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Authors: Craig Duswalt

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Rich & Famous

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BOOK: Welcome to My Jungle
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But he agreed. And about thirty minutes later he came to my hotel door, and handed me the Queen CD. I handed him $120 and an autographed picture of Guns N’ Roses.

He was happy, and I was happy, and very thankful.

I played the song for Natasha, and you can probably guess what happened next in our dimly lit hotel room.

WAITER WANTS AXL’S AUTOGRAPH

Just like in airports, the hotel staff got very excited when Guns N’ Roses arrived. John Reese, our tour manager, or Bill Greer, the head of the GNR security team, would always wait for the band’s arrival at a hotel. When we arrived, John or Bill handed me my key and Axl’s key, and we would head straight into the elevator and right into our rooms.

If we waited or stalled for even one second in the lobby a crowd would form around Axl (and the rest of the band for that matter) in seconds.

I would open Axl’s door, and while he got settled I made sure everything in the room was in order—checking to see if his favorite food and drinks were stocked in the refrigerator, and checking to see if there were any crazy fans hiding in closets, showers, or under the bed.

When everything checked out I went next door and opened my door, and got ready for the upcoming show. Our luggage would arrive within the hour, delivered straight to our doors. Within the next few hours Axl would come into my room and we would order room service.

Sometimes he’d hang and wait for it in my room, and we’d just talk and/or watch television. Other times he’d head back into his room and I’d call him when the food arrived. We usually ate together, along with Robert, Earl, and sometimes, Steve.

On this particular day, somewhere in Europe (sorry I forget—it might have been Italy), Axl ordered and went back to his room. He wasn’t in a good mood because his throat was bothering him and he had a show that night.

About forty-five minutes later our food arrived, rolled into my room by a very nice room service waiter dressed in a sharp black tuxedo. We usually stayed in five-star hotels, and the hotel staff was always dressed to the nines.

The waiter told me that he was a huge fan of Guns N’ Roses. By my estimate he looked about fifty-five years old, so I found it weird that he was a huge fan, but who was I to judge? He asked me if the food was for Axl Rose. I said it was. He got all giddy.

Picture a fifty-five-year-old man getting giddy. It ain’t pretty.

“Can I get Axl’s autograph?” asked the waiter.

I said to him, “Today really isn’t a good day.”

His giddiness left his body.

To save the waiter from bursting out in tears, I added, “But let me ask him after the show tonight for you. What’s your name?”

I wrote his name on my pad of paper.

I personally don’t understand the importance of getting an autograph from a celebrity. I’ve met thousands of famous people in my life and have asked for an autograph only once. And I didn’t even ask her in person.

In my late teens I went to see Olivia Newton-John in concert with my childhood buddy Steve Dantzig. We were in about the tenth row, center stage. I loved Olivia Newton-John.

So the day of the concert I did the dweebiest thing I have ever done—I wrote her a letter and bought her a single rose. My plan was to walk up to her, while she was onstage. She would read my letter while singing one of her songs, and she would stop the concert, lean over, give me a peck on the cheek and autograph my Olivia Newton-John program.

We all know that never happened, so I just tossed my letter and rose onstage near her feet. I am positive now, from touring with bands for over ten years, that that letter never made it to her dressing room.

After the show I thought to myself,
What was I doing?
It had felt so weird that I decided to never ask for another autograph again.

I have nothing against people that do it, but it’s just not me. I guess that’s why I fit in with Air Supply and Guns N’ Roses so well. I just treated them like regular people.

THAT IS WHAT ROCK STARS WANT. To be treated like regular people.

Asking for an autograph is just awkward. It’s pretty much a no-win situation for the person asking for the autograph because the celebrity often thinks,
Oh, I gotta sign more stuff
. Many of them hate it. They love that they have fans, but many celebrities hate signing autographs after a while.

The room service waiter had an idea. “Maybe I can knock on his door and ask him right now?”

I wasn’t sure if the waiter either ignored what I just said, or if he didn’t speak English very well.

“Did you just hear what I said? Again, today really isn’t a good day. He’s tired and just wants to be left alone.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Good, we’re on the same page. I promise, if you don’t ask him now, I will get you an autograph tonight after the show.”

I figured that the worst-case scenario would be that Axl wouldn’t want to sign anything after the show, but that I could sign one of Axl’s 8 × 10s myself if I had to. I had done it many times before.

“Okay, you promise?” pleaded the waiter.

“I promise.”

And with that Axl walked into my room.

As if I didn’t exist, the waiter walked right into Axl’s face, took out the room service bill, turned it over, and asked Axl for his autograph.

“Dude, are you serious?” I yelled.

The waiter ignored me.

“Axl, I just told him that I would get him an autograph later tonight.”

So Axl grabbed a handful of fries, and I took the waiter by the arm and tried to escort him out of the room.

But this guy wasn’t going down without a fight.

He squirmed out of my grip and went right back in Axl’s face.

He was so rude about it that I was shocked that Axl didn’t pop him in the face right there. But Axl just remained calm and ate his French fries.

I grabbed the waiter around the waist and hoisted him up in the air. He screamed, “Axl, just one autograph, please, I love you!” as I tossed him out of my room, and slammed the door.

Axl and I then sat down to eat as if nothing just happened.

Except I think Axl said something like, “That was weird.”

And then we watched television.

About ten minutes later, there was a knock at my door. Axl and I were still eating dinner.

I yelled, “Who is it?”

No answer.

I thought to myself that there was no way the guy would come back.

I looked through the peephole, and it was him.

“Are you serious?” I said through the door.

No answer.

“Dude, I can see you through the peephole, I know it’s you.”

“Please, sir, can I have Axl’s autograph?”

Axl and I just started cracking up.

“I gotta say, the guy is persistent,” I added.

The best thing about touring with a band like Guns N’ Roses is that nearly all situations can be handled in less than ten seconds.

I got on my walkie-talkie, and I called for security to remove the guy standing at my door.

Within four seconds Axl and I heard the waiter screaming, “Let me go. What are you doing? Put me down. Owwww!”

Axl and I continued to enjoy our dinner.

I did not give him an autographed picture after the show.

THE $5,000 PHONE CALL

Cell phones were just hitting the market in the early 90s. Unfortunately, many of us did not have one while on tour, including me. So, believe it or not, we actually used hotel room phones to make phone calls. These days phones are more like decorations in hotels rooms, but back then, although very expensive, that was how you made calls. When we were overseas, calling from a hotel room was way too expensive. So we had to be creative when calling our girlfriends in the States.

Most of the time, during or after a show, I went into the production trailer and used the phones in there. The promoters usually paid for those expenses. But sometimes I wanted to talk to my sweetie from my hotel room. One night in Germany, I got screwed with my hotel room. It wasn’t ready yet, even though it was way past checkin time.

The hotel gave me a temporary room for three hours, and they said that I could use the phone in that room for free because of my inconvenience. I took full advantage of the situation and spoke to Natasha for three hours straight.

When we checked out two days later I received my hotel bill, and much to my surprise there was a charge on it for about $5,000. Yes, $5,000 for one phone call. The fees had fees, and the up charges had up charges.

Luckily, again, I was great at negotiating, because after a few hours of begging and pleading (and maybe even shedding a tear), I got them down to $50, plus some autographed pictures.

CHILI & CHEESE

Ninety-nine percent of the time we ordered room service for breakfast and lunch. Dinner would either be at the show, or at a place like Denny’s after the show at about three in the morning. Unfortunately, room service was very expensive because we usually stayed in nice hotels, but we received $50-a-day per diem to cover costs like that. I wish I would have saved that money, but it was hard for me to get out of the hotel to hit the local McDonald’s to save a few bucks.

Buenos Aires, Argentina.

About 80,000 people were at the concert about fifteen minutes from the hotel. Earl, Robert, Steve, and I were still at the hotel waiting for Axl to get ready, and everyone else was at the gig.

Axl was a little hungry, so he came into my room and asked me to order him a quick dinner. That stressed me out a little because we should’ve been leaving right about then, but now we had to wait for room service.

Axl and I often talked about life, about world issues, about our girlfriends. But we rarely talked about the upcoming show, or what time we would have to leave to get there on time. I always had to “squeeze” that into the conversation … “Yeah, I agree, Axl. That sucks. Oh, by the way, we have to leave at eight o’clock tonight because there’s an early curfew.”

He would just go on with the conversation as if I hadn’t spoken. But I knew he heard me. We performed this little routine for more than two years. And most of the time he would leave within an hour of the time we needed to leave, and because of the “buffer” we were good.

But on this night we were pushing the envelope a little.

“Can you order me some chili and cheese?”

I said, “Sure.”

I grabbed the menu and looked for something that resembled chili and cheese.

Nothing.

I don’t even think a hotel in America would serve chili and cheese, so I thought that this ain’t gonna be easy in South America.

I called room service, and I ordered chili and cheese. Of course, their main language is Spanish, but they do speak English as well. But just to be safe, because it wasn’t on the menu, I described exactly what chili and cheese was.

“Chili and cheese.”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

“And we need it fast, because we have to get to a show. It’s for Axl Rose.”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

“Do you understand chili and cheese?”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

“Are you sure? It sounds like you might be confused.”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

As I hung up I knew this wasn’t going to go well. I had that feeling.

I turned to Earl. “He was just ‘yessing’ me. We’re screwed.”

Earl just smiled. His job was to protect Axl, and he knew he wouldn’t get any crap if we were late. It was all on my ass.

Thirty minutes later, nothing.

Forty-five minutes, nothing.

Doug called me on the walkie-talkie, which although he was fifteen minutes away, was coming in clear as a bell.

“Deuce.”

My nickname was “Deuce” because I used to be a very good tennis player. I got the name while touring with Air Supply because I always kicked everyone’s ass in tennis. Doug and I toured together with Air Supply, so he still called me that.

“Go, Doug.”

“How close are you?”

Earl just smiled.

“Uh, we’re still waiting for room service.”

Silence. We were supposed to be there about an hour ago.

“Should be here any minute,” I continued.

“What did he order?”

“Chili and cheese. He just wanted a quick bite.”

“Have him eat it in the limo.”

“Got it.”

I looked at Earl, “You want to tell him to eat it in the limo?” Earl just smiled.

“That’s what I figured.” I picked up the hotel phone and dialed room service.

“I ordered chili and cheese almost an hour ago, and I needed it fast. Is it coming?”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

“Okay, say ‘Yes, Mr. Duswalt’ one more time. I dare you.”

“Yes, Mr. Duswalt.”

Well that didn’t work.

I hung up and told Earl I was going to the hotel kitchen.

And with that, there was a knock on my door.

“Finally.”

I opened the door and there he was, my knight in shining armor. I had never been more happy to see a room service waiter.

I motioned for him to come in and to put the tray on the edge of the bed. He did. And as all room service waiters do, he lifted the metal lid off the dinner plate to reveal the chef’s creation. And there it was, in all its glory.

Chili and cheese.

I just stared at it. Earl just stared at it. We both turned to the waiter who had a big smile on his face.

He proudly exclaimed, “Chili and cheese.”

And there on the plate was exactly what I ordered, chili and cheese. Yes, a block of cheddar cheese surrounded by six whole red-hot chili peppers.

I immediately felt like screaming at the waiter, but he was just the messenger, and it wasn’t his fault. I tried to explain to him that this wasn’t chili and cheese, and he disagreed.

He pointed to the whole chilies and said, “Chili.”

Then he pointed to the block of cheddar cheese and said, “Cheese.”

“Chili and cheese.”

How do you argue with that?

So I went into what would become my patented RockStar training survival mode.

I thanked the waiter, signed the bill, and escorted him out of the room because I didn’t want him to see what was going to take place next. Plus, I didn’t want him to be in harm’s way.

BOOK: Welcome to My Jungle
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