[Music-ish] For those of you that have so viciously killed your televisions, you may not be aware of VH1's Rock of Love. I have a theory that there is this island called Skanktopia, and that is where all the reality show hussies with one too many I’s or E’s in their names are patiently awaiting the day until they are plucked to drunkenly stumble around in front of millions of viewers in order to vie for the affection of someone. Anyone. Well, on Rock of Love, this someone is the bandana’d bandit, Bret Michaels, leader of hair metal band Poison.
The reality television show is one of few such programs to make me laugh with genuine hysteria. The best part about the show, is the perhaps unintentional humor. I can’t figure out if these people are real human beings, or if they were placed on this planet merely to amuse us obsessive TV viewers. I don’t have to hide out in my room shamefully watching it in the dark either! There are others that follow it every week and we either watch it together or discuss it the following day.
So when I heard that Bret Michaels was coming to Utah in all of his guy-linered glory to support his Rock of Love tour, it was on, as Jessica from the show would say, "like Donkey Kong." Also, I wanted to go and just see who genuinely wanted a piece of Bret.
Now where could we house such an amazing spectacle? Club 90 in Sandy of course! Hey-O! It’s just too bad that all of my tassled jackets and bandanas were in storage and my hair was too short to tease. No worries, I headed out there on Sunday, April 13, and prepared myself for some serious butt-rock.
There was a slight scheduling conflict. See, this was the season finale of Rock of Love, and Bret was to be playing on stage when the climatic episode aired. Fortunately, Club 90 had about 10 different sets airing Rock of Love when I walked in.
Club 90 is massive. At first when the television commercial I saw noting that this tour was coming threatened in a deep masculine voice that “THIS SHOW WILL SELL OUT” I laughed a bit. I stopped laughing when we arrived. There was one parking spot left in the very back, and everyone was at this show.
The people working the door, my adorable sweet waitress, and the bar staff there are to be commended. They were so nice and accommodating that this alone made my night. The concert goers had tunnel vision. They were there for Bret and nothing it seemed would stand in their way of viewing him on stage. I asked one gentleman if I could borrow his bar stool for a moment for some quick photos and he quickly obliged. He either didn’t hear me or just wanted to get me in trouble with Bret’s skank army, because before I knew it I was being glowered at by a girl who bruskly informed me that was Her Chair. I smiled and apologized, but the only thing I got in return was her pushing it under the table and dancing in front of it. Some people’s parents do not teach their kids to share, and I was not about to be the one to explain it to her so inched away.
Bret came onstage before a shoulder-sitting, lighter-holding, girly-screaming crowd absolutely wild for him. He gave us some “Sweet Home Alabama,” since it was the first CD he “borrowed” from Sears, “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door," "Look at What The Cat Dragged In," the ever so serenadeable “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” and a little “Somethin’ To Believe In.”
Rock of Love was airing throughout Bret's set, and it was imperative for me to know who he picked at the end of the show. I moved into the pool room and listened to him rock out. The show wrapped as he finished his set (SPOILER ALERT: Ew, he picked Ambre. I would have lost a bet on this one). I wandered back into the main room hoping I might bask in Bret's presence and, maybe, snag a leg-humping photo op. Alas, he was nowhere to be found.
I did, however, spot something akin to a Yeti, though I was unable to get a photo: Bodyguard Big John. These boobs weren’t made for talkin’, so I silently squealed and made my way into the parking lot, knowing that when I go to bed tonight I can do so with visions of Bret and Big John dancing in my head. (Dominique LaJeunesse)