ALICE COOPER: Colonel Sanders’ Revenge
His blood cells got him before the giant chicken did.
“Oh yeah, I’m getting restless. I want to play again.” Alice Cooper, enhancing his already deep tan with the early-June afternoon sunrays slanting into the patio of his rented Hollywood Hills abode (where he waits for them to finish rebuilding the one that recently burned down), appeared to be a perfectly healthy California specimen, save for a little drainage problem caused by a deviated septum, which he’s resolved to have corrected.
Since the Welcome to My Nightmare tour ended with the Lake Tahoe engagement late last year, Alice had been lifting weights, golfing avidly, playing baseball with his beloved, leagueleading Hollywood Vampires, writing, recording and raising a little hell with cronies like Nilsson, Ringo and Bernie Taupin (“Hollywood’s getting to be fun now,” he declared. “A lot of really crazy people are going out and getting drunk again, like it used to be.”) Alice was looking good and sounding eager to hit the stage for his summer tour of America, set to begin July 4 in Detroit. Little did he know that his haywire blood cells would get him before the giant chicken could.
