Guilt is a terrible emotion and I’d done a lot of things over the previous decade of which I was ashamed. One thing drugs and alcohol supply is a sort of emotional blankness that allows a person to do the most irresponsible, awful things and hardly give them a thought, but true forgetfulness is an impossibility. Sooner or later, a junkie has to confront himself and the things he’s done. On that flight to Oklahoma, I began to catalog all my many fuckups—the failed attempts at sobriety, ego-driven callousness to the people around me, the dope-fiend’s innate selfishness. As the miles dragged on, the weight of that list threatened to crush me. I was heartbroken over a lot of things, but one in particular haunted me above all the others.
1965: My mom loved getting dressed up to go anywhere, and church was as good of a place as any.
How many junkies have a Catholic school picture just like this one? Thousands? Millions?
High school prom, June 1977. I had not discovered punk rock yet. Rod Stewart rules.
High school graduation.
1991: Me and Elijah. I was clean for a minute after one of my twenty-four rehab stints. My only regret is what pain I may have caused Elijah.
1982 or 1983: In college, but drugs and rock and roll are calling.
I finally made it. Only twenty more rehabs to go.
Two of the most important people in my life, Elijah Forrest and the mighty Pete Weiss. © GREG ALLEN
This is as close to my bottom as there’s a photograph of. © REDFERNS
Dix Denney, me, and Pete. There were moments when we were magical. © REDFERNS
1995: My last rehab! Cri-Help in North Hollywood, California. It was visiting day, like in prison.
1996: Me, six months clean, and Max in our first apartment ever. We had been wandering for four years from drug house to motel to cars to her parents’ house.
1996: Elijah finally gets a dad. He came for the summer and ended up staying for four years. Looking back, I realize I tried too hard to redeem myself with him. I pushed him too hard too fast.
1996: Let the resurrection begin. Working at Millie’s Cafe—six days a week, ten hours a day. “How ya feeling today rock star?” was a favorite joke around there. Taught me humility or humiliation. Close enough.
Viva le Joe Strummer! My childhood hero. One of the biggest influences in my life. This was taken just before he died. I cried the day I got that news more than I had ever cried about anything. I cried for a lifetime over his death. © JOSH GUNDLING WILLIAMSON
2010: Las Vegas, Nevada. My little family on our wedding day. Sam, Elvis, and me.
2010: Anthony Kiedis—the leader of our gang! My spiritual adviser. © GETTY IMAGES
Drew Pinsky became the older brother I never had. © WIREIMAGE
Gibby Haynes and me, two sober dads, 2012. © JASON KEMPIN/GETTY IMAGES
Elijah, Flea, me, Chad Smith, and Josh Klinghoffer. We’ve come full circle. Let the healing begin. © GETTY IMAGES
MY BOY
As I escaped Los Angeles on my flight to Oklahoma, my mind drifted back to Orange County, California, in 1985. I stared out the window of the jet and saw scenes play out like a movie.
“Would you like another cuppa, love?” the girl said in a High Counties accent, and poured some tea from a china set before she got an answer.
I shot Anthony a look and rolled my eyes. I was drunk.
She passed a plate of cookies across to us. “Biscuits, lads?”
Anthony just smiled and took a macaroon from the plate.
His girl, the one with the posh English accent, perplexed me. Why did she insist on that voice? She was, after all, an Orange County girl. Born and raised right here in the heart of Reagan Country, she and her little group of friends liked musicians. Anthony, Kendall Jones and Norwood Fisher from Fishbone, and I liked to hang out with pretty young girls. Among this group was a vivacious charmer named Colleen. From my observation, she was the smart one of the pack. Kendall dated her friend. They were giggly girls and often acted silly in a bright and superficial manner that reflected their Orange County environment, especially when Anthony was around. These girls may have liked musicians, but they loved Anthony, and they acted goofy and childish whenever he was near. Colleen was different. She had a more mature sensibility. I asked her out, and we spent some time together. I didn’t see a future with her. She was healthy, happy, and wholesome. I found that type of woman boring. I wanted drama and excitement. I wanted the kind of woman who would cheat on me with my best friend, and that definitely wasn’t Colleen—but she was available, and, like most guys would have, I went for her. In my mind, it was nothing serious. Just a dalliance. I assumed that she was some college chick who had her eyes fixed on a degree. She lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood with her nice brother. Nice, nice, nice. I slept with her a few times but started to ease myself out of this relationship that, to me, had never existed in any sort of
