C O R D E L L  J U S T  G O T  L A I D

Cordell just got laid . . . it's a fact. In Milwaukee. He also ate her box, F.Y.I. The problem is he won't stop talking about it, like he invented unsafe sex. We don't get laid much on this tour; it's pretty much slim pickins on a DIO tour. Maybe it's because I don't have a bus on this tour and chicks don't like vans. I don't mind it, I like the van, it's okay. I'm not gonna fuck some girl in it, like a wart hog or something. One of the DIO crew guys did some girl in the bushes the other night; now that takes crass. And a certain degree of panache. 

Anyway, Cordell just got laid. He fucked her on the top floor of the Rave Bar, buns up while DIO played "The Last In Line." Fitting. I believe I was loading his bass gear at the time. Also fitting. 

Girls change as the years go by. Girls that were goddesses in 1991 are now hogs or withered speed freaks with boda-bag tits and a three-pack-a-day voice. I think they get jealous 'cause the years don't seem to hit us as hard. I'm speaking for myself, of course. I'm still skinny and my hair line is intact, unfortunately, time hasn't been as kind to some of my colleagues. It's a good thing you can shave your head now and still be cool. Fat is still fat, though, can't get away with that unless your Bachman Turner Overdrive. 

If you're a rock-n-roller, you're not allowed to be fat. It's a law. No pot bellies, no love handles, no weird asses, no stretch jeans, no button-down wanna-be Hendrix faggy-ass shirts that cover up shit like a tent. 

Cordell is sleeping peacefully while the van drives, dreaming the dreams of the just-laid. The rest of us are lugging our blue balls to Illinois, just me and my enormous plums making a go of it. Just me and my elephantine sack pushing the envelope of bad taste. Sex is like a roulette game out here. Most of the time, you lose, every once in a while you win. When I say win, I mean not waking up with nickel-sized warts on your dick or your money gone, or finding out the whole DIO crew gang-banged her the night before.  I'm so scared that I wear a condom at all times, even when I'm sleeping. Got to be safe. Maybe I'll take another AIDS test, just for the sheer fun of letting some pimple-faced clerk have the power of life and death over me. You know what I mean, when they put you in that little anteroom and your test result is sitting on that little table with that flap of paper covering it and the five dollar-hour yokel is sitting there with that smug little grin knowing he's got you absolute attention for the thirty seconds it takes to pronounce your  sentence. Negative. Then you want to get out of there as fast as you can before they find a false-positive anything. Yeah, let's all pool our money and take another AIDS test 'cause they're so fun. 

So while Cordell's testes are busy manufacturing more sperm for him to spew, I'll sign off and wonder if I'll ever get laid again. If some girl will take me to her hotel and have candles burning and a full cooler of beers and little test tube Kamikazes and clean sheets and laughter and unknown hands and new things and fun and all the time in the world and the night will never end and I'll never have to go, I could stay here and drink and fuck and always be young and watch TV and eat chips and watch her put lipstick on and pose and dance for me and not be embarrassed, showers and towels and more laughter and more beer, the beer never ends until I pass out in a warm cloud of perfume and lust, time stands still in a Super-8 motel.