Poison

I was watching “Rock of Love” last night. Awesome show. It’s like “Flavor of Love,” except instead of Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels (of Poison and Pamela Anderson fame) is the bachelor searching for true love in a round by round elimination of a bunch of strippers, groupies, sluts, psychos, and exotic dancers. Last night a mannish whore tattooed “Bret” on her neck, to convince him how “for real” she was about him. Bret was touched, felt a real connection with her.

I like Bret. He comes across as earnest, especially when he discusses why a particular would-be lover of his failed to get eliminated because of her gigantic rack or extra tight ass. As far as misogynistic rock stars go, and let me stress my lack of irony here, he’s a class act.

Then again, I think I’ve always liked Bret. Long before I discovered home videos of him nailing Pamela Anderson, I was a Poison fan. It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it’s the truth. I even had a Poison poster hanging in my room when I was a kid. I guess even back then, I was SO comfortable with my masculinity, that I was cool with having four longhaired, makeup-wearing men on my wall. Or maybe not. I also had a poster of a man looking through binoculars… the left objective showed an attractive blonde woman in a bikini seductively lying on a red Ferrari and the right objective showed the same blond, lying on the same Ferrari, but in a different pose. So, I had not one, not two, but four images guaranteed to compensate for my pre-pubescent penis.

As hot as that Ferrari-bikini girl poster was, it was nothing compared to my Poison and Guns and Roses posters. Plural? Yes. I was into hair metal, not for the chicks, not for the drugs and booze, I didn’t know anything about that, no, I was in it for the music. The awful, ungodly music.

How did this happen? Well, it’s a prime example of the power of top 40 radio. You see, my mother didn’t listen to music. I remember one Beatles tape that she occasionally played in the old Peugeot, but after that broke down for the ninth time, Mom got a Chevy without so much as a tape player, and the radio was forever tuned to NPR. I remember grooving to the “All Things Considered” intro throughout my youth. Devoid of parental influence, I at least had an older brother that would guide me away from hair metal… until he moved in with my dad. Then it was just me and Z89.

“From the top top top of Mount Olympus…” Z89 was my connection with popular music. And popular music regrettably included Poison in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Also two Paula Abdul albums. (I don’t care what the critics said, “Spellbound” was every bit as good as “Forever Your Girl.”) Without any one to guide my musical interests, I was subjected to whatever Z89 was playing and assumed it must be good. After all, all my friends in school were listening to the same crap I was.

Therein lies the rube. As true as it was in the late 80’s and early 90’s, top 40 stations continue to poison the ears of today’s youth. This is serious stuff people. I’m sorry, I know Timbaland is catchy, but every third song on the radio should not feature him. And my god, why is Fergie played? Ever? Seriously, you don’t think in ten years, when people look back, they won’t chide each other about just how stupid they were to listen to “Fergalicious” or “London Bridges.” (At her absolute best, she’s a lowest common denominator M.I.A.) And don’t get me started on Rihanna’s “Umbrella.”

There’s hope though. For all those parents who don’t listen to top 40 and leave it on NPR constantly, there’s KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” At least in LA. I’m sure you fools in Boston and New York and Chicago have access to some decent daily music show on one of your public radio stations. Please do your kids a favor, don’t allow them to listen to pop garbage. Change the channel. Do you really want your little girls and boys with posters of Fergie and Timbaland on the wall? ‘Cause if you do, I’ll tell you where they just might end up… on some goddamn reality show, tattooing “Akon” on their neck as they try and convince him they’re not just into his money, they’re real for their man. And they’ll mean it.