No Regrets (39 page)

“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 to 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.

I ended up losing my temper at a party following that event. I’d been chatting with Hugh and his entourage of Playmates when out of the corner of my eye I saw some guy pouring a bottle of champagne over my daughter’s head! I dropped everything and darted over to Monique. I grabbed the guy and started punching him in the face. I only got three or four shots in before the bouncers intervened. Having seen the whole incident, they just pulled the guy out of my hands and dragged the half-conscious asshole out of the club. They apologized to me for the incident, but I was far more interested in my daughter. Luckily, Monique was okay; she was just a little shaken up.

Most of the roasts I recalled consisted of people who were lifelong friends or coworkers of the person being “honored.” That’s when it suddenly hit me: Gene doesn’t have any friends! Never did—as far back as I can remember. And everyone who has ever worked with Gene in the past has either been fired or quit. The only person who’s remained with him over the years is Paul Stanley. At that point I decided to give Paul a call and see if he was going to be involved with the show. We shot the shit briefly, and then I hit him with the question.

There was a slight pause as Paul carefully considered his response.

“I’m not doing the show, Ace. It’s not in my comfort zone.”

I didn’t press him on the matter. We chatted for a few more minutes, wished each other well, and said good-bye.

The next few days I continued making calls in an attempt to find out who else was going to be involved. Peter said he’d received an invitation from Gene, “But I told him I was busy.” It didn’t occur to me to call Eric Singer or Tommy Thayer, since they were just hired guns wearing our makeup. After a few more calls to some of the other people who were supposed to be involved, I decided it was probably better if I just bowed out gracefully.

When I finally replied to Gene’s producer, declining the invitation, he seemed somewhat agitated. I figured he was getting frustrated with the whole idea of a Gene Simmons roast, since most of the people I had contacted had no intention of taking part. I wasn’t going to let it bother me, though. I decided to put the whole thing out of my mind and concentrate on recording. Several months passed. I had forgotten about the roast until a friend called and said the program had already aired.

“How was it?” I asked, not really caring about the answer.

My friend laughed.

“Pretty bad.”

He went on to explain that most of the guests involved appeared to be comedians paid by the network to appear on the show. For a moment I almost felt bad for Gene. I mean, really. How embarrassing.

It’s been documented in more than a few publications
that I’ve had some alien encounters and sightings in my life. One of my homes is located in the lower Hudson Valley, a well-known UFO hot spot where thousands of verified sightings have taken place over the years. I’ve seen some very strange stuff at times (sober and under the influence). Most of the people in the area just kind of take it for granted, and I, for one, am not fazed by it in the least.

My most memorable encounter happened in 2002. At first I thought the whole experience was a dream. What changed my mind was what
happened afterward. I woke up one morning and found myself lying on the ground in the front doorway of my home, my body half in the house and half in the driveway. I’d woken up in a lot of strange places in my life, but this took the cake. I slowly got up and went inside for a cup of coffee. As my head cleared, I could recall a strange dream about being inside a spaceship. It didn’t seem that weird, since I dreamt about UFOs and aliens from time to time in the past, without ever giving it a second thought. This time, though, seemed different… more
real
. Maybe because I’d never woken up in the doorway before.

The more I thought about the dream, the more vivid it became in my mind’s eye. After breakfast I decided to go outside and look around the yard. I stumbled upon a circular impression in the grass, almost like a giant burn. It appeared to be about thirty feet in diameter, but after inspecting it more closely with a tape measure, it actually turned out to be twenty-seven feet.

27…

My lucky number!

Later, in the shower, I checked my body for marks—some sign of having been abducted. But there was nothing strange to be found. By the next day the impression in the grass had disappeared, and I just went about my business like nothing had ever happened. I figured if what I had dreamt really had taken place, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Close encounters—real, imagined, or manufactured—had long been a part of my life. Sometimes they were merely a source of amusement, like the time I was on a hunting trip with my buddies Frank and Bob.

It all started with an invitation from Frank, whose family owned about seventy acres of land in upstate New York. Hanging out there was my first real experience with hunting and handguns. Frank was a very good marksman, and later on in life he became a licensed federal firearms dealer. He was the guy (with the help of his older brother Kenny) who taught me how to shoot. Since the seventies I’ve had a love affair
with guns, and I shoot just about every chance I get (which isn’t really that often, due to my hectic schedule).

This particular incident occurred on probably my second or third visit to Frank’s place. All three of us, at the time, enjoyed our drugs and alcohol, and we weren’t exactly amateurs at it. It was the last day of a long weekend trip. We had used up all of our ammunition and blown up a few other things on Frank’s property, and now we were looking for something different to do. I remembered that I had a few weather balloons in my trunk, and the whole crazy charade began from there.

We had been drinking all day, and Frank and I decided it might be fun to dress Bob as an alien, and see how authentic he would look! Since we didn’t have any silver space suits, green makeup, or ray guns, we decided to improvise. We just grabbed some ordinary household items: a white sheet, a cork, and a flashlight.

And the weather balloon.

One of my favorite science-fiction films is
Invaders from Mars.
Most of the film lacks authenticity in terms of special effects, but I always loved the appearance of one particular character, an alien leader encased in a glass sphere. If you’ve ever seen the movie, you’ll remember that the alien had a large forehead and brain, characteristics we hoped to replicate with Bob. To get the desired effect, we stretched the weather balloon over Bob’s head, which was no small task. At first he had it around his neck and none of his features were visible. He looked so ridiculous that Frank and I completely lost it. We laughed so hard that I actually threw up!

When we finally regained our composure, we helped Bob reposition the balloon just above his eyes. At first there was too much air in the balloon, but after letting some out, he began to look the part of an alien: totally looked totally fuckin’ weird. To finish off his costume we wrapped him in the sheet, burned the cork and rubbed it around his eyes, and handed him a flashlight.

We helped Bob get through the cabin door, which was harder than you might think, since we had to squeeze the balloon and direct him
without popping it. Then things got really interesting. We led Bob down the hill and told him to walk along the side of the road, but not too close. Maybe ten yards or so. While he was slowly walking, he put the flashlight inside the sheet and under his chin. From a distance, in the dark, he looked like, well…
something not of this earth.

Soon enough a car went by. Frank and I were hiding in the bushes. The car slowed down momentarily as it passed Bob, then sped away. This happened a few more times with similar results. Eventually an eighteen-wheeler came along, and when the driver spotted Bob on the side of the road, he slammed on his brakes and almost jackknifed the truck.

That was a little more than we had bargained for.

“We’d better get him inside before somebody takes a shot at him,” Frank said.

A few minutes later we were approached by a pickup truck—one that had already passed by earlier. There were two guys in the cab and a shotgun rack in the bed. Clearly these guys wanted a second look. Maybe they were out to do a little alien hunting.

“Turn off the flashlight!” I yelled to Bob.

The road suddenly went dark and we all hid quietly until the pickup truck drove off. Then we whisked Bob back into the cabin and called it a night.

A few days later the local newspaper ran a story bearing the following headline: “Local Man has Alien Sighting Outside Port Jervis.”

We couldn’t help but laugh about the whole experience. Apparently Bob had been even more convincing than we’d realized.

Once I got my studio up and running, I continued
writing and recording new material. In mid-2007 I once again hooked up with Anton Fig, along with a new bassist, Anthony Esposito. The first track we worked on was “Pain in the Neck,” and within a few short months the songs really came together. In October, Ed Trunk called
and asked if I wanted to perform at a Halloween party he was hosting at the Hard Rock Cafe in New York. I talked it over with Anthony and he agreed to help me assemble a band for the performance. I hired Scott Coogan on drums and Derrek Hawkins on guitar to round off the new lineup.

I told Ed I’d love to do it, but in reality I was a little apprehensive. This would be my first live performance in more than five years with my own band. And I’d been sober only a year (following a relapse in Las Vegas). But all my fears were put to rest that night at the Hard Rock. I hit the stage with a powerful set and the show turned out to be a big success. Anton Fig sat in on drums for a song, to the delight of the fan, and reviews reported that I looked and sounded better than ever.

When I got home that night, I was happy and thankful for the outcome, which seemed all the more remarkable considering what a struggle I’d gone through just eighteen months earlier.

The difficulty had begun one night in early February 2006, when my sister, Nancy, called to say that my mom was very sick; she was in a nursing home in Saginaw, Michigan, where my sister lived with her husband, Ron.