I’d light a cigarette, put some dip in my mouth, and while lying in bed, make phone calls to Los Angeles. I’d get ready for that day’s gig, as well as advancing the next gig, and I’d order breakfast from room service.Earl would come in to watch TV. Then Robert would come in to watch TV. So I’d figure, What the hell? I’ll watch TV, too. Then Steve, the buff chiropractor, would come in to tell us he’s going to the gym. Bastard. I’d put out my cigarette, thinking I would quit and get healthy.But the phone would ring, and I’d learn something was wrong with, say, the dressing room at the venue for that night. I’d light another cigarette, fix the problem, and move on.Around noon, Axl would wander in with a menu—he’s hungry. He’d tell me what he wants. I’d order his breakfast, and I get a little something for myself. My second breakfast. Then we’d all sit around and talk about crap—some personal stuff, something about the show last night, and why we’re all stuck in this hotel.The food would arrive, and about 90 percent of the time the waiter noticed Axl sitting on the bed and asked for his autograph.
