90 Minutes with Gene Simmons Made Me a Member of the KISS Army for Life
As it was, however, in my fanciful attempt at getting myself organized, I had, among other errors, set the call to speakerphone, something I was afraid to rectify in case I accidentally hung up altogether. So Gene Simmons’ voice was booming like God’s, bouncing off the white walls and hardwood floor, reverberating around the enormous conference room where I sat in a white vinyl chair at the enormous white round table (where a single person was always an aberration of its symmetry), and the sun was steadily rising at the windows, filling the room with horrible, horrible light and I felt as though I were inside a giant microwave, being roasted, being roasted by Gene Simmons; and the disembodied, booming voice carried up through the atrium drew curious people from upstairs in the office who came to gawk quizzically at me, caged animal, through the glass, making Who the fuck are you talking to? gestures while I gestured back with wide eyes, shaking my head: I have no idea what is happening!
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A lenghty piece in which I attempt to explain how I came to love KISS is now up on the Awl. It also got a link in the New York Times.
