came up with this reverie that Paul would someday have a son who was into wrestling and would be a fan of mine, which would lead to me finally hanging out with my hero. Funnily enough, that did kind of happen to me backstage at an Iron Maiden show in Milwaukee in 2000, when I was recognized by guitarist Adrian Smith’s wife, because their son was a big WWE fan. Ten minutes later, I was talking to the shocked young lad after waking him out of his deep sleep, thousands of miles away in England. I ended up getting invited to watch Maiden play from the side of the stage, and hung out in their dressing room afterwards. I’ve been buds with Adrian and the entire Maiden organization ever since. (I even got an Eddie-themed Christmas card from them one year.)
Although I was friends with the Smiths, my dream of becoming chummy with the Stanleys never came to fruition. Adrian, Slash, Chad Smith of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Phil Campbell from Motörhead all had kids that were into wrestling, but I never heard a thing about Paul’s children showing any interest. I slowly gave up on the “his kids like WWE” plan and started to imagine other ways I could strike up a relationship with Paul.
Maybe Fozzy would open for KISS, or I would get a job as a gas-meter checker (shout out to Rybo) in Paul’s neighborhood. Perhaps I could become a Jehovah’s Witness and deliver a copy of The Watchtower to his door?
But none of those ever came to fruition, although I came close to meeting him in 2014 when he was booked on Talk Is Jericho during a promotional tour for his autobiography. However, he cancelled just a few hours beforehand and I was crushed. Why would he blow me off so close to showtime? I was really disappointed and resigned myself to the fact that we’d never meet face to face.
Then IT happened, like an RKO #outtanowhere.
I was in the dressing room after a Raw taping in August of 2014, when I overheard a couple of the refs talking about how a guy from KISS was asking for a birthday video message for his son from John Cena. That guy was Paul Stanley.
“Hold on, what did you just say?” I asked my old friend and favorite referee, Charles Robinson.
“Apparently, Paul Stanley’s son is a big WWE fan and wants a video greeting from Cena as a birthday present.”
That was all I needed to hear! If Paul’s son was a WWE fan, then that would mean he might know me as well, right?? My crazy dream might come true yet!
Charles told me that Dale Torborg, who had played The KISS Demon in WCW and was tight with the band, had gotten the request from Paul and called to ask for help. I told him I was the guy for the job and would get it done immediately.
I found John changing in a room down the hall and asked him if he could do me a favor and wish a friend of mine happy birthday. Cena was more than gracious and delivered a great thirty-second birthday promo in one take. I grabbed Dale’s number and texted him the video, along with a written message of my own thanking Paul for his words of advice all those years ago and congratulating him on his decades of success. Dale agreed to forward both texts to Paul and I figured that was the last of it.
A few days later, I was outside cooking my kids some steak on the grill (I’m a barbequing ninja), when my cell phone rang. It came up as NO CALLER ID so I ignored it. After accidentally tweeting my phone number a few years earlier, I still get the occasional call from random fans, so I never answer unidentified numbers. A few minutes later, I got a text from Torborg saying that Paul loved the video and was planning on calling me to say thanks.
Stop! Hold on! Stay in control.
Did he just say that Paul Stanley was GOING TO CALL ME??
I reread the text and indeed that’s what Dale had written. I jumped out of my nonexistent socks, ate my nonexistent hat, and started partying like it was 1999. I couldn’t believe what was happening. After all those years and that Talk Is Jericho close call at the PodcastOne studios, was I finally going to get my chance to speak to the man himself? Then a scary thought hit me like a ton of bricks (and I ain’t talkin’ about Metal Church) as a wave of slight nausea cascaded through my stomach.
What if he already called? I thought to myself as a bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. I mean I had only missed the one call and the caller hadn’t left a message . . . or had they? I checked my phone to see and noticed a new voice message in the box.
I pressed play on the message arrow and almost collapsed in mortification at what I heard.
“Hey, Chris . . .” a deep, confident New York–accented voice said. After hearing it on albums and in concert for years, I knew instantly who it was.
“. . . it’s Paul Stanley.”
I fell to my knees and screamed, “NOOOOOOO” at the sky like Captain Kirk in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.
“I’m just calling to thank you for helping me out—my son is gonna love the video! I want to talk to you . . . and I’m sure you want to talk to me too. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself that you missed this call, but I’ll try again later.”
Kicking myself was an understatement. I was so despondent that if I could’ve fed myself into a Fargo-style woodchipper, I would’ve. I instantly called Torborg and asked him to tell Paul to call me back as soon as he could. Then I finished grilling up the steaks and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. I was sure that Paul would call me back eventually, but as Tom Petty once said, “The waiting is the hardest part.” And he wasn’t effen’ kidding.
I mean, it was worse than waiting for the hot girl you met the night before at Applebee’s to call you back after you took a chance and left her a message. It was torturous; I must’ve checked the clock a half dozen times within the next minute.
Finally, after a few more minutes the phone rang and the NO CALLER ID warning popped up again, so I took a deep breath, and after waiting two more rings for cool points, I answered. It was Paul, and the following twenty-minute conversation we had couldn’t have gone better. It took me a few minutes to get the fanboy nervousness out of my system, but once I did we had a great chat about our kids, their birthdays, wrestling, and of course music. I offered to send his son Colin a special present from my private collection, so Paul gave me his cell phone number, email address, physical address and agreed to do Talk Is Jericho anytime, which was huge for me. I found him to be a genuinely cool cat, and we got along right off the bat. He must’ve felt the same way, as five minutes later he emailed me to say that his son was a fan of mine as well and wondered if I could do a birthday greeting for him too.
Damn right I could and couldn’t wait to oblige. I laid down a two-minute-long Raw-worthy promo on my phone, wishing him a happy birthday and saying that I’d spoken to Vince McMahon about making him an honorary WWE superstar. Then I remarked that if he was going to be an honorary superstar, he needed a superstar outfit and held up m
y WrestleMania 20 blue-and-silver tights (with matching ring jacket of course), saying they were now his. (Helpful Author’s note: This was the outfit I wore against Christian during our WrestleMania 20 match in Madison Square Garden.) After watching it back to make sure it was perfect, I emailed the greeting over to Paul, then packaged up the gear and shipped it to his place.
A few days later, he sent me a video of Colin watching my video. The kid freaked out when I said his name and lost it completely when he took my costume out of the box, just as I held up the tights on my video. Paul reiterated that the costume was worn at WrestleMania in MADISON SQUARE GARDEN, which was sacred ground for both KISS fans and WWE fans alike. Colin put on the gear as fast as he could and despite the fact that the costume hung on him like Rey Mysterio wearing The Big Show’s bathrobe, proceeded to throw a picture-perfect air dropkick on his bed. It was an awesome feeling knowing I had made both the kid’s and his father’s day, and a better feeling knowing that as of that moment, Paul Stanley was more than a hero . . . he was now my friend.
Paul and I have gotten pretty close over the last few years, and he even invited my wife Jessica and me to his ten-year wedding vow renewal, which was a huge honor. It was a great night with many great stories that I’ll keep between us, but I will say this: you ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen Gene Simmons do the twist on a wedding dance floor. He’s amazing and his moves are radioactive!
CHAPTER 9
THE
VIV
SAVAGE
PRINCIPLE
HAVE A GOOD TIME
ALL THE TIME
We’re here for a good time, not a long time,
so have a good time, the sun can’t shine every day . . .
—TROOPER, “WE’RE HERE FOR A GOOD TIME”
(Ra McGuire, Brian Smith)
Spinal Tap’s portly keyboard player, Viv Savage, gave one of the best pieces of advice in cinematic history, when documentarian Marty DiBergi asked him what his creed for life was.
“Have a good time, all the time . . . that’s my philosophy Marty.”
Pretty self-explanatory, right?
You have to love what you do and do what you love and if you don’t, then make a change. It doesn’t get much easier than that, does it? Whatever your passion might be, no matter how big or how small, no matter how far-fetched or obvious, you owe it to yourself to pursue it with everything you’ve got.
I remember in the mid-’90s when I was living in Calgary but working in Mexico, I made the cardinal mistake of falling in love while still making my way up the ladder. I was feeling sad about leaving my girl to go back to wrestle in Mexico for another couple of months and asked my best friend (and roommate at the time), “Dr. Luther” Lenny Olson, for his advice. His response was quick and Viv Savage–esque: “Be where you wanna be.”
I took those words to heart and decided I wanted be in Mexico, so I broke up with the girl and stuck with my plans to further my career. Lenny and Viv were absolutely right: Life is too short to be unhappy with your surroundings and what you’re doing, so no matter what your circumstances are there’s always a way to make things better. Never be afraid to go out on a limb to make each day a special one that you’ll never forget.
In the summer of 2015, I was on a short WWE tour of Japan made up of two sold-out shows in Sumo Hall in Tokyo. I had a pair of matches, one with Finn Balor, one with Neville, and both tore down the house. It’s always an honor for me to return to Japan after basically growing up there in the ’90s, and I’ve done a total of forty-eight tours (and counting) in the country over the years. I put great importance on those matches and feel a huge responsibility to put on the best show I can, both for myself and the fans who have been following me since my first Japanese tour back in 1991.
So after two great shows, I was feeling pretty celebratory and wanted to have a couple drinks on the Tokyo town. Thankfully, a few of the lads wanted to join me, so I put together the motley crew of Xavier Woods, Eddie and Orlando Colon, and WWE doctor Chris Amann. We ended up hooking up with a dude who had a connection at the hottest club in Tokyo, which boasted a private, luxurious karaoke room. Add in some froot fans we met at the bar and multiple bottles of Grey Goose, and suddenly you had the perfect recipe for an awesome night. After a great karaoke session featuring classic renditions of songs by Journey, Player, Whitesnake, the Backstreet Boys, Dokken (for the Doc), Taylor Swift, and an amazing version of Ebony and Ivory with Woods and me singing in perfect harmony (I was Ebony), the club provided a stretch limo for us to get back to the hotel.
When we pulled up at the front doors of the hotel, I was in full Keith Richards mode complete with aviator shades, a cigarette, a scarf, and a bottle of anything in hand. I swaggered out of the limo with a cocky smile and was captured perfectly on film by Orlando. I’m sure it would’ve been a much easier flight home if I had gone to bed early rather than partying until dawn, but that wouldn’t have made as good of a story, now would it?
However, I wasn’t always so Keith suave and Richards debonair when I was having a good time all the time. Back in 2014, I was taking a red-eye home from Portland, Oregon, after a Raw taping, with Kevin Nash, Hulk Hogan, and John Laurinaitis and I happened to be sitting next to Nash. The flight to Atlanta was five hours long and I had planned to sleep the whole way, but one thing led to another and Big Kev and I started having a few cocktails. I ordered Yeah Boys (Grey Goose and ice, as described in my renowned cocktail book, Best in the World) for the both of us, and off we went into the great wide open.
We ended up hanging in the galley of the plane with Hulk (who had gladly signed autographs and taken pictures with almost every passenger on the plane at that point), having a few laughs, and of course a few more cocktails. It was a cool experience, as I’d never really hung out with Hulk and Kevin before. We had been in the trenches together in WCW, but I was pretty much persona non grata back then and we didn’t run in the same circles. But as S. E. Hinton once wrote, “that was then, this is now,” and at this point we were three former WWE world champions flying home from another show. We were also a little loud and a little loadski, which was bothering a few of the other passengers.
After a couple of complaints, a flight attendant who looked like Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life approached us in a huff.
“Gentlemen, you have to return to your seats immediately. You are far too loud and people want to sleep. As a matter of fact, the man sitting in 2D has a twenty-five-million-dollar meeting in Atlanta first thing in the morning and needs his rest!”
Hulk looked at Mrs. Garrett with a charming smile and said calmly, “If he’s got a twenty-five-million-dollar meeting in the morning, why didn’t he just charter a plane and sleep on that?” His logic made perfect sense to me, and I burst out laughing while Mrs. G scowled like she was Sour Boy from Talk’n Shop.
But we didn’t want to cause any trouble, so we went back to our seats. I was planning on taking a quick nap, until suddenly I belched twice . . . and threw up on myself.
I was really surprised because I hadn’t barfed from alcohol in years, especially from drinking only Yeah Boys. Upon further evaluation, I realized I hadn’t thrown up too much, as there was only a silver dollar–sized dollop of bap on my right leg. I mentioned to Nash that I had just puked on myself as I cleaned it up with a napkin and some bottled water and then dozed off.
We landed in Atlanta a few hours later and I bid farewell to Big Kev, then stumbled through the terminal to the gate of my next flight with Johnny and Hulk. As I shuffled down the hallway, dragging ass from lack of sleep and too many Yeah Boys, I noticed the acidic smell of vomit wafting up to my nose. I found that a little strange, as I had already cleaned up the spew on my jeans hours earlier.
I was exhausted and collapsed into my seat on the connecting flight, ready to catch some more much needed zzzz’s on the way home. So I closed my eyes and snuggled up against the window ready to enter sandman, until once again a pungent, pukey aroma assaulted my olfactor
y.
I opened my eyes to check out where the hell the smell was coming from, and then noticed the problem. I hadn’t just regurgitated on a small section of my jeans; I had heaved all over my entire left leg. How I’d missed that I don’t know, but I had been traveling for three hours with the smell of acrid smoke and upchuck breath wafting up off my body. I had pulled the ultimate rookie faux pas by hurling on myself.
I looked across the aisle at the Hulkster and asked, “Hey, Hulk, I just realized that I have puke all over my leg. Didn’t you smell it?”
“Of course I smelled it, brother. But I didn’t have the heart to tell you. Plus, ‘Mr. Twenty-five Million Dollar Meeting’ sitting in front of you on the last flight was selling it huge and I didn’t want to spoil the rib!”
The rib on who . . . Mr. Twenty-five Million Dollar Meeting, or me?
WHEN FOZZY’S Sin and Bones album came out in 2012, it was our biggest success up to that point chartwise, saleswise, and touringwise. As a result, we went out on tour with a laundry list of great bands from Metallica to Shinedown to Drowning Pool to Steel Panther, but the band we had the most fun with was British heavy metal legends Saxon. We had a great time touring the States on the Sacrifice and Sin tour, not only because of the chemistry between our two groups, but because of the constant barrage of insults thrown back and forth.
Led by the iconic and curmudgeonly Biff Byford, Saxon were doing their first full US tour in years and had handpicked Fozzy to open the shows. We shared a bus and a road crew, which meant we basically spent six weeks in each other’s faces and got to know each other quite well. It also meant that Biff and I, the lead singers and respective leaders of our bands, developed a healthy rivalry, which led to busting each other’s balls incessantly on a daily basis. I can honestly say that some of the best burns I’ve ever thought of in my life were directed toward the Biffster, and in turn some of the best insults I’ve ever received came from him.
No is a Four-Letter Word Page 9
