RoL3: Dropping the Hatchet

I'll start today's post off with a sincere apology. I'm really sorry this blog has turned into All Rock of Love All The Time, but I can't help it. It's giving me a new lease on blogging. For a while I was a bit uninspired, but thanks to this beautiful disaster, I've gotten my groove back. And while I love making fun of Stank Ho Spears, Blohan and their ilk, I'm actually completely sick of their jackassery of late and prefer to focus on LOVE. What better way to achieve that vision than through RoL?

Before we begin, a related story. In the most surprising news of last week, gossipmongers have uncovered Brandi C.'s shocking porno past! I know, I couldn't believe it either. Check out the tantalizing teaser at the Pulitzer Prize-winning site Baby Got Boobs, which makes some pretty tall promises of its' two stars: "These two cock addicted [sic] whores got pounded really hard and in the end they both [sic] got their share of cum in their mouths and tits." (in more shocking news, that link is NSFW). Like, gross! But I guess it's good that Brandi isn't banking on being dialed into Bret's vast fortune and has something to fall back on (or onto, as it were). Sisters are doin' it for themselves! And everyone else!

Speaking of boobs, the great divide between the mean girls and the boring girls flourishes when Bret announces that they will be taking part in a four-team motocross race. The reasoning behind this is that Bret loves bikes and wants a chick who "can hang." Whatever. I say VH1 totally missed the opportunity to combine this challenge with last week's phone sex competition. They could have rigged up the helmets with little mikes and forced the girls to talk dirty to Bret while they drag race around a tretcherous dirt course. Come on, it's pure genius!

The skanks suit up and Magdalena pees herself when a helmet is pushed down on her head; she declares it the most embarrassing moment of her life. Aside from appearing on this show and competing for the love of Bret Michaels, of course. After a quick crash course (pun intended!) from two lesbians, everyone putters around the dirt path and it's obvious that some are going to fail this mission miserably. The race begins and, as usual, the wheel that talked the most shit (Hatchet Face) goes flat on the first lap. The others either fly around the course like junkie bats out of hell or casually putter about like they're on Jazzy mobility scooters at Disneyland or something. Then, finally, we have a serious accident when Dallas comically flies out of control and catapults off of the cycle, limbs flailing, and slams to the ground! Bret thinks she's dead; Hatchet Face giggles with glee. Foreshadowing! This bitch is seriously nuts, which we'll get to, and her wrath is ignited when her team loses. The four lucky winners—Sam, Magdalena, Rodeo and The Other Brandi—are rewarded with super-awesome Bret dates. The risk was worth it!

Back at the Whore House, the hags embark on an instigation bender, led by Dallas and Hatchet Face. See, Hatchet belongs to PETA (Pestering Everyone but Terroristic Anarchists) and takes offense to Dallas' fur love, however completely ignores any of the leather-n-fur fashion travesties that Bret commits on a daily basis, including the use of a shetland pony pelt on his head. But that doesn't matter right now because it's on! Dallas hilariously outfits herself in as much leather and (fake) fur skankwear as she can manage and parades around the house, while Hatchet puts on a PETA tee and gears up for one of the craziest displays of baiting I've seen since the third-grade playground. Hatchet creepily slithers around Dallas asking to see her cool leather clothes and voiceovers that she is trying to get Dallas to hit her. She corners Dallas on the stairs, which prompts Rodeo to fabulously closeline her and declare "I may be a Southern lady, but I manhandled that bitch." And I declare that the quote of the week! Try to use it in a sentence at some point tomorrow.

Date night starts up and Bret brings the romance by escourting the girls poolside and showing them a movie...about him. Later, he'll give the girls Poison CDs and maybe even let them give him a blow job. While Bret woos Sam and Magda, the idiocy inside Casa de Sífilis continues. Remember on Mork & Mindy when Jonathan Winters hatched out of an egg and was Mork and Mindy's giant baby? If I remember correctly, the explaination was that Orkians are born as full-grown adults who regress to infant-size seniors. Well, two eggs just hatched in the forms of Hatchet and Heather. These two continue their nogoodnik-ry back at the house by drawing mean pictures of the girls they don't like. The "Wall of Shame" includes depictions of Jes' sticky-out clavicle (spelled "clavical" by the brainiacs), and Brandi C. and Kristia as a two-headed, four-boobed slutasaurus. Wait, I thought these two were on the Mean Girls team? Did I miss something? And isn't this a blatant jab at Brandi's "handicap"? Why isn't anyone flying into a rage? So many questions that I really don't care about the answers to.

After a mind-expanding one-on-one between Bret and Kristia, it's elimination time. In a surprise twist, Kristia is eliminated! As the doctors congregate for high-risk Siamese twin separation surgery, Brandi C. simpers like a little girl that just accidentally let go of her balloon at the loss of her BFF. As fat tears drip down her cheeks on to her cum-soaked tits (they glow under blacklight!), Bret says that Hatchet's crazy is (surprise, surprise) a turn-on and Dallas is also given her walking papers. She responds with a two-gun flip-off salute—BAM! BAM!—and floats cooly out of the house. Bret bitches that he's pissed that she didn't thank him, and I'm not sure what he expects after she just jammed two middle fingers in his face. Hatchet Face, on the other hand, is positively giddy, and vows for the 716th time that she's going to continue "picking off these girls one by one until they're all gone." It then hits me that Hatchet is this season's New York. I sense a Hatchet dating show in our future. Maybe Flav can be one of the contestents.

RoL2: Don't need nothin' but the threat of a good time

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An Ode To Appetite

Warning: I'm going to really date myself with this one, but it must be done in order to convey the full impact one monumental slice of metal history had on teenage me, so much so that even my moniker is a tribute. When I was a punk-ass little seventh-grader with braces and a Joan Jett haircut, my whole cynical worldview was changed from that of feeling alone and angry at nothing in particular to that of a cynical worldview and feeling angry at everything, but trudging through the jungle alongside at least five other people. All it took was an echo-effect Gibson and the primal scream of a small-town white boy to get me even more pissed off, but with a sneer for knowing that I wasn't alone.

Today, we celebrate 20 years of Appetite for Destruction, arguably the greatest heavy metal album ever. Believe it or not, but exactly two decades ago on this very date, that wicked, wicked slice of vinyl brilliance entered the public domain. It was bloody, sexy, dirty, passionate, intense, brutal, and weirdly enough, sweet. It had the best beginning ("Welcome to the Jungle" screams) and ending ("Rocket Queen" reprise) on an album ever. Girls and guys alike both loved and feared Guns N' Roses. With that one album, my little small-town Midwesterner mind cultivated a vision of Hollywood as an exciting cesspool of booze- and vomit-soaked bars teeming with leather and teased blonde hair and pulsating with animalistic drum beats and wailing guitars. I knew I would get eaten alive there, an urchin living under the streets, but I would love it.

Normally, I hate it when writers build up album releases to life-changing events, but it's a little bit different when you're talking about something that occurred when you were 13. Everything is so monumental then, and you're vulnerable and under constant assessment from your peers and parents. You realize life isn't going to be playgrounds and toys and mud pies from now on. No matter how hard you try to forget, the things that happen to you at 13 will stay with you forever. For a kid at that age, the discovery of an album like Appetite can inspire them to get it all out...scream, yell, punch your pillow, play air guitar until you collapse. These guys had armadillos in their trousers and dared you to be afraid. Plus, your parents HATED IT and it's so much fun to piss them off.

This is also a record that stands the test of time. It's still shocking to hear the commands of an abusive Axl growling to the sister in a Sunday dress, "Turn around, bitch, I've got a use for you. Besides, you ain't got nothing better to do, and I'm bored." Booze and heroin aren't romanticized on tracks like "Night Train" and "Mr. Brownstone" and sex is thrown in your face with the gruesome insert art that graced the original cover and was banned in the US, and in songs like "Anything Goes" and "Rocket Queen" (which features the sounds of Axl actually fucking a stripper in the studio during the break). Then once you are sufficiently ready to kick some ass, the boys show you their vulnerable sides, seranading a girlfriend by comparing her hair to a warm, safe place for a child to hide in "Sweet Child O' Mine", and remembering good times with a lady love in "Think About You." You don't have to be mad all the time to be a rock god.

I hope this doesn't sound too much like something Chuck Klosterman would puke up, but Appetite continues to be one of my top five favorite albums of all time and I felt like being nice for once. Give it a listen over the weekend and see if you still feel the same way about it that you did when it came out. And be glad that the jungle of your teen years has given away to the paradise city of adult life. OK, that was really bad, but I just couldn't help myself. Must be all that night train...

The funniest picture ever

It's Nessie! In a Victorian tuxedo!

RoL1: Oh my god, look what the cat dragged in

Many disparaging things have been said about reality TV: it's dumbing down America, it's taking the place of real, actual shows with plots and actors, it's taking morons and making them superstars...big whoop. I totally admit I'm part of the problem. I love this shit! And I'm only slightly ashamed to say yet again that I have been eagerly awaiting what is sure to be the crown jewel of the reality TV dating genre, Rock of Love. I love Poison (one time I won a super-klassy Poison mirror from playing the balloon-dart game at the county fair), groupies and people who publicly embarrass themselves. And that is why I am going to marry VH1 for developing this beautiful, beautiful trainwreck. It's true; we're officially engaged! The premiere episode was more than I could have ever dreamed of, and I'd like to offer up a little synopsis for any of you who were unlucky enough to have missed it, because it will likely never, ever air again.

The first episode starts out with a tanned and Barbie-haired Bret Michaels lamenting that "rock and roll is the reason for and destruction of all of my relationships," and who among us can't relate to that? All this bad boy with a heart of gold wants is love, but day-glo mike stands, snakeskin nut-huggers and a toxic mist of Aqua Net stands between him and true happiness. Bret seeks a woman he can have sex with AND who will be his pal. How else to find such a lucky lass then by sending VH1 lackeys to the classiest of all strip joints and hairdressing schools America has to offer?

Bret shows up to briefly greet the bitches and we are treated to high-pitched screetching and devil horns rock hand gestures aplenty. Then—BAM!—right off the bat we are treated to the ritual humiliation of five girls who are chosen by Bret's "head of security" to pack their bags and get back on the bus. You know where you are? You're in the jungle, baby! You're gonna diiiie! However, one of these busted beauties will not take this abrupt elimination sitting down (or sober), which we'll get to in a few.

After Big John the Security Goon lays down the groundrules (No peeking at Bret hatless, don't touch the guitars, and absolutely, positively no puking in the Jacuzzi!), the ladies enter Bret's manly (fake) crash pad, a home that features everything covered within an inch of its' life with leopard print and chrome, plus an array of Bret's favorite things: motorcycles, guitars, and...surprise! A stripper pole! Ah, the design element that will separate the women from the girls. I didn't notice if the producers had remembered to install a Purell pump nearby, but I'm sure any self-respecting stripper carries anti-bac Wet-Naps in her little wheeled suitcase, so hopefully we'll be OK. In the meantime, the girls hit the bar to whoop it and get sufficiently shitfaced before meeting their knight in shining Lycra. It's a great chance for us to get to know the ho-bags that made the cut while in their natural habitat, including:
• Erin, better known as Miss Hooters of Illinois
• Not one, but TWO Brandis (both blonde and idiotic)
• Girls named Tawny, Raven and Dallas
• A chick who calls herself Rodeo and immediately falls for Bret (but is pretty much guaranteed a painful elimination, as she seems to be too close to Bret's age for comfort).

Besides being blown out and overprocessed, these ladies all have one thing in common: they want to scratch each others' eyes out to get to Bret Michaels. Oh, and boobs. They all have big, huge, fake boobs.

Speaking of boobs (literally and likewise), one of the Brandis and another Aryan named Kristia immediately decide that they are best friends, which we all know spells trouble in a big way. How long will it take for them to end their deep, meaningful, bros-before-hoes sisterhood because one gets to go headband shopping with Bret and the other doesn't? It also doesn't help that these two have the combined IQ of a dead ant. When Kristia says "If we put our boobs together, we can think better," you can practically hear the frantic scribble of pens in the VH1 exec boardrooms as they sign off on Seasons 2 and 3, which should take us all the way through to Summer '08.

Now, about that girl that refused to simply accept her looks-based elimination and slink back home to relative obscurity...she comes storming back and starts pounding on the door, demanding to be let back in. Of course, she is. She looks like the spawn of Pia Zadora and Jerri Blank and acts accordingly, getting smashed, telling off everyone in her path, slurring out garbled bon mots, and pogoing on Bret's lap like Perv Tigger on a meth binge. I read on the official Rock of Love webpage that this chick Tiffany is a nurse. She also lists her talent as "can bounce her boobs." Exactly what kind of nurse is she? "I came to help restore your pluck, 'cause I'm the nurse who likes to..." Which means she's not getting voted off for a good five eps.

One last memorable scene that I have to mention involves the aforementioned Brandi luring Bret's attention by squeezing into a pink bikini, sitting on his lap and suggesting they move to Utah so they can live life as polygamists. OK, so she doesn't actually say that, but she does attempt to seduce him by informing him that he can have all the girlfriends he wants, as long as she is the "main one." Bret immediately envisions a Hefner-esque lifestyle and of course, Miss Brandi is granted a backstage pass to the next episode. In a "surprise" twist, Tiffany also makes the cut because either Bret didn't get a chance to really talk to her because she was so trashed or because the suits smelled gold in them thar hills. Either way, the previews revealed that there's more fun on the way with these two, and promised loads of super-sexxxy hot tub rondezvous, lesbo action and hair-pulling catfights. In other words, it's going to be VH1's highest-rated show ever, I guarantee it.

Don't you just love America??

A lower level of consciousness

So I got another piece of hate mail! I'm so excited! Actually, it's less hate mail and more "You're wrong and you're an idiot and here's why" mail. The best part is that it is in regards to my snarky assessment of DNA activation from way back in March. I knew that would get the new-agers riled up! For people that are allegedly so enlightened and connected with the universe, they sure are testy.

I actually received this a while ago and posted it right away (as double-dog dared by the author), but didn't really get around to commenting on it until now. I had originally planned to reply to each of "Jake's" points with the appropriate spelling corrections, wry assessment, and basic scientific theory, but decided instead to just post it for all to enjoy and to draw your own conclusions. Here it is in its entirety (note: I added line breaks for easier reading 'cause I love you):

It is ammusing but also sad to see how disconnected to the true reality we live in most people are. Their is much information now out on DNA activation, higher dimensional and sensory awareness, and higher vibrational states.

Take the wave length of infrared, x-ray or gamma ray for instance: these exist in higher frequency, science tells us they do exist, yet we can not see them. Do you ever stop to wonder WHY we do not see them? Have you not considered that our perceptions are restricted to 3 dimensions of awareness because we only have 2.5 - 3.5 strands of the corresponding DNA strands active at present? Or have you just accepted that we can not see these things because we can not see them? If this is indeed the case, and we are restricted to this level of awareness, then it is understandable why there would be such sceptisism yet that does not mean we can not grasp the concept and look into it further.

Take a look around with even one of your eyes and you will see how much bullshit there is in the world. And people accept it, because they are not aware of anything greater. If you opened up to and set your intent to receiving higher dimensional awareness, you would then give yourself the chance to realise something else and gain an outline of what is really going on with our planet right now.

You would then also start to understand and have the deepest respect for people like Toby Alexander, the modern day heros who despite the ignorant criticisms, stand strong and do the work that they are here for. Only a fool comments on someting they know nothing about. I would challenge you to leave this feedback so other readers have something else to consider.
With love and respect. Jake

It's tempting for me to accuse "Jake" of actually being Fake Doctor Toby Alexander himself, especially considering they very suspiciously spell "sceptic" the same way. But that's catty and I want this guy to know that I'm honestly touched that he took the time to tell me off. And I thought you all would like to read what he had to say, in case you missed the original posting of this note in the comments section. What can I say? My aura's tarnished and I totally deserve it!

BREAKING: Mayhem's US Tour Canceled—Rock Trauma Blamed!

Bad news, Bears. There will be no Mayhem on US soil this summer! Disappointed? Wait until you hear the reason; it might be the most metal thing I've ever heard. Drummer Hellhammer (real name: Jan Axel von Blomberg) lived up to his name at Italy's Gods of Metal Fest when he went so hardcore ape shit on the skins that he actually broke his fucking arm!!!! Not only that, but he wasn't even playing with Mayhem. Turns out this guy is literally in like 18 other bands. Hellhammer: God of Metal. I'm sorry that this awesomeness didn't happen here because as a surprise to all five of you I had invited a pal much braver than I who had planned to attend the New York show to guest blog a full first-hand report on the havoc.

An official statement was released by the band that included this message: "The power of MAYHEM must come at full force and without Hellhammer, it is impossible for us to accomplish this feat. We deeply regret having to cancel the tour but we feel that there truly was no other option. We shall however return stronger than ever to deconsecrate your shores as soon as humanly possible!" You better, assholes! Here's wishing Hellhammer a speedy recovery so we can hear some good stories. It's all about us! I'm inclined to demand he suck it up; if the drummer from Def Leppard can do it, surely this guy can. But then again, I'm guessing playing "Impious Devious Leper Lord" isn't quite the same as playing "Let's Get Rocked."