June 1
Strange things can happen on the road --
misunderstandings, slights, imagined
slights, rumors out of proportion. I got
a call from my manager yesterday. It
seems the internet is carrying a story
that Love/Hate is off the DIO tour because
I am a drug addict and I can't leave
California because I failed my urine test.
Think of it; failed urine. My piss cannot
pass muster with the powers that be.
I think if I were to take a urine test
today, the results would be:
80% beer
10% whopper
10% beer
I'm writing from the road in Kansas so it
would seem this rumor is false.
My whole career has been plagued with
rumors of my supposed drug addiction.
Heroin, coke, you name it. Goof balls.
I wish I were on goof balls; it would
make the drive easier. Come to think
of it, I am on drugs. All drugs: coffee,
donuts, taco bell, alcohol, second-hand
smoke, cheap perfume, all these things
affect my state of mind.
Things seem much more intense on the road.
Emotions, tempers, sex. My tai chi
session yesterday was like a fucking
religious experience. It's so much fun to
live in the day, now knowing where I am
or even what time it is. There are no
big plans in the wind. Only the next show,
the next free meal, the next beer. How
trivial it all seems when you think most
people are really working. Car payments,
baby payments, toilet paper payments.
I don't require these necessities. All my
butt-hyphen wipe is provided for. And what
I don't use, I throw away.
Three days ago there was a rumor that I
was trying to make a move, so to speak, on
DIO's bass player's wife. We were
staying at their hotel and they were
leaving on the bus and it only seemed
logical that I would try to fuck her.
After all, I am a drug addict. This little
rumor almost did get us kicked off the
tour. The bass player had his roadie
wake me up and search my room, Gestapo
style, but to no avail. She was secretly
hiding in one of the air ducts. Her and
Jimmy Hoffa and Salman Rushdie. And the
cast of Who's The Boss. And the supreme
chrome-plated dildo that use to fuck the
world.
Well, the bass player and I patched it up.
Just another stupid rumor in the wind.
Just another slice of the guillotine
on my balls. Now rubbed pathetically raw.
Here I am in Kansas, home of the cows and
endless miles of grassland. The land is
flat and so are some of the people. Truck-
stop, clerks with years of depression
etched on their faces, circles and bags within
bags. How they must feel, day after day,
serving the same stale hot dogs and jerky,
their prison sentence occasionally broken up
by a visit from the pierced mohawk-boy.
Pot-bellied humpty dumpty truck drivers
stare at me; I don't blame them. I stare
at them shovel buckets of plankton down
their gullets. Midwestern mothers clutch
their children to their breast as I walk
by. I want to say, "Don't fear me. I'm
neither a pedophile or a serial killer.
I'm just as asshole in search of a Chipwich
and a piss. And maybe a good blow job."
I really don't get laid on the road like
I used to. The reason is that I don't
really try like I used to. I'm like the
fisherman with his line in the water who
doesn't give a shit if he ever catches a
fish. I want the sex, but the thrill of
the chase bores me. The idea of waking up
with a complete stranger freaks me out.
Even if she was a stone goddess, what do
I say? Thanks for the fuck? How cheesy.
"Quest for fire" seems more human than
this faceless coupling of tab A to slot B.
Of course, if I was drunk, I'd have a
different perspective. But right now, I'm
driving to Kansas and this is how I feel.
KING JIZZO