Get well, Bret Michaels — we need you

The world’s greatest entertainer’s life is in danger. Hanging by a thread in some undisclosed ICU ^[1]. I’ve noticed that there are no reports of general rioting throughout the United States. I think there is rioting here in Africa but it’s probably unrelated.

Wait. Let me back up. I have often been kidded about my first concert. Air Supply. Yeah. I remember it to this day. I was 7 or 8 or so. No, I did not petition my parents to bring me to this “concert.” Presumably, they wanted to go to the concert and figured that the music was harmless enough, so they could bring me along to the “show.” I don’t think my brother went, but that would make sense. He is 4 years older than me and could likely mount some sort of defense or justification of how he needed to be hit in the face with a hammer instead of going to see Air Supply.

Now that I think about it, I’ll bet it was just my mom that wanted to go. And with my Dad being married to my mom, that meant he pretty much had to go, too. I suppose maybe it was just his way of getting some entertainment out of the experience… by knowing that his youngest son, for the rest of his natural life, would have to sheepishly admit that his first concert was Air Supply. Not Led Zeppelin. Not Ozzy Osbourne. Not Kiss. Not Run DMC. Not even Huey Lewis and the News. Nope. Air Supply.

So anyway, in 1981 MTV launched. That changed everything. Videos. At the time there were a lot of budding stars in entertainment. A few short years later I petitioned my father to take me to my “real” first concert. Aerosmith. Waaaaaaaay more respectable. In short, not gay… although Steven Tyler does make you wonder sometimes. So my father’s an awesome dad and he takes me to see Aerosmith. I’m sure this was not his music, but he agreed to take his bratty-ass kid to this loud screeching and pay good money to do it. But we were treated to a bonus. Not only did Aerosmith perform, and well I’m sure, but the opening band was… destined to be something special.

Poison.

With hits like “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” “Talk Dirty to Me,” “I Want Action,” “Somethin’ to Believe In,” and “Nothin’ But a Good Time,” what was not to love? Indeed, anybody that can manage the words glamour and metal in their genre name is special. Hair Metal. Hilarious. Anyway, these guys were infectious to people who had no sense of musical direction whatsoever. If you thought TV dinners were the cat’s meow then Poison was for you. Sure, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” reached number 1 on the Billboard List and may be the most popular power ballad. Power ballad? Where is the power in a power ballad? And why would anyone want to power a ballad? Whatever. These guys were on to something special and the world sat up and took notice. And I remember there were a lot of good-looking girls at the concert, but I digress.

So after that, you didn’t really hear too much from the guys in Poison. Then Bret Michaels (the lead singer) briefly dated Pamela Anderson. I noticed that little spark of recognition and excitement in the world’s eye at seeing Bret again. It was as if we had forgotten our way and he was returning to show us what true entertainment could be like. So we cajoled and pushed him back into the spotlight. I’m sure you have all seen the VH1 reality show called Rock of Love ^[2]. Of course you have. Because it is the greatest television show man has ever made… ever. It’s just like the Bachelor but with way more awesome.

He gets the stupidest, sluttiest-looking girls to parade around the camera and talk about how they are falling in love with him. And that THEY have chemistry with Bret. THEY are the one who is getting really close to him, and… sniff… haven’t been this… sniff… connected to anyone before… sniff… you know? Amazing stuff. Really. It is riveting. The epitome of entertainment. And as predicted, he does, indeed, find his true love at the end of every season. They are on season 4 now because it just doesn’t seem to work out with these women… when he’s not being paid to talk to them.

So I should think it is clear now that Bret Michaels IS entertainment. He is a rock star who dated Pamela Anderson, has the most compelling show that closely resembles a 60-minute train wreck, and is good friends with Charlie Sheen and Donald Trump. Enough said. Well, it turns out that the base of his brain is bleeding ^[1]. The doctors say he will make a recovery but I’m sure you all, like me, fear that he just won’t be the same ol’ Bret. And if he’s not then the sun will be just a bit dimmer. Bret, can’t you give me something to believe in?