During my week of eternal boredom, my roommate was in Cancun doing production work for the reality show “Rock of Love”. She said Bret Michaels is really nice, and on her last night there she was doing shots of crazy expensive tequila with him and ended up with her first hangover ever.
Oh my God that sounds so fun. I want to be in Cancun doing shots of Tequila with a Glam Rockstar from the eighties! Even though I never liked heavy metal during the hair band era, it still cracked me up, and I could always appreciate the novelty. Even at the height of the headbanger’s ball era, when I was listening to Wham! and Duran Duran and wanted nothing to do with that genre, I could appreciate how much the heavy metallers at my high school could throw themselves into that world, with their ripped up jeans and fringed moccasin boots, standing just off school grounds so they could smoke their cigarettes and posture like they were holding something in between their arms and their ribs.
They’d talk about how the shit is going down this weekend, or the shit went down last night. As a group they were far more dramatic than anyone else I knew in all of my teenage years, yearning toward a misconstrued and tragically romanticized perception of adulthood. I could never take them or their music or their dress code seriously, but one night I ended up with about 20 of them, and I don’t know how all these people found each other. My friend’ sister and her friends were very hair band metal, and they had some great big heads hairdos, and we all rode in a caravan to this park for no particular reason other than to stand around and be metal. My front pocket was full of cigarettes I was carrying sans box for somebody, and I kept taking cigarettes out and lighting them even though I didn’t smoke. I was honest to God having a blast, in that van tearing down the highway in the late eighties and blasting Def Leppard, on our way to that park where we would, I don’t know, hang out, and maybe some shit would go down.