Was I Hot?

By Lita Ford


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.

Real Men of Genius

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…

Hightower, Episode 6, Part I

From The Journal of Dr. Rick Hightower, M.D., soon to be adapted into an ABC primetime drama entitled Hightower:

“Your honor,” I said, “I was frankly too busy being hit on by hot babes to notice every little detail. The bottom line is that man belongs in jail.” I was in court, testifying as an expert medicine practicing secret crime fighter, which I get called upon to do a lot.

“I rest my case,” I said, and left.

Back at our penthouse hideout, V.J. was busy with his cloning experiments. “Man, V.J.,” I said, “why don’t you clone some hot chicks? That way there would be more hot chicks, ones that would look to us as gods…”

“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure that’s ethical. By the way, have you been drinking?”

“I was in court, buddy,” I said. “So yes, after that I had something to drink, because I hate going to court. Or going to the police to help them with boring paperwork stuff. Or showing up to my job as a hot male doctor in a Manhattan hospital. If only there was a way to have a stand-in do all of that for me…” Just then it hit me. “I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s get some food.”

-----

As we ate some Domino’s new Artisanal Pizza, I said, “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said before about how you should clone me.”

“When did you say that?” asked V.J.

“Before we got pizza,” I said. “You should start paying attention. Anyway, I say it’s a go. You should clone me so that I can send my clone to do all of the boring stuff that gets in the way of the awesome stuff. When do we start?”

“Hightower,” V.J. said, “I’m not sure I can do that. I mean…it would be risky.”

“Listen buddy,” I said, “I believe in you. What could go wrong?”

-----

V.J. unstrapped me from the cloning machine. “There he is,” V.J. said, pointing to my clone in the other part of the machine, “have a look.”

I checked him out in a totally straight way. “Looks good, in a straight way, “ I said.

“That’s not all,” said V.J. “I’ve fitted him with a special chip so that we can track his movements and give him basic directions. We can’t have him getting into trouble.”

“Or falling into the wrong hands,” I said.

-----

“Man V.J.,” I said, “these last few weeks with my clone doing all of the boring stuff for me has been great. When he gets back from court in a few minutes, let’s remind him that he can’t wear leather pants on the witness stand. Speaking of which, shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Just then, the phone rang. V.J. answered. “Sure, he’s right here,” he said into the phone, and handing it to me said “it’s Commissioner Kenner. He sounds upset.”

“Commissioner,” I said, “what can I do for you?”

“You can start by explaining exactly what that little stunt was in the courtroom, Hightower!,” the Commissioner yelled.

“I, uh…”

“That was some act you pulled, testifying that Tony “The Hammer” Santucci was an innocent man, and exposing our undercover agent! You’d better start explaining yourself!,” the Commissioner kept yelling.

“I, uh…”

“You’d better be in my office in…” just then I heard yelling and shots on the other end of the line. “Hightower? But… What the…NOOOO!” the Commissioner said before there were more shots and the line went dead.

“I didn’t like the sound of that,” I said to V.J.

“Then you’re not going to like this,” V.J. said. “Your clone is offline. I can’t get a signal.”

“Sounds like I’m out of control.”

-----

V.J. and I stayed at the penthouse hideout working on a plan. “It seems like my clone has fallen into the wrong hands, but whose?” I asked. “Who would try to turn a clone against the person he was cloned from?”

“Well,” V.J. said, I’ve been searching the internet, and it looks like the Benedetti crime family are the number one clone thieves in Manhattan.”

“The mafia,” I said, “of course. I’m always testifying against them. We’ll need to come up with a plan.”

“This seems risky,” V.J. said, “maybe we should take the clone out.”

“We have to find him first, which means that I have to go undercover. Double undercover.”

-----

TO BE CONTINUED