Nasty

The song "Glory Days," by Bruce Springsteen plays in my mind as of late. Although my own glory was a bit after high school, I sadly still relate to thinking and talking about times when I was in the spotlight. When it seemed like every woman wanted me, and every guy wanted to be me, if only for a couple hours.

The thrill of singing lead vocals for a heavy metal band in the 80's beats any drug known to man. With hair teased to the ceiling, our eyes were lined with whatever we could find in our girlfriends' purses. Those of us without girlfriends creatively acquired our makeup in other ways.

I remember one night in Orlando. After partying for about 17 straight days, I took my guitar out by the pool and started to play whatever came to mind. The result was a song called, "I Ride Alone." The next night, I played it for the band, we arranged it, and played it at a club a couple weeks later. A little while after that, we put it on a demo. Everybody seemed to like it.

One night, my drummer and I bought some beer at a store not far from our rehearsal space. Three young ladies stood at the counter purchasing cigarettes. Two were singing my song. I instinctively joined in. The taller one then stopped, exclaiming, "Oh my God, you're him! You're Dr. Nasty!"

Mike and I both laughed, but we also knew an opportunity when we saw it. The taller girl, whose name started with a "T" I think, had seen us play the night before, and had somehow obtained a copy of our demo. We ended up not going back to rehearsal that night. Instead we shared our beer with the ladies on the grassy hill behind the store.

Now, those of you who know me, I know what you're thinking, and no, I didn't get laid that night. All we did was talk. We didn't have sex until the next day. All day long as I remember. Mick was pissed because we'd missed rehearsal, until we told him what had happened. Rock and Roll rule number one: Getting laid is a valid excuse for pretty much anything. Everything else becomes secondary.

And so you see, I could go on and on with anecdotes about groupies and backstage antics, wild parties and people who literally worshipped you. You became their sole focus. They came to every show, had their picture taken with you every chance they got. If you left a guitar pick or a gum wrapper somewhere, they'd grab it for a souvenir.

Ask most of these people today about Dr. Nasty, and you're most likely to get a, "Dr. Who?" It's so sad.

I'm left alone, to bask in my former glory. It appears I'm the only one left who remembers.