Scene: The grand entrance/foyer of the Rock of Love 2 set. Three a.m. after the last bout of eliminations. Bret Michaels enters in pajamas and matching bandana. His hair lacks its usual luster and lays around his crown, limp, lifeless. Bret walks as if in dream. He kneels by the golden staircase. He is mumbling the Lord's Prayer.
Bret: (turning to audience)...in earth as it is on heaven, amen. (During the amen, Bret Michaels bows his head and his bandana, the symbol of his Samsonian strength, falls to ground. He is, as we have all suspected for a long time now, bald underneath)
(He turns to address an imaginary audience)
Oh lord, what a man am I? "I'm sorry Aubry, but I just see us more as friends"--this to a woman, who, an hour ago, I was filmed finger-banging underneath a table shaped like a Fender guitar. "Kristi-Jo, will you stay here and rock my world?" Ugh! What sort of manner of BULLSHIT is that, Bret? No, it doesn't feel good. Maybe at first, during the first season, when I still had the strength to fool myself into thinking it would be fun, that I was actually in it for romance, for nothin' but good time, for something other than ratings.
Now, ratings, ratings pleasing to the Gods of Viacom, they have the final say in whether I continue to live, or whether I disappear, fully, blissfully into the ether of no man's land, appearing maybe only on a stint of next season's Celebrity Rehab. Oh god, if only. Even Scott Baio has it better. He, at least, gets to live out some sort of Nick Hornby novel, being followed around on his quest to ask his exes the million-dollar "what does it all mean?" He comes off as a lovable man-child...me? A monster, a George Saunders character (what? you think I don't read?) living in a dystopian Disneyland, a laughable old putz who holds sway over a dwindling gaggle of beautiful, pathetically excitable girls, yet receiving no pleasure, living as he does, under the constant fear of cancellation.
Girls, these girls, ladies, women...who you would think would be transparent enough to see through, but no...some of them I truly believe do care about me, despite seeing me make out sloppily with their competition, day in, day out. Yet, they claim they love me with a vehemence that I dare not dispute. Oh, Megan, oh Ambre, oh Daisy, how I love your sullied naïveté, envy your vicious spirit, and crave your ability to see only one thing in me--someone who will bring them all the way to the top, who will provide. If only I believed that about myself. I have such, such anxiety. You have no idea. Half the time I'm riding around on a motorcycle, hopped so full of Xanax I don't care whether I live or die. That's why the producers invented the "competition" portion of the show, where I get you girls naked and wrestling in mud, or chasing around a pig, or driving highly dangerous race cars, all in an effort to outdo each other. The purpose is not just schadenfreude or humiliation, ladies, it's to give me less screen time. Even I, Bret Michaels, am being phased out of my own show. I can't keep wearing this bandana forever.
When I penned that immortal phrase, how would I know how true the rose and thorn metaphor would go? And what about the title? "Let me be your Rock of Love?" It has continued to baffle me, the levels of this statement. Rock, as in, stone? As in impermeable, solid, something that never changes? Something to rely on? How I wish for that interpretation, but nay, I fear it holds another meaning altogether. Rock, as in "Rock'n' Roll!!!" a conceit I knew as a false idol from my last go-round, whose properties are aggression and fear, animalistic and fleeting. It is a game for the young children, despite what Keith and Ozzy will tell you. And I fear that is the "rock" of love that you desire from me, that essence that I no longer possess to give you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
(Bret breaks down in sobs. As if on cue, Angelique, the French porn star who was eliminated in episode 3, slides down the banister as if on a stripper pole)
Bret: (back in character, yet with a hint of sadness, desperation, something deeper underneath the facade...retrieving the symbol of his manhood and placing it back on his head, adjusting)...So then, I see Angelique, and you know...me likey! And I said to myself, "Bret! Here we go again, dude!"
(music swells, end scene)