Suddenly a young blond in cutoffs wanders onto the bus. After a few moments of small talk, one of the crew asks her, ''So — wanna go in the back room?'' She hems and haws, partly because she wants to meet the band and partly because someone else — me — is present. Eventually, she leaves. ''I'm too tired anyway,'' the roadie grumbles. Finally, around 2:30 a.m., we crash in our bunks, and the drive to New York begins. Since the band won't spring for early check-in for the crew, we end up waiting at a Jersey truck stop for an hour in order to delay our trip into Manhattan.

Last night, as I helped escort Kiss back to its dressing rooms, Paul Stanley said to me, ''This is the life, right?'' I meant to ask him if he was going to write a song about me, as Jackson Browne had done for his roadies on ''The Load-Out.'' But he was gone before I could inquire. Maybe next time.

Originally posted Aug 16, 1996 Published in issue #340 Aug 16, 1996 Order article reprints
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