Gene Simmons Sticks His Tongue Out: Flashback

By: R. O'Donnell

Friday December 23, 2005

"Pacifist. What is pacifism? If you came home and someone had a loaded gun to your kid's head, would you say that you knew that he was from a bad upbringing, and understood his anger? No...sometimes the best way to say 'I love you' is with a bullet to the head."
I'm sitting at my desk gazing at the 1997 KISS Psycho Circus Tour Edition by McFarlane Toys, an Xmas present for a KISS fan that I know, and I'm simply blown-away by the craftsmanship. These action figures look so friggin' real. Scary almost. Bam-I get this flashback. I got the giggles now. A mad memory of the day in sunny California when film critic Jordan Riefe, horror writer/director Tim Sullivan, and myself got to peek at a rock icon behind his very own closed doors.

Gene Simmons' name is a registered trademark. That's right, Gene Simmons, fire-breathing, tongue-lashing bassist of the rock sensation KISS is trademarked. As a member of the group that has received more gold records than any other American band in history, Gene is branding himself, slapping his name across everything from magazines to movies. And he really doesn't give a rat's ass what anybody has to say about it. Are we surprised? Hell no...walk into any mall that sells rock n' roll paraphernalia and you'll see all sorts of dolls, action figures, masks, cups, condoms, T-shirts, and other KISS branded products to make a fan's heart race and explode. When the smoke clears, it's not crimson but the color green dripping from the walls. "After all, being rich and famous is great, but being famous doesn't necessarily get you the best seat at the finest restaurant," Gene tells us while lounging in his virtual museum of KISS artifacts and accessories, "Money makes life more comfortable."

Gene Simmons KISS
Moments after telling us about the advantages of being rich, Tim Sullivan (ordered to get the door) explains how Gene's new puppy bit a deliveryman that is promising not to sue. "I want that dog gone," Gene quietly orders into his desk phone, "It broke skin this time, and I want it out of here...now." I thought gunshots would ensue, a distant yelp, and that would be the end of that, but nothingïthank god. Just then housemate Shannon Tweed enters the room (beautiful) and asks what to do about the rogue pup. "We're going to get sued," Gene warns her, "We're going to get sued."

To be honest, things weren't going too well for any of us. When we pulled up to Gene's mansion earlier, his newly installed gate got stuck, and only partially opened, making this sickening, high-pitched whining noise. Eventually Tim Sullivan (2001 Maniacs and Driftwood) had to manually push the gate open. I'm sure he broke it just enough for the next poor bastard. I just screamed words of encouragement like, "When Your Walls Come Down!" and "Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers!" Jordan Riefe (Q & A man for ABC News Radio) just giggled from his dusty old Miata. We were neither rich nor famous and could still afford to laugh at our adversity.

When the three of us eventually made our way to the front door, barely missing the heavy machinery rumbling about (Gene's mansion was 2 years in the making and still under construction then), we were finally greeted by the "Demon." I said hello a coupla times, but he didn't seem to hear me. Gene was too busy making sure his new Dalmatian wouldn't enter the house, and later I asked him what the little box on the dog's collar was for. He responded, but I didn't hear his answer, and so I just assumed it was for shocking its little brains out or something equally pavlovian. So when the dog had bit somebody, I wasn't too surprised.

The only room we were invited in to see was his office/museum. It is extravagant to say the least, a spanking new abode stockpiled with everything KISS and-then-some. I wanted to touch things but I didn't dare. Gene's tall, six foot something and wasn't in the best of moods. (In my ignorance, I snapped a picture of him without permission and he quickly reprimanded me. I told him I would ask his permission from now on. I think he nodded or something.) He seemed preoccupied, "distant," and the whole time we were with him he was busy trying to open that damn package from the ill-fated delivery boy. I don't think he ever got it opened. "Pacifist. What is pacifism?" Gene asks, struggling with his package while talking into Jordan's desktop microphone. "If you came home and someone had a loaded gun to your kid's head, would you say that you knew that he was from a bad upbringing, and understood his anger? No...sometimes the best way to say 'I love you' is with a bullet to the head."

Gene Simmons KISS I must admit, I wasn't listening; I was still a bit overwhelmed by his décor. It was Gene Simmons' inner sanctum after all, and his wall of fame extended far beyond my paltry mantel above the fireplace. (During the interview Tim Sullivan ran his chair into one of the glass cases housing KISS merchandise. It made a loud echoing clatter as he backed away like a guilty school kid. Gene asked him not to do that again. Believe me, he didn't.

I managed to get a few winning poses of the man to promote his most recent marketing ploy, Gene Simmons Tongue: a glossy men's magazine about music, celebrities, and lots of girlie-girls (now defunct). There was a huge poster of the cover of his latest edition leaning on the wall (slick, attractive), and I realized that his museum was probably updated on a regular basis. I asked permission to aim my camera once again. I mistakenly took a head shot of Gene as he scolded, "The magazine!" and then the marketing sage rolled his eyes and grimaced. He really got me edgy, and I told him so. I think he was delighted.

Next, Gene reveals a kick-ass white electric guitar. You can tell it's something special. "This is John Lennon's...he signed it too," Tim tells us with a smile. "Did you ever meet him, Gene?" asks Jordan. "No," Gene responds. Tim tells him that I have and Gene puts away the instrument. We move on to something else.

Tim was an associate producer on the film Detroit Rock City (now a cult classic on DVD) and knew Gene well enough to engage him. It was Tim who embodied a devotee's understanding of what it meant to be in the presence of a creative architect that had fashioned a rock phenomenon, his own record label (Simmons Records/RCA), discovered Van Halen, managed Liza Minnelli's recording career, wrote a N.Y. Time's best-seller ("Kiss and Makeup"), and has written, produced, and starred in numerous television shows and films.

Both Jordan and I looked at each other knowing that KISS fans were going to hate us. We didn't belong here. We were just a coupla goofy writers wanting to get a good story, "the inside scoop" so to speak. But standing in his den of worldly fête, I finally got it..."Pure marketing genius, brother," I told him. He scoffed at my use of the word "brother," saying, "You did a lot of drugs, didn't you?"

I excused myself to use the loo (gotta see a rock star's throne), but was quickly disappointed. It was so immaculate, almost like the Best Western I was staying at. The Bathroom Book was the only thing visible, brand new and sitting as an after-thought, all-lonesome on the john. Nothing cool like an overflowing basket of KISS condoms that I could shove a handful in my pocket, souvenirs for friends and familyïzilch. Oh-well.

On the way out the door, he thanked us all for coming. (The kid in me wanted to give him a big old hug...but I didn't. Even Tim just shook his hand.) But he really left his dent in me; a brush with éminence grise was the sweat rolling down my brow to prove it. And as we pulled away into the sunset I wondered if I'd be invited back? Not likely, but reflecting on the matter I really did appreciate the guy, not all the gilded trappings. But I wondered if he even noticed? "Doesn't matter," Jordan says, "He thinks you're just a stoner." We both laughed as the gate behind us whined above a doomed puppy barking in the distance.