Since this was pre-widespread Internet use and pre-cellphones news travelled the old-fashioned way by TV and telephone. I learned about River Phoenix’s death when my friend Whitley called to tell me. Or maybe I got my Mom’s call first. I know it wasn’t Jodi Hanson’s call first, but maybe it was Nikki’s. I don’t remember exactly. All I do know is that my friends and family were curious I was handling the death of someone I fell in love with sometime in 1987. A love that I very clearly communicated to anyone who would listen.

Today, I’m getting that deja vu feeling with the news that Bret Michaels is in critical condition with a brain hemorrhage. Once again my friends and family have flooded me with the news of Bret’s condition. Again, I guess I’m not subtle with voicing my affection. Even Sister #2 asked if I was, and I quote, “freaking out.”

I’m not freaking out. I’m concerned. It’s the kind of concern I’d have for any person I never met but who had entertained me for many hours.

What I’m really curious about is how long it takes to recover from something like this. FFJ and I have tickets for his June 4th concert at the Medina Ballroom. Is a brain hemorrhage something that you walk away from and start rocking out on stage a mere six weeks later?

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Bret seals the deal. Obviously. I’m not sure why he has so much sway over my television habits, but he does. I wasn’t a big Poison fan either. Though I do remember singing a particularly memorable a capella version of “Talk Dirty to Me” in Jenny Trunnel’s driveway. I had the 45 and loved the hell out of that song.

Really, Sister #3 was the Poison fan. She papered her bedroom walls (at least the walls she was allocated under the Sister Shared Bedroom Wall Act of 1991) with pictures of Michaels and Poison. I think her sixth or seventh grade school picture prominently features a Poison t-shirt.

But in summer of 07 when Rock of Love first premiered I fell under the spell of Bret Michaels, and I cannot even figure out why. He has fake Barbie hair, his music is not my thing, and I’m not even partial to blondes at all. In fact, of all the hair colors blondes are my least favorite.

There’s a lot of bad hair on this show between the Don and Bret and Rod Blagoblahblah. But that’s beside the point.

The point is I am sitting here, a little giddy, at watching Bret Michaels fry up some burgers. What happened here? I wish someone could explain it.

P.S.POILER. Bret’s team Rocksolid just won the first task. And I feel bad for rooting for the men, and against Cyndi Lauper.

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I am a person who gets excited when going to bed Saturday night because that means when I wake up I get to watch Meet the Press and then Whore Bus — easily my favorite two hours of television the whole week. A friend of mine remarked last week that he would not be surprised to learn that I had been seriously injured by shrapnel from my Tivo, because that combination must make it a little unstable.

Men always seem surprised by my devotion to Whore Bus. Women, totally get it. I am not sure what this says about gender roles or stereotypes.

It is a little odd that I continue loving the Sunday-morning skankfest when I find my tolerance for sexism has been decimated. It’s not as though I had a high tolerance to begin with, but working in a predominantly male environment has made me more acutely aware of my femininity.

Now, I’ve lost my train of thought. Jaycie just popped up on instant messanger and started busting my chops about Powerpoint and clipart.

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