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What does it say about me, as a person, that I was disappointed to the extreme of grabbing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie (the only kind that truly makes life’s injustices seem insignificant) to temper my dejection – and all because Rock of Love Bus wasn’t on last night at its regularly scheduled time?   I mean, the draw is certainly not Bret Michaels - a fossilized rocker with bleach-bad hair extensions, a strangely permanently puckered pucker, and skanky taste in women. Although, his poking fun at his own expense narratives do redeem him a bit.   It’s also not his music, because despite the worthy ballad Every Rose Has Its Thorn that was great to grab a** and suck face to 20 years ago in the corner of a high school gym dance, I’m not feeling it. I’ll still take Def Leppard creaking around the stage over Poison any day.   I think it must be the are-these-women-for-real gals who, for a third season...
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