"Not Dead & Not For Sale" Reviews

[toysintheattic]

i know! i was wondering the same thing.

[Rocketboy]

To post my own detailed review would just be repeating what many others have already said so, like the book, I'll keep it fairly short.

I finished the book in 2 days, but could have easily finished it in 1.

Even though liked the book, I'm disappointed.
As a fan, I expected something new; something of substance, rather than brief passages seemingly written by a man who has some serious ADD issues. The book jumps from idea to idea for no apparent reason (Example: Scott is talking about either Mary or Janina and suddenly mentions an idea for a song he wants to write someday). There is very little insight here and overall this feels more like a collection of his personal notes and ideas collected into a personal art project, rather than a real memoir.

After reading the book, I have no better understanding of who Scott Weiland is and if I weren't a fan, I'd be really pissed and feel like I'd just wasted 2 1/2 hours.

Mary has now guaranteed another book sale, since it sounds as if she has the better of the two books.

[purpleflowers]

I have read Scott's book twice.  I really enjoyed the book and the pictures and am glad I bought it.   I have read everything I can find about Scott, so I already knew alot of his story. In the book, he didn't go into as much detail about certain events in his life as some of his earlier mini-bios and interviews.   However,  there was quite a bit of fresh information.  Where he chose to leave out details, I always got the feeling that it was out of respect for others involved in his life.  Why embarrass or incite an argument with someone else  if the story can be told without including such comments?   

Scott set out to make this the story of his life as an ordinary person (as much as is humanly possible for the extraordinary man that he is.)  This book wasn't titled "Scott Weiland's Drug War Stories, Rock and Roll Dirt and  Sexcapades."  Trying to write a biography that is heavy on drug stories is counter-productive and ends up going in confusing circles that  make nobody but the ultra-nosy feel good.   His inclusion of family history, key traumatic and chaotic experiences and bi-polar disorder give an adequate explanation of why he was inclined to become an addict.  The only other ingredients needed in the recipe for Scott's outcome were contact with drugs and bad decisions.
 
I also read and enjoyed Mary's book.  While there were a few minor discrepancies, I felt that they were due to a difference in perspective rather that an attempt by either party to lie.  Mary's book was more detailed, but her purpose in writing was different from Scott's.  She hopes to help others suffering from similar problems, so perhaps she felt that required extra detail.  Scott simply wanted to tell his story.   

 In summary, I felt that "Not Dead and Not For Sale" was an excellent and worthwhile book.  It left me liking Scott even more.  It also explained a number of lyrics I had wondered about.  If one is looking for dirt and controversy, he or she may feel cheated.  But if one simply wants to better understand Scott Weiland, it does the job.       

[TemplePilot]

Book was awful.  It is poorly written and assembled, and lacks pretty much everything you would want to know about Scott's life.  The total Spark Notes version of Weiland and not even close to worth the price of admission.

[ejsme]

Just finished the book. It was alright, he definitely gives more details about his childhood and teenage years, than his adulthood. That stuff was interesting though and helps you to understand who his is today. I was kind of hoping the book would be more like that article that was posted a few years back from Esquire magazine, I believe. It was called something like "The Devil Gives You The First Time For Free." That had lots of details that weren't in the book. Still glad I bought the book and read it, but I finished it in about 3 reading sessions. I definitely think that everybody needs to read both Scott's book and Mary's book to get a fuller picture. Her book was really good.

[ejsme]

Actually, I found that Esquire article that I mentioned above.

...The Devil Gives You the First Time for Free
A biography of my addiction

by Scott Weiland (as told to Mike Sager) | Apr 01 '05


I guess the reason we're here is I feel like there's been only one side of my story told. People know rock stars only on the surface, people know celebrities only on the surface, and people know me only on the surface: I'm the junkie rock star handcuffed in the backseat of a cop car. This is my life, a cautionary tale. Maybe somebody can learn from it.

OVER THE LAST DECADE, Scott Weiland established himself as the quintessential junkie rock star. Now thirty-seven, he has to his credit several platinum albums, five drug arrests, a six-month jail stint, and uncountable attempts at rehab. Think Kurt Cobain without the shotgun.

In 1987, he formed the group that became Stone Temple Pilots, or STP. (The acronym originally stood for Shirley Temple's, er, private part.) One of the biggest acts of the mid-nineties, STP followed the lead of bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam to the top of the charts with its hard, lyric-driven rock. Fabulously rich, monumentally ****ed-up, Weiland crossed over to mainstream consciousness in 1996, when the members of his band—his closest friends—held a press conference on the eve of a national tour to out their buddy as an incorrigible heroin addict, "unable to rehearse or appear."

The tour was canceled. A predictable spiral ensued, culminating in an epic ****storm of arrests, overdoses, domestic disharmony, prison, and parole violations. Following another heroin and cocaine bust in 2003, he was ordered to six months of rehab.

As of this writing, however, Weiland says he's back. He's on a world tour with his new group, Velvet Revolver. He has more than four hundred days of sobriety behind him. He is living happily again with his two young children and his wife, Mary. Touted, somewhat negatively, as a supergroup, Velvet Revolver (featuring former Guns N' Roses members Slash, Duff McKagan, and Matt Sorum) has received critical acclaim and sold millions of albums worldwide, earning three Grammy nominations.

Recently, Weiland approached Esquire about telling his story. "I needed to get it out," he said. I met with him in Los Angeles in late December.

—MIKE SAGER


MY PARENTS WERE FROM THE BAY AREA. My dad was a surfer and a rock 'n' roll guy—you know, hot rods and slicked-back hair; he drove a '58 Impala. Later he fell in love with the Stones and the Beatles and became more of a longhair. I remember going out to visit him every summer. The first thing I'd do was raid his weed stash. My mom was the cheerleader in the poodle skirt. She was a lifeguard; they surfed Santa Cruz together. They were intensely in love and got married at a young age. I don't want to open up their whole can of worms, but certain things happened. I was born in '67; the whole sixties thing was really going strong. I think my dad was a bit of a flake back then. He wanted to have a good time, you know, tune in and turn on, whatever they used to say back then. My mom was just not down with it. They ended up getting a divorce. It crushed me. I was three years old.

My stepfather was the complete opposite of my dad. He was a corporate guy at TRW. He'd played football at Notre Dame and then got his master's degree at USC in aeronautical engineering. His favorite group was the Kingston Trio. If I were to sum up my stepfather in one word, the word would be responsible . That word was always coming out of his mouth: "You have to be responsible, Scott." "Scott, you have to be responsible." Responsible, responsible, responsible. And he was responsible. I think that's what attracted my mom to him in the first place.

We lived in southern California until my stepfather got a promotion, then we moved to Ohio. I was four and a half. It really broke my heart because I was pulled away from my dad. After that, I used to fly out and spend the summers with him. I remember how I used to feel as the plane was getting closer and closer to the gate. You know, I'd look through that window, trying to see my dad, because at that time anyone could come up to the gate and pick you up. Sometimes I could see him. He'd be right up against the glass. And I'd just come running through the passageway, you know, and he'd be waiting there with this big smile on his face...and he would get down on his knees and just grab hold of me.

But then I would have to leave. The drive to the airport was really...it was really...it wasn't good. I remember I'd have to say goodbye and get on the plane. I'd get the window seat and just look out that window, and he would just stand there at the gate, and we'd just look at each other. When I would get back to Cleveland, I would be a wreck for a couple of weeks. For nine years of my life, that's how it went: anticipation and separation. Those were my summers.

From an early age, I had a preoccupation with catching a buzz. I remember the summer right after my eighth-grade year. We lived in northeastern Ohio, in this very preppy town, Chagrin Falls. There was this family that lived across the woods. I was friends with the kids; they were a little bit older than me, high school age. Their parents worked late, and we would play quarters, the drinking game. When no one was home at their house, I would sneak in and fill up a big tumbler full of liquor. I'd put in a little bit of vodka, a little bit of gin, a little bit of Black Velvet—a little bit of this and a little bit of that. And then I'd just go off into the woods and sit up against an old oak tree and chug it down.

Then I'd load up my BB gun and go shooting birds, which was always quite fun until you actually hit one and were consumed with guilt.

We moved back to California, to Huntington Beach, in Orange County. It was right after the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High had come out. And I remember thinking to myself, This new school is identical to the movie! There were parties every weekend. I guess the parents' overall philosophy was, you might as well do it here, where we can supervise you. You could ride your bike from kegger to kegger.

My drinking kind of escalated. At the beginning of my freshman year, we'd get ****ed up on Friday and Saturday, and then we'd make it all the way till the next Friday before doing it again. But as time went on, it became a fixation. An obsession. All you could think about the whole week was getting to Friday again so you could party. That was all I ever thought about. That, you know, and sex.


MY FIRST EXPERIENCES WITH COCAINE were just completely...it was, like, sexual. It was unbelievable. I didn't think that there could be anything that good.

I'd formed my first band when I was a sophomore. I'd just turned sixteen. There was this cat who used to hang around, watch us rehearse, this really nerdy guy. He was a lop, you know, but he was nice. He ended up becoming a coke dealer.

One time, he came by rehearsal with a briefcase. It was very eighties, very Miami Vice . He opened it up, and he had these neat little half-ounce packages. And this stuff, my God—it was not that nasty, gasoline-tasting, cat-piss-smelling **** that they have nowadays. It was this ****in' shale , you know? It was that mother-of-pearl stuff they used to have in the old days. It was so hard, you had to slice it real thin with a razor blade, like little slices of garlic. They don't even make that **** anymore. Maybe you can get it down in Colombia, but not here.

The guy cut us out a couple lines each, like, six inches long and about an eighth of an inch wide. I had two of them. And that was all we needed. We were high for five hours. And there was no grinding teeth. There was no big comedown. I think the devil gives you the first time for free.

The summer after my sophomore year, my band was playing clubs regularly. We were putting on two nights a week at a club in Newport Beach, then driving up to Hollywood on the weekends, playing Madame Wong's West, Cathay de Grande, lots of underground clubs. We would do coke if we could get it. Everybody I knew, all their money went for alcohol and blow. My car was pulling into the driveway at 4:00 in the morning. I was sleeping till noon. I wasn't really gettin' along so good with my folks at the time, though I don't attribute that to getting high. I attribute that to the fact that I was trying to break out from the mold that my parents had set for me, just really wanting to be making some decisions for myself. I was just experiencing what life had to offer me.

[ejsme]

Eventually, my parents caught on to the   fact that my lifestyle didn't jibe with that of the average   sixteen-year-old. At the beginning of my junior year, my parents went   into my room and started raiding my drawers. They ended up finding a bag   of weed and a couple empty little quarter bindles of blow and a mirror   and a razor blade. They sent cops to pick me up at school. They took me   to rehab.

I got out just in time for New Year's Eve.


I   WAS NEVER MUCH OF A WEED SMOKER. I thought too much on weed; it made my   mind way too overactive. There's no solace for me in pot.

There   was always an intrigue for me when it came to heroin. Most of my musical   and artistic heroes were connected to dope. Everyone from William   Burroughs to Keith Richards and Gram Parsons to Bird, all the jazz   greats—if you listen to the fluidity of that music, you can hear heroin   in that music. There was something about it that I was definitely drawn   to. I wondered why this substance had so much powerful appeal, had such a   power to affect music and art and lives in such a way that seemed to be   so beautiful but also so dark and destructive at the same time. Those   two elements, the beauty and the darkness, are what created that   seduction for me. It's what attracted me. Because those forces have   always coexisted within me. I call it the Great Dichotomy.

When   you start doing dope, there's a honeymoon period. At the time I started,   when I was about twenty-four, I was with the woman who would become my   first wife, Jannina. Heroin was definitely something that was on our   radar. After I tried it for the first time—in New York, at the Royalton   Hotel, the last stop of a tour STP coheadlined with the Butthole   Surfers—we were excited about doing it together. It turned out her   brother, Tony, was into it, too.

We started making trips to   downtown L.A. to score. At that point I had this Toyota Landcruiser—the   first significant purchase of my success. The whole thing was very   ceremonial, like a ritual, like a religious event. The copping. The   smoking. The need. I started referring to it as my medicine.

The   four of us would just hang out—myself, Jannina, Tony, and his chick at   the time. We were just smoking it, you know, chasing the dragon. It was   all pretty innocent. We'd drive downtown, grab a few bags, smoke...and   then we'd just kind of lie around and have that sort of dope sex where   you can **** for eight hours. They call it a dope stick. You stay up   forever but you have a hard time, you know, finishing. It's, like,   tantric.

As time progressed, I was finding that there seemed to   be a certain ceiling to the high when you were smoking heroin. And   smoking is inefficient. Any junkie will tell you that: A lot of the dope   goes to waste.

But not knowing anyone who fixed, I had to wait   for my opportunity. It came on Thanksgiving 1993. We went over to   Jannina's parents' house. Tony lived in a room in the garage. After   dinner, he's like, "I got a couple rigs. You wanna fix?" So naturally I   was like, "Sure." He tied me off and shot me up. And then he said, "Now   you got your wings."

I remember just lying back on his mattress,   and there was something barely on his TV, which was right by his bed but   had bad reception, just static and snow. Complete warmth went all the   way through my body. I was consumed. It's like what they talk about in   Buddhism, that feeling of reaching enlightenment. Like in Siddhartha ,   when they say there's that feeling of a golden light. It's near the end   of the book. After going through all those different journeys,   Siddhartha finds what he's been looking for all along. There's that   moment when he's sitting there, and there's this feeling of warmth, a   golden light that just goes through his entire body. I can't remember   exactly how they describe it, but there's this feeling in Buddhism where   they say there's a golden glow that goes from your fingers all the way   through every appendage and into the pit of your stomach. And that's   what it felt like to me, slamming dope for the first time. Like I'd   reached enlightenment. Like a drop of water rejoining the ocean. I was   home.

All my life, I had never felt right in my own skin. I   always felt that wherever I went...I don't know, I always felt very   uncomfortable. Like I didn't belong. Like I could never belong. Like   every room I walked into was an unwelcome room.

After doing dope   for the first time, I knew that no matter what happened, from that day   forward, I could be okay in every situation. Heroin made me feel safe.   It was like the womb. I felt completely sure of myself. It took away all   the fears. It did that socially; it distanced me from other people,   made me feel less vulnerable. And it did that for me musically, allowing   me to sort of go for it, you know, to dare to succeed. And it gave me a   certain amount of objectivity, though what ends up happening with   opiates is you get to a point where you get too much objectivity. It   becomes all objectivity. You don't have any more connection to the   heart, to the body, to anything real. You kind of cease to exist. All   that exists is the need.

Once I started shooting, I realized I'd   made a career decision; you can't hold on anymore to regular life. It's   like your life becomes a friend dangling over the edge of a building.   You're trying to hold on, but the hand is slipping from your grasp, just   slipping and slipping, and you just know that you're going to lose that   person. And that person is your former self.


AT ONE POINT,   OVER THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS, I ended up slamming some coke. We were at   this other couple's house, and the way it was put to me was: "You wanna   experience something that you're not gonna believe?"

So we booted   up, you know, we slammed—a solution of coke and water. And he was like,   "Look right at that painting." And I remember the rush hit like a   freight train. And out of this painting came this beautiful angel. It   was just an average painting, you know, a cheesy picture of a flower   basket, I think it was, or maybe a ship at sea. But out of this picture   came this beautiful angel. And I'm looking at it and I'm like,   Oh...my...God.

And then, like, ten seconds later, the angel   transformed into a beast. I was mesmerized. I couldn't believe it. I   wasn't sure if what I was seeing was a hallucination or something real. I   couldn't be sure. But I'll tell you one thing: I wanted to see more. To   me, the greatest question of all mankind is: Is there life beyond this   mortal coil? And I felt that I had unequivocally found the answer to   that question. The answer was yes.

For a while, there was a lot   of positivity to it. But I started doing way too much cocaine. There was   a period when I was shooting so much cocaine that I think I broke into   another dimension. I opened a door, but I let some things in that were   malevolent and aggressive. Sometimes it was just like a sort of dark   almost presence. Sometimes I could see it a bit more. And the weird   thing was, my dogs were totally aware of it. They would be aware of it   even before I was aware of it, usually two to three seconds before I   would sense it coming. And my dogs, depending, would act in different   ways. Either they would come to me and, like, try to make me feel   comforted, sometimes almost molesting me, you know, trying to lick it   off me or something. Or sometimes, if they felt threatened or felt that I   was being threatened, they would bark or growl. Or sometimes, if it was   something monstrous, they would just split. Or sometimes they would   whimper. One of them was an English cocker spaniel. She would always   just split the scene like immediately. But my big dog, a really big male   golden retriever, he was a strong-willed dog. He liked to bark and   protect me. But sometimes, even he was terrified. Like a couple of   times, there was this thing that was huge.

[ejsme]

I   couldn't really tell the shape of it, but it was almost to the ceiling.   It would pound on the wood floors as it would move forward.
 
  I   guess it lasted for a couple of months. I became so terrified that I   didn't want to experience it anymore. Sometimes I still wonder if it was   all hallucinations or something more.
 
 
  WHEN I STARTED DOING   HEROIN, I felt almost immediately like I had become part of something   bigger than myself, that I'd entered into a new social realm. There was a   period of time when I liked to go to downtown L.A. and hang out in the   parks. I'd end up on these weeklong adventures. Sometimes I'd get a   suite in an expensive hotel. Other times I'd get a fifteen-dollar room   right across from the park. I'd meet crackheads and hypes. I'd be in the   room with a couple of brothers and everybody would be, like, jiving,   you know, you'd all be gettin' down, and then all of a sudden you'd   notice they'd be sort of talking among themselves, almost like they were   talking in tongues, you know, 'cause I couldn't understand them, and   they'd be kind of looking at one another and whispering, and you'd get   that sort of feeling when your hairs stand up on the back of your neck.   You'd be thinking to yourself, This is sort of going south here. It's   time to bail this scene. And I'd stand up, like, "All right, guys, I'm   outta here. I'll see you later." And they'd be like, "No, man, it's   cool! Come back here. Where you going?" And I'd be like, "Hey, I'm outta   here."
 
  My first arrest? That would have to be nineteen   ninety...[1995]. I'm so bad with dates. I never really had any   perception of time when I was on dope. That was part of the problem.   That was really part of the problem. I'd go out to buy a pack of   cigarettes and end up missing for three days.
 
  There was this one   spot where we liked to cop rock—because by this time I was trying to   keep away from slamming coke as much as possible—on Colorado Boulevard   in Pasadena, near some of these shady hotels where the hookers used to   congregate. Wherever you have hookers and pimps, you have crack dealers.   We would go to this one room, and there were always dealers and chicks   in there, or sometimes these prostitutes would just call the dealers for   us; they were actually pretty cool.
 
  This one night, no one was   around. I went and knocked on the door, and no one was in the room. I   went back to my car, which I'd been careful to park down the street, you   know; you never want to drive right into the spot where you're going to   cop. And I got into the car. And before I even could decide what to do   next, the cops just kind of swooped down on me. They came from   nowhere...a bunch of them.
 
  I didn't think that I had any dope in   my car. That's the mistake a lot of dope fiends make. You get sloppy and   you get lazy. The cops asked me if I had anything on me, and I said,   "Nope." And I really thought I was telling the truth. But then they   checked my car and I did. It was inside the ashtray. I swear I didn't   know it was there. That's the thing about being a dope fiend with money.   You don't count your crumbs; you leave it littered all over the place.   You can be rich enough to really **** yourself up.
 
  I got taken to   the sheriff's station and booked. The next morning, my wife came and   bailed me out. The thing is, I woke up dope sick. So when I got into the   car, I was like, "I need to go get well. I need you to take me over to   my dealer in Silver Lake." And she's like, "No ****in' way! What are you   talking about? You were just busted!" And I'm like, "I don't have a   choice. I'm sick." And she's like, "I'm not taking you. I'm taking you   home." And I'm like, "Lookit, we'll deal with the situation later. But   first, I just gotta get well. I can't think right now. I need to fix   myself. And then we'll take care of what needs to get taken care of."
 
  And   you know, even though she'd done a bit of dope herself, it's easy for   some people to get self-righteous in situations like that. She was   driving me in this candy-apple-red convertible Mustang that I had gotten   her. We were arguing. We'd just started moving at a green light. So I   said **** it. I just popped out of the car, jumped out without opening   the door.
 
  I walked down the sidewalk and hopped on a bus. I think   I was in Rosemead. I didn't have a choice. Heroin addiction takes away   options and choices; it leaves you with nothing but one mandatory   decision: to get well. To get unsick. That, basically, becomes your   life. That's the definition of reality bites. And I'd just been bitten   big time. I went directly to my dealer. Then I hopped a taxi to the   Chateau Marmont.
 
  They gave me a room next to Courtney Love. We   shot drugs the whole time. Most of the time she just walked around in   panties. There was never anything that went on between us. When you were   getting high, you know, there were never any sexual overtones; at least   that wasn't the most important thing. Dope was the most important   thing. But gettin' high with her was sort of like watching a reality   show unfold. It was very entertaining. I was trying to stay as loaded as   I could just so I could avoid reality. I think we both stayed there a   month. It definitely had its rock 'n' roll moments.
 
 
  I MET   MARY IN 1991, when she was sixteen and a young model in L.A. and I was   twenty-three and had yet to sign my first record deal. There was   something between us that can't be described. It's that kind of love   that people chase forever and never find. We continued this for years,   with me promising to leave my wife. I should have earlier, but I   couldn't man up. By this time, I was already pretty deep into another   relationship—heroin.
 
  I remember one night at a party we were   there late and a friend who had been clean for a while had some dope.   Well, I hadn't shot up in front of Mary before, but that night I did and   I remember her wanting to do it. She wasn't afraid. She felt if you   can't beat 'em, join 'em. And we were off!
 
  For about six months   we went on a legendary run of speedballs [heroin and cocaine]. She was   new to it, but I had never seen anyone escalate to that level in such a   short time. She was my match. My equal. The run took us coast to coast   several times. Jet-setting, going to parties with her friends in the   fashion business in New York, and the movie-star bull**** in L.A. But   what goes up must come down. After a while, it was only us who thought   we were looking good and doing well. We couldn't make appointments. Our   friends started questioning our every move or they walked away. We   started questioning ourselves. And to be honest, it was all right for me   to despise me, but I couldn't stand seeing Mary do that to herself. So   we went to rehab.
 
  I went through, like, a million different   detoxes. I don't know how many times. I lost count. Every time we would   go on tour, I would kick. Every time. I'd check into the place for a   week to get cleaned up, a private hospital or facility. They'd give you   pills and ****—a supervised detox, not a blood transfusion; that's   something else. This was a method of rapid detox developed by the   Israelis, I think. Rapid, rapid detox. It leaves you feeling like a Mack   truck hit you. Beaten, bloodied, and boiled. Sickened, drained, unable   to feel—it was a feeling like you can't imagine being able to feel any   emotions ever again. No sadness, no excitement, no highs, no lows.   Nothing. You're wondering when you'll be able to feel comfort again,   physical comfort even. That's why it's so difficult to kick. Your   pleasure receptors are so fried that your brain has no ability to feel   any pleasure on its own. You're so depressed. It makes you want to get   high.
 
  You want to kick. But in a sense, kicking to me was always   just kind of a way to prepare your body to be able to experience that   first fix again. I mean, there are always those noble intentions in the   beginning, but ultimately that's all it ever was...back then, at least.   Back then it was, like, too little too late, you know, a little   half-assed pass at getting clean, always at the request of others, at   the request of family members, the manager, whoever. At some point it   just becomes, you know, how to get them off your back. Because I never   wanted to quit. Never. I saw narcotics as something I needed in order to   function. I believed at the time that I was born with a chemical   deficiency. Which I was. I was totally correct. But at the time, I   believed I was born with this particular chemical deficiency that only   opiates could fulfill. My basic thought was: How the hell can all you   people want to keep me away from the one particular medicine that could   keep me from blowing my head off?

[ejsme]

 I   have this dark place. It's a place of loneliness. It's a place of   complete shame and self-hatred, where I deserve to feel all alone   because I'm the one who has caused me to feel the pain that I feel, the   loneliness and the sorrow that I feel. And I feel like I deserve to feel   that way.
 
  I know where it comes from. It comes from my parents   divorcing, you know, abandonment and all that. And it also comes from a   lot of guilt and shame. And I guess feeling that you caused that feeling   yourself becomes its own self-perpetuating thing; it takes on a life of   its own.
 
 
  THE FIRST TOUR I ever did strung out was to support   my solo album in 1998. It was misery. Absolute misery. I tried to take a   stash. But you can never have enough dope on the road. There were times   when I had it FedExed. A couple of times I had to fly my dealer out to   meet me. But most of the time I just got in a taxi, you know, and went   out looking.
 
  Copping in a strange city—partly it's an adventure,   but mostly it's just, I don't know, very expensive, very problematic,   nerve-racking. You're a walking target. You get in a cab and you go look   for the hookers and the freaks, or you ask the driver, you know,   "Where's the bad part of the city?" and they'd take you. The worst   places were, like, Chicago—Cabrini Green. Miami. Atlanta. New Orleans.   You're going into an unfamiliar ghetto. You're really, really white.
 
  Probably   the worst place was Washington, D.C. That's where I had my worst   situation happen. I'd bought on one corner, on one side of the street,   and this guy on the other side of the street starts screaming at me,   like, "Get your skinny ass over here, white boy, and buy from me." So I   went over there, and I gave him money, and he pulled out a gun and stuck   it in my chest. The barrel was hard. Really hard. And it was like, This   guy is really gonna shoot me! It was ****ed-up. He had these yellow,   bloodshot eyes. And he ******* took my money and then he says, "Get the   **** out of here, white boy. Run! "
 
  Dude, I ******* ran. And then   some guy tripped me and I went down on the ground. Really hard, like,   splat. Like a side of beef. I skinned my knees hard on the concrete. I   was all ****ed-up.
 
  After a probation violation in '99, I was   sentenced to a year in a county-jail recovery center in East L.A. I did   five months. It was very depressing, very lonely.
 
  I was in over   Christmas. It was rough. I got a few guys together. One of them was a   hardcore Nazi gang member with white-power swastikas all over his body.   And two of them were Crips, you know, black guys from the gang; one of   them had killed probably six people in his life. I got these guys   together and formed a quartet. I had always sung in choirs. Even when it   was something to be laughed at or made fun of, you know, in school. And   I was always the kid who was picked at the Christmas concert to sing   the solo, you know, while the other kids snickered in the front few   rows.
 
  So I taught these guys a bunch of Christmas carols with   harmonies and everything. We sang to the eighty inmates who were in our   dorm and to the sheriff's deputies and to our counselors. There was   something special going on there—an ability for people to break past the   normal barriers and closed-mindedness that they had grown up with. It   was cool to show the ****in' sheriff's deputies that we had something   good in us, you know what I mean? It sort of shocked them to see us   singing so sweet and in harmony. It was a great sort of   passive-aggressive way to say **** you.
 
 
  MARY AND I officially   got engaged from jail. She visited me every weekend. We wrote letters   to each other every day, and it allowed us to find a whole new level of   intimacy that might not have existed. She was now clean as well, and we   planned to start a family.
 
  After I was released, we got married.   The first year of sobriety out of jail was great. Our life was great,   but I always had a problem feeling like an outsider in "the program."   Our son was born November 19, 2000. On the day after, I relapsed on   prescription pain pills I'd gotten following dental surgery. The next   three years were very rocky, with high highs and low lows. My daughter,   Lucy, was born July 20, 2002, but Mary filed for divorce in September.   It was all of this that got me where I am today. The prospect of losing   my wife and my children changed everything.
 
  Having children   showed me a whole different kind of love that I had never known. It was   something that had always been missing. Complete love. I would die for   them. But I could not get clean for them. First, I would have to know   loneliness. Emptiness. Solitude. Complete desperation and disgust with   who I had become and who I wasn't—a father, a husband. Myself.
 
  Reality   came screaming back because I started asking for it. And God helped a   little in the form of a black-and-white police car [Weiland's arrest in   May 2003 for heroin and cocaine possession and again in October for   DUI]. I dropped the scum I was bottom-feeding with, decided to join a   band with guys whose new lives I admired (they used to be losers, too),   and I decided to man up. It was the hardest thing I ever did. Easy to   stop killing myself, but trying to find who I am in order to find my   wife and kids again, well, that was like walking through a maze   blindfolded; every time I felt I was getting close to them, I would   suddenly get hit in the gut with a bat.
 
  It took a year. My family   is the most beautiful thing in my life beyond anything else, even   music. But it took loving them before I could love myself.
 
  The   great thing about kids is the immediate gratification. As soon as I get   home from touring, my wife and kids become my life. There is nothing   sweeter. I get up with my kids every morning. I get them breakfast right   away, and then I step outside to have my coffee and my cigarettes,   'cause I really am not good at talking to anybody until I've had a cup   of coffee and a couple of cigarettes. But as soon as I've had my coffee   and cigarettes, I'm like, All right! Let's go! What do you wanna do   today, kids?
 
  Right now, for the first time in my life, I'm   finally happy. I don't think anymore about getting high. I've struggled   with it for so long. I've gone through kicking so many times, I've been   on and off—it's just played out, you know?

[Comatose Commodity]

If anything I can't wait to get a hold of Mary's book, it is probably more informative about Scott and the two bands he was in then Scott's book was.   The book wasn't god awful but it was like a bunch of notes jumbled together to start writing a book.   

- He mentions Perla as a big reason VR started to fall apart and that's it.   What did she do in those meetings besides obviously piss Scott off

- Does anyone really believe that Dean just randomly got pissed off one concert that Scott's voice "sounded like shit"?  Yeah neither do I.   How about which concert it was, or how the relationship was during that tour.   

- He mentions Robert and Dean getting in to fights on tours.   I'm itching for more detail into that.

- He mentioned something to the affect that the whole band was partying and they canceled the tour and blamed it on him.   What were the other members in to?   Does he still resent them for blaming him for the cancellation of Tiny Music tour?

Random stuff that I thought should have been touched on:

Does him taking a different touring bus or having a different dressing room affect the band?  Does he still view them as brothers or other men that happen to make great music together and make a ton of money!   What about the PNC Show?  How about the many instances of beer bottles being thrown on him at concerts?  A picture of Aerosmith with them at MSG but no detail about how it was to perform with them and how it actually came about.  There has to be some stories about STP/VR or himself on tour.   Being late to shows, or how about when he missed the VR show and they had to take turns singing the songs.   What are his favorite songs to perform live or some of his favorite he has ever written?

The one thing as a huge STP fan I've been longing to know since they got back together is how he views them all.   Is it strictly to earn money and nothing beyond that.   Does he still view them as brothers or are the wounds too deep to repair past being on stage?   One thing is for sure he LOVES Doug Grean!

btw he mentions Eric Kretz like 1 or 2 times in the book, certainly he has some stories about him.

Finally got my book in the mail today.
I read about half of it. I could finish tonight, but I'll save it for tomorrow.
I won't get into my thoughts on it until I finish it.

But one thing has really thrown me - Isn't Scott's story on how he and Robert met 100% different from what we've previously heard?
I thought they met at a Black Flag concert, where they discovered they were dating the same girl, then they moved into her apartment together after she split or something close to that.

I was thinking the same thing.  We have been told countless times that is how they met.

For those who have read Mary's book does she go into detail about his relationship with the boys at all or is it strictly about her and Scott during the whole book?

Regarding how close the four are, I don't think they're exactly the closest of buddies, but respect and love one another. Robert and Scott went fishing together in Canada last year, while on tour - maybe the two are closer friends? It seemed Scott avoided the subject (a little bit) when Howard Stern brought it up.
Howard asked, "Do the other guys like you?". Scott really had to think about an answer (well, he isn't really quick in these thing anyway lol), but Howard did ask another question (similar one...) before he would answer, and Scott just went on about how they're not on the same bus, but still laugh at the same jokes they did twenty years ago. So, in a nutshell it's much more business than anything else, Scott shows up at a gig the last minute, leaves as quick as he can and in his spare time just sees his kids.
I mean, I just don't see Eric Kretz inviting Scott home for dinner, even though they used to french kiss...

[happygirl]

OK, here goes my review...

I enjoyed the book.
It was worth BUYING and READING.
Loved the pictures and journal pages.
It's nice to see his personal photos vs. only professional shots.
Of course, he's still very much in LOVE with Mary.
But what do you expect, he's a true romantic.
In my opinion he didn't elaborate on his drug escapades, because of his children.
I have kids the same age as Scott's and it's a delicate time.
Kids watch and hear everything you do.
You find yourself answering for every move.
I wouldn't be surprised if a longer more in-dept book comes later in life for Scott. (after his kids are grown)
Scott is pulled in so many different ways.
Family, STP, his solo work and the clothing line.
When would this man have time to sit down and gather his many experiences (in detail) and write?
His book is exactly what I expected.
Short and Sweet.
With a few sad surprises.
A small view into a large world.
Worth every penny.      
 
 
 

[Shangri]

I'm left wondering why they turned down touring with Aerosmith?  The way it was written he made it seem so obvious but I'm left wondering

He said in a interview it was because they did not want to hit the huge arenas yet or something along those lines. Like they still wanted to keep it intimate in small venues.

[Unglued812]

OK, here goes my review...

I enjoyed the book.
It was worth BUYING and READING.
Loved the pictures and journal pages.
It's nice to see his personal photos vs. only professional shots.
Of course, he's still very much in LOVE with Mary.
But what do you expect, he's a true romantic.
In my opinion he didn't elaborate on his drug escapades, because of his children.
I have kids the same age as Scott's and it's a delicate time.
Kids watch and hear everything you do.
You find yourself answering for every move.
I wouldn't be surprised if a longer more in-dept book comes later in life for Scott. (after his kids are grown)
Scott is pulled in so many different ways.
Family, STP, his solo work and the clothing line.
When would this man have time to sit down and gather his many experiences (in detail) and write?
His book is exactly what I expected.
Short and Sweet.
With a few sad surprises.
A small view into a large world.
Worth every penny.      
 
 
 

I wish i could get the entire world to see your review, and so Shangri's review.
The most down to earth and honest reviews ive seen!

[loungefly82]

Anyone who thinks this book was anything other than a total piece of shit, is in denial. I love Weiland and STP more than anything. I was really hoping he would go into detail about song writing process, song meanings, money, and just music in general. Several moments in the book he brings up something interesting and rather than elaborate for a few pages, he just moves onto another topic. Im the kinda fan that would love if there was a 300 page book written just about one tour or the making of one album. Listening to and seeing Weiland on Stern was depressing. The man can barely answer a simple question these days. Ive seen Weiland in concert over 20 times and will continue, knowing his best days are far behind. Now Im just hoping that the Borgata show in August isnt the exact same show they played there 11 months earlier.

[Humble Kidney Pie]

Anyone who thinks this book was anything other than a total piece of shit, is in denial.

Hey man, if you wanted the "How to write songs, with Scott Weiland!" that's your problem.  I thoroughly enjoyed this book.  It was very honest.  It was as if Scott sat down with a tape recorder, told his life story, and then pasted it onto a manuscript.  It was story telling.  It was HIS truth.  Just like he says.  If you told the story of your life, would you spend 90% of it talking about your job?