DANCING WITH MR. D (-O-G)
The flesh-eating, guitar gouging, talking walking wolfman (Ted Nugent to you).
When it came to Ted Nugent, there was a first time for every one of us CREEM writers. And this was mine. It dates from a time before everything he said might as well have had a copyright symbol by it, it was so predictable.
He was still fleshing out his persona, and there was room in there for a writer to get in and show what a strange duck he could be. Also, he didn’t automatically distrust music writers. You did have to watch it, though, or Ted would totally take over the conversation. In that sense, it was good training. Send all the young writers to Ted.
The phone jangled and I jumped a foot in the St. Paul Holiday Inn. Horrible, holes in the carpet...rotten hungover weekend and what am I doing a story on a Sunday for? Thanks to a fall taken at a fun party Saturday night I had bruises and welts going up and down my left side. A BMP—bad mutha fucka, Ted would have rated that party. I was smoothing some Noxzema on the wretched arm when the telephone made sport of what was left of my nerves.