Somewhere in North Jersey, in the cavernous bathroom of a more-money-than-taste mansion, Jon Bon Jovi blow-dries his hair and stares at himself in a mirror, his tresses and layers and waves billowing about him like a boat’s sail caught in the breeze.
He is lost in thought:
- God, I’m sexy.
- People say having a rest stop named after you on the Garden State Parkway is a tremendous honor. But what’s to be proud of? It’s just a place where people go to the bathroom or buy Cheetos.
- What’s that even mean to have a loaded six-string on your back? Where did I come up with that crap?
- Jesus Christ, will you look at my hair’s magnificence? Sure, I’m grey. Sure, I’m getting old. Whatever. I’m still too hot for this sorry state. These locks have the power to move mountains, to convince middle-aged women to buy concert T-shirts.
- I still don’t know why people didn’t see that submarine movie I was in. Who doesn’t love submarines? The Beatles sang about one, and it worked fine for them. Or was that because it was yellow?
- You know what really scares me? Climate change. If it destroys the world, I’m not sure where I’ll get my hair cut. I don’t think I can expect any special treatment at a hair salon. When the world is on fire, people won’t care that I wrote “Bed of Roses.”
- If the shit does hit the fan, I better stock up on conditioner.
- Maybe I should make up with that bastard Richie Sambora. We’re not getting any younger. I should ring him up, and ask if he wants to go get ice cream.
- God almighty, look at how my hair sparkles. It shines so bright Santa could use it to guide his sleigh. It’s like a solar eclipse. If you stare too closely at it, you could go blind.
- Okay, I admit it. I’m jealous of Bruce. I wish he would have a stroke or heart attack and disappear under the boardwalk somewhere. I could then take my rightful place as the lord of the shore, the prince of the Meadowlands, and the king of all the state’s swamps, refineries, and pizzerias.
- Yeah, I sing “Livin’ on a Prayer,” but I’ve never been that close to the edge in real life. I’ve never stared into the abyss and peered into the dark recesses of my soul. The closest I’ve come to desperation was backstage at Giants Stadium when I couldn’t find a curling iron 20 minutes before showtime.
- I wonder what my legacy will be. Have I written any timeless music that will be passed down from one generation to another? In two centuries, will mothers sing “Lay Your Hands on Me” to their babies?
- I actually don’t want to die in a blaze of glory. I’d rather just stay sexy forever.
