Hey guys. Remember the 1980s? Me neither, ha! Just kidding, I do. Specifically, I remember the strangest thing happening to me. I mean, I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure a lot of you dudes who were between the ages of 12 and 40 thought I was smokin’ hot. I know it’s been a while, but I was thinking about this the other day, and I just want to make sure it was me you were talking about, and not Samantha Fox, or Glenn Close, or one of the guys from Poison.
I’ve mellowed out a lot since the crazy 80s, which wasn’t really that hard, because after the Runaways broke up I didn’t really rock anymore, like, ever. I know that may come as a shock to you fellas who only had posters of me on your walls that said things like “Kiss Me Deadly” and stuff like that, but if Meat Loaf had been in MC5, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” would still be “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” – you follow me?
Anyway, I guess I’m just going through some sort of crisis, where I’m trying to work things out. I recently got divorced, and my ex-husband certainly made it clear that he did not think I looked hot back then. He would say things like, “You look like a bus driver that kids are afraid of.” And I would ask “Now?” And he would say “No, then. In 1988. The cover of your solo album, ‘Lita’.” That hurt, because that’s when I was pretty sure a lot of you thought I was hot. Another one he liked to say was “You kind of look like the devil woman on the cover of Ozzy’s ‘The Ultimate Sin’, but with a fatter ass and a man’s face.” And I would ask “Oh, in this dress?” And he would say “No, in this picture of you shooting the video for ‘Close My Eyes Forever.’ Actually wait, maybe I’m looking at Ozzy Osborne.” Ouch, right? He would point things out like “your hair makes people want a cigarette” and “they are basically going to have to invent a new version of sexy since you have now destroyed the very idea of what it is to be sexy in the late 1980s.” What a jerk.
I know I’m probably just being sensitive after a painful divorce, but it has kind of been bugging me lately. Like, the other day I was at the gym, and this guy was like “Holy shit! It’s Wayne Gretzky!” and I’m 99% sure he was talking about me. But then I thought, “How could that be true? So many young men had posters of me straddling all sorts of things hanging on their walls…” Maybe that’s the problem: the fact that so many of those posters were actually paintings back in the 80s. I don’t know.
I guess I’m just trying to figure out whether or not I was ever hot. I want to say “yes” but I can’t really point to why, other than the fact that I’m pretty sure that 85% of the 13 year old boys in 1989 thought they could get to third base with me. However, I’m pretty sure the remaining 15% were scared shitless at the thought of me. How do I calculate this? I give up. I guess I’ll never know if I was hot or not.
Thanks for letting me talk this out with you, guys.
Today we salute you, Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer.
Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer…
You don’t see cardboard, you see a message that Middle America can’t relate to waiting to be written.
Guy Fawkes masks? Obama “Hope” poster parodies? Helvetica? You’ve got them all.
V for Vendetta…
You know that protesting complex derivatives requires complex signage,
And you’re able to convey that message by explaining the inherent inequities of capitalism,
As perfectly expressed in a long, unpunctuated rhetorical question.
Hold still while I read your sign…
Without you, America would have no idea what you were protesting,
But now we know it’s something about rich people.
We’re 99% sure…
With you in their tent cities, protesters are equipped to battle the elements, and The Man.
Except for the tear gas…
No one can turn trash into truth as well as you can, sir. And no one's truth is as frequently used as toilet paper, either.
Camping in the city...
So here’s to you, Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer.
Good luck with that.
Mr. Occupy Wall Street Sign Writer…