First things first, ladies and gents. I do not chase down 17-year-old chicks these days. But I did when I was 18. Oh, did I chase down some chicks when I was 18. More accurately, they chased down me. C'mon, I was in a rock band for God's sake. And on topic, Winger's "Seventeen" boasts a gnarly guitar riff.
(My staffers are laughing at me right now. They are also rolling their eyes. And it doesn't matter one lick to me, because they weren't there. Smoke on that pipe for a while, staffers. And Winger inhales huevos.)
This week's rock song lyric is familiar to anyone who spent their formative rock years with hair teased so high and wide that they were walking fire hazards. I have personal experience with this. The very first girl I ever dated (Hi, Laura) once set me on fire.
Yes.
She. Set. Me. On. Fire.
I love Laura, which is why I forgave her not long after my initial temper tantrum ended. But neither one of us have ever been able to live the event down. My pal "Fozz" brought it up just the other day on Facebook. And Fozz was laughing his posterior off at my comment, which read: "(Beep). I am never going to live that down."
Fact of the matter is I don't want to live it down, because it has grown to Urban Legend status, and when people find out it's fact, not fiction, the inevitable first thing out of their mouths is "I'm glad you're not still with her."
In fact, that happened just now in real time. My Internet co-worker Tanya just said, "What?" and then I had to explain what actually happened, which I'll do for all of you now, because I know your mouths are still agape.
Laura did not mean to turn me into the Human Torch. It was not a malicious act. It was not the result of a fiery lover's quarrel, and it was not payback for having pizza stuck in my teeth on our first date -- a piece of info that she neglected to mention until long after we had finished dating, which lasted about three weeks.
(Laura did share this info with the high school yearbook staff, however, only the name of the guilty party -- me -- was spared. I'm way over the pizza thing, in case you were going to ask. The hyenas in the writers room are having an absolute ball right now. Pipe down, staffers. I really am over it, or at least I keep saying I am.)
See, Laura was taunting me with a cigarette lighter at a local Burger King, playfully trying to set me on fire. To the untrained eye, there is no difference. But there is, trust me.
Laura got too close and my beehive went up like a Roman Candle. It was an accident. We can laugh about it now, but it was a little terrifying at the time. Laura's very sorry the side of my head almost checked out of this lifetime permanently.
Laura was my first mature crush, and I realize that's a whopper of an oxymoron. Crushes are irrational and silly, often heartbreaking, and always wonderful. That first rush of love -- real or imagined -- ought to be bottled and sold at doctor's offices.
Laura was my first date and my first kiss and my first real dose of heartbreak. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She lived down the street. She played clarinet in band and the day I first took notice of her, she was wearing a top that was decorated with tiger stripes.
I was completely smitten. But her heart belonged to someone else. I would learn this soon after buying her an angora sweater as a gift. I had to return that ridiculous sweater. I was devastated. I was also 16.
While we're in such a cheerful mood, for the record, the first girl to actually break my heart was named Jill. It was middle school and she told me I looked like a monkey. I never quite recovered from that. I should send my therapy bills to Jill.
Kids are cruel.
It's funny that I am writing this particular blog on Valentine's Day. It's just a coincidence, but it's funny, at least to yours truly. Because this year I am celebrating Singles Awareness Day. And on Singles Awareness Day, you buy yourself a gift and pour a nice glass of wine.
The gift would be a book called "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs," by my literary nemesis Chuck Klosterman. Having purchased this book this afternoon is also surprisingly prescient, though I didn't think so at the time. I'm not that smart.
The fact that I'm scribbling all this down while lovers love and wine and dine is funny because as you can see from my ol' buddy Kip Winger up there at the top of this page (we're not really friends), I want to write about my favorite peeps on Earth this week.
These peeps would be women.
I love women. They're the best thing anyone ever put on this Earth. They are compassionate, kind and beautiful. Men would be lost without them, which is why we ought to treat them better, dudes. Yeah, I'm looking at you. They are not objects. They are sensitive people who only want to be loved purely.
There's a reason someone coined the phrase sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll many Chinese New Years ago. (I'm not looking up the who, staffers. Busy yourselves, K?)
Above all other things, rock has always been about swagger and freedom and sex and women. It's about the boys who love playing it and the girls who love being with the boys who love playing it and vice versa.
Rock 'n' roll is about emotional passion and warfare. If it's not, it's not all that fun or very good. There's a reason most egghead rockers don't pull in the chicks like Nickelback, regardless of whether a pickle may have more fans. Radiohead is an exception to the rule, I've found. Really hot chicks love Thom Yorke.
On this particular Valentine's Day I'm going to tell you about someone who I once wished was my Valentine. Her name is Courtney, and she used to be a reporter here at the Alphabet Network. Many of you knew her. She's out east kicking ass. She and I remain good ... friends.
The pause will make sense once you reach the bottom, trust me.
Courtney and I were doomed. Doomed from the start. She's way too beautiful for a guy like me. You gotta punch your weight, as the movie "High Fidelity" so interestingly points out.
Courtney is tall and lithe and blonde and striking. She has eyes like a doe and a voice that is soothing like a Sunday morning. Not like a certain kind of phone operator, mind you, but pleasant and sexy nonetheless. And she has a smile that could power Third World nations.
Courtney is also a rock chick. I was shot right between the eyes the first time I laid my peepers on her. I never stood a chance. She was everything I never thought possible about rock chicks, which is that they can be wicked smart and way more fun than your average rock chick who hates life.
CC, as I like to call her, is into Deborah Harry and Blondie, or at least was when I met her. I always dug that about her. It gave my CC a retro-chic, hipster quality, even as Courts sported much nicer duds than the typical riot grrl.
I fell in love with Deborah Harry around age 10. I had older cousins, so I was introduced to the magic of rock early on. I saw Deborah Harry in the video for "Heart of Glass" and I had never seen anything so beguiling. I was practically under a spell.
Courtney once took me to see lil' Debbie in Columbus, Ohio. I remember thinking CC was a little nuts to want to drive to Columbus for an artist whose audience has changed dramatically over the years, but you have to remember I had a serious crush on Courtney and I would have starved in India if CC was going to be there.
The thing about Courtney is, she was the first really hot chick who really liked hanging out with me. People always say, "Dude, you work in TV news. You're surrounded by beautiful women. Why are you hung up on this Courtney?"
I was hung up on Courtney because of the "riot grrl who is insanely hot" concept. I mean, CC is gorgeous, peeps. She's smoldering. When she's near me, it's like she's a wry lioness stalking a lowly wildebeest. I used to dream of listening to CC purr against my chest.
But it's more than that.
Courtney, as I said, is a rock chick. Refined, but a rocker through and through. She's also an artist. I once played guitar along to Pat Benatar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" and CC sang for me for the first time. I nearly burst into flames sitting on my couch in my apartment.
When CC and I went to visit Debbie, Courtney was decked out in Spandex and had her hair teased and those eyes and lips ... well, it's unfathomable to me that I was able to show any restraint at all. Maybe I was just too stupid. Or maybe I wanted to show respect, because CC deserves that.
Make one thing clear: CC is no floozy. She is woman through and through, and these days she counsels me when I get into trouble. (I don't get into that much trouble; I am typing this as I do laundry at my parent's house. I hate that my life looks ordinary sometimes. It is not.)
Courtney and I had the time of our lives at that Blondie concert. It was one of the most rock 'n' roll things I have ever done -- following my rock princess out of state to see a punk icon put on a concert for sweaty Midwesterners at a radio station AIDS benefit.
Oh, and we had drinks with the band.
That said, you should know we had drinks with the band. Band is the operative word here. Deborah declined after an overzealous fan gushed all over Deborah and Deborah rightfully went back up to her room. Thank you, unnamed superfan, for denying me a chance to talk to Debbie Harry at length. You rule.
As it turns out, this is still a pretty good story for me as a rock writer, because I did get the chance to tell Deborah that she totally stole the show and that I was impressed.
"Thank you," she said, smiling that glaring, sexy grin. And then she was off.
The first time I met Courtney face to face was at a station party. A producer (my most excellent friend Mike Schram) was holding court and had turned his living room into a dance floor and CC was out there beckoning me to come dancing. I'm a musician, not a dancer (and I'm Caucasian), so I know better than to ever bust a move.
But Courtney was on fire. Women have this knack for dancing. It drives us dudes crazy, in case you were wondering, ladies. And Courtney, Jesus did I wish I had learned a two-step in my life during this moment. I politely declined and wandered off, dejected but dreaming of dancing the night away with CC.
I think I was in love with Courtney (or at the bare minimum in lust with Courtney) because she totally reminded me of Deborah Harry. And I think deep down I have always wanted a Deborah Harry of my own. A recent rock romance (read: disaster) of mine involved chasing down a Deborah Harry named Beth.
Long story.
I'll always remember my little rock 'n' roll road trip with Courtney. It's one of my fondest memories as a rock writer and as a human who was in love with a pretty fiery soul.
Courtney and I still talk regularly, sometimes we even flirt a little. We recently talked about the Debbie incident, and CC seemed a little embarrassed about it.
"No, please, that was one of the most fun nights of my life," I told her, reminding her that we also drove back overnight and into morning because we stayed up too late with the band.
"I know. That was crazy," she said.
During this same conversation, I mentioned that I remembered on a different occasion I practically stayed overnight at Courtney's mom's house one enchanted evening. Me and CC watched "Intimate Stranger," a b-movie Deborah Harry made God knows when, and we talked all night long.
It's another of my fondest memories of my CC, because it is the side of Courtney not everyone gets to see, and I'm lucky. Courtney is very forward and friendly and into you when you meet her, and that's initially why I thought my crush was being reciprocated.
We should have had a long, intimate chat this night. I wanted to curl up with her and stare into her eyes and confess that I was deeply in love with her and explain why. I wanted her to give me a gentle kiss and tell me she felt the same way all along.
But she didn't, because I stupidly kept my trap shut. I realize that's hard to believe. Instead, all me and CC did that night was talk about the movie, really.
I was crushed the day Courtney made sure I understood we were just friends. I cried and cried sheets of terrible crocodile tears, because when I fall for someone, I fall hard. It's just the way I'm wired. Sue me.
I am thankful my dear friend Becky and I were carpooling back then, and that we always had a hour's drive to and from work. Long work commutes are workplace therapy. And the night CC snapped me in two, Becky cradled my wounded heart on the way home to Oakland County.
Becky has since gotten married to her husband, Jeff, who introduced me to Radiohead. Becky and Jeff have moved away. They're doing great.
I'm over that night now. Long over it. But I still love my CC. She's texting me right now, anxiously awaiting her chance to get her paws on this blog. She wants to read what I've written about her, and she wants to really see inside my soul so she can understand what I went through over her.
It's brave. I admire her for that, and I'm excited to turn this over, because I mulled long and hard about doing this at all. It's a rare gift to be able to spill out all over the dock like this, and I don't regret being born this way.
I embrace it, because the highs so overpower the lows. It's what truly being alive and living is all about.
So here I go. I am about to hit the send button, peeps. Wish me luck, because this is not about pursuing Courtney. It's about finally having that intimate conversation we should have had when I stayed the night.
Click.
Here ya go, CC. I miss you, and hope you are well this Valentine's Day.
Mwah.
(That's it for another week, peeps. Listen, say a little prayer for Doug Feiger's family this week. Feiger was the frontman for 80s pop rock outfit The Knack, which enjoyed massive chart success in 1979 and '80 thanks to "My Sharona." "My Sharona" contains a fantastic guitar solo. Feiger died of cancer. He was from Oak Park. Salute, Doug. Until next time, peeps, keep rockin'. News and notes is below.)
Tuesday, blues legends B.B. King and Buddy Guy take the stage at the Fox Theatre in Detroit.
Keeping along the blues lines, John Hammond plays The Ark in Ann Arbor Wednesday and New Orleans' own Dr. John hits the Michigan Theatre -- same town, same night.
Trace Adkins and Martina McBride bring their "Shine All Night" tour to the Palace of Auburn Hills Thursday and Puddle of Mudd and Cavo take to the Machine Shop in Flint.
Friday sees Kenny Rogers bring his 50th anniversary tour to Soaring Eagle Casino.
Saturday Killswitch Engage plays the Royal Oak Music Theatre and Yes heads to Sound Board at Motor City Casino.
In CD releases Tuesday, Mumford & Sons put out "Sigh No More", and Joe Pug's "Messenger" hits stores. So does "Evolution of Chaos" by Heathen.
The ABC12 Listening Room staff: James Chesna, editor-in-chief; Josh Daunt, managing editor, photographer; LeeAlan Weddel, contributing editor, staff writer, photographer; Beth McEnroe, staff writer, photographer; Gwen Mikolajczak, staff writer; Chris Harris, photographer, staff writer; Eric Fletcher, chief photographer; Randy Cox, photographer; Chris Carr, photographer; Norm Fairhurst, photographer; Jessica Reid, contributing photographer.
