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FALLIN UP
MY STORY

TABOO
WITH

STEVE DENNIS

A T OUCHS T ONE BOOK

PUBLISHED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY NEW DELHI

Touchstone A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Copyright 2011 by Tab Magnetic, Inc. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. All photos not otherwise credited are from the authors personal collection. First Touchstone paperback edition October 2011 TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-1-4391-9206-1 ISBN 978-1-4391-9208-5 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-4391-9209-2 (ebook)

For Nannyfor your love, in your memory.

If one advances confidently in the direction of ones dreams, and endeavors to live the life which one has imagined, one will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
Henry David Thoreau

Contents

Authors Note PrefAce chAPter oNe: LeAviNg Dog towN chAPter two: DreAmiNg Big chAPter three: BreAkiN out chAPter four: strictLy tABoo chAPter five: souL chiLDreN chAPter six: misfits & mishAPs chAPter seveN: fANtAsyLAND chAPter eight: PizzA & PePsi chAPter NiNe: heLLos, gooD-Byes chAPter teN: gettiNg sigNeD chAPter eLeveN: exPosure chAPter tweLve: the LoNg roAD

xi xiii 1 14 24 33 42 55 71 80 89 102 113 122

chAPter thirteeN: gettiNg wArPeD chAPter fourteeN: chANge it uP chAPter fifteeN: PeAs & Love chAPter sixteeN: strAtosPheres chAPter seveNteeN: hAzy DAys chAPter eighteeN: moNkey BusiNess chAPter NiNeteeN: ANgeLs & DemoNs chAPter tweNty: the ePiPhANy chAPter tweNty-oNe: the hAPPy ever After chAPter tweNty-two: A DreAm withiN A DreAm chAPter tweNty-three: the e.N.D. AckNowLeDgmeNts

142 155 175 193 211 228 245 265 283 294 309 323

Contents

the ePiPhany

ou can ask me a thousand times and the answer will remain the same: I dont know why I did what I did on the morning of March 27, 2007. I dont Out of the litany of stupid actions, this day remains the most inexplicable,

know why I decided to gamble with my sons life. especially in light of everything that had gone on before. It was as if my selfdestructive side had played dead, like the climax in a horror movie, only to leap up and grab my ankles at the exact moment when I thought we were done. I had not touched a drink since that November day, and, apart from smoking weed and taking the occasional bump of cocaine, I hadnt partied hard at all (even if the people who know me will maintain that I still had that absent, vacant air about me). But, as I would learn in counseling, there is a huge difference between going dry for a spell and being sober for life. When you have not had brakes for so long, suddenly stopping isnt going to be as straightforward as I made it out to be. On this day in March, a crazy impulse returned, took me over and I decided to do drugs harder than ever beforeand I did it on the very morning when I knew I was driving Josh to school. That is the most shocking aspect to methat my recklessness didnt for one second consider my sons safety, let alone my own, and I would quiz my own conscience for weeks afterwards. But this ultimate self-destructthe rock bottom

momentwas always fast-approaching I guess, in whatever monstrous form.

chAPter

tweNty

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Maybe thats what all addicts do in the end, unconsciously? Maybe they have to do it to crack shit open. They see the brick wall up ahead and speak about avoiding it, but all the time they are pressing the accelerator harder to the floor, driving right at it. Because, on some level, we are trying to control being out of control; that by engineering some ultimate crazy-ass act, we can pretend to have had the last word in the conflict between the self we have lost and the addiction we have become. Whatever it was inside of me, it had been chasing the breaking point the previous night, when I called a neighbor, who could always get his hands on weed at short notice. Or so I thought. With my supply running short, I called him up. You got any weed? Nah, Im outbut Ive got some Xanax bars. It was the worst thing he could have said. I had never tried those before, and the same curiosity that had led me to Ecstasy and cocaine kicked in. What do they do? I asked. They are loopy, manmake you feel a real body high! he said. But you dont want to take too many. The second worst thing he could have said. There, once again, was that instruction that caused an immediate rise in me: the dont do. Followed by my auto-response: Dont do? You watch me. This guy lived nearby, so I told Jaymie I was going to get some weed, because it was the one substance she could handle me taking in moderation. At his front door, the neighbor handed me six Xanax. Only take two at a time, Tab, he stressed. Cmon son, youre talking to a veteranI can handle them all. Two only, I said. He didnt come FDA-approved. He didnt warn me about the intense high, and the dangers of mixing it with other drugs. He didnt tell me how heavy this shit was, but even if he had, it probably would not have made a difference. I returned home and placed these curious-looking white bar-shaped tablets into the top drawer of my bedside table. I placed them alongside my last $400 supply of weed, and some red Ex tabs. I suddenly viewed this mini-collection like they were unwrapped gifts on Christmas Eve. Because I knewI knew in that premeditated momentthat I was going to take them all the following morning. Before taking Josh to schoolMuscatel Junior High in Rosemead. Jaymie was already asleep in bed beside me. I turned out the light, rolled over, kissed her on the forehead and told myself that I couldnt wait for morning to arrive. I lay awake in bed. The red digital lights on the alarm clock told me the time: 6:45 a.m. The California sun was not long from rising.

Within the next thirty minutes, Joshnow thirteenwould also wake and start his day. I looked over at Jaymie and she was still asleep. I swung my legs around, stood up, and quietly eased open the bedside drawer. I took out my Kush, two Ex pills and six Xanax and transferred this stash into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and washed down two Ex and two Xanax with a glass of water. I placed the four leftover Xanax in my wallet. I then rolled a blunt and went downstairs and out into the backyard for a smoke. This was my breakfast. I could not have felt more satisfied. Josh got himself ready, and five minutes before leaving, I started to feel all the other shit kicking in, twenty minutes after seeping into my bloodstream. I was spacing out before I had even put the keys in the ignition. I climbed inside my black Range Rover Sport and Josh jumped into the front passenger seat, switching on the radio like he always did. I placed both hands on the steering wheel and tried to get my bearings. You okay, Dad? Josh asked. Im goodjust a little dizzy, I said. The key turned, the engine started. I took a deep breath. The Xanax had induced this heavy feeling . . . like a ton of bricks being pushed against me. Yet, it was a good feeling; like some twisted joy splayed on my chest. As I drove, my speech started to slur, soundingJosh saidlike a tape cassette in playback when the batteries are dying. With each new minute, I could tell my son was getting more and more freaked-out. Dad! Whats up? Whats happening? he said, his voice ever distant. I could sense him recoiling in his seat, but I couldnt verbally reassure him without freaking him out any more. I was driving on autopilot, unaware of turns and signposts. I felt hot and clammy and then . . . BOOM! . . . the real shit started to hit me; this incredible, alienating, rocketing high. My body started to tremble and I was holding the steering wheel for dear life. The next thing I knew, we were outside the school. Josh hurriedly opened the door and jumped out, like someone who has just gotten off a roller coaster that they didnt want to be on in the first place. He stood there, with the door still open, backing away but still looking at me. Confused. Scared. All right, Josh, I managed to say. You have a good day. He closed the door. I drove off. He still stood there. Back on the 60 freeway heading home, the roadin my mindstarted falling away to the left, then falling away to the right; a suspension bridge swaying in an earthquake. I fought with myself to steer through these concrete waves.

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I didnt once look in the rearview mirror. Had I done so, I would have seen the four cop cars tailing me, lights flashing. I just wanted to get home; eyes fixed ahead. But I got off at the wrong exitGrand Avenue, not Fairway. As I veered right and drove down the off-ramp, a white van came into view. There was a jolt. I hit it from behind, at a decelerating fifteen mph. I looked at the digital clock on the dash-board. 7:55 a.m. Odd details in the obscurity. Fuck! I waved to this vehicle, pointing to a mini-mall just off the exit in the adjacent street, and both our cars crawled into empty parking spaces so we could exchange details. I wasnt even out of my vehicle when the police cars swept up, sirens screaming. I laughed. Im being Punkd again. I stepped outside, uneasy on my feet. Ashton Kutcher was hiding in a van somewhere. I smiled, and the cop couldnt have looked more grave. The first stupid words left my mouth: Yo man, Im the Black Eyed Peas . . . am I being Punkd?! Please put your hands on top of your head, sir, he said. I swayed left and right. Course dude! He gave me the sobriety test and asked me to follow his finger. All twelve of them. My eyes were so dilated that I couldnt have followed a boulder had he rolled it in front of me. Have you been drinking? Taking drugs? You dont seem sober. Yes, my son was born in October, I replied, thinking that is what he askeda warped response captured for posterity in the police report. Apparently, I kept on speaking gibberish and mentioning the group. Im Black Eyed Peasis there something you can do for me? Sir, you just ran into the back of a lady, he said, cuffing me. Youre lucky you didnt kill anybody. As I steadied myself against the side of the police car, he asked what I had taken. I told him codeine, because of recent dental surgery. He searched the Range Rover and found some left-over weed. On this, too? He searched my wallet and found the other Xanax bars. And these?

I must have mentioned the Black Eyed Peas again because he told me he didnt care who I was, I was going to jail. Just like St. Maartens all over again but with no get-out-of-jail card. I was loaded into the back of the car, and I rested my head on the plastic shield dividing the front and rear seats. I dont remember the journey to the City of Industry police station. All I remember is standing inside the station with an officer holding me steady by my cuffed wrists. I was zoning in and zoning out, hearing muffled conversation about a urine test. I didnt pee. That much I do know. I had been put in a holding cell with two gangster-looking guys; two cholos. Face to face with the past again, and this time in a heap of real trouble. I dont remember anything else until later that day, when the drugs wore off. And I think thats where this book began . . . I sit with my back against the stone-cold wall, aching and groaning. This come-down feels like the steepest and darkest yet . . . My head feels heavy and mechanical, my mouth is so dry that it feels like Ive got a dozen cotton balls stuffed under my tongue . . . Ive got gray walls ahead, behind me, and to my left. On my right, there are floor-to-ceiling prison bars caging me off from the corridor leading to the sheriffs office. Even being in my own skin feels claustrophobic, sweaty, unbearable. I start pacing, my flip-flops shuffling and popping on the floor . . . A police officer arrives at the door. He points at an empty cup and tells me they asked me to pee in it for a urine sample, but I was incapable. I look behind him, down the corridor, and see a clock. Its 4 p.m. He reminds me how he saved me from a beating. Oh, says the officer before leaving, and you better know that the paparazzi are waiting for you outside. I wait for management to post the $15,000 bail. I had been arrested on suspicion of being in possession of narcotics and driving under the influence, but, without a urine test, there was not enough evidence, so I was released without charge while a file was sent to the DAs office. What they should have done was give me a blood test but, for some blessed reason, they didnt and this technicality would later return to save my ass. What the police did remember to do was take my mug shot, and I faced my first flashbulb moment within minutes of leaving the cell. It was the shittiest I have ever looked or felt and I was standing against this bare, white wall. All I thought was This is the photo that will end up on TMZand it was.

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Irrational thoughts ran rampant because life with the Peas had taught me all about the power of an image; the everlasting visual was all about emitting the right message be it an album cover, a photo shoot, or a red carpet arrival. I started interpreting the message from the mug shot before it had even been printed. It said Busted. It said Shame. It singled me out as the loser of the Black Eyed Peas. The black sheep. It said everything I had busted my balls to achieve now meant nothing. Look at me. Dream like me. Fuck it up like me. Heres your example of the had-it-all, threw-it-all-away guy. It said. The officer told me to reclaim my belongings and pick up my vehicle, which meant taking a cab from the police station to the compound five minutes away. Outside, I faced more flashbulbs, with one paparazzi in front of me and one guy hanging from a tree for the elevated shot; two more images to freeze-frame the worst moment in my life. When I got to the compound and the Range Rover, there was little damage, save for a scuff of white paint on the front bumper, so I walked over to the booth to sign for the keys. A woman was at her post, sitting there, head down, reading a magazine. I was standing at the other side of the counter, unnoticed, when life played one of its sick jokes. On the wall behind her was our Monkey Business album poster and next to it was my arrest sheet hanging from a clipboard. It was as if Godor Nanny had deliberately lined up the dream next to the shame as one final, stark reminder of choices made. The woman looked up and her face immediately registered her as a Black Eyed Peas fan. My persona was derobed, unmasked, and stripped bare, leaving methe idiot personfeeling nothing but exposed and embarrassed. Not that she noticed or cared. Hey, she said, before you leave, can you please sign my poster. Im a huge fan. I took her pen and scrawled my signature as I had a thousand times before, but on this occasion, I could not have felt more like a pretender. The woman was gracious. She smiled and she told me I had made her day. It must have been about 8 p.m. at night when I pulled into the driveway. I should have been home at 8:30 a.m. Walks of shame didnt get more depressing than this. I turned the key and opened the door. Jaymie was already standing there, shaking her head, in the hallway. Josh was sitting on the stairs. I cannot believe you, said Jaymie, I cannot believe you. I didnt need to explain anything. Between Polo and Sean, she had received the full story, and Josh had clearly filled in the missing pieces about our drive to school. I hated myself for the worry I had put them both through. Jaymie

had been bombarding my cell with missed calls for hours until she received her first call from Polo. Im sorry, I said. Youre always sorry, she said, defeated, and she walked off into the kitchen. Josh was now standing on the stairs, leaning against the rail. Dad, if you dont stop, Im going to live with my mom, he said, and he ran upstairs to his room. Hearing him say that killed me. A knife cutting through, right to the bone. No woman or man could have made me feel what I felt when my child saidwithout ulterior motivethat he was prepared to leave me; that he loved me but he would feel better off living with Karish. Fathers leave sons, but sons dont leave fathers. Not under normal circumstances, anyhow. Tough love from a thirteen-year-old boy. When people talk about clarity and incentives and willpower, I refer them to this moment. It arrived like a single shaft of light in the darkness, like a spotlight on stage that I suddenly stepped into. I hadnt been home five minutes when the phone started ringing off the hook. First it was the attorney that had been hired, talking about all the legal shit, and then Seth Friedman, Sean Larkin, and Polo all giving me shit for pulling the final straw. I didnt hear from Will, Fergie, or Apland that silence, at the behest of management, was harsher than any words. I knew what they would be thinking. I knew I had let them down. Because everyone knew what I knew: that my arrest had put at risk the biggest multi-million dollar corporate deal we had ever been offered. Pepsi, in alliance with Doritos, had weeks earlier offered to sponsor and fund a new world tour for the fall of 2007. The ink was barely dry on the contract. It was another chance to tour in between albums, and there I was fucking it all up. Both Sean and Polo reminded me of the painful truth: that under the contracts misconduct clause, Pepsi could cancel the deal if any one of the Peas brought the company into disrepute with his/her behavior, or if any one of us was convicted of a felony. You do understand what this means, Tab!? said Polo over the phone, exasperated, It means we could lose this deal because of you. Our biggest deal to date, brother! It seemed like a cruel consistency that everything felt out of control, and it all seemed too late. He mentioned that we had the best attorney onboard He said some shit about the media and how we needed to do damage control. But all I could think about was what Josh had said. Business manager Sean also laid it on the line: Tab, you lack the tools to make this better by yourself. You need to understand that you have to get profes-

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sional help from people with knowledge in this area. If you want to clean up, I can lead you to those people. But all I could think about was what Josh had said. Mom came over to the house that night. She had never interfered before, but not even a mothers biased love could stay quiet now. Son, you are an addict and you need help. If you need me to come to the house every day after work, I will. I will be here. I will be your babysitter. Thanks, Mom, I said. I wanted to tell her what Josh had said but had I vocalized it, I think I would have crumbled, and, on this night, it was taking all my strength to hold it together. I felt weak enough already without falling to pieces in front of everyone. Not much more was said that night. I was pretty much left alone, like the scolded kid given some serious thinking time. I lay down in the master bedroom, hearing muffled voices speak in concerned ways, and the phone never stopped. The house was filled downstairs with everyone I loved, and there was real concern for my welfare. I knew that, and it was an immense comfort. I thought about what Sean had said, because it was no good just saying I wanted to get clean. I had to want to quit, want to get betteras much as I had wanted the dream as a kid. I had to prepare to build a whole new being and retrain the mind, at the same time as flushing out the chemical dependency. This was not a case of giving up drinking and then keeping drugs in a side pocket; there was no room for any more sleight of hand. The water levels were reaching the ceiling and I had been given the smallest air pocket left to breathe. I was either going to give up, let go, and drown, or I was going to summon some strength from somewhere and push through the ceiling. I thought about what Josh had said, and I lay there until exhaustion knocked me out. The next day, I felt horrible. I had the shakes. I had the sweats, and the guilt was crushing. I couldnt look Jaymie or Josh in the eye. I shuffled about like a stranger in my own house, wandering from room to room. All I could do was keep running the tapes over and over in my mind. 7:55 a.m. was when I crashed. 8 a.m. I was in handcuffs. 9 a.m. I was in the cell. 10 a.m. Jaymie was starting to go frantic . . . and so on and so forth. But this VCR also started haunting me with the playback of how things could have turned out. In this what-if version of events, I was convicted and sent to jail and lost the dream, or I crashed with Josh still in the car and child services took him away; or I came home and Jaymie had left me a note, gone for good; or Will, Apl, and Fergie vowed never to speak to me again.

In my panic, the mind games were haunting. Jaymie attempted to get me out of my head by getting me out of the house, and we went shopping at Target with Josh. It was as aimless as my day felt. I was sitting in the passenger seat, quivering with the sweats, and Josh was staying quiet in the back. All the way there, Jaymiecomposed and strongwas talking to me gently, saying that the only way forward was to change. I could almost hear Josh listening. Im here for you, babe . . . I want to help you but only if you want to help yourself, she said. She wasnt berating me as some wives might. She, once again, demonstrated gentle compassion, nudging me towards the higher path. She saw that her man was in trouble, and it must have been weird but she became the man in the relationship, taking charge, being the rock-solid support, being chief advisor. All the way around Target, I kept repeating the same mantra in my head: I am going to change my life . . . I am going to change my life . . . I am going to change my life. I looked at Josh standing in one of the aisles, pretending to busy himself. How did I ever put your life in danger? Scuse me, said this voice, and I turned around to be greeted by a girl, no older than fourteen. Around Joshs age. Can I have my picture taken with you? she asked. Okay, I said. I hugged her as her friend took one happy snapshot, and I forced a constipated smile. I looked at this kid, thinking, You shouldnt be taking a picture with me . . . youll be disgusted when the news breaks . . . Im no hero. Im zero . . . She walked away. So . . . happy. Yet oblivious. Two fans in two days had unwittingly made me feel like a fraud, unworthy of the position I occupied in their eyes. Youll agree with me later, I thought, when it all becomes clear. My arrest broke all over the media, the Internet, blackeyedpeas.com, and the TV entertainment shows. People magazine: Taboo of Black Eyed Peas Arrested for DUI. USA Today: Black Eyed Peas Taboo Arrested in Crash. NME: Black Eyed Peas Singer Arrested for Drug-Driving. It was an endless and necessary humiliation. Deja called the cell. Dude, what the fuck is going on? Youre all over the Internet! In the blur, within all the calls, I hadnt told my best friend and he learned about it via the Web. Out of everyone, I think he was the least surprised. Cmon, brother, he said. This is the prime example of why you need to get a grip now. Im coming over. When I arrived home, everything caught up with me. There is only so long that you can outrun the avalanche.

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