Poison is poison

This weekend, while I took a break from the ever-present dissertation, I watched part of VH-1's Top 100 80s songs. I'm a sucker for countdown shows. It's a serious problem that I'm going to address someday. This countdown show not only played parts of the 80s tunes, but also included updates about what 80s band members are doing now.

Amidst the predictable and pretentious "I have moved on since the 1980s and I don't play, listen to, sing, or remember any of the words to any song I recorded, so don't ask," I learned some terribly disenchanting facts. For example, I learned that the guitar player from Aerosmith is selling barbecue sauce. Apparently, he came up with the recipe himself and wants everyone to know that the sauce is "perfect for everyday, not too hot and spicy." Now, if that's not the perfect definition of selling out and going mainstream, I don't know what is. Here's a guy who earned his rock and roll cred on such classics as "Sweet Emotion" and "Dream On" and now he's schlocking bbq sauce that's not too spicy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I also learned that "Sister Christian" is not "motorin'." No, she's an office manager in Oregon. It's just too depressing.

As my teen idols aged before my eyes, I thought, "If they look that much older, how much older do I look?" Just then, Bret Michaels from Poison came on screen. Time has not been kind to Bret Michaels. Turns out, strippers haven't either. Seems he wrote "Ev'ry Rose Has Its Thorn" when he called his stripper girlfriend from the road only to learn that she was cheating on him. Heartbroken, Michaels penned the "classic, timeless ballad." That's a direct quote from Michaels. I learned a couple of valuable lessons from this: 1) Strippers aren't faithful to men in spandex, and 2) Bret Michaels doesn't know the meaning of timeless or classic.

Since watching the show, I've discovered the insidiousness of Bret Michaels. At random intervals throughout the day, I catch myself humming "Ev'ry rose has its thorn, just like ev'ry night has its daaaawwwwn, just like ev'ry cowboy sings a sad, sad song, ev'ry rose has its thorn." There's no predicting when it will happen, no rhyme, no reason. I'm just going about my business, and all the sudden, "Ev'ry rose has its thorn..." At the gym, in the car, in the kitchen, and most infuriating, while listening to much better music. It's maddening. Bret Michaels didn't pen a timeless classic, he penned an evil, insidious melody that once lodged in your brain will never, ever come out. I would wager good money that my relationship with this song has lasted longer than Michaels's relationship with the stripper.

Today, I went to the grocery store. Every cowboy was singing a sad, sad song before I'd even realized I was humming audibly. Desparate to change the evil melody in my head, I tuned into the store muzak. "You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration, you bring meaning to my life, you're the inspiration" whined nasally-challenged, horse-faced Peter Setara. I thought, "Holy crap! That might possibly be the only song worse than Ev'ry Rose Has Its Thorn." I was actually relieved when my mind's soundtrack resumed "ev'ry rose has its thorn..."