Jason Priestley

by Jason Priestley

  Ibiza Sant Josep de sa Talaia

  07817

  The British were much further ahead than Americans early in the new century in terms of texting; it was the latest craze there. It turned out that Naomi’s company used an early version of the cell phones that texted messages—something new and different to me at that time. I spent the next couple of weeks busily settling legal matters and rehearsing for opening night, but Naomi and I communicated by phone several times a day. It was fun, and a good way to get to know her better, with no pressure. By the time I got around to actually inviting her to see the show, I felt that I already knew her.

  Naomi came backstage after the performance and we went out to dinner afterward. The restaurant was amazing and we drank a fantastic bottle of wine. We completely closed the bar down at four A.M. because we had so much to talk about. It was the best date of my life . . . only ending the next morning because Naomi had to scramble to get to her job! I was crazy about this girl. I planned something special for our second date: a whirlwind trip to Paris for the weekend. She was that special, and I wanted her to know I knew it.

  From that point on, we were inseparable. Naomi would come to meet me after every show and we’d go out. In a happy coincidence, my old friend Stephanie Beacham was appearing in A Fine Day at the theater next door to ours. There was something special about the way my career had circled back to being so near to her again. I was an adult this time. Stephanie was as beautiful as ever, with a young and gorgeous boyfriend not yet out of his twenties. The four of us spent many evenings together over long dinners and she would watch enviously as Naomi and I drank whiskey. “I remember when I could drink whiskey,” she’d say, sighing. “Now I get too hungover.”

  Sometimes Naomi and I would just go to my place and cook and listen to music, stay up late and talk . . . whatever we did together, I was happy.

  Although our romance was going great, Naomi’s job was not. I was keeping her up far too late every night. After a certain point, she became so sleep deprived that she started falling asleep on the job. I was on a theater schedule while Naomi had a regular office job, and those hours did not mesh. Naomi created a small sleeping area under her desk that she used to crawl into and nap for brief periods of time each day. She reasoned that she was only taking the same amount of the time the smokers in the office did for breaks. Her supervisor did not see it that way, and she was given an official warning, but it didn’t slow either of us down.

  On Sundays we had picnics, played Frisbee in Hyde Park, or watched the old noir movies that I loved . . . it was a perfect romance. I was in no hurry to leave London. Conveniently, the play kept going and going. Side Man had originally been a three-month engagement, but it turned into six months. Eventually, it was time to go and it was horrible to say good-bye to Naomi, but I knew it wouldn’t be for long.

  Naomi had a long-planned holiday with a group of her college friends coming up in the summer on the island of Ibiza. When she told me of her plans, I said, “Great, I’ve always wanted to go to Ibiza—I’ll meet you there!” Naomi was quite taken aback by the very forward Americanness of this—no proper British boyfriend would ever presume to join someone’s vacation—even if it was his own girlfriend. I was definitely shaking this girl’s life up!

  I finished the play and returned to New York, diving back into the nightlife for a month. My sister flew in from L.A. and met me, and the two of us were off to Ibiza so that we could meet and spend a week together, just the two of us. Then Naomi would arrive, and the three of us would have a week together. The following week, all of Naomi’s friends would arrive, and we would all hang out together. That was the plan.

  There is no way to describe what a magical place Ibiza is, and what a crazy vacation it was. Lying just off the coast of Spain in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, the tiny island has a very well deserved international reputation for nightlife. In the twenty-one days I spent there, I probably saw twenty sunrises. We would all go dancing at one of the huge clubs where the roof rolled back at dawn and hundreds of revelers from every corner of the globe would all burst into cheers and applause at the sight of another day in paradise.

  There was amazing food, ridiculous amounts of alcohol, numerous illegal substances, naps, swimming, sand, sun, friends, naked cliff diving . . . you name it, we did it. It was the wildest, most uninhibited vacation of my life and one that could never happen today. Thank God there was no YouTube or camera phones back then! Suffice it to say, we all let loose on the ultimate vacation. And the best part about it was that Naomi and I fell more in love by the day.

  Stockholm

  SE-106 91

  I didn’t see any reason to slow the party down, so I decided, on a whim, to attend the MTV Music Video Awards in Stockholm that fall. As I was checking into my hotel, someone tackled me from behind and I wound up sprawled flat on the floor in front of the check-in desk. I leaped up, fists in the air, ready for a fight. Larry Mullen, the drummer from U2, was standing there laughing at me. This was his welcome. “Jason! Can’t believe you’re here! We’re in the bar, man; come along now, join us!” he said, in his thick Irish accent.

  I literally just tossed my bag toward the front desk and accompanied Larry into the bar, where the party was well under way. Larry, Bono, the Edge, and I had a few drinks, then we all headed out into Stockholm. Now Bono is a guy about my size, about five foot eight or nine, average height. In Stockholm, every single person over the age of twelve, male or female, is blond, beautiful, and six feet plus.

  Bono and I stood in the corner of the most happening nightclub in the city and with beers in hand took in the scene and all the unbelievably gorgeous girls. After a few minutes, he turned to me and said, “Jason, I’ve never felt so short and unattractive in me life.” Eventually, we returned to the hotel bar. Robbie Williams was there with his manager, and the two were engaged in a very heated argument. Suddenly, Robbie turned and just decked his manager, who fell unconscious in a heap on the floor. It was complete mayhem. But what did I expect, hanging out with U2?

  The next year I found myself in Indianapolis doing color commentary for the Indy 500. U2 was coming to town for a concert, which happened to fall on Bono’s birthday. Of course it had been sold out forever. I called their manager and said, “Paul, hey I’m here in town. Any way I can get a ticket to the show?”

  “Sure, no problem about the ticket, Jason, but I just don’t know what’s happening after the show. I think the guys are planning to finish the gig, race to the airport, and take off for New York City immediately.”

  “Oh, no, of course, I really would just love to see the show.” When I got to the stadium, I didn’t have a seat. I sat at the mixing board instead with the sound guy, where the view and the sound were absolutely incredible, and watched the opening act, British singer PJ Harvey. I was already a big fan of her work, so I was excited to see her perform. Then U2 came on and blew the place away. I was immediately and completely lost in their music.

  Except somebody kept jostling me. I tried to ignore it but finally turned around, and there was PJ Harvey herself with a bottle of champagne in her hand. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, telling her what a big fan I was of her music. Next thing I knew I was having a glass of champagne with PJ, watching the U2 concert from the mixing board. It was great to be me that night.

  Echo Park

  90026

  Because of my DUI case, I still had no driver’s license, so when I got an invitation to Jennie Garth’s wedding, I flew to L.A. and had to take a limo to the ceremony in Santa Barbara. This was the first time I’d seen everybody since I’d left the show, so it was a minireunion of sorts for me.

  Jennie was finally making it official with her longtime boyfriend, the actor Peter Facinelli. He’d been around forever. She and Peter got married at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in a Catholic ceremony. Their adorable toddler daughter, Luca Bella, was the flower girl; Tori and Tiffani served as bridesmaids, and I had a fine time catching up with
everyone at the reception. I spent most of my time hanging out with Ian, whose company I always enjoyed, and his first wife, Nikki, along with Tiff and her boyfriend, Brady. All my old cast mates were settling down, starting families, and getting on with life after the show.

  The lavish reception was held at the Bacara Resort, one of the most gorgeous locations on the Santa Barbara coast and after an evening of partying, everyone stayed overnight. The next morning I got into a town car to take care of one more piece of business. I knew I sure as hell wasn’t headed anywhere resembling the Bacara. I was off to Los Angeles to serve my DUI time at a minimum-security federal facility.

  For my DUI offense, I was sentenced to spend five nights in a halfway house. The home was located in Echo Park, an east L.A. neighborhood bisected by Sunset Boulevard that has, in recent years, become trendy and revitalized but at the time was still quite rough. This was not a prison as it was located on residential property, but even so, I won’t lie; it was scary walking through that door. I had never been in trouble with the law before, and now I was heading into a place where all my freedom would be taken away. Not to mention all my stuff! Wallet, ID, keys, phone—everything had to be handed over. I certainly hadn’t realized how attached I was to my personal possessions until everything was taken away and tagged, bagged, and stored. At least I got to wear my own clothes.

  The staffer who had checked me in and taken all my property led me out of the intake building into a yard. Not a prison yard, just a shabby suburban backyard covered in dead brown grass and cracked concrete patios. We walked to one of several nondescript bungalows and went inside. The place was split into two small bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. I threw the bag of toiletries they had provided down on what the counselor told me was my bunk and headed back outside.

  All my fellow “inmates” were sitting around a large beat-up picnic table playing some sort of game that involved a great deal of gesturing, screaming, and dramatic tearing up and throwing of cards. All the talk was in Russian. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but knew I had to break the ice sometime. I approached the table warily as the group of hard-faced men stopped their game and watched me in silence. Suddenly, the biggest guy at the table—who was straight out of central casting as a mob boss—jumped up and strode toward me. I braced myself. Then: “Brrran-don!” he said, with a thick Russian accent, and picked me up off the ground in a bear hug.

  I think I’m going to be okay in here, I thought with relief.

  I plunked myself down in the middle of the group and watched the action. My fellow players were all Russian, serving time for what I would call various “white collar” offenses. There was definitely a large Russian mob presence in Los Angeles, but these apparently weren’t the real hard cases. These guys had been convicted of various types of schemes: they were tax dodgers or had committed medical insurance fraud or some other type of corporate malfeasance. My roommate was in for some kind of former “prescription drug” something or other—I didn’t understand and didn’t particularly care to know the details.

  I tried to play their crazy card game for the next five days, but never quite grasped the complicated rules. I also entertained the group with stories of life on 90210. The middle-aged Russians were riveted! I must admit, they were all pretty cool guys, and I didn’t have so much a scary time as a strange, slightly surreal, and, let’s face it, boring one. Look, clearly the place wasn’t Oz, but it wasn’t fun. I never, ever wanted to go back.

  My time was served, the deal was done, and my driver’s license was restored. I had taken my eyes off the prize and deserved every bit of my punishment. Not to get all kumbaya about it, but the results were clear when I had no structure, no plans, and no goals. This is what resulted—nothing good. I vowed it would not happen again.

  Ray Art Studios

  Canoga Park

  91304

  Shannen Doherty was lucky enough to have lightning strike twice in her career—both times with Aaron Spelling. After finalizing all my legal matters, I set up a few meetings. One day, I headed to a studio deep in the Valley to see a producer. As I walked into the studio, I saw they were shooting Charmed, so I wandered over and saw my old friend Betty Reardon, a producer from 90210, who now worked there.

  “Betty, wow, what’s been going on?” We caught up and she said, “Hey, Shannen’s here today, you’ve got to go see her!”

  I headed back toward the trailers and found hers. I banged on the door and after she opened it, I grabbed her and gave her a big hug. She was very surprised to see me. “Come in, sit down, talk to me!” she said. “What is going on?”

  “Shannen, I am so happy for you,” I told her sincerely. “The show is great, a big hit, and you’re doing so well. This is awesome. But seriously, girl, how did you talk Aaron into giving you another show? Tell me!”

  I wasn’t even kidding. I really wanted to know.

  Shannen launched into an explanation. She told me that she’d heard about the script, gotten her hands on a copy, and read it. She knew right away that she could bring something special to the role of Prue, the bravest and most powerful sister, and somehow felt personally drawn to this show. It offered her the perfect opportunity to spin all her previous bad press into something new and Aaron had agreed.

  “Shannen, that’s genius,” I told her, in all sincerity. I was pleased to see her doing so well.

  However, within five minutes she was already complaining about Alyssa Milano and how she didn’t want to work with her, and that she was going to call Aaron, and he would have to make a choice—“her or me,” as she put it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Shannen, what the hell? Don’t do that! Do you understand how lucky you are to have an opportunity like this, a great role on another hit show? Why would you do anything to screw this up for yourself? Come in every morning, know your lines, hit your marks, and keep your mouth shut! Don’t make waves; just be cool and make it work!”

  “But, Jason, you don’t understand . . .” and off she went for a good twenty minutes. I listened, and then tried again. Eventually, I was sure I’d made my point and that what I was saying had sunk in.

  It was not to be. By the end of the season, Shannen was off another hit Spelling television show.

  Tribeca

  10013

  In March of 2001, I asked Naomi to officially come live with me in New York, and she accepted. The two of us loved it there, and we had a fantastic time. We were two young people in love, living in a fantastic loft in Tribeca, with plenty of time and money . . . kids in a candy store. What’s not to like about that city? Believe me, we took a big bite out of that apple. Restaurants, nightlife, parties, shopping, shows—we did it all, every day and night, then did it all over again the next day.

  The only one not happy was my beloved dog, Swifty, who did not care for life in New York. He would very begrudgingly go outside, do his business on the sidewalk, then turn around, ready to go back in. He hated the noise, the honking, the crowds, the heat in summer, the cold in winter. He didn’t even like going to the dog park to play with other dogs! This West Coast dog would have none of it. He preferred hanging out in the loft, lying on the sofa sleeping, or watching television. He was a funny little guy, but always great company.

  Naomi, with her degree in fine art from Nottingham Trent University, found a job at an art gallery. She began selling lots of pieces to all kinds of crazy-rich people on the fringes of the art world, and we soon fell in with a group of “trustafarian” kids who literally had more money than they could ever spend and nothing but free time to run all over the city and do whatever they wanted. These guys—and girls—had no limits. I never once saw an off switch. It was New York—go go go go go go—and for a while it was superfun.

  My buddy the hockey star Theo Fleury had signed a four-year, 32-million-dollar contract with the New York Rangers and bought a place outside the city up in Rye. Theo had a lovely wife, Veronica, and two small kids, so they were considerably calmer than t
he crowd we’d been seeing. Naomi and I started spending time with the Fleurys as they were a bit more in tune with what we were looking to do in the future, and I was more than happy to be around another Canadian again!

  At a certain point we could no longer keep up with the trustafarians; we just didn’t have their stamina. I was far from old, and Naomi was the same age as they were, but we were the ones who simply had to call it a night at some ridiculous hour, while they were just getting going. Seriously, the party never stopped . . . they may possibly have been the hardest-partying group of people I ever partied with, which is certainly saying something (#CharlieSheen#RobertDowneyJunior). These were brief, intense, but transitory friendships where we hung out all the time and then everybody moved on. That’s the joy of New York City.

  Instead, we began to spend more and more time at Madison Square Garden and got very into the hockey scene, socializing with the Rangers crowd, which was incredibly fun for me. Being around that whole organization was fantastic. Theo and Veronica were definitely not “trustafarians,” but we all certainly managed to have fun in the city. Maybe too much fun. Theo’s ongoing struggles with drugs and alcohol had been well documented, and I witnessed a few worrisome incidents that I couldn’t ignore. It was no longer all fun and games and there were some serious consequences for my amazingly talented but troubled friend. Eventually, I was forced to take a good look at myself as well.

  New York was dangerous. It didn’t seem so at the time, of course. I was navigating some tricky waters as a young man who was young and successful, had worked his ass off, and now wanted to have some fun. The opportunities were constantly there with drugs. My life had started to spiral downward a little—slowly, imperceptibly, but going down all the same . . . and had been for a while. For the first time in years, I had plenty of time on my hands, and I never did well without lots of balls in the air. For a long time I’d forgotten that, as I felt that my more relaxed lifestyle was well deserved after a decade of hard work.