I think it’s the eyeliner. And the bandana. That tattooed biker androgyny with a catalogue of hair band ballads and liquid sex. Those not-too-tight but not-too-loose perfectly faded bootcut jeans and vintage t-shirts, the flowing hair oh, and that bandana. And the eyeliner. Definitely the eyeliner.
I can’t help it. I’m a lesbian in love with Bret Michaels.
I don’t care that he’s 45, or from Pennsylvania, the most un-glam, un-hard, un-rocking state. Or that he has two kids. Or that he likes the Steelers. When I look at Bret, clouds turn to rainbows and puppies and bunnies frolic across my bedroom floor. And when I watch Rock of Love, I could care less about the 25 girls—all I see is Bret.
Alright. I know I sound like every other obsessive fan girl. In fact, I haven’t been this obsessed with a celebrity since Hanson back in 7th grade. I mean, there must be a good reason for it. Maybe it’s the country thing. I grew up in a small town, I had a horse, I played in the dirt and built BMX jumps and didn’t have cable until high school. My mom taught me young the value of a man in a good pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson. Maybe that’s it. Bret’s like home to me. Minus the septic tank. Read More »




Last episode
Last time
I must confess that I’ve been unable to watch a 

I feel like there is going to be a hole in my Sunday nights where