No, Ace doesn’t come clean about the SS uniforms. Believe me, I checked cover-to-cover. Showing a wee bit of humility and, even regret, I thought maybe he’d opine on running around in a Nazi outfit in front of the guys who hired him — guys who both lost relatives in the death camps. I’m disappointed but I’m not shocked.

Of course I felt distracted by other aspects of the Ace/KISS saga eagerly discussed by Paul Daniel Frehley, notably the proliferation of Pthirus pubis — the hopefully-not-in-your-household “common” crab louse — through the pubic regions of four greasepaint-smeared rock and roll hopefuls. One member of the band, you see—the guy with the tongue — wasn’t picky about who he jumped on after the show. One creepy-crawly leads to another and though this reporter’s peeped rockbooks with more truth, more fire, more self-abnegation, and/or more mental illness, I had not until now cracked one with lines the like of: “Every time I scratched my balls I’d wonder whether the little bloodsuckers had crept into my bed as well, leaving me infected simply because of proximity.”

…”Gene would just laugh. ‘Occupational hazard, boys. You’ll be fine.’”

What else do we learn about one of the most amazing lead guitarists in history? He admits “KISS Alive!” wasn’t live. He’s a great driver, but a “horrible drunk driver.” (Okay…) Don’t mess with his daughter Monique. You got a beef with him, take it to him and work it out inside or outside. But don’t look sideways at Monique. Oh, and Gene doesn’t have any friends. You knew it would circle back to Gene, now didn’t you?

File under: Lukewarm but lucid KISStory, and try to forget the Pthirus pubi.