A Fan For Life
Yep, I’ll say it…loud and proud baby! I’ll even shout it from the rooftops or the highest mountain. I AM A KISS FAN!!!!!!!
I don’t know how it started or when it started. All I know is that my pre-pubescent life was an obsession of rock guitars, thigh high platform boots and, dare I say it…make up.
My pocket money was spent only on KISS merchandise. My bedroom wallpapered with posters of black and white faces with long tongues & frizzy hair. Mobiles hung from the ceiling, gold coins to prove I was a member of the KISS ARMY proudly displayed in glass cabinets, jewellery, clothing and yes… even dolls.
I was the kid that on Saturdays would paint my face like Ace Frehley and ride my skateboard down the main street. Nobody cared. They all just thought I was a total retard.
I loved their look and I loved their songs. I loved them… it was man love.
It wasn’t until I was in my mid twenties that I finally got to see my heroes live. (Mum wouldn’t let me go to their first Australian concert back in 1980, as much as I begged and pleaded and threatened to run away from home.)
I pulled my KISS tapes out of storage. The only memorabilia I had left. (T’was an ill-fated date leaving for university and an upcoming hospital fete.)
Listening again to my musical rock gods awoke a sense of eternal youth. With hard hitting lyrics like… “You’re good looking and you’re looking like you should be good.” (C’mon and love me.) Genius!!!!!!
It was to be a huge day. Not only was I going to the concert of a lifetime, but also there was a whole day convention to attend.
A museum of KISS erected in the Hilton hotel.
I dress in my finest… you never know whom you could meet. I take my place in the queue out front; scope out the talent, looking every bit a cool unit, then… Aaachoooooo!!! One big sneeze that left a huge slimy green mucous ball in the palm of my hand. I had nowhere to go. No handkerchief, no tissue, no form of paper or plant life to be seen… I’ll just have to wipe it on the back of my backpack … there’s nowhere else to turn.
Inside the Hilton, I’m so in awe of all the KISS history. The costumes, the scrap paper with lyrics scribbled on it, the youngish girls who are looking for a bit of KISS action & they’ll find anyway to get it. If only my tongue were as long as Gene Simmons. I’d flick it from across the room like a frog catching a fly & bring those short skirted groupies undone…BANG! With all those fantasies racing through my mind I smack right into the Perspex surrounding Gene’s jewel encrusted codpiece. Smooth.
Now that I’ve impressed the punters, lets move onto the big boys.
Question and answer time with Paul Stanley and the Demon faced man himself.
I’m so excited when the microphone comes my way that I think I may have shot a small load into my pants. What question do I ask? I haven’t even thought. What do I want to talk about with these guys? I must sound intelligent, I have to sound like a good bloke, I have to be interesting so they’ll say “hey, I like this guy… ask him if he wants to come back and hang out with us.”
The mic approaches my lips. My sweaty palm reaches for the base clasping the techie’s hand. “Uhhh…. Gene… “(These are my heroes, make an impression.)… “ How many chicks have you slept with?”…
Oh man! It just slipped out! My brain went into primal. What I should have said was “Ooooga Booga.” Would have had just the same impact.
And so it is… I didn’t get to hang out with KISS.
The concert that night ROCKED!!!! It was everything I hoped it would be. KISS delivered the spectacular that is their show and by the end I didn’t care that I was a mucous stained, bruised egg headed loser that went home alone.
My life cycle as a KISS fan was complete.
What got me reminiscing about my childhood heroes? Oh that’s right…