Not Dead and Not for Sale

Not Dead and Not for Sale

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by Scott Weiland, David Ritz

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In the early 1990s, Stone Temple Pilots—not U2, not Nirvana, not Pearl Jam— was the hottest band in the world. STP toppled such mega-bands as Aerosmith and Guns N’ Roses on MTV and the Billboard charts. Lead singer Scott Weiland became an iconic front man in the tradition of Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Robert Plant.

Then, when STP…  See more details below


In the early 1990s, Stone Temple Pilots—not U2, not Nirvana, not Pearl Jam— was the hottest band in the world. STP toppled such mega-bands as Aerosmith and Guns N’ Roses on MTV and the Billboard charts. Lead singer Scott Weiland became an iconic front man in the tradition of Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Robert Plant.

Then, when STP imploded, it was Weiland who emerged as the emblem of rock star excess, with his well-publicized drug busts and trips to rehab. Weiland has since made a series of stunning comebacks, fronting the supergroup Velvet Revolver, releasing solo work, and, most recently, reuniting with Stone Temple Pilots. He still struggles with the bottle, but he has prevailed as a loving, dedicated father, as well as a business-savvy artist whose well of creativity is far from empty.

These earthling papers explore Weiland’s early years as an altar boy right along with his first experiences with sex and drugs. Weiland discusses his complex relationships with his parents, stepfather, siblings, and the love of his life, Mary Forsberg Weiland. Readers learn the fascinating stories behind his most well-known songs and what it was like to be there at the beginning of the grunge phenomenon, as Rolling Stone proclaimed on its cover: “the year punk broke.” Not Dead & Not for Sale is a hard rock memoir to be reckoned with—a passionate, insightful, and at times humorous book that reads with extraordinary narrative force.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Fascinating . . . Weiland's story isn't over, but the four decades' worth of material he crams into Not Dead & Not for Sale makes for a compelling and worthwhile read." —Associated Press

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EVERY TIME I TRY TO CATCH UP TO MY LIFE, something stops me. Different people making claims on my life. Old friends telling me new friends aren’t true friends. All friends trying to convince me that I can’t survive without them.

Then there are the pay-for-hire get-off-drugs professionals with their own methods and madness. They help, they hurt, they welcome me into their institutions … and, well, their madness.

Welcome to my life.

Two years ago, my life was self-restricted to a sober living house, meaning that I walked through the doors of my own free will. Within hours, I watched the game of communal free will get stepped on, laughed at, and batted around like a Ping-Pong ball.

One of my fellow patients was a rocker chick just turned twenty-one. She had a problem with depression. We met in the lounge and talked the night away, smoking cigarettes, exchanging words of comfort.

“Am I pretty?” she asked me.

“You are beautiful,” I told her.

“Everyone says I smell because I haven’t showered.”

“Everyone can get fucked,” I told her. “When you’re depressed, you’re not exactly in the mood for a shower.”

She told me a story of grief and confusion. I listened. When she was through, we hugged good night. She kissed me sweetly. She wanted more.

“We can’t do this,” I said. “It’s not right. Not now, not here.”

A day later, I was approached by one of the counselors whom I considered a first-class shit talker.

“Rumor has it that the two of you were intimate.”

“What’s intimate?” I asked.



“She obviously has a crush on you.”

“Okay. What of it?”

“I heard you two had sex in the Jacuzzi.”

“No Jacuzzi,” I said. “No sex. Besides, who has sex in a Jacuzzi?”

“I want to know what happened,” she insisted.

“We were flirtatious. That was inappropriate. So we stopped.”

This young woman was confronted at our next group session. Sixteen hours later, she sliced her leg down past the fatty tissue. She was a cutter. They took her out of the villa and put her in a psych ward.

What can I do about it?

I write a poem, “The Little Villa and Painted Egg.”

Minds squall, alcohol, heroin

The man, the boy, the girl

The little villa where you live

You need to fill that pain inside

Xanex, Valium, barbiturates—they ease the easy side

Of all you fucked-up managerial types

You love to rule by what you say

Not by what you find

Beautiful garden, Easter eggs, those that you never really had

You stole our experiences and stole our baskets

That’s how you found twenty-one out of fifty-seven

THAT WAS LAST MONTH. This week I’m home dealing with those who “manage” my business life, those who, for their own purposes, direct my moves. They are my partners, assistants, and drug coaches (whom we call “minders”). There is no peace, not for an hour, not for thirty seconds. Someone is always showing up with calculated suggestions and implied instructions. I don’t know, but I think I’ve done pretty well for myself, even during my long-lasting, narcotic misadventures—all without the protective bubble of paranoid employees, partners, and helpers—er, minders.

Meanwhile, the facts are these:

It has been eight and a half years since I shot dope and nearly three years since I did coke.

I still drink. A regular garden-variety boozer, I am like any other barfly or drink-alone kind of guy. My relationship to liquor is not romantic the way I once envisioned my love affair with dope. I struggle to stop drinking, but I don’t see it as suicidal. In any event, I’m not drinking today. Today I’m inviting you into the middle of my life and the middle of my head. My heart feels a bit closed off because I’m realizing that there are few people, if any, that I fully trust. That’s an amazing statement to make and brings me to what may be the purpose of this book.

How did I get to this point? One word could probably suffice—loss.

I’m searching for explanations.

Someone recently gave me a T-shirt that said, I’M IN LIKE SEVEN BANDS.

There is a Stone Temple Pilots story to tell. There is a Velvet Revolver story to tell. There is a love story to tell. And a drug story to tell.

AMONG MY GREAT LOVES is that category of substances called heroin. Narcotic alkaloids. Derivatives of opium. I describe this stuff lovingly. I do so at the risk of high irresponsibility. It is not my intention to mislead anyone looking to live a righteous life. God knows that the shit will kill you, inside and out, soul to the bone. At the same time, I am committed to an honest assessment of the wreckage of my past. I loved opiates; I hated opiates; I am attracted to opiates perhaps the way John Keats was attracted to death. One hundred ninety years ago, the romantic poet wrote “Ode to a Nightingale”:

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

With thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

IS DEATH THE MUSE? Is rock and roll the nightingale? Are opiates the key to unlocking the magical kingdom where colorful flowers fade to black? Why should anyone—especially a kid or a man who suspects that he or she may have talent—be drawn to such a kingdom?

I don’t know. Except that the pull is visceral. It may also be an act of self-loating or anger against home or society or even the human condition in which the promise of death shadows us from those first fresh moments of birth.

I think of the young woman overwhelmed by a compulsion to cut herself. The compulsion is heartbreaking and bizarre, but maybe not bizarre at all—maybe it’s simply the most honest compulsion of all because it gets to the heart of the matter. My long opiate-dazed days and sleepless nights were all about cutting myself emotionally. When I got high, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was party or interact with other human beings. I retreated to the dark corners of my room and my life. I stayed alone and disappeared down black holes where no one could find me. I couldn’t find myself. I didn’t want to find myself. I became invisible. Or, as I put it in the song “Dead and Bloated,” “I am smellin’ like the rose that someone gave me on my birthday deathbed.”

© 2011 Scott Weiland

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Not Dead and Not for Sale 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 42 reviews.
johnh418 More than 1 year ago
I'm a freaking huge Scott Weiland fan. For many years I have been fascinated by his music, and even more by his live performances. He's such an energetic, creative, passionate performer when he's in front of a crowd doing his thing. I was looking forward to getting my hands on this book ever since hearing Scott would be writing this years ago. It took years for me to get my hands on it, and then 2.5 hours to read the whole thing cover to cover. It usually takes me several days to get through a book with almost 300 pages. This book has tons of filler space in it. Everything from large over sized lyrics stretched across the page to solid black and white pages with nothing... Any serious Scott Weiland, STP, Velvet Revolver fan will know 80% of the information Scott shares in this book. I get the impression Scott started "holding back" when it came to actually writing this book. He does give you some insight to his personal battles, but then as soon as he tells you something, the sentence seems to stop instantly, then it's a new chapter. There is very little personal insight to the behind the scenes workings of STP and VR. The little tid bits shared about the bands has been on the internet for years by now. (Spoiler Alert) There's a brief sentence mentioning about the backstage drama with Velvet Revolver. He says something like "Slash's wife had started placing herself in the band's meetings." That's it. He doesn't even share any examples of what happened in any of the meetings. There could have been a whole chapter of page after page writing just about those meetings... It just seemed like it jumped around a lot, and kinda felt rushed as I got to the stuff I really wanted to hear about the behind the scenes life of the bands.
Tracy Carlson More than 1 year ago
What I expected to be a fascinating read turned out to be a complete let down. For someone as beautifully gifted as Scott Weiland is I find it difficult to comprehend how this book got published. I am an incredibly huge fan of anything Scott Weiland but cannot fathom that this is his best work. The book jumped around and was hard to follow where we were in his life. Huge milestones and stories were simply not there.
BD-Swingin More than 1 year ago
The book was great insight into one of the best rock groups ever. The book was filled with great never before seen photos of the band in the early days when they were just starting out. This book is a must read for fans that aren't even STP fans.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I was really excited to read this book, and am a little disappointed. I feel like it was poorly written. I did not get much out of it. Fall To Pieces was much much better!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved it! This book is hard to put down. Very interesting and funny.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
i want to know more!
Lilo78 More than 1 year ago
I was am huge Scott Weiland fan. I was expecting a bit more. I had read Mary's bio, and absolutely loved it. She talked so much about the love they had for each other, and did not diss him once (nor did he in his book), and about her drug and bipolar problems. But there was just so much more background missing. I wanted to know more about his bringing up, the relationship with his mother, and his fight with bipolar. I saw him in concert back in October, the love he had for his children at the show was phenomenal, and Mary was there as well. He could have just told more about the past and how it is better for him now and for the future.
CelticSoup More than 1 year ago
Its not the usual lurid, name dropping celebrity tell all memoir. Thats why i liked it so much. Scott gives you glimpses into his life, makes no lame excuses and blames nobody for his troubles. The man is a survivor. He has my respect.
skorpio1313 More than 1 year ago
I am a HUUUUGE Scott Weiland fan. So, I was very excited when i heard about this book. It's not the easiest read, though. He tends to write like its a song and not a book. You have to spend too much time deciphering what he's trying to say. Like most of his songs. He's led an interesting life, no doubt...but you have to really wanna know about this guy to be able to get into this one.
chadbordes More than 1 year ago
melo1 More than 1 year ago
I've been a S.W. fan forever and was excited to read his memoir. Unfortunately it was shockingly disappointing. With his colorful personality I couldnt wait to dive into his life but unfortunately all I got was a list of facts about his life. There is virtually no insight what-so-ever in this book. Some of the "chapters" were 1 page long. It is filled with facts and almost no story behind them. There were interesting facts that I wanted to know more about but unfortunately he would state a fact and change the subject. There is nothing new in this book you wouldnt already know from just being a fan. This was a 2 hour read and I am less of a fan now than before I read it. I am disappointed that he and the publisher would think this book would be worth my 24.00 I paid for it. Buy Scar Tissue or Heroine Diaries for a good Rock Star biography instead
Anonymous 5 months ago
Yeah. Left for a few months, come back, dead. Lets yell everyone!
Anonymous 5 months ago
Hey I read your post.....I have only been rpging for about 6 months and I LOVE IT!! I would really like to see it thrive, I will do what ever it takes (with in my power, so no hijacking or anything else illegal) to see more people come and also stay alive for all people whi come and/or stay. So yeah I am in!!<p> ~PITP
Anonymous 5 months ago
Any ideas? I have none.
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A short entertaining read.
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