The last time that I saw Dee Snider was during breakfast at the Hard Rock Hotel in Orlando. While I was forced to make small talk with some Backstreet Boy (don’t ask me which one), Dee discussed high finance with my wife, who is a bank vice-president. Lacking Dee’s usual makeup and rampant abuse of the English language, breakfast was a less-than-surreal affair. I spent most of the time asking Lance or Kirk or Brad or whatever his name was, why he was wearing fake tattoo sleeves, instead of getting the real thing. He finally got tired of my badgering and left me to enjoy my coffee, while Dee went off to cook omelets or something.
