I knew this guy who drove rock n’ roll tour busses for a living. He’d been driving for decades, and man did he ever have some stories. He’d toured with all sorts of huge bands throughout the years and he’d seen just about everything that went on in those busses. In fact, he participated in much of the debauchery. He was what you’d call a road dog, a lifer.
He claimed to be completely sober by the point I met him, but that seemed pretty unlikely. He took a very keen interest in who among the touring group was partying, or rather who was “holding out” on him. He mistakenly pegged one chronic insomniac in our crew, whom he referred to as “old owl eyes,” as a coke-head. He’d inspect the tables for residue the next morning, muttering “that old fuckin’ owl eyes, I know he’s holding out on me.” I never saw the Bus Driver actually indulge in any drink or drug, but that’s pretty much all he ever talked about (other than complaints about what a bunch of ungrateful slobs lived on his bus).
One night, as we waited for the last stragglers to board the bus for an all-night haul, we found the Bus Driver in a particularly good mood. Some of us had had a few drinks already and, as usual, planned to carry on our revelry in the back lounge after departure. “You guys think you know how to party,” said the driver. “You don’t know shit about partying.” “Oh, really,” I said, “and how do you party, Mr. Bus Driver?” “Well, son,” he said, “let me tell you how I party.”
“When I party,” he said, “I just need four things: a hotel room, an ice-cold fifth of Stoli, a giant bag of coke, and a chick. The chick doesn’t have to be all that hot, but she has to be into it. I take the chick back to the hotel after the gig, and then every twenty minutes I drink three fingers of Stoli and snort a gram of coke in each nostril. BAM! I keep that going until the bottle is gone. What I’m trying to do is to make my fucking heart explode. I’m sayin’ ‘come on, heart, you fuckin’ worn out piece of shit, show me what you got – what’s it gonna take to make you fuckin’ explode right inside my chest?!? I swear I’ve gotten close – the fucking thing is just fuckin’ pounding, like, a thousand beats per. That is when it gets so fuckin’ awesome!”
“Then, once the bottle’s gone, I snort the rest of the coke and I fuck the shit out of the girl. I don’t care who she is, groupie, whatever. I fuck her for, like, two hours straight. If she’s hot, I fuck her with the lights on, face-to-face. If she’s ugly I just fuckin’ turn her around and fuckin’ dog her. Then, after I fuck her, you know what I do? I have a cuddle.” “Huh?” “A cuddle…I cuddle the girl and go to sleep cuddling, holding her tight. That’s the best part. And that’s how you fuckin’ party.”