Not Dead & Not For Sale Read Online Free
Author: Scott Weiland
and patient love that doesn’t judge, scorn, or scold. “Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come follow me and I will give you rest.” I related to the notion of a mystic, all-accepting, all-forgiving love. I wanted it.
I became an altar boy. I wore the robes. During Mass, I brought the wine and the host to the priests. I lit the candles. Today, no matter where I am—tour bus, hotel room, studio, cabin in the woods—I light the candles. They calm me, center me, remind me of a time when God sat in the center of my heart. Not that He’s ever disappeared. The candles bring Him back. I need to light them, every day and every night.
I WAS BURNING BRIGHTLY IN CLEVELAND. As a freshman, my first game at quarterback was only weeks away. I couldn’t wait. I smelled triumph; I longed for glory. And then, just like that, Dave made the announcement: I wouldn’t be playing the game; I wouldn’t even be going to that school. I’d be leaving my best friend, Rich Remias, who came over practically every night to play Dungeons & Dragons. Like me, Rich came from a broken home; he understood me. It hurt to leave Rich, but there was nothing I could do. We were moving, and we were leaving immediately. We were winging our way back to California. I didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to feel. I was fourteen.
Senior class picture. Ahh, such a nice kid. Too bad in three years I’d be a strung-out junkie.
1982 . HUNTINGTON BEACH, SURF CITY.
Orange County, bastion of reactionary Republicanism but also stronghold of punk-rock counterculture.
Our house was three blocks from the beach and directly across from Edison High, scene of my new life.
First thing I did was hand a note to the football coach. It was a message from my old coach that said I was a starting QB. The new coach wasn’t overly impressed. I was five eleven and weighed 155 pounds. The Edison team had won several championships. I’d have to wait.
By sophomore year I was one of the rotating quarterbacks. I also played defense. Going for an interception, I was speared from behind and knocked out of commission for a couple of weeks. I took that time to consider the options. I could keep playing, but without much of a chance to start at QB because, I always thought, my parents weren’t doling out money to the boosters’ club, or I could try something else. Rock-and-roll, like a siren song, was calling to me.
I met Cory Hickok on the football team. He played tight end but, more important, he played guitar in his big brother’s punk band, Awkward Positions. Cory turned me on to punk. In Ohio, I knew about Devo. I had listened to the Sex Pistols, whose Never Mind the Bollocks was our generation’s Exile on Main Street . But Cory played me the Clash. He played me Sweet. He introduced me to Echo and the Bunnymen. I can’t tell you how many times we listened to Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack , a cool power-poppunk hybrid. Cory had great ears and great taste.
He was over six feet and bone thin. Cool and quiet. A true-blue dude, he was a loving guy from a Christian family. Because my folks trusted his parents, I’d tell them I was staying at Cory’s whenever I went out to party. Cory was also a good artist. I admired his drawings and how he looked at life artistically. I had other hipster friends on the football team like Rich Smith, the guy who helped me upgrade my surfing and scamming skills. Rich was the first guy I heard refer to girls as “birds” and “chicks.”
AT SCHOOL, I WAS ACTIVE IN THE CHOIR AND SPORTS —wrestling, volleyball, soccer, football. My stepdad, diligently working till all hours, never attended my football games. Meanwhile, I was attracted to a flourishing alternative-music scene. Shaped by the sounds of Social Distortion, hard-core postpunk big-beat garage bands were popping up everywhere. But I was not impressed with what I heard in the local clubs. I thought I could do better. I formed a postpunk band.
E VERY BAND HAS A STORY .
I became an altar boy. I wore the robes. During Mass, I brought the wine and the host to the priests. I lit the candles. Today, no matter where I am—tour bus, hotel room, studio, cabin in the woods—I light the candles. They calm me, center me, remind me of a time when God sat in the center of my heart. Not that He’s ever disappeared. The candles bring Him back. I need to light them, every day and every night.
I WAS BURNING BRIGHTLY IN CLEVELAND. As a freshman, my first game at quarterback was only weeks away. I couldn’t wait. I smelled triumph; I longed for glory. And then, just like that, Dave made the announcement: I wouldn’t be playing the game; I wouldn’t even be going to that school. I’d be leaving my best friend, Rich Remias, who came over practically every night to play Dungeons & Dragons. Like me, Rich came from a broken home; he understood me. It hurt to leave Rich, but there was nothing I could do. We were moving, and we were leaving immediately. We were winging our way back to California. I didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to feel. I was fourteen.
Senior class picture. Ahh, such a nice kid. Too bad in three years I’d be a strung-out junkie.
1982 . HUNTINGTON BEACH, SURF CITY.
Orange County, bastion of reactionary Republicanism but also stronghold of punk-rock counterculture.
Our house was three blocks from the beach and directly across from Edison High, scene of my new life.
First thing I did was hand a note to the football coach. It was a message from my old coach that said I was a starting QB. The new coach wasn’t overly impressed. I was five eleven and weighed 155 pounds. The Edison team had won several championships. I’d have to wait.
By sophomore year I was one of the rotating quarterbacks. I also played defense. Going for an interception, I was speared from behind and knocked out of commission for a couple of weeks. I took that time to consider the options. I could keep playing, but without much of a chance to start at QB because, I always thought, my parents weren’t doling out money to the boosters’ club, or I could try something else. Rock-and-roll, like a siren song, was calling to me.
I met Cory Hickok on the football team. He played tight end but, more important, he played guitar in his big brother’s punk band, Awkward Positions. Cory turned me on to punk. In Ohio, I knew about Devo. I had listened to the Sex Pistols, whose Never Mind the Bollocks was our generation’s Exile on Main Street . But Cory played me the Clash. He played me Sweet. He introduced me to Echo and the Bunnymen. I can’t tell you how many times we listened to Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack , a cool power-poppunk hybrid. Cory had great ears and great taste.
He was over six feet and bone thin. Cool and quiet. A true-blue dude, he was a loving guy from a Christian family. Because my folks trusted his parents, I’d tell them I was staying at Cory’s whenever I went out to party. Cory was also a good artist. I admired his drawings and how he looked at life artistically. I had other hipster friends on the football team like Rich Smith, the guy who helped me upgrade my surfing and scamming skills. Rich was the first guy I heard refer to girls as “birds” and “chicks.”
AT SCHOOL, I WAS ACTIVE IN THE CHOIR AND SPORTS —wrestling, volleyball, soccer, football. My stepdad, diligently working till all hours, never attended my football games. Meanwhile, I was attracted to a flourishing alternative-music scene. Shaped by the sounds of Social Distortion, hard-core postpunk big-beat garage bands were popping up everywhere. But I was not impressed with what I heard in the local clubs. I thought I could do better. I formed a postpunk band.
E VERY BAND HAS A STORY .
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