Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs Part 2

In truth, Mr. Trask should be be a redhead. His overt blondness-along with the fact that he's six-foot-four-makes him look more like David Lee Roth than W. Axl Rose, and he knows it. "I am going to dye my hair red. That is definitely in the works," he says. "It's just that the last time I tried, it turned sort of pink. And for some reason, people get scared of you when you have red hair. I don't know why that it is, but it's true. They just don't warm up to you the way they do if you're blond." a redhead. His overt blondness-along with the fact that he's six-foot-four-makes him look more like David Lee Roth than W. Axl Rose, and he knows it. "I am going to dye my hair red. That is definitely in the works," he says. "It's just that the last time I tried, it turned sort of pink. And for some reason, people get scared of you when you have red hair. I don't know why that it is, but it's true. They just don't warm up to you the way they do if you're blond."

Trask tells me this at ten minutes to midnight while we sit in his 1997 extended-cab Ford Ranger pickup, which we will drive from Cincinnati to northern Virginia for tomorrow night's rock show. It's roughly a ten-hour drive, so leaving in the middle of the night should get us to town just in time to check into the Hampton Inn for an afternoon nap. There is some concern about this, because the last time Trask and his band mates in Paradise City were in Harrisonburg they were banned for life from the Econo Lodge. This weekend, they need to make sure things go smoothly at the Hampton; there just aren't that many hotels in Harrisonburg.

Our pickup is sitting outside the home of Paul Dischner, and the engine is idling. Like Trask, Dischner is striving to be someone else; he's supposed to be Izzy Stradlin, Guns N' Roses original rhythm guitar player. In the band Paradise City, everybody is supposed to be someone else. That's the idea.

"I initially had a problem with the idea of doing a Guns N' Roses tribute, because I didn't want anyone to think I was discrediting Axl. That was always my main concern. If Axl was somehow against this, I'd straight up quit. I would never do this if he disapproved," Trask says. "But I really think we can do his songs justice. People constantly tell me, 'You sound better than Axl,' but I always say, 'Whoa now, slow down.' Because I like the way I sing Axl's songs, but I love love the way Axl sings them. That's the main thing I'm concerned about with this article: I do not want this to say anything negative about Guns N' Roses. That's all I ask." the way Axl sings them. That's the main thing I'm concerned about with this article: I do not want this to say anything negative about Guns N' Roses. That's all I ask."

I am the first reporter who has ever done a story on Paradise City. This is less a commentary on Paradise City and more a commentary on the tribute band phenomenon, arguably the most universally maligned sector of rock 'n' roll. These are bands mired in obscurity and engaged in a bizarrely postmodern zero-sum game: If a tribute band were to completely succeed, its members would no longer have personalities. They would have no character whatsoever, beyond the qualities of whomever they tried to emulate. The goal is not to be somebody; the goal is be somebody else.

Though the Beatles and Elvis Presley were the first artists to sp.a.w.n impersonators, the modern tribute template was mostly set by groups like Strutter, Hotter than h.e.l.l, and Cold Gin, all of whom toured in the early nineties by looking, acting, and singing like the 1978 version of KISS. It worked a little better than anyone could have expected: People would sooner pay $10 to see four guys pretending to be KISS than $5 to see four guys playing original songs n.o.body had ever heard before. And club owners understand money. There are now hundreds-probably thousands-of rock bands who make a living by method acting. There's the Atomic Punks, a Van Halen tribute that celebrates the band's Roth era. Battery is a tribute to Metallica. Planet Earth are L.A. based Duran Duran clones. Bjorn Again claims to be Australia's finest ABBA tribute. AC/DShe is an all-female AC/DC cover group from San Francisco. There are tributes to groups who never seemed that popular to begin with (Badfinger, Thin Lizzy, Dream Theater), and there are tributes to bands who are not altogether difficult to see for real (The Dave Matthews Band, Creed). And though rock critics deride Stone Temple Pilots and Oasis for ripping off other artists, drunk people in rural bars pay good money to see tribute bands rip off Stone Temple Pilots and Oasis as accurately as possible.

And being consciously derivative is not easy.

Trask and Dischner can talk for hours about the complexity of feeding their appet.i.te for replication. Unlike starting a garage band, there are countless caveats that must be fulfilled when auditioning potential members for a tribute. This was especially obvious when Paradise City had to find a new person to play Slash, GNR's signature lead guitarist. It is not enough to find a guy who plays the guitar well; your Slash needs to sound like Slash. He needs to play a Les Paul, and he needs to tune it like Slash. He needs to have long black hair that hangs in his face and a $75 top hat. Preferably, he should have a dark complexion, an emaciated physique, and a willingness to play s.h.i.+rtless. And if possible, he should drink Jack Daniel's on stage.

The Slash in Paradise City fulfills about half of those requirements.

"Bobby is on thin ice right now, and he knows he's on thin ice," says Trask, referring to lead guitarist Bobby Young. "I mean, he's an okay guy, and he's a good guitar player. But we have ads out right now for a new Slash, and he knows that. I want someone who is transfixed transfixed with being Slash. We want someone who is as sick about Slash as I am about Axl." with being Slash. We want someone who is as sick about Slash as I am about Axl."

What's ironic about Young's shortcomings as Slash is that-in a traditional band-his job would likely be the most secure: He is clearly the most skilled musician in Paradise City, having received a degree from Cincinnati's Conservatory of Music in 1987 (that was the same year GNR debuted with the alb.u.m Appet.i.te for Destruction Appet.i.te for Destruction). "I was cla.s.sically trained, so I'm used to everything being built around minor chords," he tells me. "But Slash plays almost everything in a major chord, and his soloing is very different than mine. It's not in chromatic keys. I really thought I could learn all of these Guns N' Roses songs in two days, but it took me almost two weeks."

Unfortunately, Young can't learn how to look like a mulatto ex-heroin addict, and this is the only occupation in America for which that is a job requirement. He only vaguely resembles Slash, and his band mates tease him about being akin to an Oompa Loompa from w.i.l.l.y Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. w.i.l.l.y Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. There's a similar problem with Paradise City's ba.s.sist; he's portrayed by an affable, laidback blond named Spike, but Spike is built a little too much like a farmer. His shoulders are broad, and he actually looks more like Larry Bird than Duff McKagan. Amazingly, Spike is also partially deaf from playing heavy metal for so many years (he can't hear certain frequencies, including feedback), but-somehow-that doesn't pose a problem. There's a similar problem with Paradise City's ba.s.sist; he's portrayed by an affable, laidback blond named Spike, but Spike is built a little too much like a farmer. His shoulders are broad, and he actually looks more like Larry Bird than Duff McKagan. Amazingly, Spike is also partially deaf from playing heavy metal for so many years (he can't hear certain frequencies, including feedback), but-somehow-that doesn't pose a problem.

Visually, the rest of Paradise City succeeds at varying degrees. Drummer Rob "The Monster" Pohlman could pa.s.s for Steven Adler if Pohlman hadn't just shaved his head and dyed his remaining locks orange, a move that completely baffles Dischner.1 The fact that he hides behind a drum kit, however, substantially mitigates this problem. Trask is eight inches too tall, but he has the voice and-more importantly-the desire. He wills himself into Axlocity. The fact that he hides behind a drum kit, however, substantially mitigates this problem. Trask is eight inches too tall, but he has the voice and-more importantly-the desire. He wills himself into Axlocity.

Dischner is the only Paradise City member who naturally looks like a GNR doppelganger. He's also the guy who makes the trains run on time; he handles the money, coordinates the schedules, and generally keeps his bandmates from killing each other. All of these guys are friendly, but Dischner is the most relentlessly nice. He's also mind-blowingly idiosyncratic. Prior to Paradise City, Dischner played in an Yngwie Malmsteeninfluenced band called Premonition, a group whose entire existence was based on the premise that the Antichrist is Juan Carlos, the King of Spain.2 To this day, Dischner adheres to this theory and claims it can be proven through biblical prophecy. He lives with his wife (an aspiring vampire novelist) in a small suburb of Cincinnati, and he peppers his conversation with a high-pitched, two-note laugh that sounds like "Wee To this day, Dischner adheres to this theory and claims it can be proven through biblical prophecy. He lives with his wife (an aspiring vampire novelist) in a small suburb of Cincinnati, and he peppers his conversation with a high-pitched, two-note laugh that sounds like "Wee Hee Hee!" Over the next thirty-six hours, he will make that sound approximately four hundred times.

When we leave from Dischner's house at 12:30 A.M A.M., it has already been an incredibly long day for Trask. He awoke Friday morning at 2:00 A.M A.M. at his home in Ravenna, Ohio, and immediately drove four hours to the outskirts of Cincinnati, where he spent the day cutting down a troublesome tree in Dischner's front yard; Trask's father runs a tree service in Northeast Ohio, so his son knows how to handle a chainsaw. After a brief afternoon nap, the band hooked up for a few hours of rehearsal before supper. Now it's midnight, and Trask is preparing to drive the entire way to Virginia, nonstop. I have never met anyone who needs sleep less. Trask once drove twenty-two hours straight to Hayes, Kansas, and played a show immediately upon arrival. If the real Axl Rose had this kind of focus, Guns N' Roses would have released fifteen alb.u.ms by now.

There was a time when Paradise City had a tour bus, but they lost it last summer. This is not a euphemism; they literally can't find it. It broke down on a trip to Kansas City, and they had to leave it in a Missouri garage to make it to the club on time. Somehow, they lost the business card of the garage and have never been able to recall its location. Dischner tells me this story three times before I realize he's not joking.

"We drove back through Missouri a bunch of times, we put up a picture on our Web site, and we even called the Highway Patrol," Dischner says. "But we lost the bus. And I guess there's some law that states you only have thirty days to find your bus."

As it is, the band is now traveling in two vehicles. Axl/Randy will pull the Haulmark trailer that contains their gear; he'll drive the truck, I'll ride shotgun, and Izzy/Paul will curl up in the extended cab. A friend of the band-some dude named Teddy-will follow in his Ford Mustang, which will also hold Slash/Bobby and Steven/Rob. The pickup box is covered with a topper, so Duff/Spike will lay back in the truck bed with Punky.

Trask and Dischner do not know who Punky is.

They've only met Punky a few times, and they don't know his last name (or his real first name). They are told that Punky is friends with Teddy and Young, all of whom are evidently longtime running buddies. Young is thirty-six, which is a little older than Trask (twenty-eight), Dischner (thirty-one), and Pohlman (twenty-nine). n.o.body knows how old Spike is and he refuses to say; a good guess might be forty.

Our last stop before hitting the highway is Spike's home in Clifton, Ohio, a few scant miles from the site of Cincinnati's recent race riots. Spike's house is terrifying. It appears completely dilapidated, but-supposedly-it's actually being renovated. The home contains a python, several large birds, two alligators in the bathtub, and the most bloodthirsty Rottweiler in North America (Dischner gives me four full minutes of instruction about how to safely walk past walk past this animal). Spike deals exotic animals in his spare time; n.o.body but me seems to find this unusual. this animal). Spike deals exotic animals in his spare time; n.o.body but me seems to find this unusual.

At departure time, only 40 percent of the band is not under the influence of some kind of chemical. Twenty minutes into the trip, that percentage will fall to zero. Even before we get on the road, this Punky character looks drunk enough to die; amazingly, he's just getting started. They're all all just getting started. Everyone is smoking pot, and it's the second-strongest dope I've ever inhaled: I keep looking through the winds.h.i.+eld, and the vehicle seems to be moving much faster than it should be. It feels like we're driving down an extremely steep incline, but the earth remains flat. I am not the type who normally gets paranoid, but this is a bit disturbing. I'm trying very hard to act cool, but I start thinking too much; in order to relax, I smoke another half joint, which (of course) never works. I start imaging that we're going to crash and that my death is going to be reported as some sort of predictable irony-I will forever be remembered as the guy who wrote a book about heavy metal bands who were mostly fake and then died while touring with a heavy metal band that was just getting started. Everyone is smoking pot, and it's the second-strongest dope I've ever inhaled: I keep looking through the winds.h.i.+eld, and the vehicle seems to be moving much faster than it should be. It feels like we're driving down an extremely steep incline, but the earth remains flat. I am not the type who normally gets paranoid, but this is a bit disturbing. I'm trying very hard to act cool, but I start thinking too much; in order to relax, I smoke another half joint, which (of course) never works. I start imaging that we're going to crash and that my death is going to be reported as some sort of predictable irony-I will forever be remembered as the guy who wrote a book about heavy metal bands who were mostly fake and then died while touring with a heavy metal band that was completely completely fake. I start having hallucinations of elk running out in front of the vehicle, and I notice that Trask isn't even watching the road when he talks to me. Finally, I can't take it anymore. I politely turn to Trask and Dischner and make the following announcement: "Okay-now, don't take this the wrong way, because I'm probably just nuts, and I'm probably just too f.u.c.ked up to know what's going on, and I'm probably overreacting for no valid reason, and I hate to sound unreasonable or immature, and I don't want to sound pretentious, but elks are prevalent. And perhaps this is out of line and I'm certainly open to debate on this issue, but I need to go on record and say that I am not 100 percent comfortable with the situation regarding this truck at the moment, because I have a feeling that we are all going to die." fake. I start having hallucinations of elk running out in front of the vehicle, and I notice that Trask isn't even watching the road when he talks to me. Finally, I can't take it anymore. I politely turn to Trask and Dischner and make the following announcement: "Okay-now, don't take this the wrong way, because I'm probably just nuts, and I'm probably just too f.u.c.ked up to know what's going on, and I'm probably overreacting for no valid reason, and I hate to sound unreasonable or immature, and I don't want to sound pretentious, but elks are prevalent. And perhaps this is out of line and I'm certainly open to debate on this issue, but I need to go on record and say that I am not 100 percent comfortable with the situation regarding this truck at the moment, because I have a feeling that we are all going to die."

"Dude," Trask tells me. "I totally totally wish I could trade bodies with you right now." wish I could trade bodies with you right now."

It remains to be seen if these guys can sound like Guns N' Roses, but they clearly have their self-destructive aspirations deftly mastered.

Our vehicles barrel into the darkness of Kentucky, loaded like a freight train and flyin' like an aero-plane. Spike and Punky are freezing in the box of the pickup, and they try to stay warm by drinking more Bud Lite. Inside the toasty cab, faux-Axl and faux-Izzy have straightened up (slightly), and we're discussing the question most people have about tribute bands, which is "Why do you possibly do this?" It seems ant.i.thetical to the whole concept of art; the notion of creativity has been completely removed from the equation. Wouldn't the members of Paradise City be happier if they could write their own songs, dress however they want, and-quite simply-be themselves?

No.

"Obviously, being in an original band is the ultimate dream, but it mostly sucks," Dischner says. "You don't get to tour. You don't get no money. You have to beg your own friends to come to the show. But being a mock star is awesome."

Paradise City will earn $1,100 for the Harrisonburg show. After their manager takes his 15 percent and they pay for gas and promotions, they will be left with $655, which-split between five people-ends up being $131 each. This is almost nothing. But the operative word is "almost." If these same five guys in Paradise City performed their own material, they would have to pay to play in most reputable clubs; as a tribute band, they can live as "professional musicians." Relatively speaking, $1,100 is good money.

"The thing about being in a tribute band is that your fans already exist," Trask says. "You show up at the bar, and there's immediately a few hundred people who love Guns N' Roses and therefore love you."

This is not always true. A month later, Paradise City will play a show at a club called Dr. Feelgood's in the desperate lake town of Conneaut, Ohio, and virtually no one will notice; the bar's billiard tables will have more spectators than the stage, and the owner won't even give them free beer until they finish the first set. It's a bit uncomfortable for everyone involved, but not really humbling or tragic: No one in Paradise City seems confused about the social significance of this group.

"I never think of myself as Axl Rose, and we don't think of ourselves as Guns N' Roses," Trask says. "Our fans are Guns N' Roses fans-they're not really fans of Paradise City. We're not deluding ourselves."

And in a way, somber nights in ghost towns like Conneaut validate their cred; Paradise City almost seems to enjoy adversity. They love talking about how "life on the road" is a hard-yet-satisfying experience. They give "tribute quotes" that sound like outtakes from VH1's Behind the Music Behind the Music: It's all about the fans, it's all about the music, it's all about the awe-inspiring majesty of rock; it's all about something, and then it's all about something else entirely. But they're never lying-in tribute bands, all those cliches are true. Paradise City cares more about Guns N' Roses than the original members of Guns N' Roses care about the song "Paradise City."

In fact, the guys in Paradise City seem to care about all all music with more enthusiasm than any group of musicians I've ever encountered. There is no elitism. As we roll toward West Virginia, the truck's stereo never plays an artist they dislike. They have positive things to say about Aerosmith, Nickelback, Celine Dion (!), Black Sabbath, White Lion, Pink Floyd, and Alabama. When Jewel's "You Were Meant for Me" comes on the radio, Dischner mentions that the song always makes him wish it were raining; ten minutes later, he tells me that Rush is "just about the greatest three-piece band ever," and then gives a similar compliment to the Rush tribute band 2112. music with more enthusiasm than any group of musicians I've ever encountered. There is no elitism. As we roll toward West Virginia, the truck's stereo never plays an artist they dislike. They have positive things to say about Aerosmith, Nickelback, Celine Dion (!), Black Sabbath, White Lion, Pink Floyd, and Alabama. When Jewel's "You Were Meant for Me" comes on the radio, Dischner mentions that the song always makes him wish it were raining; ten minutes later, he tells me that Rush is "just about the greatest three-piece band ever," and then gives a similar compliment to the Rush tribute band 2112.

We fly through the West Virginia border at 4:04 A A.M. This is a strange part of the country, but perhaps an ideal place for a group trying to re-create 1988: On the same FM station that played Jewel and Rush, two early morning DJs are unironically joking about Julia Roberts's relations.h.i.+p with Lyle Lovett.

After getting breakfast from the aforementioned redhead in White Sulphur Springs, we get back on the road (doomed to complete the voyage while driving into the rising sun). After hitting the Virginia state line, Trask begins scanning all the radio stations in the hope of hearing "The Commercial." This is a radio spot promoting Paradise City's concert at the Mainstreet Bar & Grill. The band gets excited about hearing "The Commercial" in the same way normal bands get excited about hearing their first single on the radio; for a tribute group, exposure equals success. When we finally hear said advertis.e.m.e.nt, it refers to Paradise City's "triumphant return" to Virginia. High-fives are exchanged all around.

I want to talk about the real Guns N' Roses for a while, and Trask is more than willing to oblige. Though he admits that his first musical love was Motley Crue (before Paradise City, he fronted a Motley tribute called b.a.s.t.a.r.d), one cannot deny his sincere adoration for GNR, a band whose legacy is-to be fair-problematic. Guns N' Roses debuted as L.A.'s most dangerous band in 1987, blowing the doors off pop metal with Appet.i.te for Destruction, Appet.i.te for Destruction, arguably the strongest debut alb.u.m in rock history. They followed with an EP t.i.tled arguably the strongest debut alb.u.m in rock history. They followed with an EP t.i.tled GNR Lies, GNR Lies, which is best remembered for the ballad "Patience" and the controversial "One in a Million," which is best remembered for the ballad "Patience" and the controversial "One in a Million,"3 a track that managed to be racist, h.o.m.ophobic, and xenophobic in just over six scant minutes. Two years later, the Gunners released two ma.s.sive alb.u.ms on the same day, a track that managed to be racist, h.o.m.ophobic, and xenophobic in just over six scant minutes. Two years later, the Gunners released two ma.s.sive alb.u.ms on the same day, Use Your Illusion I Use Your Illusion I and and II, II, cementing their place as the biggest band in the world. Yet by 1997, all had collapsed; one by one, every member-except the mercurial Axl Rose-either quit or was fired. Rose became a virtual recluse for almost a decade, endlessly working on his alleged masterpiece, cementing their place as the biggest band in the world. Yet by 1997, all had collapsed; one by one, every member-except the mercurial Axl Rose-either quit or was fired. Rose became a virtual recluse for almost a decade, endlessly working on his alleged masterpiece, Chinese Democracy, Chinese Democracy, and earnestly growing dreadlocks. and earnestly growing dreadlocks.

I ask my traveling partners if they're concerned about what will happen when Chinese Democracy Chinese Democracy eventually hits stores. It's a paradoxical problem: If the alb.u.m does well and Rose tours, it could decrease the demand for a GNR tribute; if the alb.u.m flops, it might make the concept of a GNR "tribute" vaguely ridiculous. But Trask and Dischner aren't worried. They're confident there will always be a demand for the original incarnation of Guns N' Roses, and that can only be experienced through their show. History is not an issue for these people; for them, the past is not different than the present, and the future will be identical. Every year, Axl Rose grows a little older, but Paradise City never ages beyond the summer of '91. eventually hits stores. It's a paradoxical problem: If the alb.u.m does well and Rose tours, it could decrease the demand for a GNR tribute; if the alb.u.m flops, it might make the concept of a GNR "tribute" vaguely ridiculous. But Trask and Dischner aren't worried. They're confident there will always be a demand for the original incarnation of Guns N' Roses, and that can only be experienced through their show. History is not an issue for these people; for them, the past is not different than the present, and the future will be identical. Every year, Axl Rose grows a little older, but Paradise City never ages beyond the summer of '91.

We arrive at the Hampton Inn parking lot just before 11 A A.M. The girl at the front desk is a little overweight, but she has a nice smile. Trask is impressed. "Do you like Guns N' Roses?" he asks her. "We're a Guns N' Roses tribute band. I'm Axl. You should come to the show tonight at the Mainstreet. It's going to be crazy. They love us here."

In a few hours, members of the Paradise City entourage will have lunch at a nearby Long John Silver's. A total stranger will ask Punky if they're in a band. When Punky replies "Sort of," the man will ask him, "Are you guys Molly Hatchet?"

There are no "fas.h.i.+on don'ts" inside the Mainstreet Bar & Grill in downtown Harrisonburg. You want to inexplicably wear a headband? Fine. You want to wear a FUBU sweats.h.i.+rt with a baseball hat that features the Confederate flag? No problem. This is the kind of place where you will see a college girl attempting to buy a $2.25 gla.s.s of Natural Light on tap with her credit card-and have her card denied.

Certainly, the Mainstreet is not trendy. But it's still cool, or at least interesting, and Paradise City has sold it out. Almost five hundred people (mostly kids from nearby James Madison University) have paid $12 to get inside, which is as many as the Mainstreet will draw for next week's Dokken show. One can only wonder how the real guys in Dokken feel about being as popular as five fake guys in Guns N' Roses.

The opening act is a local collegiate jam band called Alpine Recess; they look like they'd rather be opening for a Phish tribute, but the crowd is polite. Meanwhile, Paradise City is dressing downstairs in the bas.e.m.e.nt,4 drinking free Budweiser in the storeroom, and leaning against the water heater. They have decided to open with the song "Night Train," even though the tune includes an extended five-minute guitar solo that Young fears might anesthetize the audience. drinking free Budweiser in the storeroom, and leaning against the water heater. They have decided to open with the song "Night Train," even though the tune includes an extended five-minute guitar solo that Young fears might anesthetize the audience.

Unlike the real GNR, Paradise City hits the stage exactly on time. However, things are not perfect: There are sound problems on "Night Train" that can only be described as cataclysmic, and Trask glares at the soundman. But things get better. Things get tighter. Trask moves his hips in Axl's signature snake like sway, and the crowd sings along with everything. Paradise City may not always look like Guns N' Roses, but they certainly sound like them; when I go to the bathroom and hear the music through a wooden door, it's impossible not to imagine that this is how it would have sounded to urinate on the Sunset Strip in 1986.

"This next song is dedicated to everybody who ever told you how to live," Trask tells us as he prowls the twenty-five-foot-stage in his kilt. "This is for everybody who told you not to smoke weed or not to drink beer every day. There are just too many people who make life too hard."

This soliloquy leads into the bubbling ba.s.s intro of "It's So Easy," the angriest three minutes off Appet.i.te for Destruction Appet.i.te for Destruction. Girls begin crawling on stage to dance on top of the amplifiers, and the band couldn't be happier. Ultimately, this is why they do this: They're literally paying tribute to the music of Guns N' Roses, but they're figuratively paying tribute to the Guns N' Roses Lifestyle. They're totally willing to become other people, as long as those people party all the time, live like gypsies, and have pretty girls dancing on their amplifiers. This is precisely why guys create rock bands; Paradise City just created somebody else's.

"I'm not pretending to be a Guns N' Roses fan," says Kelly Gony, a stunning twenty-two-year-old history major who danced on stage in her cut-off denim skirt for the last forty-five minutes of the show. "I just think they did an excellent job. Maybe some of the people in the crowd were clapping for Guns N' Roses, but there also might have been some people clapping about the fact that these guys can act exactly like Guns N' Roses. I mean, look at me-I'm dressed like it's 1988. It's just fun, you know?"

This blue-eyed girl is correct-it is is fun, although not so fun that she accepts the band's offer to go back to their hotel. Gony goes home. However, a few females (most of whom seem fun, although not so fun that she accepts the band's offer to go back to their hotel. Gony goes home. However, a few females (most of whom seem very very young) agree to go back to the Hampton for a few dozen night caps and more weed. I a.s.sume the goal is to have s.e.x with them, although I don't think this works out for anybody, except possibly Spike. Punky sporadically asks these girls to remove their tank tops, and-although they never actually do-they don't seem particularly offended by the request. young) agree to go back to the Hampton for a few dozen night caps and more weed. I a.s.sume the goal is to have s.e.x with them, although I don't think this works out for anybody, except possibly Spike. Punky sporadically asks these girls to remove their tank tops, and-although they never actually do-they don't seem particularly offended by the request.

I hang with Paradise City until around 3:30 A.M. A.M.. Part of me thinks that I should really try to party with them all night, because perhaps that's when things will truly get insane. Maybe there will be a transcendent moment, complete with speedb.a.l.l.s and hookers and an albino musk ox. But the larger part of me is tired and drunk and stoned, so I go to bed (luckily, I have my own room). The next morning, I see Dischner in the lobby and ask him how the rest of the night went; he tells me nothing really happened. I ask the same question when I run into Bobby Young, and he spends ten minutes telling me how the girls who came back to the hotel were nothing but "brain-dead c.o.c.k teases." He thought the evening sucked.

But not Randy.

Trask is sitting at the wheel of his truck, ready to drive us home on three hours rest. His version of the night is quite different. "It was a madhouse," he tells me unspecifically, neither lying nor telling the truth. "You should have stayed up with us, Chuck. It was unbelievable. I'm serious. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

I nod. I agree. One way or the other, we all use our illusions. And I'm sure Axl would completely approve.

1. Three days before Pohlman's haircut, Dischner had told me that "What sets us apart from the other twenty-two Guns N' Roses tribute bands in America is that we don't wear wigs." This new development with Pohlman's scalp was not to his liking.

2. Premonition's two singles, "He Is Rising" and "Mr. Heroin," were both (presumably) about Carlos and allegedly charted in Greece.

3. The last time Paradise City performed in Harrisonburg, they received a death threat from two Middle Eastern patrons after playing "One in a Million." Over the course of the weekend, this story is breathlessly recounted to me six times.

4. During the Paradise City set, Punky will lay on the dressing room's concrete floor after falling down a flight of stairs. Though he will continue to post-party with the band for most of the night, Punky will need to be rushed to the hospital by ambulance the following morning when-upon finally sobering up-he will realize he has broken his wrist. Oddly (or perhaps predictably), the band will simply leave him in Harrisonburg and drive back to Ohio.

As America's best-loved semipro freelance conversationalist, I am often queried about my brazen humorousity. "How is it possible," I am asked, "that you are able to extemporaneously lecture so effortlessly on such a myriad of complex topics? What is the key to your incisive, witty repertoire?"

It's a valid question.

Certainly, there is is a formula to being relentlessly dynamic. There's a shockingly simple equation to being a formula to being relentlessly dynamic. There's a shockingly simple equation to being uber uber-interesting, and it works with every subject imaginable.

The formula is as follows: When discussing any given issue, always do three things. First, make an intellectual concession (this makes the listener feel comfortable). Next, make a completely incomprehensible-but remarkably specific-"cultural accusation" (this makes you insightful). Finally, end the dialogue by interjecting slang lexicon that does not necessarily exist (this makes you contemporary). Here are a few examples...

When talking about sports: "I mean, come on-you just know that Rodney Rogers is sitting in the locker room before every game reading Nietzsche, and he's totally thinking to himself, 'If Ron Artest tries to step to me one more time, I'm gonna slap jack his brisket, Philly style.'"When talking about music: "Oh, let's face it-we all know that if Rivers Cuomo makes one more alb.u.m about the Cubism didactic, he might as well just give up completely and turn Weezer into a hobo-core three-piece."When talking about film: "Everybody in this room has seen Peter Bogdanovich at his worst, and everybody in this room already suspects that he probably sits in his gazebo and beats off to Pet Sounds Pet Sounds five nights a week, so I think it's safe to a.s.sume this whole era of the 'Scarecrow Thriller' is as dead as the diplodocus." five nights a week, so I think it's safe to a.s.sume this whole era of the 'Scarecrow Thriller' is as dead as the diplodocus."When talking about politics: "That crazy Condoleeza Rice-who does she think she's fooling with all that neo-Ventura, post-d.i.c.kensian welfare state pseudo-s.h.i.+t? If that's supposed to be the future, she may as well stick the Q like the salt queen that she is."

Do you understand? Do you see the forest through the trees? Do you not see what I am no longer not saying to you? If so-congratulations! Prepare to have s.e.x constantly.

6 Ten Seconds to Love 0:71 "Merry Christmas, Juggalo."

This is what he scrawled on the card, a little one-flap piece of construction paper featuring a picture of a Clydesdale standing next to a snow-capped conifer. It was attached to a Fuji videotape and handed to me in my favorite bar. I immediately knew what it was. "Thanks, Ninja," I replied to the das.h.i.+ng twenty-four-year-old doctor who gave it to me. "You are my stone cold elf." My doctor friend returned to his dart game; I proceeded to have four more drinks while listening to Dean Martin on the jukebox before getting into my car and driving home, traversing the empty, frozen streets of downtown Fargo. Winter nights in urban North Dakota are fascinating, because they resemble overcast summer afternoons: The painfully white snow has such a high albedo that it reflects the glow from streetlights with a remarkable intensity. You can drive without headlights at midnight, which is exactly what I did. It was beautiful. "I love Christmas," I thought to myself when I arrived home from Duffy's Tavern, just drunk enough to wrap myself in a terry-cloth robe and watch Pamela Anderson perform oral s.e.x on Tommy Lee.

Every holiday season, I rewatch my illegally dubbed Pamela-Tommy s.e.x tape. It's sort of my version of It's a Wonderful Life It's a Wonderful Life. There is no thrill in seeing it anymore, and certainly no prurient rush: It is probably the least arousing videotape I own, with the possible exception of Walking with Dinosaurs Walking with Dinosaurs. However, it's also the only "important" videotape I own, and it's important because it shows how uns.e.xy oral s.e.x can represent what we want as a society (or maybe what we're afraid to want). Everyone is willing to cla.s.sify Pamela Anderson as a bimbo and a wh.o.r.e and an idealized version of why half the women in America loathe their bodies, and all of that might be true-but what n.o.body seems willing to admit is that she's the most crucial woman of her generation, partially because we hate to think about what Pam Anderson's heaving bosom means to our culture.

People freak out whenever you attempt to compare Anderson to Marilyn Monroe. In fact, I used to freak out when others have made that comparison, even though I had no idea why. I was unironically watching the E! network a few years back, and some forgettable bozo kept insisting that Pamela was a Marilyn for the nineties (this was either a retrospective on Baywatch Baywatch or a promotional special for or a promotional special for V.I.P V.I.P., but I can't remember which). Somehow, this bozo's a.s.sertion made me vaguely angry, which is how I used to react whenever someone claimed Metallica was my generation's Led Zeppelin.

My desire to protect Marilyn Monroe is inexplicable; I have no idea why I would feel territorial about the legacy of a woman who died ten years before I was born. Marilyn died young and lonely, so (I suppose) it's impossible not to feel a certain sense of compa.s.sion for her-but it's also hard to imagine anyone who benefited more from an early death. James Dean comes close, but it's entirely possible he might have made a handful of good films in his forties, and beyond; it's unlikely Monroe could have had any long-term career. Film revisionists have taken to insisting she was an underrated actress (mostly because of Some Like It Hot, Bus Stop, Some Like It Hot, Bus Stop, and and Niagara Niagara), but it's actually the other way around: So many people have retrospectively declared her acting to be "underrated" that she's become overrated, overrated, simply because she didn't make enough important films to vindicate her advocates' claims. simply because she didn't make enough important films to vindicate her advocates' claims.

However, Monroe was the most significant female figure of the middle twentieth century (cinematically or otherwise), and that had almost nothing to do with acting. Both physically and philosophically, Norma Jean was the incarnation of the early fifties s.e.xual archetype. And ironically, that's why that forgettable bozo on E! was right when he compared Monroe to Pamela Anderson, even though he'd never be able to explain why. Pam is is the contemporary Marilyn Monroe, inadvertently ill.u.s.trating which aspects of human desire can evolve (and which aspects never will). the contemporary Marilyn Monroe, inadvertently ill.u.s.trating which aspects of human desire can evolve (and which aspects never will).

I can't seem to find a definitive source for Anderson's physical dimensions. The numbers once ran at 362434, but those obviously changed after her 1999 breast reduction. Her height is listed as either five-foot-seven or five-foot-five (although-oddly-never five-foot-six), and her weight is generally placed at 107 pounds. She has what women refer to as an "impossible body," a claim that's only partially contradicted by the fact that her body actually exists. There are scientists (goofball sociobiologists, mostly, and also Desmond Morris) who argue that men are visually (and one a.s.sumes unconsciously) attracted to the "two-thirds ratio" in nature, which is why the cliche dimensions for ideal women somehow became 362436. Man's affinity for this ratio supposedly shows up in everything he creates-architecture, auto cha.s.sis, the circ.u.mference of an Absolut vodka bottle in relation to its height, etc., etc., etc. This is an interesting theory, especially since it would seem to explain why male artists in the sixteenth century were attracted to obese women (one could argue that they were interested in the same 2/3 body ratio and simply inverted the modern-day proportions). Of course, this is a very male-o-centric theory to advocate: Guys would love to somehow prove they want to have s.e.x with Pamela Anderson because of math math.

Still, I can't help but partially believe in this hypothesis, probably because I'm secretly ashamed to be attracted to Pamela Anderson. Somehow, it makes me feel stupid. It's almost like desiring Pam Anderson is like admitting that-s.e.xually-you have no creativity. I would feel much better about myself if I would prefer to go down on Kim Deal or Ellen Barkin. I would somehow feel smarter if what I wanted was even just a model with a mantis-like skeleton body, like Kate Moss. I profoundly prefer to be turned on by any woman who looks vaguely f.u.c.ked-up; that's much more intellectually satisfying. And I know dozens of men who have completely talked themselves into this way of thinking, so much so that they don't even realize they're overcompensating; these are the same people who insist they prefer Mary Ann to Ginger. In fact, I once worked with a guy who told me that he thinks Pamela Anderson is a fundamentally ugly, plastic woman who's "antis.e.xy." His claim is that it's not just that Anderson doesn't excite him-she actually makes him want to recoil. And every woman in our office seemed to like him more after he said that.

What I've come to realize is that a remarkably high percentage of everyday citizens-and this applies to both men and women-actively despise Pam Anderson. Moreover, their dislike for this woman is a completely conscious decision: They've decided to hate Anderson on principle. But what they really hate is the modern world; what they hate is that Pamela Anderson is the incarnation of the perfect, idealized icon we all sort of concede is supposed to be impossible. We've established this unrealistic image of what we want from the human race, but it angers people to see that image in real life. It sort of shows why most Americans hate themselves.

Every so often I stumble across The Man Show The Man Show on Comedy Central, a program where two semi-charming jerks insist that men are brilliant because men are idiots. on Comedy Central, a program where two semi-charming jerks insist that men are brilliant because men are idiots.1 It's the apex of that whole "we men are magnificent b.a.s.t.a.r.ds" movement that began in roughly 1992-I think Tim Allen probably sp.a.w.ned it-and it suggests that true guys can only like beer and football and pork ribs and strippers. Now, granted-these It's the apex of that whole "we men are magnificent b.a.s.t.a.r.ds" movement that began in roughly 1992-I think Tim Allen probably sp.a.w.ned it-and it suggests that true guys can only like beer and football and pork ribs and strippers. Now, granted-these are are things that many men genuinely adore-but not in the rote, unilaterally Sasquatchian manner this kind of shtick always implies. A program like things that many men genuinely adore-but not in the rote, unilaterally Sasquatchian manner this kind of shtick always implies. A program like The Man Show The Man Show is legitimately negative for society, but not because it's misogynistic; is legitimately negative for society, but not because it's misogynistic; The Man Show The Man Show is socially negative because it actively tries to prove an inaccurate hypothesis that too many women already believe: The premise of is socially negative because it actively tries to prove an inaccurate hypothesis that too many women already believe: The premise of The Man Show The Man Show is that all men think exactly the same way. And that consensus makes it difficult to write about Pam Anderson, because everyone a.s.sumes you're just a perv who adores t.i.ts. And that's not true (at least not for me). In truth, you can adore t.i.ts is that all men think exactly the same way. And that consensus makes it difficult to write about Pam Anderson, because everyone a.s.sumes you're just a perv who adores t.i.ts. And that's not true (at least not for me). In truth, you can adore t.i.ts and and you can love Pamela Anderson-and without necessarily a.s.sociating the former with the latter. you can love Pamela Anderson-and without necessarily a.s.sociating the former with the latter.

Am I physically attracted to Pamela Anderson? Of course. But the more I see her, the more I realize I'm not looking at a person I'd like to sleep with; I'm looking at America. And I'm sure a lot of guys who m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed to black-and-white photos of Marilyn Monroe during the Korean conflict had the same experience, even though they probably didn't think about it in those terms.

Answer this question. Let's say you were given two options: You can either (a) have s.e.x with the world's most attractive person, but you can tell no one and no one will ever know, or (b) you can walk through life with that person hand-in-hand, creating the illusion to everyone alive that this individual is your lover-even though you will never so much as kiss.

Which would you pick?

If you're like most people, your immediate gut reaction is to take option "a" Everyone seems to say this at first blush, mostly because we all want to imagine ourselves as visceral beings (this is especially true of men, who always always pick "a" immediately). However, if you keep talking to someone about this question, and you start pointing out the specifics of what these two scenarios mean, you'll find that everybody eventually admits that the second alternative would be more satisfying. And this query always makes me think about Marilyn Monroe and her 1954 marriage to Joe DiMaggio. pick "a" immediately). However, if you keep talking to someone about this question, and you start pointing out the specifics of what these two scenarios mean, you'll find that everybody eventually admits that the second alternative would be more satisfying. And this query always makes me think about Marilyn Monroe and her 1954 marriage to Joe DiMaggio.

Despite lasting only nine months, the Monroe-DiMaggio union was probably the most perfect marriage in American history. In a way, it seemed like an example of how life is supposed to work: The s.e.xiest, most desirable woman on the planet fell in love with the coolest, most beloved stud of the Greatest Generation. Yet this marriage was doomed; in fact, my suspicion is that the relations.h.i.+p was even more of a nightmare than we know. The more we learn about DiMaggio, the more he seems like a cold, sullen bada.s.s who was always alone (even in a roomful of people).2 And as for Marilyn...well, she personifies every beautiful/crazy/s.e.xy/suicidal woman I've ever met (and you know the type of person I'm referring to-this is the kind of girl who's depressed by the irrational notion that men only want her for her physical appearance but who still cannot shake the equally irrational fear that she is somehow overweight and repulsive). I am certain that having s.e.x with Marilyn Monroe was four minutes of ecstasy followed by five hours of frustration. This is one of the reasons why DiMaggio couldn't make his marriage work, yet still felt compelled to decorate her crypt with roses for the next four decades. Remember that question I posed two paragraphs ago? Joltin' Joe is just about the only man in history who faced this hypothetical And as for Marilyn...well, she personifies every beautiful/crazy/s.e.xy/suicidal woman I've ever met (and you know the type of person I'm referring to-this is the kind of girl who's depressed by the irrational notion that men only want her for her physical appearance but who still cannot shake the equally irrational fear that she is somehow overweight and repulsive). I am certain that having s.e.x with Marilyn Monroe was four minutes of ecstasy followed by five hours of frustration. This is one of the reasons why DiMaggio couldn't make his marriage work, yet still felt compelled to decorate her crypt with roses for the next four decades. Remember that question I posed two paragraphs ago? Joltin' Joe is just about the only man in history who faced this hypothetical for real for real and somehow picked and somehow picked both both options. And it's that second option-the lonely, painful option "b"-that matters metaphorically. What's compelling about the idea of the Monroe-DiMaggio relations.h.i.+p-and the MonroeArthur Miller relations.h.i.+p, and the Monroe-JFK relations.h.i.+p-is not the idea of them being together. It's the idea of them not being together. It's the hollow reality of things not working out. It's about Monroe being unattainable to everyone-world-cla.s.s athletes, brilliant playwrights, and the only movie star president of the twentieth century. She was above them all. options. And it's that second option-the lonely, painful option "b"-that matters metaphorically. What's compelling about the idea of the Monroe-DiMaggio relations.h.i.+p-and the MonroeArthur Miller relations.h.i.+p, and the Monroe-JFK relations.h.i.+p-is not the idea of them being together. It's the idea of them not being together. It's the hollow reality of things not working out. It's about Monroe being unattainable to everyone-world-cla.s.s athletes, brilliant playwrights, and the only movie star president of the twentieth century. She was above them all.

Oh, I know: Every one of those guys had s.e.x with Marilyn, so it's kind of a naive notion to think of her as pure. But it's not so much that Monroe seemed virginal; it's more like she seemed too overtly s.e.xual to actually partic.i.p.ate in the unseemly process of intercourse. Trying to picture Norma Jean (ahem) "getting her freak on" is like trying to imagine Bruce Lee getting into a bar fight: Even in my mind, I can't conceive anything that doesn't seem like cinema. It's impossible to think of Monroe having s.e.x like a normal person. I always imagine a breeze blowing the curtains over the bedpost, and all her naughty bits are hidden; her hair is perfect, and she's sorta smiling with her eyes half closed. It's even PG-13 in my brain in my brain. Norman Mailer used to tell a (possibly) apocryphal story that claims-upon signing her first lucrative contract with Twentieth Century Fox-Monroe sardonically said, "Well, that's the last c.o.c.k I eat." I really hate that story, even if it's true. Marilyn Monroe is the definition of the old-school American s.e.x symbol, and part of that definition is that it's unfathomable to picture her giving anyone a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Conversely, it is not particularly difficult to envision Pamela Anderson doing this. It's actually happening on the TV in my living room as I type this very sentence.3 But what's weird is that my ability to experience Pam enjoying an act I can't even imagine Marilyn performing is not an ill.u.s.tration of how they are different; it somehow makes them more alike. And I think this is because we all unconsciously identify iconic figures with whatever social philosophy they represent (I suppose this is what makes them "iconic"). Monroe and Anderson might suggest totally different worldviews, but they both seem like victims. They're both s.e.xually tragic figures. Looking at the life of Pam Anderson in the present tense tells us as much about ourselves as looking back on Marilyn Monroe tells us about our fathers and mothers. But what's weird is that my ability to experience Pam enjoying an act I can't even imagine Marilyn performing is not an ill.u.s.tration of how they are different; it somehow makes them more alike. And I think this is because we all unconsciously identify iconic figures with whatever social philosophy they represent (I suppose this is what makes them "iconic"). Monroe and Anderson might suggest totally different worldviews, but they both seem like victims. They're both s.e.xually tragic figures. Looking at the life of Pam Anderson in the present tense tells us as much about ourselves as looking back on Marilyn Monroe tells us about our fathers and mothers.

Monroe's men were generally the kind of people I wanted to be until I turned about fourteen: a great athlete, a president, a writer, etc. Anderson's men are the kind of people I want to be whenever I watch doc.u.mentaries about KISS. But both Marilyn and Pam desired what their world valued: Men in the fifties wanted Monroe because she made love to the men they respected; modern men want Anderson because she makes love to the concept of celebrity.

There's no way the modern-day version of Marilyn could date the modern-day version of DiMaggio. Today, there is too much of a chasm between s.e.xuality and "cla.s.sic greatness." DiMaggio wasn't necessarily the finest baseball player on the planet in a technical sense, but he was always the greatest greatest player, inasmuch as he defined what was beautiful and n.o.ble about the art of the game. He was cla.s.sically great. Even when Ted Williams was. .h.i.tting better than Joe, Ted was only striking a leather projectile with a wooden stick; DiMaggio was defining what Americans loved about democracy. Through the 1990s, the closest thing there was to a DiMaggio-esque figure was Michael Jordan; M.J. is the DiMaggio of his age, just as Pam is the Marilyn of hers. But it goes without saying that Michael Jordan could never date Pamela Anderson. That would cause the apocalypse. player, inasmuch as he defined what was beautiful and n.o.ble about the art of the game. He was cla.s.sically great. Even when Ted Williams was. .h.i.tting better than Joe, Ted was only striking a leather projectile with a wooden stick; DiMaggio was defining what Americans loved about democracy. Through the 1990s, the closest thing there was to a DiMaggio-esque figure was Michael Jordan; M.J. is the DiMaggio of his age, just as Pam is the Marilyn of hers. But it goes without saying that Michael Jordan could never date Pamela Anderson. That would cause the apocalypse.

If Jordan dated Pamela Anderson, it would destroy him. He'd still be remembered as the greatest two-guard who ever lived, but his iconography would never be the same. In the eyes of people who obsess over celebrities without really thinking about why they care-in other words, in the eyes of 90 percent of America-Jordan would be dating a s.l.u.t. It would be like the rich, big-toothed high school quarterback showing up at the prom with a Goth chick who'd dropped out of community college to buy a used IROC. America's greatest athletes can no longer date America's greatest s.e.x symbols unless said athletes are willing to become freaks (case in point: Jose Canseco and Dennis Rodman). But back in Monroe's day, it was normal for vixens to date das.h.i.+ng sports stars; Jane Russell was married to Bob Waterfield, and they slept in a Murphy bed in downtown Cleveland. That seemed normal and kind of sweet. Today, that would seem unnatural (and not just because of the Murphy bed). There are a few exceptions, but none of them matter. Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter used to date Mariah Carey, but n.o.body cared; she's crazy and he's not crazy enough. Chris Webber hits it with Tyra Banks, but C-Webb refuses to talk about it and T-Banks evidently can't speak. Canadian hoopster Steve Nash supposedly dated Elizabeth Hurley, but she's about ten times more famous than he is, even in Canada. thinking about why they care-in other words, in the eyes of 90 percent of America-Jordan would be dating a s.l.u.t. It would be like the rich, big-toothed high school quarterback showing up at the prom with a Goth chick who'd dropped out of community college to buy a used IROC. America's greatest athletes can no longer date America's greatest s.e.x symbols unless said athletes are willing to become freaks (case in point: Jose Canseco and Dennis Rodman). But back in Monroe's day, it was normal for vixens to date das.h.i.+ng sports stars; Jane Russell was married to Bob Waterfield, and they slept in a Murphy bed in downtown Cleveland. That seemed normal and kind of sweet. Today, that would seem unnatural (and not just because of the Murphy bed). There are a few exceptions, but none of them matter. Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter used to date Mariah Carey, but n.o.body cared; she's crazy and he's not crazy enough. Chris Webber hits it with Tyra Banks, but C-Webb refuses to talk about it and T-Banks evidently can't speak. Canadian hoopster Steve Nash supposedly dated Elizabeth Hurley, but she's about ten times more famous than he is, even in Canada.4 The reason Pam Anderson can't date M.J. is because being the modern Monroe means there is nothing understated about your s.e.xuality. At all. That's what I mean when I say the gap between s.e.xuality and cla.s.sic greatness has expanded beyond recognition; there is something inherently understated about the term cla.s.sical, cla.s.sical, and there's obviously nothing understated about Pammy. Sleeping with Pam would destroy Jordan's ethos; you can't be the hero to an eight-year-old boy in Duluth and there's obviously nothing understated about Pammy. Sleeping with Pam would destroy Jordan's ethos; you can't be the hero to an eight-year-old boy in Duluth and and the paramour to 107-pound public o.r.g.a.s.matron. But the larger problem is that dating the Michael Jordans of the world is not part of Pam Anderson's job description. Since Pam is the hyperaccelerated manifestation of contemporary s.e.xuality, she is socially obligated to deliver her most intimate gifts to those who represent contemporary America. That's what Marilyn did; she gave her body to the postWorld War II archetypes of sport, art, and politics. She was the lover of-at least the paramour to 107-pound public o.r.g.a.s.matron. But the larger problem is that dating the Michael Jordans of the world is not part of Pam Anderson's job description. Since Pam is the hyperaccelerated manifestation of contemporary s.e.xuality, she is socially obligated to deliver her most intimate gifts to those who represent contemporary America. That's what Marilyn did; she gave her body to the postWorld War II archetypes of sport, art, and politics. She was the lover of-at least for for-cla.s.sic greatness. Pam's in the same position, but she has to be the lover of post-modern greatness. That's why we all had to watch her give a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b to the drummer from Motley Crue.

The newfangled postmodern s.e.x G.o.ddess can't just sleep with a cool guy; she needs to sleep with the entire "concept" of celebrity. For people born in the seventies and eighties, the "concept" of celebrity has replaced people like Joe DiMaggio. On the surface, this probably seems paradoxical, since DiMaggio was was a celebrity. But DiMaggio was a celebrity when "celebrity" wasn't a concept; it was merely a designation. If you asked anyone in 1951 why DiMaggio was a celebrity (or even if you asked someone that question today), they could undoubtedly give a satisfactory answer. However, it's impossible to explain why Tommy Lee is a celebrity. You can't say "because he's a rock star," because he's not; the last record Tommy Lee made that lots of people liked was a celebrity. But DiMaggio was a celebrity when "celebrity" wasn't a concept; it was merely a designation. If you asked anyone in 1951 why DiMaggio was a celebrity (or even if you asked someone that question today), they could undoubtedly give a satisfactory answer. However, it's impossible to explain why Tommy Lee is a celebrity. You can't say "because he's a rock star," because he's not; the last record Tommy Lee made that lots of people liked was Dr. Feelgood, Dr. Feelgood, which came out in 1989. Yet Tommy is far more famous now than he was in 1989, and it's because he's directed his energy into being a celebrity in the conceptual sense. He is famous for being famous, and for behaving famously, and for taking drugs, and for having his relations.h.i.+p with Pam Anderson available on the pay-per-view menu of most hotels (which makes him which came out in 1989. Yet Tommy is far more famous now than he was in 1989, and it's because he's directed his energy into being a celebrity in the conceptual sense. He is famous for being famous, and for behaving famously, and for taking drugs, and for having his relations.h.i.+p with Pam Anderson available on the pay-per-view menu of most hotels (which makes him more more famous, but which only happened because he famous, but which only happened because he was was famous). And he is exactly the type of man Pam Anderson should be with. This is not a criticism of Pam or a backhanded compliment to Tommy; it's just sort of true. famous). And he is exactly the type of man Pam Anderson should be with. This is not a criticism of Pam or a backhanded compliment to Tommy; it's just sort of true.

Pam is the embodiment of modern female s.e.xuality, and that embodiment is a Barbie Doll. But that's not necessarily bad; it's what intellectual men want (because she can be appreciated lecherously and and ironically), and it's what intellectual women want (because it provides the opportunity to rail against Barbie dolls). She's an intellectual symbol of what every forward-thinking feminist has warned us about, and she's a physical symbol of all the things men find alluring (some of which are rudimentary, some of which are complex). Society's relations.h.i.+p with Pam Anderson is exactly like its former relations.h.i.+p with Monroe. What's different is how they respond back. ironically), and it's what intellectual women want (because it provides the opportunity to rail against Barbie dolls). She's an intellectual symbol of what every forward-thinking feminist has warned us about, and she's a physical symbol of all the things men find alluring (some of which are rudimentary, some of which are complex). Society's relations.h.i.+p with Pam Anderson is exactly like its former relations.h.i.+p with Monroe. What's different is how they respond back.

Ultimately, both women serve the same role, and that role is both shallow and profound. People use Monroe and Anderson as a kind of cultural shorthand for understanding the most important s.e.xual mores of entire generations. Marilyn and Pam succeed in that capacity because they're not not complicated; they're s.e.xual for reasons that are complicated; they're s.e.xual for reasons that are only only about s.e.x. Everything else just muddles the equation. I mean, there's probably never been a s.e.xier woman than Elizabeth Taylor in about s.e.x. Everything else just muddles the equation. I mean, there's probably never been a s.e.xier woman than Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but that wasn't just because she looked incredible-that was "acting." She made herself s.e.xier. Monroe never needed to act. In a sense, Taylor was too complex to be an icon of this magnitude. The same thing happened to former MTV personality Jenny McCarthy, a peer of Anderson's, who-for roughly seven weeks in the summer of 1995-was everyone's Woman of the Moment. But her problem was that she became too normal; McCarthy seemed completely aware of who she was and what her b.r.e.a.s.t.s could be extrapolated to say about society. That self-awareness killed her career. At this point, Jenny McCarthy is a likable bombsh.e.l.l who's only slightly more interesting than a bucket of shark chum. She could have been a supernatural pictogram of the new sensuality, but elected to merely become a "person." but that wasn't just because she looked incredible-that was "acting." She made herself s.e.xier. Monroe never needed to act. In a sense, Taylor was too complex to be an icon of this magnitude. The same thing happened to former MTV personality Jenny McCarthy, a peer of Anderson's, who-for roughly seven weeks in the summer of 1995-was everyone's Woman of the Moment. But her problem was that she became too normal; McCarthy seemed completely aware of who she was and what her b.r.e.a.s.t.s could be extrapolated to say about society. That self-awareness killed her career. At this point, Jenny McCarthy is a likable bombsh.e.l.l who's only slightly more interesting than a bucket of shark chum. She could have been a supernatural pictogram of the new sensuality, but elected to merely become a "person."