Once Upon A Time, Not So Long Ago
So. Guess what I did last night? It is four words long. Each word is beautiful and glorious, and the words are:
That is right. Thank you, Dukay, for introducing me to the world of FauxJon and his tight blue jeans and beautiful overprocessed hair. This may be the best gift I have ever received. Bon Jovi Cover Band is the gift of love.
Now, let's talk about the Bon Jovi Cover Band for a moment. First of all, let's discuss the fact that the FauxJon looks EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi. EXACTLY. And he sounds EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi.
EX. ACT. LY. I really can't emphasize this enough. It is a doppelganger situation. One of the two is clearly an evil twin.
And this made me think. Really, there were not a lot of options about what FauxJon could do with his life. At some point he had to have a Major Realization, that, man, I do look exactly like Bon Jovi. What the hell do I do with that?
I mean, he couldn't be, like, an accountant. What would you do, if you went in to see your accountant, and he WAS Jon Bon Jovi? You would freak the heck OUT, is what you would do, and you would say, "Dude, you look JUST LIKE BON JOVI and it is FREAKING ME THE HECK OUT." And then you would find someone else to do your accounting, because you don't really know what kind of money management skills Jon Bon Jovi possesses. I mean, yeah, he wrote Livin' on a Prayer and all, but that does not qualify him to handle my IRA.
FauxJon was directly in front of me, which enabled me to see his rippling thigh muscles through his criminally tight jeans, and which also allowed for some Very Special Moments between FauxJon and myself. It was a standing-room-only situation, and I was there with a bunch of people, and I ended up front and center, DIRECTLY in front of the FauxJon, where I proceeded to develop a HUGE FauxCrush because...Bon Jovi! Almost! I was tremendously in love with Jon in the early eighties, and last night, I felt all that prepubescent, statutory affection rushing back in an Exclamation!-perfume-scented wave, and it made me nostalgic for a simple time where my greatest challenge in life was convincing my father that it WAS TOTALLY COOL for Boy George to wear more makeup than my mother, and that large, teased hair = perfection from Jesus.
I mean, GOD. Dad, do you really want to hurt Boy George? Do you really want to make him cry when you make fun of his eyeshadow?
Anyway. So, moments of LOVE between FauxJon and myself, culminating with his singing, "You were born to be my baby," DIRECTLY TO ME (I have witnesses!), to which I shouted back, "BABY, YOU WERE MADE TO BE MY MAN, FAUXJON!"
And then I considered throwing my bra on the stage and screaming "NEW JERSEY!" but that is when I remembered that...FauxJon. It may walk like a duck, and sound like a duck, but at the end of the day, that guy's real name is probably Henry.
But I was, apparently, the only one to have that realization, because...y'all, people were IN to the cover band. Girls were shrieking, like old-sixties-film-Beatles-shrieking, and guys were pounding their fists into the air, and Dukay sat on the sidelines with our friends who are way too cool to be, like, MOSHING at a fake Bon Jovi concert, DUH. But not me, who was (let's recall) FRONT AND CENTER, receiving a personal serenade about how I was made for FauxJon, and he was made for me, and the love that we share will almost certainly result in several children who are all born with processed hair and dimples, and that is FINE, that is all I need out of life.
We built up to a frenzy of FauxExcitement, and everyone was screaming, and the lights were flashing, as they played the last, shrieking strains of Bad Medicine (that is what I NEED), the drummer (FauxSomeoneElse) stood from behind his drums, and, overcome, threw his drumstick into the crowd, and...
WHUNK! Right across my nose. Ow.
This morning I awoke with the bittersweet memories of my FauxEvening, my ill-fated, brief, FauxLove, and one VERY VERY REAL AND OW DON'T TOUCH PAINFUL bruise across the bridge of my nose.
1987, y'all. Good place to visit, but you wouldn't want to stay there, because...it's tough. So tough.