Monday, September 25, 2006
Fuck Rock Stars!! (Bodies, Arrest, Emotion)
Summer is supposed to be a time of romance. Well, summer's over, and mine was not. Now that I'm over being a moody bitch, I have come to this conclusion: I need a rock star boyfriend. Why, you ask?
Let me count the ways -
Who is not happy to have vomit and other bodily excretions on the floor of their hotel room?
Throwing elbows at slutty fans trying to bag your boy in the band is good exercise, and keeps you from developing old-lady waddles under your arms.
If you've no artistic abilities of your own, you can fulfill creative ambitions simply by being a muse. If you aren't his muse, then you can content yourself with riding on the coattails of his glory. Whee!
He has money. Lots of money.
Who needs eardrums?
Sure, the risk of STDs is extra high. Hell, they should offer you hazard pay for the risks you're taking, but an immune system doesn't get stronger without challenges!
Eventually you'll get knocked up, a fact which could cause a separation, but will entitle you to naming your progeny something like 29 Palms, Spaceship Daydream, Jelly Bean, Iggy or Hagar.
Screaming fights and hysterical crying may run your mascara, but that's even more punk rock.
You hang out long enough and you just might learn to play a few chords.
The clothes. The swag. The parties. The travel.
Room service and minibar. Comped. Trashing the place just boosts his image, so throw something! Break the bathroom mirror!
You can be famous just because you were fucking him. This fame will be secured and augmented should any of the following occur -
He puts you in a music video.
He writes a hit song in your honor.
The FBI has a file on him.
The Queen knights him.
Parents of the last underage girl he bagged press charges.
In the event of an untimely death via overdose, suicide pact or small airplane crash in the Rockies, such a demise seals you to the legend for all time, even if he goes down without you.
Sanctioned inebriation, 24/7.
You are now the heroin.
You get to sleep in.
There is a strong likelihood you will find yourself in an open relationship. Don't waste this opportunity. There are just as many cute guys in the audience, road crew, and warm up bands as there are hot slags. Make hay!
Living fast and dying young means you neither have to invest in nor worry about your future.
Bailing your man out of the slammer means heaps of mileage points on your Visa.
However, you are essentially above the law.
You are cooler than everyone else.
If it doesn't work out, you'll always be able to sell the book.
Also, who says you have to content yourself with one rockstar relationship? Patti "Layla" Boyd married a Beatle and Eric Clapton, and the latter wrote five songs about her.
There is, unhappily, at least one tragic flaw in my plan - I cannot think of a single recent rock star I'd want to hang out with like that. The really good ones are of a bygone era. Except maybe one of these blokes (well, they're not famous yet). Hope they're treating my home town right tonight.