Authors: Jason Priestley
Jason Priestley
To Naomi, Ava, and Dashiell, you give me purpose . . .
Rehabilitation Hospital of Indiana 46254
North Vancouver “North Van” V7J 2X9
Windsor House “North Van” V7P 2M3
Lower Lonsdale “North Van” V7M 3K7
Prospect Studios Los Feliz 90027
The Lot and FOX Studios Century City 90046
FOX Private Jet New York 10019
La Jolla Avenue West Hollywood 90069
The High Desert Kern County 93263
Smashbox Studio Westwood 90024
Piccadilly Circus London W1J 7BX
Beverly Hilton Hotel Beverly Hills 90212
Sunset Strip West Hollywood 90069
Spelling Manor Holmby Hills 90024
6-8 Wellington Quay Dublin Dublin 2
Ibiza Sant Josep de sa Talaia 07817
Ray Art Studios Canoga Park 91304
Indianapolis Motor Speedway 46222
Outpost Estates Hollywood Hills 90068
Rehabilitation Hospital of Indiana 46254
Jim and Cindy's House Indianapolis 46251
Spelling Manor Holmby Hills 90077
Shaftesbury Avenue London W1D 3AY
Atlantis Resort Nassau NAC: 8JNN2 M5CL8
Warner Bros. Set Burbank 91505
One&Only Ocean Club New Providence Island NAC: 8JPLG M5DDY
Battery Park City New York 10280
The Beverly Hilton Hotel Beverly Hills 90210
Cedars-Sinai West Hollywood 90048
South Kensington London SW7 5BD
Grimaldi Forum Monaco Monte Carlo 98000
M
y friend the actor John Hurt used to say that people in the public eye have a public life, a private life, and a secret life. I'm not sure that's true for me. Since I was barely out of my teens and began playing Brandon Walsh, wholesome heartthrob of
Beverly Hills 90210,
I've lived a much more public life than I ever wanted. It's hard to keep big secrets in the fishbowl of fame.
I was always ambitious, but the goal was to become a successful working actor. I never imagined the level of fame starring on an iconic show would bring. Writing this book took me back very vividly to that time and placeâI remembered all the fun, the camaraderie, the good times and the badâplenty of it played out in public, much of it misrepresented, and, sure, some of it private . . . until now, anyway.
Still, I've never been one to spend much time looking in the rearview mirror. All my life I've been moving forward as fast as I could, looking for the next thing. So to write this book was not easy or done without plenty of hesitation and false starts.
Twenty years ago I “graduated” from high school on
90210
. . . pretend, of course, but a milestone nevertheless. And ten years ago I literally died and came back to life, slowly, painfully, and with a completely different attitude. I wanted to change my life . . . and I did . . . again. There have been all kinds of major changesâups, downs, and hurdlesâin my life since I arrived in Hollywood as a seventeen-year-old kid, full of boundless energy and a determination to succeed.
I still wake up every morning racing toward my next goal, full of energy, feeling young. Then I see the middle-aged guy in the mirror, the one with a wife and two little kids. The three of them are so all over my business I couldn't have a secret life now if I wanted one! But every once in a while I look back, laugh, and shake my head, remembering. . . .
of Indiana
46254
I
wake up in a strange room, looking at an unfamiliar ceilingâa not-infrequent occurrence. I feel a little woozy; I'm obviously under the influence of somethingâagain, not exactly an unheard-of state for me. I hear the familiar gentle snore of my French bulldog, Swifty, and turn my head . . . painfully. In the near dark I can make out his familiar boxy form, curled up alongside my girlfriend, Naomi. Hmmm. Seeing them is a welcome surprise. But . . . where are we?
I try to sit up and can't. I realize that I'm wearing a back brace and it's keeping me from moving. I turn my head the other way and see a wheelchair next to my bed, along with an IV stand. A line from the IV bag runs straight into the crook of my elbow.
I struggle to lift my head just an inch or so; then I see my feet, wrapped in fluorescent green casts, resting like two huge misshapen blocks at the end of my bed. It's beginning to sink in. I am in the hospital. I have clearly been in a bad accident. A shock of pure alarm shoots through my body at the thought of being paralyzed. I wiggle my toes with all my might and am vastly relieved when I see them move.
I EVENTUALLY FIGURED
out that I have crashed my Infiniti Pro Series car in turn two at the Kentucky Speedway. Speed at impact: 187 mph. I had qualified second for the race that day. The crash happened during warm-up.
I had driven through a patch of Quick Dry, an absorbent material not unlike kitty litter, used to clean up oil and antifreeze on racetracks after accidents, a typical occurrence in racing. That's all it was. An accident.
I had been coming to briefly and fading back out just as suddenly. Each time I gain consciousness I have no memory of waking up before. All I know is that I am now suddenly awake, confused, and in pain.
I find out I was in critical condition in a Trauma ICU in Kentucky before coming here to Indianapolis, Indiana. As I begin the painful physical process of putting my body back together, I also begin the emotional journey of figuring out how I got to this place in my life. You have a lot of time to think lying in a hospital bed twenty-four hours a day.
I got everything in my life through my drive to be successful and my desire to be the best at everything I attempted. I had a fierce competitive spirit that brought me here . . . but this time, I had gone too far.
V6B 3A4
W
hen I was five years old, I told my mother, “I want to be one of those people who live inside the television.”
Now,
why
I wanted to live inside the television set in that particular time and placeâCanada, the 1970sâI can't imagine. Kids' programs included such gems as
The Beachcombers, The Friendly Giant, Mr. Dress-up,
and
The Littlest Hobo
. We got a couple of big American shows like
Sesame Street
and
The Electric Company,
but for the most part the programming was all ours. It didn't matter; I watched them all and wished I was there. From as far back as I can remember, I had an innate fascination for and desire to be part of that world.
Fifteen years later my childhood wishes would be fulfilled. As the star of one of the most iconic American television shows of the late twentieth century, somebody, somewhere in the world is always watching me, no matter what the day or time. Playing Brandon Walsh on
Beverly Hills 90210
has assured my place in pop culture for all time. I really will live inside the boxâforever!
MY PARENTS MET
as students at the University of Victoria, where my mother was a star performer in the drama department and my father built sets. He was also an outstanding rugby player, sailor, and all-around athlete. Both were quite artsy and liberal. Mom danced in the Royal Canadian Ballet before their marriage and continued to work as an actress occasionally after they moved to Vancouver and started a family. My sister, Justine, arrived first. Then I came along sixteen months later.
Mom's agent was a woman named Ramona Beauchamp at the Ramona Beauchamp Agency in Vancouver. Ramona was one of the few prominent show business agents in the areaâthis was long before my hometown became known as Hollywood North. She signed both my sister and me, and one of her agents, Fiona Jackson, represented us. We were quickly booked for several print adsânot surprisingly, posing as brother and sister.
Probably due to my long straight hair, big blue eyes, and sweet face, I was frequently mistaken for a girl. When strangers would approach my mother to say something complimentary about her “little girls,” I would growl, “I'm
not
a girl!” and startle the hell out of them with my surprisingly deep voice. Still, it was the right look for the time: peace and love, hippie hair. I booked quite a few print and catalog jobs, which soon led to every kind of acting gig that was available in the tiny local industry at that time: mostly voice-overs and local television commercials. Justine had no desire to continue after doing a few shoots; I pestered my mother constantly for more work. She was by no means a stage mother; the desire was all mine. From where? Who can say? It was hardwired into me.
One afternoon Mom accompanied me to an audition for a movie at that monument to '70s architecture, the Canadian Broadcast Corporation building in downtown Vancouver. By this time I was an old pro at auditioning. I went in and met the casting person, read my lines, and assured them that I was a strong swimmer (apparently a prerequisite for the part). Fortunately, Dad had had me in the water since before I could walk, and I could not only swim but was also a pretty good little sailor.
Maybe my aquatic skill was the deciding factor in winning the role; maybe it was that I resembled the actress who was to play my mother; maybe they just liked my reading. At the age of six I had already figured out there was a lot of luck and intangibles involved in landing any role at all, even for a tiny ad in the local paper. Many kids couldn't stand the rejection of not landing a part. It only made me more determined. One year earlier, at the age of five, I had begun in earnest to will my dreams to come true; now the power of persistence had landed me my first break.