Crock of Love

Last night's Rock of Love: Reunion on VH1 brought the LSEs (in case you haven't been following, LSEs are the women of low self-esteem who competed for the affections of Poison front man, Bret Michaels) back into one room to reminisce about the drama of sharing a house for a couple of weeks.

The show's winner, a bright and attractive 23-year-old named Jes, showed up, too, seemingly having come to the realization that her prize is no prize at all. Due to show rules, she and Bret weren't allowed to see each other for six months (or until the series aired, to avoid spoiling the outcome). You could liken her demeanor to that of someone who woke up with a wicked hangover after a Jaeger Meister binge: What the hell was I thinking?

She all but handed Bret back to her former rival, a stripper named Heather, who'd proclaimed her love for the follically-challenged singer. Heather was only too glad to be able to take another shot at him.

Since I do believe the theory that women who love substandard men tend to suffer poor relationships with their own fathers, I don't get Heather's passion for sleep-around Mr. Michaels. Heather seems to enjoy a happy relationship with her dad. In a previous episode, we Rock of Love viewers witnessed her and Bret slapping knees while the old man went through his repetoire of fart stories.

Why any woman would pine for Bret baffles me. Jes seemed utterly bored by him during her reunion with him last night, but Sam, the contestant ridiculed for excessive sensitivity, explained the disillusionment that resulted in her desire to pack her bags and get the hell off the show.

She said, that at the beginning of the taping, she'd hoped to forge a "mental connection" with the Poison singer, but she soon saw that it was impossible, especially since she'd learned he'd been having sex with another contestant, a troublemaker named Lacy. He'd also engaged in a three-way with two other contestants.

"I could never trust you," she earnestly told Bret. He sat there and nodded, too dumb or depraved to understand that she'd insulted him in the worst possible way on national television.

But she told the truth.

In the end, I felt sorry for old Bret, grasping at the last straws of fame under his bandana and pancake makeup. He doesn't get that it's not sex and booze that make for an enduring rock career (ask Springsteen). It's the ability to grow as a person and as an artist. The music has to go beyond the sentiment of "Talk Dirty to Me."

Honesty helps, too.

Show us what's under the bandana, Bret.