It was also what was best for Dean Ambrose, because after months of being referred to as the lunatic fringe (and I ain’t talkin’ about Tom Cochrane) he hadn’t done anything all that loony. But now he would be known as the psycho who dumped his opponent in a pile of thumbtacks and laughed about it after.
Honestly, I kind of got off on the idea of taking the fall, because after being in the business for twenty-five years I’d never taken a thumbtack bump before. I’d also never gotten hit with a fluorescent lightbulb or had my head stuck into a bucket filled with piranhas, but at least this made sense and put over my opponent in a way others hadn’t.
I made up my mind I was going to do it and that was that. Plus, in the grand Jericho tradition of always selling myself, I knew that because the bump hadn’t been done in so long, it would be one of the most memorable parts of the show and be talked about for years after. That in turn would up my profile, my fan base, and my status. See, selling yourself isn’t always as simple as just picking up the phone . . . sometimes you gotta get slammed into some thumbtacks to get what you want, yo!
The Asylum match itself was kind of plodding, but when Dean grabbed a velvet bag out of a bucket hanging from the top of the cage and poured the contents into the middle of the ring, the sold-out crowd in Newark, New Jersey, gave a fifteen-thousand-person collective gasp . . . which is exactly what we were hoping for. We teased the bump a few times over the next few minutes, with each of us narrowly getting out of harm’s way until I eventually locked the walls onto Dean. The crowd roared in approval, until Dean escaped by giving me a few well-placed kendo stick shots.
I turned the tide with a couple of barbed wire two-by-four shots into his abdomen and then attempted to give him a Codebreaker. However, he caught me in midair, turned to his right, and power bombed me right into the hundreds of shiny silver thumbtacks.
When I landed, I thought of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic talking about jumping into water that was so cold that “it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe. You can’t think about anything but the pain.” That pretty much nails (or should I say “tacks”?) how I felt—I couldn’t breathe with all the pain shooting through my body. It wasn’t a deep agony that would be long lasting, but more of a steady throbbing that felt like dozens of bees stinging me simultaneously.
I rose up out of the tack bath, screaming in torment with my arms outstretched in a hardcore Jesus Christ pose just as somebody snapped a picture. That photo ended up being used in hundreds of hilarious and clever memes over the next few weeks, with my faves being me jumping in the air with the Beatles in 1964, getting shot out of a cannon at a circus, being chased by Hitchcock’s birds, and rocking out in the back of the car with the Wayne’s World gang.
But the mirth of the memes aside, the worst part was trying to stand up after landing on my back. I felt like a turtle trying to turn over, as I couldn’t plant my hand down anywhere to push my body up, due to the pounding prick of my new tacky friends. I couldn’t bend my legs either, because I had so many of the little fuckers in the waistline of my street-fighting jeans (it was an Extreme Rules match after all) that I was afraid they would stab me and add to my increasing collection of piercings.
I shuffled/rolled around until I was able to get to my knees, all the while screaming uncontrollably to sell the severity of the bump, and then turned into Ambrose’s dirty deeds DDT finish. As I took the move, I put my hands up to protect my face and while I succeeded in not having any of the tacks stick into my mug, three of the little bastards poked through the palm of my hand.
Let me tell you THAT led to some really serious pain.
I felt like a lion with three splinters in his paw, crying and writhing in agony as I rolled over so Dean could pin me. In the process, I had to arch my lower back up off the mat to avoid getting stabbed by the renegade tacks still residing in my britches.
The crowd popped huge when he got the win and he left the ring the triumphant hero who proved he was indeed the lunatic fringe he claimed to be. After all, he had barbarically brutalized (great thrash metal album title) his hated rival in a way nobody else had in over a decade.
Meanwhile, I was left alone in the ring with sixty-eight tacks sticking out of my bleeding body, with the three most painful ones jammed into my hand. That trio of pushpins was giving me so much agony that I decided to make sure the world knew they were there. I looked towards the camera, whimpering pathetically in torment, and held my wounded hand next to my face with the palm towards the lens, giving the world a close-up of my anguish.
And why did I go out of my way to get that shot on camera?
Because (say it with me now, kids) I was selling myself!
EPILOGUE
After having a total of sixty-eight tacks removed from my back, shoulders, and elbows by the WWE doctors and trainers (every one of them caught on camera, of course), I went to the dressing room to take off my boots. I sat down, but recoiled instantly when my ass hit the bench as another flash of torture sliced through my lower body like a Lilliputian spear. I stood up gingerly and pulled down my pants, twisting my neck to try and see my own rear end (which isn’t easy, let me tell you) and there it was, the parting gift of the Asylum: one last thumbtack sticking out of my left buttock.
Change that number to sixty-nine, tacks of Jericho . . . stick ’em in, maaan!
EPILOGUE PART 2
A few days ago as of this writing, I was sitting at the pool at the hotel where the entire company was staying for WrestleMania 33, when Ambrose approached me and showed me a picture on his phone. Unbeknownst to me, a toy company had just released an Asylum match playset complete with a breakable Mitch the Potted Plant. So despite the fact that critics HATED the first Asylum match, I’m sure they’ll be happy to know that since there is now a playset of the structure, there will probably be another one.
You’re welcome!
CHAPTER 16
THE
SHEP
GORDON
PRINCIPLE
YOU NEVER KNOW
WHO’S WATCHING YOU
Every breath you take, every move you make,
every bond you break, I’ll be watching you . . .
—THE POLICE, “EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE”
(Sting)
As I was writing this book, my dad came to visit us in Florida, and one night we were talking about life in general. He commented that if you wanted to succeed, you needed to put forth your best effort at all times, because “you just never who’s watching you.” It was a great point, one that applies to this lexicon perfectly. It was another great piece of advice from my father and my mentor, but when he said it, I had already written the chapter explaining the Ted Irvine Principle. However, this new nugget of advice was too good not to use, so I decided to incorporate it under the banner of The Shep Gordon Principle instead.
If you’re not familiar with the name Shep Gordon, then you need to check out Supermensch, the excellent documentary about his life, directed by Mike Myers. Mensch is a Yiddish word for “a person of integrity and honor,” and that describes Shep to a tee. He’s a universally regarded great person whose pedigree in show business is legendary. He’s been Alice Cooper’s manager for over forty-five years and has also guided or assisted the careers of Blondie, Anne Murray, Raquel Welch, Teddy Pendergrass, Luther Vandross, Johnny Depp, Sammy Hagar, and even the Beatles. He’s also one of the nicest people I’ve ever met and most people who know him feel the same way.
But as illustrious as Shep’s pedigree is, I wasn’t familiar with him until I watched his documentary while touring with Fozzy in Europe in the fall of 2015. As soon as I saw the film, I instantly liked this capricious gent and spread the word about him and the movie to anyone and everyone who would listen.
Fast-forward a few months to Valentine’s Day 2016 and I was back with the WWE, getting ready for a matinee show in Fresno, when suddenly I got a text from Paul Stanley.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONI
GHT? MY WIFE IS SICK, SO DO YOU WANNA
COME WITH ME TO CLIVE DAVIS’S GRAMMY PARTY?
Was he ribbing me? Of course I wanted to go!
Clive Davis is one of the biggest record executives in history and his parties are legendary. This was THE place to be the night before the Grammys and was almost impossible to get into. But now that I was invited, I had to figure out what I was going to wear.
After searching through the various vests, scarves, and suit jackets that were rolled up at the bottom of my suitcase, I was able to put together a decent little ensemble (although it could’ve used a quick ironing), and after my match I quickly showered and took off for the three-hour drive back to Los Angeles.
The plan was to meet Paul at the Beverly Hilton at 7 p.m. sharp, and when I pulled up to the hotel it was a madhouse. Fans and reporters were everywhere, trying catch a glimpse of the icons of pop culture history that were walking through the metal detectors at the front of the venue.
I arrived a few minutes early, so I waited at the bar and had a Yeah Boy to relax, as this was a pretty high-class affair and I wasn’t sure if I would know anybody else besides Paul. A few minutes later he arrived and we stood in line waiting to go through the metal detectors leading into the ballroom. He gave me my pass and we made small talk for a few minutes, until I noticed that blues guitar legend Buddy Guy was standing right in front of us. When I pointed him out to Paul, he grabbed his iPhone and asked Buddy if he could take a quick picture. It was cool to see one of my rock ’n’ roll heroes fanboying out and getting a picture with a hero of his own.
Once we got through the craziness of the security line and the scrum of the red carpet (I was done in about ten minutes, while Paul took over thirty . . . it was definitely more his crowd than mine), we walked into another bar area and that’s when I realized just how many very important people were at this shindig.
Within ten minutes, Paul had introduced me to Suzanne Somers, Sly Stallone, Desmond Child, Diane Warren, and Taylor Hawkins. I also saw a myriad of old acquaintances, including Dave Grohl (you owe me a drink, dude!), Sammy Hagar, Gene Simmons (“you are a powerful and attractive man”), Alice Cooper, and David Foster, while Chris Rock, Jamie Foxx, Ringo Starr, Gwen Stefani, Rod Stewart, Michael J. Fox (who was sitting right behind me the whole time but I couldn’t get up the nerve to say hi), Bette Midler, Irving Azoff, Khloe Kardashian, P Diddy, and dozens of other A-listers milled about. If it seems like I’m name-dropping again, it’s because I am . . . so watch your toes.
There was also a frail-looking bushy-haired kid who seemed like he was about twelve years old walking around with an ill-fitting tuxedo and a goofy grin. He looked confused and out of place . . . then I realized he was Harry Styles from One Direction.
Paul and I hung around until the bar closed and we were walking into the main room for the dinner and entertainment portion of the party, when we ran into Shep Gordon himself. I was happy to meet him and I mentioned I’d seen his movie and dug his infectious laugh. He was very cordial with his reply; we shook hands and went our separate ways.
A few minutes later, Paul and I got to our assigned table (like at a wedding) and I noticed that they had put all the rockers together in the back of the room. How’s this for a lineup: Alice Cooper, Gene Simmons, Shannon Tweed, Paul, Chad Kroeger, Avril LaVigne, a random lesbian couple, and sitting beside me in an act of pure happenstance . . . Shep Gordon.
There were some serious road dogs in that group, a fact put into perspective by Alice when he queried, “Can you imagine the total amount of road miles traveled at this table?” It was a great point and I stopped counting in my head when I reached twenty million. Hell, I was probably around four million myself.
Shep and I hit it off instantly and after a few minutes of small talk about where we lived (he was based in Maui), we decided we wanted a drink. The only problem was the bar was now closed (what kind of a rock ’n’ roll party was this anyway?), and only wine was available at that point. Either Clive ran a pretty tight ship at his Grammy parties, or he was just a Grumpus who didn’t want his guests having too much fun. Sensing that neither of us were big fans of rules, Shep and I paid no attention to the abandoned bar and flagged down our waiter, a friendly-looking older Latino dude with an engaging smile.
“Excuse me, sir, is there any chance you can grab a couple of vodka and cranberries for us?” Shep asked him politely. He nodded his head with a smile and in a few minutes returned with four stiff cocktails.
“Here you go, boss,” the guy said cheerfully. I tipped him twenty bucks and Shep and I toasted each other, as we turned our attention to the stage at the front of the room.
The show started and throughout the course of the night, we were treated to live performances from the surviving members of Nirvana with Beck on vocals (it was incredible and they should do a tour), Barry Manilow, Earth, Wind & Fire, Chicago, Carly Simon, and Fetty Wap. Then Melissa Etheridge did a tribute to the recently departed Glenn Frey with a rendition of the Eagles’ “Take It Easy,” which didn’t turn out too well as the melody of the song was way out of her raspy range. But the crowd gave her a standing ovation anyway, and even though it wasn’t really deserved, her heart was in the right place, so I rose out of the chair along with the rest of my table.
Gene was clapping his hands with a frozen grin and when he caught my eye, he whispered through clenched teeth, “Well, that was the shits.” I almost spit out my cocktail.
Paul was just as funny, throwing out quips and lines the entire show.
“Hey, Paul, why is Nancy Pelosi here?”
“I think she’s a member of Heart,” he deadpanned with perfect comic delivery.
What was even more comical was the appearance of the waiter every fifteen minutes with another four cocktails, whether Shep and I asked for them or not. But we kept tipping him, so he kept coming back saying, “Here you go, boss,” every time until we literally had a half dozen drinks each in front of us.
I was starting to get self-conscious, as it seemed that everybody else at the table was either a recovering alcoholic or a teetotaler, making Shep and me look like Keith Moon and Bon Scott in 1977.
“We really didn’t ask for all of these drinks,” I said to Paul guiltily after another delivery from Boss, as if he really gave a fuck. He had been in KISS for over forty years and had seen and done it all I’m sure, so I doubt a table full of vodka made him bat a star-painted eye. But I still felt weird when Boss returned with another couple highballs.
“Why does he keep coming back so quickly, Shep?”
“I think it’s because we keep giving him money. I just tipped him another two hundred bucks.”
We did some quick math and realized that between the two of us, Boss had made almost five hundred bucks in less than two hours. No wonder he was so punctual with his service.
“I think we might have just adopted him,” I said. “We are going to have to share custody. He can live with you in Hawaii during the week, then I get him on the weekends in Tampa.”
It was nonstop laughter that night and one of those froot times when you hit it off with somebody instantly. I was only aware of Shep because of his movie, plus he was twenty-five years my senior and I was pretty sure he’d never heard of me, but it didn’t matter; a kindred spirit is a kindred spirit.
Finally, Shep and his date got up to leave, but he handed me a disheveled business card that was probably printed in 1969 and told me to look him up if I was ever coming to Hawaii.
“As a matter of fact, Shep, I’m planning on taking my family to Maui this summer. Do you think you might be able to point me in the right direction of somewhere cool to stay?”
“Yes I can. Email me tomorrow and we will figure it out.”
I pocketed his card and shook his hand. A few minutes later Paul and Gene left as well. So I hung out a little while longer looking for Ringo to hear him pee or whatever, but he had left too. With nobody else to hang with, I finished off one of the remaining six drinks on the
table and walked out the door, hip-checking that little shit Harry Styles along the way.
The next day I emailed Shep and was amazed when I got his reply a few hours later: “If you are looking for a place to stay in Maui, why don’t you just stay at my place? I have a guest house with plenty of room and if I’m in town I’ll even cook you a meal or two.”
I couldn’t believe his offer and I knew exactly what his guest-house looked like because I’d seen it in the documentary—it was real and it was spectacular!
It took me a while to convince Jess that I wasn’t crazy for accepting an offer to take my family to stay for a week at a stranger’s house. However, once I showed her the Supermensch movie and she read the litany of emails from Nancy Meola (Shep’s amazing personal assistant) offering to book any activity we wanted to do, she realized it was a once in a lifetime opportunity and not a scene out of The King of Comedy.
In the end she was glad we went, because it definitely was the vacation of a lifetime. All the wonderful things we saw and experienced in Maui are too numerous to describe in this chapter and will have to be told in a separate book, but suffice it to say it was a family vacation after which Jess, Ash, Cheyenne, Sierra and I will never, EEEVVVEEERRR be the same again. And we owe it all to Shep Gordon, a man who extended us the full use of his home for a week, after only knowing me for ninety minutes.
But here’s the moral of the story.
On the last day of our vacation, Shep agreed to do an interview for Talk Is Jericho. After regaling me with incredible stories from his forty-five-year career for over an hour (his tale about John and Yoko shaving their heads so the aliens would know it was time to come take them away was a personal favorite of mine), I thanked him for sharing his home with me and for allowing my family to be a part of his incredible world. He reciprocated and told me how much he enjoyed having us there for the week, which was nice to hear, but it was the bomb he dropped on me next that hit me hardest.
No is a Four-Letter Word Page 16
