by Mick Foley
The promo had been ultra-effective in letting our audience know that the book was not only real, but meant a lot to me as well. It also effectively ended the first era of The Rock 'n' Sock Connection. The Connection never did what it was designed to do— sell tickets and boost buy rates. It did, however, help sell a snowload of books.
22: Bestseller
IN Have a Nice Day!, I detailed my dad's curious collection of some twenty-five years' worth of newspapers that occupied over half the Foley garage. When my dad found interesting articles, he often underlined them and sent them to me. With my book's publication on the horizon, my dad had been kind enough to send me an article written by an author who described the perils of a book-signing tour that nobody showed up for.
This was my greatest fear. I had suffered through a few embarrassing autograph catastrophes in the past and still felt the pain somewhere deep down in my ego. Fortunately, none of those incidents had occurred since my babyface turn of '98, which seemed to most fans like a distant memory. This was different, however. This was a book tour. Maybe the experts were right. Maybe wrestling fans wouldn't read a book. I mean, who was I to argue with the infinite wisdom of the publishing world?
I brought my family to New York with me for my three days of publicity there. With publicity tours of New York and California occupying my off days, I was looking at nineteen straight days on the road. That's a long, miserable time to pretend to be happy. Besides, Colette had always enjoyed New York, having grown up and modeled there until the Foley charm swept her off her feet in 1990. I had been somewhat apprehensive when I heard words like "Saks" and "Bloomingdale's," which generally hit me like Quint's nails on a chalkboard in Jaws, but I eventually gave in. With one stipulation—no Louis Vuitton!
I brought Dewey with me for my first book signing while the girls spent a night at the ballet. I did the Conan O'Brien show en route to the signing, and had a good time. Conan's sidekick, Andy Richter, was a big fan and apparently had briefed Conan on some fast Foley facts. Everyone agreed that it went well, and then it was into the long, black limousine for a ride to the Virgin Megastore in Times Square for my big signing debut.
There is no money paid for book signings, but the perks are great. First-class hotel, good restaurants, shiny limos. After about a week I graciously asked Jennifer Suitor, my HarperCollins publicist and newest friend, if we could downgrade to a Lincoln sedan or Cadillac. To me, there's a fine line between classy and pretentious, and a thirty-seven-foot car for two or three people falls firmly in the latter category. I can understand the whole image thing, but in my case, that image is pretty much shot the moment I step out of the vehicle anyway. For some reason, flannel shirts, saggy sweats, and $150,000 cars don't go together all that well. Besides, they are a pain in the Test to get into and out of, the TV never works, and the climate control only has two settings— Saharan Journey or Arctic Discovery.
On the way to the store, Jen told me that the store had hosted successful signings where more than 250 books were sold. I would have been delighted to sign that many. I could feel my heart pounding as we inched closer in the sluggish city traffic. Not only was I fearing bomb-scare-like attendance numbers, but this was going to be my first time inside a Virgin . . . store, that is.
All my fears were soon washed away. The line was huge. They were chanting my name as I got out of the car. A few even chanted for Dewey, who seemed overwhelmed at the mass of Foley fanatics. The little guy sat down and drew pictures of his favorite wrestlers while Dad signed away. Mankind, Kane, D'Lo, Al Snow. Al Snow? The crowd stood in hushed silence while I pulled down my son's pants and gave him his first spanking since '95. Just kidding—Dewey loves Al, and I've learned to live with it.
After two hours I was told that we had shattered the signing record. Total tally: 760 books. I was contracted to do six of these signings, in New York, Long Island, Los Angeles, Chicago, St. Louis, and New Jersey. By the time I was done promoting, I had done an extra fourteen, all with no pay. I had written the book, was proud of it, believed in it, and wanted to see it do well.
Which didn't mean I didn't stoop to ridiculous levels to promote it. The St. Louis signing was unique in that I would be going to my book signing immediately following my match. So when I stepped out into the ring to face Chris Jericho, I took advantage of a tremendous marketing opportunity. "Jericho," I bellowed into the mike, "if you want some more of me after this match, then I dare you to show up at the Wal-Mart on Fourteenth Street, where I will be signing copies of my book, Have a Nice Day!, from seven to nine p.m." I lost the match that afternoon, when Jericho used my 503-page book as a foreign object for the pin, but I definitely was a big winner at the book signing. Over 1,100 copies signed in two hours—a new HarperCollins record!
In the St. Louis case, I had a financial motive behind my microphone goofiness, but in a lot of towns, I did it just for the boys in the back, and to get a rise out of World Wrestling Federation road agent Jack Lanza. Lanza had spent most of his career in the Midwest, and may actually rival Governor Ventura for most stories told about Verne. He had also been a longtime partner of Blackjack Mulligan, and as Blackjack Lanza had enjoyed a long and successful wrestling career. Lanza actually made a rare on-camera appearance in 1997 to introduce Justin Bradshaw and Barry Windham as the "New Blackjacks." As a general rule, the word "new" in front of anything in wrestling spells doom, as in New Rockers, New Midnight Express, and the New Originals. Unfortunately, the New Blackjacks didn't do a whole lot to change that general rule. Christmas that year was nearly ruined when Dewey opened up one of Santa's gifts to find a "New Blackjacks" tag-team doll set. The little guy was only five then, and he looked almost saddened at what he perceived to be a catastrophic error in judgment by the all-knowing Santa. "Dad," he sadly said, with little tears welling up in his eyes, "doesn't Santa know that I hate the New Blackjacks?"
Miami represented an all-time highwater mark for these Lanza-goading promos for the boys. Miami is The Rock's hometown, and at the time, October 10, 1999, The Rock 'n' Sock was still together. So, with The Rock's wife and mother looking on from the front row, and with Lanza and the boys looking on from the curtain, I gleefully began the worst promo of my life.
"I would like to dedicate this next match to a young man who couldn't be here tonight. Earlier today, I got together with The Rock"—cheap gratuitous pop—"and soaked up some sun, and rode the waves at South Beach. On our way out, I saw a man running toward us with a pen and a picture of The Rock 'n' Sock Connection"—another cheap pop. "By the way he was running, and by the urgency in his eyes, I knew that he was our biggest fan. Unfortunately, just as he got to us, he slipped in a puddle of suntan lotion that had dripped off my oiled-up body, and hit his head. He temporarily lost consciousness, but I stayed with him as we waited for medical help. As he was being loaded into the ambulance, this huge fan opened up one eye and spoke to me. 'Please,' he said, 'tonight in Miami, just one time, go out and win one for the slipper!' "
Sixteen thousand fans groaned, and Lanza, I was told, was beside himself. "Jesus Christ," he yelled, "that's the worst shit I've ever heard!" I, however, was thrilled. So what if 16,000 fans hated it? Six of the boys in the back had loved it. Six out of sixteen thousand? I'll take those numbers. Besides, the fans in Miami appreciated the honesty that followed. "I'm sorry," I said, "but the wrestlers in the back bet me I wouldn't do it." This time they cheered. So what if the story was horrendous; it was the courage to purposely fail that they admired.
Howard Stern was my next stop on the New York publicity tour. There was actually some history here, as back in 1991,1 had been the first wrestler to ever appear on Howard's nationally syndicated radio show. It had been a risky venture then, because Howard hated wrestling, and in truth, I was only there because I was Fred the Elephant Boy's favorite wrestler. Who the hell is Fred the Elephant Boy? Fred is something of a normal guy who happens to have a speech impediment that makes everything he says sound funny. That peculiar talent, and a willingness
to divulge every facet of his personal life, has been enough to keep Fred as a quasi- celebrity and a semi-regular on Howard's show for ten years.
At one time Fred was the most famous person I knew. He and his brother even attended my wedding. Yes, it's true, and I have a photo of myself as Elvis in a white jumpsuit that was never meant for a 300-pounder, and Fred and his brother in prison outfits and inflatable guitars singing Jailhouse Rock, as a painful reminder.
Yeah, for a while I used Fred to get over in casual conversations, but our friendship became somewhat strained when he lent me a video of Howard's Butt Bongo Fiesta Pay-Per-View. Colette had come down and caught me in the middle of the night watching Howard use girls' buttocks as bongo drums, and had accused me of watching porn—which was a definite no-no in our house. I tried telling her it was a comedy tape, but she wasn't buying that poor excuse, and as a result, Butt Bongo Fiesta had mysteriously vanished. Unfortunately, I couldn't put the episode behind us, since Fred began calling regularly and driving me crazy with those three words spoken in his own inimitable way: "Butt Bongo Fiesta."
I still remember sitting in the green room back in 1991 and hearing Howard blast wrestling while I waited to be brought out. When I did set foot in the studio, he sized me up and made the following observation. "Cactus Jack, it looks like you're missing a few teeth there." I adjusted the headphones and responded with, "Well, Howard, they're gone, but I don't miss them." And he laughed. Howard Stern laughed at my opening joke. From that point on, it was easy, as I think I dispelled Howard's preconceived notions of big, ugly, stupid wrestlers. Sure, two out of three of those preconceptions were right on the money, but the whole thing went very well. I even made another appearance with Fred, later that year, which also went well, but then people started paying Fred to be on the show, and Howard got a little fed up.
Now, eight years later, I was poised for my return, and Howard had arranged for Fred to be brought in as a special surprise guest. There was only one problem: Fred insisted on seeing me before the show, and in a dramatic charge that was captured on video for Howard's television show, the Elephant Boy broke free and into my waiting arms. Hey, it was just a quick manly hug.
Actually, Fred wanted to inform me of some strange scandal that he'd been involved in that had to do with lewd acts and a video camera—which apparently had upset him a great deal.
As it turned out, we had a lot of fun with the whole scandal, and the show in general was fun as well, and I think Howard was genuinely touched to see that I still liked Fred after all these years. I even invited Fred to come visit Colette, although I made it clear on the air that I wouldn't let him near my children. All in all, it was a very successful appearance, and we were able to plug that evening's book signing in Long Island, which did even bigger numbers than the one in New York City.
Several weeks later I heard that Howard had been asked about some of his favorite guests, and was flattered to discover that my name was mentioned in very complimentary fashion.
I find the whole talk-show experience to be a little odd. Meeting people you barely know, or have never met, acting like good friends while the cameras roll, and then sitting awkwardly during commercial breaks. Then the commercial ends, and bam, you're best friends again. I have heard and read of many stars who have a great on-screen rapport with a host, and have actually never had an off-screen conversation with them. I know I probably shouldn't write this, because I definitely will want to appear on these types of shows again—hopefully to promote the new book—but in a lot of ways, the whole talk-show appearance is faker than pro wrestling.
When it comes to interesting talk-show appearances, Roseanne took the cake, and probably ate it as well. I did Roseanne—the show not the woman— the day after Martin Short. The Short show had been a great experience; it was very professional and Marty and I seemed to hit if off. I think I may even have pieced together a few clumsy sentences during the commercial break.
Roseanne was filmed in the same building, so I hoped for more of the same. I began to get a sense that something was amiss when her producer pulled me aside. "Okay," she nervously began, "we wrote up a bunch of questions for Roseanne, but she's not very good at asking questions. So if you can, try to get her into a conversation. She's pretty good at that." I was a little stunned, but tried to play it off with an "All right, I'll try to do that." The producer wasn't done yet. "We have some great clips of you, but Roseanne isn't very good at calling for clips, so if you want it to be seen, you should probably call for it." This was going to be some adventure.
I sat in the green room and watched a little bit of this special Halloween edition that had Roseanne dressed like a witch. She sang a rendition of J Put a Spell on You, which actually wasn't half-bad until she started screeching in a way that made me long for Quint's fingernails on a chalkboard.
Now it was my turn. The show's director had wanted me to come down the stairs and walk through the audience, jump up on a platform, and strike a biceps pose before sitting down with the host. I explained to him that my knees were too shot to do the big jump, and that I didn't really have biceps worth showing off. So instead I merely walked up to Roseanne, shook hands, sat down, and tried to engage her in conversation. I think I would rather have had a conversation about human body disposal with Steve Blackman.
Whereas Martin Short and Conan had gone out of their way to make me look good, Roseanne, it seemed, wanted me to look bad. Her questions were rude and dull, she cut me off before I was through with answers, and at one point repeatedly spoke when I tried to answer. She began talking about how her husband was an Ultimate Fighter and how Ultimate Fighting was much bigger than the World Wrestling Federation. Five times I tried to answer her, and five times she butted in. I have a lot of respect for Ultimate Fighters, despite the fact that no one I know has ever heard of Roseanne's husband being one. But Ultimate Fighting's popularity was on the wane, and high-school kids weren't really knocking down doors to get to Dan "the Beast" Severn merchandise. I tried five times to politely answer with something like, "The World Wrestling Federation actually learned a lot from Ultimate Fighting, and we've tried to incorporate some of their style into ours." I couldn't even get two words out. Finally, I looked at her and politely but firmly said, "Roseanne, you're not letting me talk," to which she shrieked, "I can do that, because it's my show, and it's HALLOWEEN!" While her audience meekly applauded, and Roseanne sat back with a contented smile on her "neck and neck with Michael Jackson for most cosmetic surgery done in a lifetime" face, I silently wondered what qualifications were necessary to host a talk show.
When my segment ended, I was greeted with a strange reaction from Roseanne's staff. They were actually applauding me, but it wasn't a "Foley is God" type of applause. It was different. It was as if they were applauding the survivor of some type of disaster, which is exactly what I was. I had a similar "survivor" feeling about Larry King after doing Larry King Live a few months later. I had been asked to be on the show several weeks earlier to discuss Beyond the Mat but had opted not to do so after Vince McMahon turned out to be about the only person in America who hated the movie. Maybe he didn't hate it, but he interpreted the movie to be a downer (which I disagreed with) and also felt used by Lions Gate (which was distributing the film), which expected the World Wrestling Federation to promote the film with no financial reward for doing so. I understood Vince's point but also understood the concern of the studio, which felt they would be compromising the film's integrity by making a financial deal with the World Wrestling Federation.
As a result, the King show was set to feature director Barry Blaustein and WCW wrestlers Hulk Hogan, Roddy Piper, and Ric Flair, none of whom was in the film. I called Vince and shared my belief that the show would turn into a one-hour indictment of the World Wrestling Federation. After much persuasion, and with Vince's blessing, I called the King people and was booked immediately for the program.
After the program, I called Jim Ross (J.R.) at World Wrestling Federation headq
uarters. He asked me how the show had gone, and I think I accurately summed up the experience when I said, "It would have been a hell of a lot worse if I hadn't been there." Indeed it would have as our panel of guests (with the exception of Hogan, who was appearing via satellite from Florida) seemed eerily reminiscent of King's Republican Presidential Candidate show with Blaustein as the stoic John McCain, Piper as the overtly loquacious Alan Keyes, and Larry King as Larry King trying to maintain some semblance of order—and me. For lack of a better comparison, I guess I would be George W. Bush, looking mighty confused and just trying to sneak in a point whenever Piper stopped talking.
I came off reasonably well, but Hogan was definitely made out to be the big star, despite having recently drawn a Pay-Per-View buy rate that rivaled David Hasselhoff's recent special for biggest all-time PPV disaster. Amazingly, when I watched the show a few nights later, Larry King came off as if he really knew a lot about the business, and I guess therein lies his unique talent. He appears to know everything.
I have often been asked my opinion about Hulk Hogan, but the truth is, I barely know him. I used to watch him in Madison Square Garden as a teenager, and while never being a full-fledged Hulkamaniac, I certainly enjoyed his act. He was entering WCW at the same time as I was leaving, and over the years I have rarely had occasion to speak to him. When I have, he has always been friendly, and I have heard through the grapevine of many compliments that he has directed toward me.
Even well past his prime, he is still among the two or three highest-paid performers in our business. Is he worth it? Probably at one point he was. His presence on WCW lent instant credibility to their product, and helped both television ratings and buy rates tremendously. His heel turn in 1996 was instrumental in leading WCW Nitro to a long run on top of the Monday-night wrestling wars. But at this point? Probably not.