After the concert, we went back to the hotel and crashed. Since Monique had had very little time to pack, she had forgotten several items. The following day I decided to take her shopping on Melrose Avenue. After a few hours we wound up at a Japanese restaurant. I drank a little too much sake, and upon leaving the restaurant must have been spotted by some cops. We got in the car, I started up the engine, and a police car immediately pulled up behind us with its lights flashing. Two cops—one male, one female—got out and approached from behind. The female officer asked Monique to come sit in the patrol car with her while the male cop asked me for my information. While the female officer was questioning Monique, there was a case of mistaken identity. Just like on the plane, the female cop assumed Monique was my girlfriend and started questioning her about alcohol and drugs.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Monique exclaimed. “He’s my daddy!”
The female officer was so embarrassed that she began feeling bad for Monique and decided to give me a break. She approached the car with Monique and said, “Mr. Frehley, we’re not going to arrest you, but we can’t allow you to drive the car in the condition you’re in. You’ll have to leave it parked here and get a ride.”
After making a few phone calls without any luck, I decided to try my cleaning woman, Wendy, who took care of my apartment in L.A. (I was living bicoastal at this time). She hurried down to the scene and gave us a lift. Monique looked at me and said, “Daddy, that was a close call!” I was very embarrassed about what had happened, especially since Monique was with me. I apologized to her for my shortcomings.
She just looked at me and smiled.
On April 13, 2001, the tour ended with a sold-out show at Carrara Stadium in Australia. We had a standing rule that no girlfriends or wives were allowed in the dressing room before or after a show, but from time to time during the course of the tour, when Gene’s girlfriend or Paul’s wife flew in for a show, the rule would be broken. When this happened, I decided to look the other way for the sake of the show and band harmony.
On this night, after the show, I was sitting in the dressing room, taking off my makeup, when my girlfriend, Shannon, showed up outside the door. Paul and Gene had already gone back to the hotel, so I figured, What the fuck? Everyone’s gone, and it’s the end of the tour.
“Come on in, honey,” I said. “It won’t be a problem.”
“You sure?” Shannon said.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
With that, Shannon came into the room and waited for me to get dressed.
Within minutes, Tommy Thayer walked into the dressing room and did a double take.
“Come on, Ace. You know she’s not supposed to be in here.”
I thought, Well maybe she isn’t, but does it really fuckin’ matter at this point?
“Mind your own business,” I said. “The tour is over.”
Tommy stood his ground. “No, she has to get out.”
At that point I walked right up to him and punched him in the jaw. He went down for a moment, more stunned than actually hurt.
From time to time during the tour, Tommy and I would have minor disagreements, but I usually shrugged them off and went on with my day. I always felt that he was unhappy in his position as road manager and secretly fantasized about replacing me in KISS, since he had dressed up in my costume and makeup earlier in his career while performing in a KISS cover band. Toward the end of the tour, I even sensed a hint of resentment. When he sounded off in the dressing about Shannon’s presence, I felt it was completely unwarranted, and it infuriated me.
My reaction was swift and deliberate. It was the culmination of ill feelings I had been holding in for quite some time, and my Bronx-born instincts took over. But not long after punching him, I began feeling remorse. I later apologized on our jet, but he seemed reluctant to accept it.
Within months of the incident, Tommy finally got his wish. I had declined Gene’s invitation to perform on yet another KISS tour, so Paul and Gene hired Tommy to dress up in my costume and makeup and perform in my absence. I felt very uncomfortable about their decision, since I had originated the Spaceman character and designed the makeup. My first reaction was, “Isn’t anything sacred to those guys?” But I soon realized that their lust for money outweighed any sense of fairness or logic on their part.
Many KISS fans were outraged, but over the years Gene and Paul have tried to rewrite history by downplaying my contributions to the band. On several CD releases, they even deleted my songs from the playlists; on DVD releases, they edited out a lot of my close-ups, focusing primarily on themselves. It seemed like they were trying to erase me and my songs from the minds of KISS fans. New fans were completely unaware of this subterfuge, and older fans either turned their backs on the band or just bit the bullet.
At first Gene and Paul even tried to hide the fact that I had left the band. In promotional ads and merchandise, they still continued to use my likeness instead of Tommy’s, and my whole departure from the band was minimized in the press. I remember getting several awkward phone calls from acquaintances looking for tickets to local KISS concerts.
“I’m not in the band anymore,” I explained. “Actually, it’s been a couple years now.”
“I’m so sorry, Ace,” they would respond in amazement. “I had no idea you left the band.”
If anyone reading this thinks I’m exaggerating or trying to distort the truth, please do your own research and examine the facts. Since 2001, every move KISS has made has been premeditated and part of a well-orchestrated plan. Nothing, including their attempts to minimize my contributions, has been left to chance.
So, you might wonder now, “How does Ace feel about Kiss today?”
Fair enough. Here’s my response:
At this point in my life, I just need to let things go. Holding on to resentments can really make you ill, so I’ll leave the dirty work to my attorneys. I can sum up the KISS situation in just five simple words: “What goes around, comes around.” No matter what happens, I’ll be just fine.
That being said, in reality, I think they’re just a bunch of dirty rotten whores. Awk!
INTO THE VOID
When Shannon and I returned to the States from Australia, I felt not only like I had finished the Farewell Tour, but also that I wanted to bid farewell to KISS for good. I was feeling much the same as I did in 1982: completely disenchanted. The idea of working with them again became less appealing to me as the days went by.
Within weeks of returning, my publicist notified me that I was being inducted into the “Bronx Walk of Fame.” It was a prestigious honor, and I became very excited about it. The ceremony would take place on the Grand Concourse, in front of the Bronx Courthouse, just a few blocks from Yankee Stadium. A plaque with my name on it would be placed atop a lamppost, about twenty feet from the street. I was being inducted with several other celebrities, including Academy Award–nominated director Stanley Kubrick, actor Burt Young, retired New York Mets player Ed Kranepool, actress Diahann Carroll, and U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell. Following the afternoon ceremony, there was a black-tie affair in the evening, during which each of the honorees got up and said a few words to the audience. I enjoyed the whole event, and I had fun meeting such an impressive and diverse group of VIPs.
Shannon and I continued to enjoy our break from touring, but I slowly began to realize that she wanted different things out of life, and I couldn’t give them to her. She wanted to get pregnant and raise a family; I’d already been down that road and was more interested in focusing on my career and traveling. So we decided to call it quits that year, and she moved back to Canada. Shannon eventually got married and had a couple of kids, but we’ve remained friends over the years.
After Shannon left, I reconnected with my old girlfriend, Ronnie. I was seeing her at the time my father passed away in 2000, and she really helped me get through a rough period in my life.
I still remember the morning I got the call from my brother, Charlie. I knew m
y dad wasn’t doing well after his stroke, but I’d been so busy working in L.A. with KISS, I was unaware of just how much he had deteriorated. The night before I received the call, Ronnie and I had been up late entertaining some friends. Normally it would have taken me at least thirty minutes to crawl out of bed after a party, but the day my dad passed away was very different. I remember jumping up in bed early that morning as if someone had shaken me. Even stranger was the fact that I remember being wide awake at the time. I also remember feeling a strange presence in the bedroom, like a cool breeze entering through the door and slowly moving past my bed and finally exiting out the window. At the time I had no inkling that anything had happened to my dad, but when my brother told me exactly what time he had passed away, I did a little math in my head and realized it was around the same time I had been awakened so abruptly. I remember my mom telling me some family secrets about paranormal experiences, and I always believed that I had the ability to communicate with the other side.
Upon getting the news, I booked a flight back to New York and helped with some of the funeral arrangements, although my brother and sister handled most of that. I was on a very tight schedule since a KISS tour was about to commence, and the band needed me back out west. Most of it really went by in a blur, but I remember Jimmy Jenter being there for me the whole time. Driving me around and giving me a shoulder to lean on.
The scene at the cemetery was surreal. Fans were outside the mausoleum where my dad was being laid to rest. All I wanted to do was pay my respects to my father’s memory and be there for my mom and family, but the crowd outside the service made it hard for me to relax and stay focused. After the service was over, Jimmy quickly cleared a path through the onlookers and whisked me away in a limo to Westchester Airport. When we arrived, a private jet had its engines running; Jimmy gave me a hug and I was gone. Five hours later I landed in California and began filming a Pepsi commercial that seemed to go on forever. The tour began the following day. I never really did get a chance to mourn the death of my father.
After I was back in Westchester, Ronnie arrived with a dozen suitcases and moved into my place without any reservations. Things started off fine, but as the weeks progressed it became apparent to both of us that we had lost something over time and weren’t going to recapture it. One night we had a big fight, and she started punching me. I really wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense that night, and I’ve certainly never believed in hitting a woman. So I called my bodyguard Mac and asked him to deal with her. He took her away to his place on my request and things got a little sticky after that. Mac wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense, either, that night and decided to let the cops deal with her. That wasn’t the best way to handle the problem, but he told me she had become too violent for even him. The cops came and decided to drop her off at the psych ward. I’m not exactly sure what crazy story she told the doctor and local authorities, but they were planning to arrest me pending an investigation of the facts. I had no idea of their plans, but God bless Jimmy Jenter!
When Jimmy and my buddy Mike found out the police were planning to raid my place, they quickly intervened and explained that her accusations were not credible. Now, in most cases that wouldn’t have changed anything, but Jimmy and Mike were both federal marshals and very well respected by their fellow officers and peers. They explained that they knew me personally, and that I had entertained both of them in my home. After a few tense moments on both sides, the police decided to take their advice and call off the raid. After I regained my composure, I decided to try to help her. We made a deal with her doctor at the hospital. He said if I secured a rehab that was willing to accept her as a patient, they would release her in my custody. I made some calls, wrote a check, and got her into a facility. I called Mac and asked him to pick her up at the hospital and escort her on the plane, and deliver her to the rehab. He did as instructed, and she’s doing much better today.
As I wrote this story, I tried to imagine how my life would have turned out if I hadn’t met Jimmy back in 1983. It’s something I can’t even begin to visualize. But he’s not the only one who has been there for me.
There was another guy who ended up saving my ass on more than one occasion. Chris McNamara (the aforementioned “Mac”) used to date my sister-in-law, Anita. When I found out he was a bouncer and bodyguard, I didn’t wait long before inviting him to work for me in a similar capacity. I brought him out on the road to watch my back when I was touring with KISS. We’ve had some close calls over the years, and this story is about one of them.
One night on tour, we had a day off, and I felt like going out and shooting pool, so Mac found a place right up our alley. It had dozens of pool tables, arcade games, a mechanical bull, a bar and restaurant, and a strip club—all under the same roof! I remember telling Mac, “If we had places like this back east, they’d be packed all the time!”
We had a few beers and played several games of pool. Later on, a couple of buddies joined us. We grabbed a quick bite to eat and then thought it might be fun to check out the strippers at the other end of the club. I normally wasn’t a big fan of strip clubs. I never liked the idea of being in a situation where if I got excited, I couldn’t do anything about it. I always found that frustrating.
Well, as the evening progressed, I ordered champagne for everyone, and we started getting very silly and loud with the girls. It was beginning to get late, so Mac wisely suggested it might be a good idea to head back to the hotel. Within the last ten minutes of our stay, I bumped into an old girlfriend, Audrey, and decided to invite her back to my room. I had a limousine waiting for us in the parking lot, and as we were leaving I ran into the bathroom for a minute while everyone went outside. When I walked out, Audrey looked upset.
“What happened?” I asked.
She pointed to a tall guy leaning against the wall and explained that he had said something nasty to her. I immediately walked over and confronted the guy. I asked him what he had said. As soon as he started talking, I gave him a solid shot to the head, and he went down for the count. What I hadn’t noticed, unfortunately, was that he wasn’t alone. The guy had several buddies with him, and the biggest one was marching straight toward me. Mac, though, saw what was happening. He quickly intercepted the approaching guy and gave him a hard right hand to the chin.
Crack!
Everyone in the parking lot heard the sound of the poor guy’s jaw breaking. The rest of his friends stopped cold in their tracks. Mac scared them off just long enough for us to jump into the limo. In the process, though, a security guard in the parking lot sprayed Mac with pepper spray, and he was temporarily blinded by it. We slammed the door shut and I yelled to the limo driver, “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”
When we got into the street, we headed for the on-ramp to the expressway, but at the end of the street our path was blocked by a black BMW and a black Mercedes. The limo driver seemed reluctant to go forward, but I quickly threw two hundred-dollar bills in his lap.
“Hit it!” I shouted. “Go up on the fucking sidewalk around them, or we’re dead.”
The driver acted on impulse and did exactly what I told him to do. We narrowly made it past the two cars and shot up the entrance ramp onto the highway. I turned around and saw the two black cars spin out and follow us up the ramp in hot pursuit. I looked around the limo. Everyone seemed okay—except for Mac, who said he could barely see. I told the limo driver to floor it, and not to stop for anything. Then I called 911 and told them we were being chased by two cars with guns. I gave them our location on the highway and waited patiently. The two cars were approaching and things were getting tense in the limousine. I wasn’t sure if they really had guns, and I didn’t want to find out, either. A few seconds went by. Then, miraculously, a police car flew up the on-ramp in front of us with its lights flashing, quickly followed by a second police car. I looked through the rear window and saw the Mercedes and BMW slow down and pull U-turns. I told the limo driver to pull over immediately. I wanted to go explain t
o the cops what had happened at the bar, and thank them for saving our asses.
When I explained who I was and what had happened, the officers were quite sympathetic. They even escorted us to the hotel just to be safe, a gesture I really appreciated. By the time we got back, Mac’s vision was clearing up, and he did a quick inspection of the limo. He said he had thought he had heard a few shots during all the craziness, but I wasn’t so sure; I hadn’t heard anything. Upon closer inspection, though, we discovered two bullet holes: one on the side fender and one in the radiator, which was now beginning to emit some steam. I looked at Mac and began to laugh.
“Shit! That was a close one.”
One day in November 2007 I came home and found a message on my voice mail. To my surprise, it was Gene Simmons extending an invitation to be on his television show. He went on to say that he was going to be roasted on the show, and that he wanted me to be part of it. It was going to be a very big deal, he promised, with Cher and Steven Tyler among the list of celebrities who were going to take part.
I listened to the message a few times, and with each playback I became more convinced that I could sense a slight tone of desperation in his voice. I thought to myself, Gene, desperate? Probably not. But I decided to do a little research and find out exactly what was going on with the show. His producer sent me several e-mails requesting an answer, but I didn’t want to reply right away. I thought about some of the roasts I’d seen in the past, and remembered being invited to Hugh Hefner’s roast, at which I sat on the dais between Patty Hearst and Deborah Harry.
No Regrets Page 28