That Time I Hung Out With A Rock Star - Ratt Edition

I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.

My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.

It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with the guys from Ratt.

Way back in 1987, Ratt were infesting Mtv with videos for their latest release, Dancing Undercover and they were crisscrossing the nation, invading our privacy on the Dancing Undercover World Tour. I scored a backstage pass to the show when they rolled through town.

There are legendary tales of partying and debauchery from ever 80’s rock band’s back stage area. Motley Crue’s were so infamous, they made a movie out of it. Def Leppard have infamous stories of what went on under their stage-in-the-round. But I can assure you, what I encountered backstage at the Ratt show can not be topped.

Poison opened up the show and they kicked ass. They were definitely on the precipice of being the next great rock band. I was sure they’d be headliners next time I saw them. But when Ratt took the stage, they blew the crowd away. Juan Croucier slithered around the stage as he thumped out some dirty bass lines. Bobby Blotzer made the arena thunder behind his massive drum kit. The twin gun fire of Robin Crosby and Warren DeMartini shook the crowd with their thunderous guitars and Stephen Pearcy screeched like a nest full of rats on vocals.

For ninety minutes, Ratt put on one of the most energetic shows I’d ever been to, before or since. I was left as sweaty and spent as the band looked when they took their final bow and retired backstage for the party that was to come.

As most of the crowd of over thirty thousand Ratt fans funneled out of the arena, I went in search of the door to the backstage area. I was a bit tricky. I had to go in the opposite direction everyone else was headed. Eventually, I found my way to the floor level of the arena and flashed by laminated backstage beauty to a few security guards. They ushered me forward to another set of doors deep in the underbelly of the venue.

There I came face to face with the first line of Ratt’s defences. Two burly body guards stood in my path to backstage party glory. I flashed my pass. They didn’t budge. I looked my pass over, had I been sold a fake? I had no way to know. It looked real.

Two girls came up behind me. They wore the tightest, lowest-cut, neon pink and green mini skirts I’d ever seen in my life, before or since. The guards parted ways for them, barely checking their passes. I moved in behind the girls. The guards didn’t stop me.

The world behind the portal to the mythical backstage area gave way to what had to have been the best party in the world happening at that moment. The place was wall to wall hair. Guys and girls alike wore might helmets of hair that cascaded over their shoulders and down their backs almost as far down as their hair was teased up. The pants were tight, the skirts were short, the heels were high and so were most of the people back stage.

Everyone held a cup. There were groups mingling. There was a pent up energy in the air. Everyone was giddy, waiting for the members of Ratt to appear. They were, no doubt, in the showers right now, playing grab ass, guzzing shower beers and partying like naked rock stars. A bevvy of naked beauties were sure to have been sponging the fellas down.

I peeled off from the two girls I followed in. They had no interest in me, they weren’t worth pursuing. Instead, I found a giant tub filled with ice and beer. I plucked a bottle loose of it’s icy chamber, twisted off the cap and took a slug. Life was good.

I paid no mind to what brand of beer I grabbed but, maybe I should have. After a few seconds my head began to swirl. I shouldn’t have been catching a buzz off one pull. I wiped my arm across my eyes and blinked, trying to clear the vertigo. I took a look at the label on the bottle. All it said was, DRINK ME, in black letters on a plain white label.

Curious.

Fuck it. The swirl had me feeling fine if only just a little light headed, so I took another pull. This stuff kicked because the whole room began to spin not long after the second swig. I tattered about, planting my feet, trying to maintain my balance like I was on board a ship in a storm.

People around me began to look at me funny. I smiled at them. They looked funny to me too. They stretched and compressed like they were made of rubber bands. I felt a hand steady me by my elbow.

I said, “Thank you,” without turning my head to look at my would-be hero.

My rescuer whispered in my ear, “come with me.” Another hand was placed at my back.

I did. He led me away from the party. The room spun but I felt grounded by the hand guiding me along by my elbow and gentle push from my back. Like I was being guided along chaotic currents by a small trolling motor.

I was brought to another set of door. Another set of big bodyguards blocked the way. They stretched and shrunk like everyone else at the party. I laughed at them. They parted to the sides and the doors opened. I was shoved inside.

The doors closed behind me.

In front of me was a long banquet table. Ridiculously long, if you ask me. Did you ask me? You shouldn’t ask me, I was drunk. Or drugged. Either way, that table was fucking long.

At the end of the table closest to me, a person sat in a heavy wooden chair. That person had long, luxurious blonde hair. They were tall. I could tell even though they were sitting down.

I moved forward to see who was sitting there.

Another person danced past me from behind. He dipped a shoulder and side stepped, brought his feet together (heel to heel, never crossing them) and dipped his shoulder the other way. He smiled at me like a joker as he passed in this manner. It was Juan Croucier, the bass player.

Juan sidestepped and high stepped to a chair along the long part of the banquet table. I moved to the opposite side of the table Juan sat and chose a seat two down from the tall blonde-haired person. As I sat, I looked to my host. It was Robin Crosby.

Somehow I’d been ushered into a dinner party with some members of Ratt?

“Hello, Mr. Crosby. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

Robin looked at me steely eyed. He crooked one eye brow and hoisted one of his endless legs up on the chair. He reclined a bit, resting his heel on the seat of the chair. He threw his head back and laughed.

“This isn’t a dinner party! This is a tea party.” He threw his arms to the table for me to notice the banquet that had been laid out.

There were indeed tea cups set at ever seat. There were several trays of cookies, biscuits, pastries and little sandwiches. There were porcelain bowls and pitchers. Robin reached for the lid on one of the bowls near him and lifted it, “sugar?”

“Ahh, no I’m not really a tea guy.” I was disappointed. I came to party with a legendary L.A. rock band and now I was stuck at tea time with the rhythm section.

“Sugar,” Robin repeated. No, demanded.

“I’m good man. Maybe I’ll just go back outside and grab another beer. Sorry for bothering you guys.” I said, getting up to leave.

From behind, I was pushed toward Robin. Stern hands held me down near him and his sugar bowl. I glanced over my shoulder. The drummer, Bobby Blotzer, was manhandling me.

“Sugar.” Robin insisted.

I looked at the bowl. It said “Eat Me” etched by a careful hand on the side. If it was sugar, it was the powdered kind.

Curious.

Robin fished the small serving spoon that sat in the sugar and put it to my nose. Bobby Blotzer gave me an urgent shove toward the spoon. I snorted the sweets being foisted upon me.

My head spun out of control once again. Blotzer dropped me into the chair next to Robin and sat in the seat I sat in originally.

I looked at Robin. He spun round and round but didn’t move anywhere at the same time. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I would have worried that it would explode had I not felt so fucking happy at the same time.

Thunderous laughter erupted from the far end of the table.

I looked that way and saw a giant rat seated at the head of the table. It was a lady rat. I think. If she was a lady, she was an old lady.

The rat lady wore a flowery, old lady dress complete with oversized pearl necklace and earrings. As a proper lady at any banquet should, the old rat lady also wore white silk gloves. I knew she was a rat lady because of the large rat head that sat upon her head. But, below the snout of the rat was the wrinkled face of a human. A human whose face was familiar to me somehow.

“Uncle Milt! Welcome to our lovely tea party.” Robin stood and bowed toward the old rat lady.

Uncle Milt? Oh shit! Milton Berle! This was crazy.

“Who’s coming next? That mad hatter?” I quipped in my state of delirium.

“Not Mad Hatter,” Milton Berle said in a not-very-feminine vocal impression, “the Mad Ratter.”

“He’s quite mad you know.” Robin said from the other end of the table.

Juan Croucier laughed like they were Uncle Milt and Robin Crosby had just told the funniest joke. Was it possible he was this Mad Ratter? He sure acted the part.

Bobby Blotzer grabbed a fine pewter tea kettle from the table like it was a pitcher of ice cold beer. He poured off tea into the cup in front of me until it spilled over and moved along over pouring tea into Robin’s cup, then Juan’s and finally Uncle Miltie the Ratt Queen’s. Then he raised the kettle over his head and poured hot tea into his mouth until it ran over his gaping maw, running down his neck and beaded down over his tour leathers.

“He’s quite mad you know.” Robin said, raising his tea cup up to Bobby as a toast to his madness.

I raised my cup to join in the toast. I noticed the side of the cup said, “DRINK ME.” I did as it instructed. I caught a buzz off the sip I took right away. The table and everyone around it stretched and shrunk and spun round and round in my vision.

Curious.

“We need some entertainment, don’t you think Robin?” Uncle Militie the Ratt Queen asked.

“Oh yes, the Mad Ratter won’t come unless we provide entertainment for the good man.” Robin said with elegance and grace.

There was a loud bang from above. Then another. And another. Then the ceiling above the table cracked and crumbled. A body fell through the hole in the ceiling onto the table. I jumped up and away from the plume of drywall dust, shocked and aghast.

It was Warren DeMartini, the other guitarist from Ratt. He was unharmed from the fall. He landed like he was Tom Cruise in some Mission Impossible movie, crouched down on one knee and his guitar strapped around his neck. Before I could process what had even happened, Warren broke into a wicked guitar solo.

Warren's licks were dizzying. The high squeals and manic scale runs dizzied my head. His solo work was as intoxicating and everything I ate or drank tonight.

Curious.

Robin Crosby stood up and clapped his hands over the honey-sweet licks from Warren DeMartini’s guitars that squealed over amplifiers hidden around the room. Juan, Bobby and Uncle Miltie rose to their feet as well.

They all looked at me. I stood from my chair. My head spun. The beer, the sugar and the Warren DeMartini tabletop solo worked overtime on my buzz. I teetered then I tottered. They all laughed at me. Their faces stretched and shrunk as they laughed.

Curious.

Robin held his arms out to his sides like a preacher at a sermon, “Lades and Gentlemen and Ratt’s of all ages,” DeMartini galloped on his low E string, building anticipation, “the moment we’ve been waiting for all night. I present to you...”

I looked around. Now who the fuck was going to show up at this mad tea party?

“...The Mad Ratter!”

Warren DeMartini windmilled his guitar. It went: Wha! Wha! Wha! Wha!

The room filled with fog like it did when the lights in the arena. The lights in the room dimmed. Strobes of purple, blue, green, red and white filled the room. My head swam, I put a hand on the back of my chair to try to stead myself.

The room stretched and shrunk.

Curious.

A figured materialized through the fog and flashing lights. A shadow at first that sauntered up to the table. The figure, silhouetted by the strobing lights from behind, placed its hands down on the table top, still standing.

Warrant DeMartini finished a bumble bee scale run, letting the final note ring out. The lights turned back on and the strobes cut out.

Before me stood Stephen Pearcy, lead singer of Ratt.

“The Mad Ratter!” Robin Crosby introduced the guest of honor.

Stephen Pearcy said nothing. He just stared me down, gripped the edge of the long banquet table and flipped the motherfucker!

Tea cups and kettles crashed to the ground and shattered. Candelabras clattered over and lit the table cloth ablaze. Juan Croucier panicked and ran in circles like a trapped mouse. Robin Crosby sneered as the light of the fire danced against his pupils. Bobby Blotzer danced to music that no longer played.

Stephen Pearcy climbed upon the tables edge and pointed at me. That’s all he did. Just that.

Uncle Miltie, the Ratt Queen. He laughed and laughed and laughed. His face stretched and shrunk. He stopped laughing, looked at me and simply shrugged.

Curious.

That Time I Hung Out With A Rock Star - Warrant Edition

I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.

My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.

It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with Warrant.

It was 1989. The Glam scene was peaking. The band, Warrant, were the hottest new thing on the Sunset Strip. They were touring like crazy backing up their monster success on Mtv. They were the supporting act on Motley Crue's Dr. Feelgood tour but they were also doing some secondary dates on their own at smaller venues.

It was one of those shows that I got to hang out with the Down Boys. There was a theater down in South Jersey. It was kind of remote as theater's went, situated on some old farm land. There wasn't too much around other than the building and the parking lot. As per my usual modus operendi, I showed up really early to try to catch the band coming off their tour bus or hang around back and hope to catch one of the guys in the band if they popped their head out looking for a groupie or something.

It looked like this time was going to be a bust though. What had started as a clear, sunny day quickly turned into a dark, overcast nightmare. I didn't know we were expecting a bad thunder storm but I didn't think to check the weather in south Jersey either. South Jersey was almost like another state. Another country really. It was vastly different in population density, the type of people and the scenery. 

I sat in my car, bummed that I wasn't going to be able to get an opportunity to hang with the band. I certainly couldn't have know that the storm would be the very reason I was going to get to hang out with Warrant in a very big way.

Lighting struck. Not regular lighting but a big, fat, blue bolt of lightning. It zapped a tree that had sprung up in the long uncultivated farm field. The tree exploded into a million splinters and a dazzling dance of molten sparks. Left in the wake of the split tree and smoldering wood was a twenty foot tall monster.

The monster looked disgusting. It looked like a fat, naked, sweaty man. It's face was so bulbous, its forehead and cheeks met in front of its eye balls. It's cheeks were so engorged with fat, it had jowls like a pig. There was no discernible neck, just a pyramidal stack of chin upon chin until it ended just above it's man boobs. The thing stood at least fifteen feet tall. It smelled like a locker room.

It tried to roar but the sound was closer to a wet snore. Gobs of sloppy spit dribbled out of its mouth and nose. It lifted one of its stubby feet as far as it could without bending its knee and slammed it down on the ground. The Earth shook.

The morbidly obese monster lifted its other foot and slammed it down to the ground again. The ground shook. A crack split the ground from the creature's foot and raced toward the theater that Warrant was supposed to be playing later that night. It was trying to destroy the building with it's earthquake attack.

It rolled a snore-roar again. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw what it did next. The monster bent over and jumped up, both feet leaving the Earth. Instead of slamming both feet back down, it kicked both legs in front of it. It was going to slam its enormous ass into the ground and turn the theater to a pile of rubble with a massive seismic blast.

That was when I saw Warrant run out of the theater at an incredible rate of speed and stop about ten yards in front of the monster. Lead singer, Jani Lane, stood at the head of the group. Jani was flanked by the guitarists Joey Allen and Erik Turner. Behind those two stood bassist Jerry Dixon and drummer Steven Sweet whose arms were crossed over his chest. He clenched a pare of drum sticks in an intimidating manor.

Before the monster's ass slapped the Earth like a bad baby, Warrant jumped into the air, avoiding the seismic blast. The theater and my car did not fare as well. The theater crumbled like a house of cards. My car was shook so violently, the tires fell off and the doors vibrated off their hinges. I got out and watched the battle that was about to ensue.

The monster snored in a rage. It struggled to get up off its ass and back on its feet. Warrant jumped on the monster, delivering stealthy ninja kicks and chops to its body. The monster was too well padded to affected by their attacks however.

Warrant had underestimated the size of the beats and it gave the monster enough time to get back on its feet. It slammed it's foot back to the ground. Warrant once again jumped into the air to avoid the seismic blast. But the monster countered by clapping its hands together. The sonic slap ripped through the air and blew Warrant back in mid leap.

They all landed in a heap on their backs. They got up slowly, stunned by the unexpected clap attack. Jani was first to his feet.

"Warrant! Unite! Chicken fight attack!" the lead singer instructed.

Of course! Warrant was known for doing a dueling chicken fight guitar solo on stage. The lead guitarist Erik Turner hopped up on Jani Lane's shoulders. Joey Allen, the other guitarist, mounted the bass player's shoulders. They were going to chicken fight the fat fucking monster! This was epic!

The monster was having none of it. It roar-snorted once more. This time instead of a stomp or clap, it pirouetted like a ballerina on one gargantuan leg. While up on its's tippy-toe, it started to fart. The fart echoed across the field. It sounded like a squadron of Chinook helicopters flying overhead. The sonic thunderclap produced by the enormous flatulence toppled the duel Warrant chick fight attack before it could even begin.

"That's it!" I heard Jani Lane call out, "Warrant, interlock!"

On his command Warrant was cast against a blurred background. They leaped into the air. Jani at the center. Joey and Erik clasped onto his arms, forming longer arms. The Jani locked a leg each on Jerry and Steven. Warrant had formed a giant Warrant warrior!

"Dirty! Rotten! Filthy! Stinking! MONSTER!" The giant Warrant Warrior cried out as it charged into battle.

The Erik arm reached behind the back of the Warrant Warrior and produced a giant cherry pie. It launched the whipped cream topped pie at the fat, disgusting monster. The monster opened it's mouth to eat the pie but it was too large and slammed into the monster's face, knocking it to the ground.

"Time to put this monster down, Down Boys!" Jani called out from the heart of the Warrant Warrior.

The Joey Allen arm produced his guitar which he wielded like a a battle ax. The Warrant Warrior raised the ax over it's head and brought it down on the sloppy body of the monster. The Warrior hit it with all its might and the monster transformed into a ball of blinding red light when the ax connected.

I shielded my eyes so I wouldn't go light blind. When I looked back again, the monster was gone and The Warrant Warrior stood proud as the smoke cleared. The Warrant Warrior disassembled and they ran over to me to make sure I was okay.

"I saw red." I said to Warrant. They all laughed.

They felt bad that I had to witness that. They told me that giant monsters attacked them all the time. They tried their best to defeat the monsters each on their own but more times than not they would have to work the Warrant Warrior to dispatch the beasts. They wanted to keep that part of the band a secret and asked that I keep their alternate identity a secret as well in exchange for tickets to the show and top level backstage passes.

You know I was down with the Down Boys and took them up on their offer. Warrant put on a killer show that night. They even did their chicken fight dueling guitar solo routine. Jani winked at me down in the front row when they did. I winked back.

After the show, they held true to their promise and I had all access to the backstage area. Even Warrant's dressing room where there were more girls in short, short dresses than you could shake a giant, fat monster at. Like I said, I'm sworn to secrecy but I can assure you that I now know where the Down Boys go.

The Time I Hung Out With a Rock Star - Twisted Sister Edition

I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.

My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.

It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with Twisted Sister:

It was 1984. Twisted Sister was the biggest thing in rock and roll coming off the strength of their hits We're Not Gonna Take It and I Wanna Rock. The Sisters were doing this big homecoming show at the Nassau Collesium out on Long Island. It was a small venue as arena's go and the place was going to be packed.

Everyone who owned a pair of acid wash denims, a bandanna and either black motorcycle boots or well-worn Converse were going to be there. I had to get in but I couldn't scrape up enough money for a ticket before the show sold out.

I was determined to be there to see Dee, Jay Jay, Eddie and AJ in all their drag queen-on-acid glory. I scraped enough money together by the day of the show and prayed it would be enough to buy a scalped ticket.

I ran into several people trying to scalp tickets. I wasn't just going to buy from just anyone, there was an art to this. You had to know what you were doing or you were going to pay too much money, buy a fake ticket or just flat out get robbed.

I ignored several shady guys asking if I had an extra ticket. They were definitely scalpers but I could tell they were working the crowd as a team. One guy distracts you haggling over ticket prices while another stands out of view. The decoy gets you to show which pocket your money is in and then, BAM, the pickpocket is gone with your money and you can't even feel it. They are good, I'll give them credit.

I found a small group of people all huddled together. They looked harmless and were asking the requisite scalper question, "Do you have any extra tickets?" They looked very innocent, like good church going people. I approached them.

"I don't have an extra ticket," I said, "I was hoping maybe one of you do?"

I couldn't have known this was a trap. One I was not prepared for. They began attacking me, their weapon: guilt.

"Don't you know scalping perpetuates impoverished people!?" One of the group barked at me.

"Scalping is degrading to women! You're a chauvinistic pig!" another cried.

"You're promoting a capitalist agenda. The rich are getting richer and the poor get left behind!" Yet another chided.

I was blindsided. The last thing I was expecting in this transaction was to be pummeled with political and social agendas. I didn't even give a shit, I just wanted to see Twisted fucking Sister rock.

They kept laying into me with their accusations and judgments. My head swirled. People were starting to look are me with disgust as they walked by the scene.

I heard a group of really hot girls all dressed in the tightest and shortest mini skirts and stiletto heels call me a xenophobe. I had no idea what that even was and I wasn't sure they did either. It still cut my ego just the same.

I could feel myself changing. I felt myself growing socially progressive views on feminism, race relations and the absurdities of a trickle-down economy. Only moments ago I only wanted to rock, not caring a thing for my fellow man and their plight on this Earth. Now I wanted to grab someone by the collar and browbeat them with my feminist agenda.

I was ready to promote my new social awareness when I was pleasantly surprised to find myself surrounded by five large women. I felt proud that these women who were taller and uglier than the social norms would dictate felt comfortable enough in their femininity to cast off the hateful stares of bigoted men and proudly strut their beautiful bodies for the world to see.

And then I realized the five women were Twisted Sister.

Dee Snider slapped me hard across the face, "You're not an SJW!"

Then the rest of the band shouted, "You're an SMF!" in unison.

Jay Jay French tore off my jeans and ripped open my shirt. AJ Piero lifted me up and Jay Jay slid me into a pair of skin tight spandex with pink leopard print. My bulge stood our prominently in them. Eddie Ojeda came up from behind me and tied a feather boa around my neck and some pink and neon green scarves around my waist.

Then the five of them jumped me, pinning me to the ground. They were all attacking my face. Finally the attack stopped and they picked me up. Dee held up a mirror to my face. I looked like a street walking whore. I had heavy blue eye shadow, black eye liner, fire engine red lipstick on and beaming cherry blush rouge on my cheeks. 

I never felt so manly in my entire life. I looked like one of The Sisters. They made me a rock star! They made me a sexy mother fucker. I was an S-M-F!

They gave me tickets to the show. I got to see them from the third row. There was also a backstage pass laminate and I go to go hang out with them after the show. Dee Snider is a really cool guy, smart as hell. We talked about male pattern baldness, the rate of fluorocarbons getting into our ozone layer from the heavy use of AquaNet and we even discussed feminism and how much he loved and supported women in his own special way.

I didn't know what a social justice warrior was in 1984. Nobody did. I came face to face with a monster that nobody realized existed. Fortunately Dee Snider and Twisted Sister were there to fight them off and teach us what was really important... Rock N' Roll. 

It was a magical night hanging out with a bunch of dudes dressed up like a bunch of women. Nobody slapped a label on it or cast any judgement other than it was a good time. I miss those days.

That Time I Hung Out With A Rock Star - Motley Crue Edition

I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.

My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.

It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with Motley Crue.

It was 1987. Motley Crue was touring the country in support of their new album, Girls, Girls, Girls. They were going to be playing the arena here in New Jersey. Their buses had come in to town a day early. It was a prime opportunity to hunt someone from the band down as a day off usually meant they would head out for a night on the town somewhere.

The area around the arena was an urban jungle, blacktop and highways for as far as the eye could see. Hiding to stake out the tour buses was going to be tricky. I used the only camouflage I knew would work. I dressed up like a slutty groupie.

It worked, the guards didn't bat and eye. The roadies didn't bat and eye and before I knew it I was being invited for blow and blow jobs onto one of the cavalcade of buses amassed by the loading docks of the arena.

I had to work fast. I excused myself into the cramped bathroom on the tour bus I had been ushered into. I didn't know if I was going to be expected to blow Vince Neil or Tommy Lee or some nameless roadie. It didn't matter, I wasn't blowing anyone (years later I would concede it may have been okay to blow Tommy Lee seeing as how his dick got so famous over that Pamela Anderson thing, but in a really not gay way, ya know?)

I began wiping off the thick layers of red lipstick I had applied when hissing and rattling had started. I paused, pressing my ear to the door. It was such an odd sound, like a giant snake baby with a toy rattle. I could hear something rubbing along the floor, like a snail with a sandpaper foot. Then the rattling sound, this time gentle like it was trying not to rattle but could not help itself. Then a loud, annoyed hiss that sounded like it was right outside the door.

I stepped back from the door and looked around for a window or something that I could climb the fuck out of the bus. Fucking bathroom was all privacy, a great place to take a groupie, which I begun to notice the telltale smell of excited vagina permeated the air. Was it the lingering smell of tour bus love from the night before or whatever was on the other side of the door smelled like?

 I didn't have to wait to find out the answer. The tiny bathroom door exploded and splinters flew into my face. On the otherside of the obliterated doorway was a fucking Medusa! Not one like from Clash of the Titans but like a mocked up 80's version of a Medusa. It's snake skin hair was teased up, the snakes held shivering in place by what must have been a case of AquaNet hairspray to hold them firmly in place. Their creepy little tongues flicking in and out, the only part of their body not frozen in place. It wore a pink boustier top and black leather mini-skirt that revealed too much even for a Gorgon.

I wasn't sure if I should scream for my life or hit on it. I didn't have to wonder long because Nikki Sixx's skull n' crossbones bass guitar slashed the slutty monster in the head and split its head in half. The body writhed like a chicken with its head cut off. I backed all the way against the shower stall trying to avoid the Medusa's tail whipping around, bashing everything it came in contact with.

"Fucking Tiffany." I heard the sultry voice of Nikki Sixx say before he came into view.

He poked his head into the doorway as the gorgon's body dropped dead still. "You okay, kid?" he asked me.

"You're Nikki Sixx!" I said forgetting what had just happened.

"That's me, got blow?" he asked.

I looked down at my feet, embarrassed I didn't have any tribute for the rock god, "No man, sorry."

I expected him to throw me off the tour bus. Instead he apologized to me for having to deal with Tiffany who had apparently been infatuated with him ever since he slept with her during the Theater of Pain tour. Every time he came through New Jersey he would have to duck her. He'd finally had it and laid the trap for her.

"Hey, you wanna hang out? We're not playing tonight. Me and Tommy were going to head into the city and tear up this fancy steak house that loves our money more than they loath our bad behavior while we're there. Should be a cool time."

"Would I!" I bellowed.

"Hey, why are dressed up like a slut anyway?" he asked.

I had completely forgotten my disguise. I was searching for an explanation, and I had nothing. My mouth hung agape.

"Don't worry kid. I get it. I used to dress like that and go see Mott the Hoople and shit. You better get that gear off before Vince sees you. He'll try to fuck you for sure."

I heard Vince climb on the tour bus, "Hello L.A.!" he yelled.

"We're in Jersey, Vince."

"If you know where we are then you're not fucked up enough." he said.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. I saw the bulge in his pants stiffen.

I pulled my wig off in a blur and wiped away my mascara with the back of my arm.

Vince laughed, "I've fucked worse."

Nikki pushed Vince back. He told him to lay off me. That's when Vince noticed Tiffany the Medusa on the floor bleeding out it's acidic green blood which had begun to burn a hold in the floor of the tour bus.

"Ahh geez Nikk. Another fucking monster? You gotta get a new dealer, man" Vince chided.

Nikki laughed, "I'll put my monsters up against the monstrous looking women you had piled up on your bus last night!"

Vince smirked. He shrugged. That was all the defense he could mount.

Nikki decided to invite Vince out to dinner with us. He took Nikki up on the offer and said he would go wake up Mick Mars and get him to go too.

We went to the most posh steak house New York City had to offer. We spent the night smashing wine glasses filled with wine from a bottle that cost more than I made in a year of work. I chewed the must succulent cut of steak I ever ate in my life and played "See! Food!" with Mick Mars, who only growled at me the whole time. We had a food fight with some well-to-do CEO of some big important company. The staff threatened to throw us out at least a dozen times, each time Nikki would just throw a stack of money at them and we would party on.

Eventually the booze got to be too much. The drugs began to pile up and disappear just as quickly. I eventually blacked out and woke up to find myself in a train station somewhere in New York. It took me the rest of the day to navigate my way home. I crashed on my bed and woke the next day to wonder if it had really happened at all.