The inconsistent, contradictory ramblings of Scarlett the Harlot

Dear Brett,

Surprised to hear from me again? Don't be. 

I hold you personally responsible for this:

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Thanks, ass.

Love,

Scarlett

Dear Bret,

I remember you! You're the guy from Poison with the pretty-pretty hair who looked like that hot guy from Skid Row's poutier, slightly-less-attractive cousin!



How you doin', man? 



Oh.

But hey, I love how you're still rockin' the bandana. Although, to be honest, it looks like you're using it more to hide your hair extensions than to tame the wild locks of old. But don't worry. That pouty guy from Skid Row's face got all puffy, so you're even. So to speak.

Now I'll bet you're wondering why I'm writing this letter. I mean, we're not really pen-pals and to be Frank, you're not really my favorite. I was always more of a Mötley Crüe girl. Of course, even then, I'd've traded both of you in for Guns 'n Roses pre-Insane-Axl so there you go. No, sadly this isn't a gushy fan letter. I figure you get enough of those.

This, good sir, is an intervention. You have fucked with the image of the majesty that is (or can be) metal and you must be stopped. I tried to say something when Ozzie did it, but frankly I'm afraid of Sharon.

Have you no self respect? Have you completely lost what sense (and talent) God gave you? Have you really sunk so low that you have to rely on reality tv ratings? Come on man. You were/are the front man of one of the biggest hair-metal bands in music history. You were that pretty man-boy from Poison, for Christ's sake!

Now look at you.

You're stuck with a confessional camera, fish-lips, and a tattoo of the VH1 logo on your balls.

I didn't say anything during Rock of Love Pt. 1. I bit my tongue during Season 2 because it made for a good trainwreck and you chose that cool chick with the hot pink bangs (that was Season 2, right?) so I figured you had at least one brain cell left. 

I rolled my eyes when you called for your insulin. I grunted when you called it "dia-beeee-dus", I mean, come on, what are you--Wilfred fucking Brimley? I threw things at the tv when you let Lacey talk and I let it go when you let the girls gyrate all over you, cause come on. You're a lead singer. Duh, you like the groupies.

But enough. Enough. Enough. 

Last night I watched the season premiere of Rock of Love Bus. On the time when it actually premiered.

I'll grant you, I only did it because I left the remote in the kitchen when I went to get my cold pop-tarts and I was on the couch and I was too lazy to get up and manually change the channel. Besides, I figured it was good for an hour-and-a-half of trainwreck televison.

But that, sir, was beyond trainwreck. That was some airplane-in-a-wheat-field shit right there.



Why, Bret? Why do you have to do this to yourself?

You're a smart guy. You're even talented. You know how to write songs and you've got a record deal, and you're an actual, honest-to-God touring musician. You don't need this shit, man. I'll argue you're even better than this shit, though don't expect me to do it with a straight face.

I mean, okay, I get it. Arguably this is every male fantasy come to life--twenty women falling all over themselves in a closed space to be with you. But you're Bret Michaels man. You don't need reality television to make that happen. Have your Big Butler guy put an add on craigslist--you'll get the same kind of response.

I just don't get it. An infant would get the premise of the show (the Bachelor meets Whiskey A-Go-Go), I'll give you that. But you've been doing this show for two seasons already. If you haven't found your "Rock of Love" yet, you're not going to unless you change your criteria. As of right this second, it appears that either you or the producers choose the twenty trashiest women they can get their hands on (or twelve trashy women and eight okay ones) and put them all in the same room. These women run the gamot of jobs, some are nurses, some personal shoppers, some strippers, some porn stars, some Penthouse Pets, some run escort services, they have to be smart to run businesses after all.

But did you have to make them so... shiny? These girls are cinched, plucked, waxed, pulled, tucked, pierced (not that there's anything wrong with that), extensioned, bleached, inflated and sucked within an inch of their lives. A few actually look like men.

And good lord, the boobs! I have not seen boobs that big outside of a Bush Whitehouse in my life.

You know Bret, it really makes me wonder if your quest is taking you to find a girlfriend or a Cheif Groupie. I mean, if the premise of the show is to be believed, you really are looking for your one and only. If this is the case, then awesome. If the opposite is true and you've just reduced yourself to whorring out to reality television, well then...

If you're interested (and i don't think you are) Ariel Levy wrote an amazing book titled Female Chauvenist Pigs: Women and the Rise of the Raunch Culture. Normally, I wouldn't bring it up. But as I was watching the season premiere last night, I found myself quoting whole passages like a tween-fangirl at a Cullen siting. Basically, the book posits that our culture encourages women to objectify themselves by constantly bombarding them with a Girls Gone Wild-style media frenzy.

Not until last night, when I saw the reaction shots of the other contestants because one of your "potential girlfriends" gave a test tube body shot by way of her vajooter did I really understand exactly what Ariel Levy was talking about.

I don't care if you've never seen anything like that in 22 years of touring. You encourage it by the very nature of your show.

You sir, are a part of the problem.

Which brings us to the crux of the problem. The mystic of rock 'n roll is in the stories. Stories of drunken debauchery and weird-sex-things pepper rock and really it's part of what makes it so cool. The occassional youtube video (or, in the case of the Go-Go's) sex tape, just adds to the mystery. But, by making it a reality show, you're killing it. No more can we romanticize and imagine. No, see, now all we have to do is tune in once a week and we get to see some collogen-injected Barbie doll suck vodka straight out of another collogen-injected Barbie doll's navel, and there's you with a camera to the Glory Hole.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Brett is the thing that makes Rock Stars sexy is the mystery. That heir of Too-Cool-For-You that permeats everything from the Aqua Net to the leather pants. And the best ones, the ones that don't just proclaim to be just about the music but the ones that actually are about the music, are above all this shit.

You've lowered your standards and we can smell it. Reality TV Star is who you are now, and you've got to remember what happens to Reality TV Stars. We're not smirking together at a shared joke anymore, Brett. Now the joke is you.

Stop while you still can,
Scarlett