New blog category! Break out the bubbly!

For those random strangers who don’t know this about me, I am, without stinting, an ardent KISS fan. And I have the encyclopediac knowledge on the band and a nice collection of KISS stuff (much of which in storage) to back it up… a collection I had to slow down on after it got a little out of hand in the early-90s. I’m sure at least one of my ex-roommates from that time remembers my insistence upon going to Brooklyn to get a $1500 KISS pinball machine in perfect working condition. Had I gone through with it, I still wouldn’t know where I’d put the damn thing. But, anyways…

Here is the abridged tale of how a nice little Greek boy became singularly focused upon “the hottest band in the world” — and never looked back…

I really had to think hard about how it all began. But, in my estimation, there are three prime “events” that led to my KISS fandom, and I will relay them to you fine folks from the best my memory can muster. So, fire up that Flux Capacitor and let’s go…

The year was 1978, I was barely 10 ten years old, and stuck in a casino hotel room in Las Vegas with an in-hotel babysitter. My family was visiting my cousin, who was attending UNLV at the time, and no doubt went off gambling or to see a show or something else the then-unfriendly-to-kids Vegas provided. (Very different from the Disneyfication that’s happened to it in modern day.) Seeing as my sitter was female and a teenager of the 1970s, it followed that she was into KISS. As luck would have it, this was the 28th of October: premiere night on NBC for the now cult classic, KISS Meets The Phantom of the Park movie. So we watched it. And I was glued! Although I wasn’t paying attention to the music, I was captured by the theatrics of the act — straight out of a comic book, which definitely rang my fifth-grade bells. To this day, Vegas still seems the perfect place for my introduction to KISS. Plus, “The Demon” blew me away, even on the small screen, and was probably a little scary to me then. Excellent! I’m sure Mr. Simmons would approve. (In retrospect, the astoundingly poor acting, laughable stunt doubles, ambiguous ending, and Hanna-Barbera sound effects don’t exactly make it an Oscar nominee, but I have this soft spot for it and would probably watch it yet again at the drop of a dime.)

That night stayed somewhere in the back of my mind as other pursuits in my life (whatever the hell those were) took center stage. About a year later, I would have my second KISS moment at the home of my sixth-grade pal, Stephanie (who’s probably reading this, thinking, “REALLY?!”). Steph had two older brothers who were insane KISS fans. And I mean completely out-of-their-heads insane for the band. They lived, breathed, ate (and, no doubt, shat) KISS. Their room was a total shrine — EVERY inch of wallspace covered with KISS pics. They even had one of those limited edition Kramer Axe basses (of which, production estimates are around 500 in existence, and made during one year only). I stared at that thing for what seemed like forever, thinking, “a musical instrument can be a weapon?” Then, I pondered the metaphor behind that statement. Yeah, I was a pretty thinky kid.

But, this was during what many refer to as the band’s “disco” period, so the music didn’t immediately grab me. Plus, I wasn’t yet a teenager and, hence, not getting all ga-ga in general about music. Life at 11 was about reading comic books, jerking off, and sneaking out, though not all three at the same time. I did not truly rock until 1983.

After a long stint in a number of small and barely-on-the-map towns, I was back in the city and getting to have all of the fun that adolescence has to offer. It was also during this time that I would have my third KISS moment and my unquestioning entry into KISS fandom. I was at my friend, Mike K.’s house and we were watching some music video show on either the USA or TBS network, which would either make it Night Flight or Night Tracks, respectively. My guess would be the former. In any case, we were casually watching the show when we were literally assaulted by the video for I Love It Loud (see video at top of post). Both of our heads swung around to the screen and didn’t leave its glare until it was over. It had everything a 15 year old burgeoning metal fan of the 1980s could want: fire, explosions, theatrics, and an undeniably anthemic track. Hook, line, sinker, KISS fan. Over the next so many days, I bought every KISS album I could find, laboriously pored over the lyrics, tried on the makeup (like every KISS fan on the planet has done) and soon after went to my local music store and bought a bass guitar: a slim-necked Peavey Foundation (rosewood frets) in black. Though, I would then splatter it with red paint to look like blood — my goofy, mid-teen homage to Mr. Simmons. My family was rather nonplussed by my tribute. Good times.

There are way too many KISS-related stories in between then and now, so I’ll save them for another time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a certain newly-released KISS DVD set to watch (limited edition version, of course). Given the time, I might even review it here. Until then, enjoy this KISS timeline from answers.com.

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Who loves the bus stories? Show of hands! Yeah, I thought so.

Got up early yesterday because I had some errands to do before work. Early, of course, being about 10am. So, I wasn’t entirely prepared for the passengers who are no doubt typical to this pre-noon route. Or, at least I’d like to think so. The mid-morning parade of horribles filing into some or all of the four buses I took certainly made this one strange time of day to be on a CCTA bus, but I simply wouldn’t have it any other way. And having gotten only a few hours of sleep seemed to make the whole show even wackier. Here were some of the highlights…

Lady (?) Who’s Got A Bug Problem: Actually, I’m going to have to settle on this one being of the female persuasion merely for convenience because, in all honesty, I really couldn’t tell which one this age-indeterminate person was… female maybe, male possibly, hobo certainly. My diagnosis (as if I had a legitimate degree in medicine or psychology) is some serious brain damage due to long-term amphetamine abuse. Classic tweaker, actually, so crank is definitely my guess. Either that, or she is stark raving MAD! Maybe both. At any rate, she spent much of her ride swatting backhandedly at imaginary flies, with all of the rapid succession and jerkiness of someone not quite in control of her nervous system. She also blurted out quite loudly to no one in particular the words “HEY, YOU FRIGGIN’ BASTARD!” and then nothing else for the remaining five minutes of her ride. I think she was looking straight up when she said it, which has its own implications if she were to believe in something as infantile and desperate as a deity. Fortunately, I do not. But you probably knew that. Moving along…

Lady With An Empty Wheelchair: This woman, probably in her late-50s, got on ALL of my four busrides, which freaked me out a little. The whole point is that she wasn’t riding the wheelchair, just carrying it around with her — and slowing down all of the bus routes in her path. Oh, I’m sorry… in MY path. She had this weird flannel jacket on with crazy tartan patterning intermixed with teddy bears. She also had short white hair, moved about 5 inches a minute, and had the face of a munchkin. In addition, she thought it was “funny” every time the poorly-secured wheelchair loudly slammed into something. Believe me when I say that her giggle was the demented cackling of a thousand sanitariums. (Yes, I’m currently reading a Lovecraft compilation as my “bus book.” Be grateful that she wasn’t likened to Yog Sothoth or Shub-Niggurath!)

Lonely Lady: All the lonely people. Where do they all come from? The bus stop, apparently! And If they are terminally lonely, they somehow gravitate to me faster than North End fatties to a newly-transplanted gangsta. In my case, it’s probably the suit. Anyhoo… this short, dumpy gal in her 30s is approaching the stop, babbling on and on to herself about something. She’s bespectacled (great word, by the way) with beady little eyes and a slight mustache, as well as what can only be described as “special person hairdo.” And you know that the head count at the mental hospital came up one short because this one, without missing a beat in her conversation to herself, transfered it effortlessly over to me. No, I don’t mean she stopped talking to herself and then started talking to me, I mean she was in mid-sentence/mid-story and merely choose to start focusing her in-progress babble from no one to someone. Without the generosity of any actual context or crucial details, the story she gave was something about someone who drank too much Nesquik while she wanted him to switch to Ovaltine because it made “the young man” hyper. (In fact, she obsessively referred to him as “young man” over and over again in the story — about 40 or so times — with this laughably bankrupt attempt to sound authoritative. Oh, pity the powerless.) This is basically the gist of the tale, though constantly reworded and repeated for about 10-15 minutes straight. I’m guessing I got about 20 or so permutations of the same story… and I STILL didn’t know what the heck she was talking about. I think she caught my bored facial reactions after 20 whole minutes because she then stopped talking and walked away. Sadly, the virus was planted firmly in my head because I couldn’t remember the last time I had a cup of cocoa and it was driving me bananas. Thanks, loopy lady. Now, stay off the Nesquik and get back in your cell.

No Log Lady, of course, but I certainly wouldn’t doubt it if one frequented the downtown bus stop sooner or later. In fact, it would amuse me to no end… so long as she travels with the Man From Another Place.

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