by Regis Boff
If you really want to understand why socialism never works it might be constructive to rehear Rock’s most legendary gonorrhea story. It is a tale of pestilence, deception, unbridled sexual sharing, and seductive people refusing to suffer alone.
The story begins ( as they all do) with a rock star drummer ringing me up early one “off” morning, half way through a very long American tour. He told me that it was time for me to make some calls to generate the most trusted medical mind in this country to stop the grotesquely unrelenting stinging in his genitals.”
This was not the only kind of thing I did on tour, but it was expected of me that I do it. So I got the best doctor I could find in Chicago and with a little cash and tickets, as inducement, got him to rush to the hotel to do the necessary blood tests. Test results in hand, I later showed up at his suite door with the news that he had contracted a nasty little Vietnamese variant of everybody’s least favorite infection, gonorrhea. He took the news like a true rock legend, opening a bottle of something, and with my encouragement began trying to reassemble a flow chart pinpointing which girl might have been the carrier of his misfortune. It is not uncommon for famous people to lose track of who they sleep with, even on one given night. It is, likewise, not infrequent for girls to work their way up through the forty or fifty odd crew members that daily put together these mammoth shows only to meet the band. Now multiply that by maybe thirty shows in thirty cities and, well, you can imagine virulent quotients.
So there I was sitting on the bed with the doctor on the phone when said artist conspiratorially sidles up to me, puts his arm over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Realize, Regis, this is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Those few words began one of the funniest days in my life and rock and roll history as he and I traced together a latticework of sexual activity that was truly breathtaking. He would think of a girl, then he would associate some member of the crew or the staff, or our lawyers, promoters and eventually even the other members of the band to her. By evening’s end, we (I), had called everyone with the bad news and told them all to show up in a particular room the next morning for their shots. Nobody was uninfected.
I called our doctor at home later that night and asked him if I should send a limo to help him cart all the needles and penicillin over to the hotel.
The suite filled right on time with the most miserable looking men you might have ever seen. There is a special fear that comes with shots and venereal disease. I knew that this rock star had lied about some of the connections, and a better man might have tried to wring some honesty from him, but he was still paralytic from the night before, so I figured, the Hell with it. I just could not hold onto this doctor for a lengthy cross-examination of a drunk.
The doctor had his best day ever as I paid him a lot to keep quiet. The bill itself was in the thousands. There was a picture taken with everyone, including the doctor, looking like a baseball team who had just lost the World Series, but it has been lost unless somebody who reads this might have it.
So, back to Socialism. You see, sharing never really works because somebody always wants more, and even if you did manage to share equally you would still get the clap.