A DREEM DATE WITH GENE SIMMONS

“I want to join the Kiss Army!” I pleaded in the house phone of a ritzcheesy West Hollywood hotel. “Do you like pain and tire chains and Hostess Twinkies?” the rusty voice queried. “Yes. Yes, oh yes.” I volunteered. “Then come on up and I’ll show you my clippings and private girlie folio and we can speak Hungarian,” invited Kiss’s blood-spitter, Gene Simmons.