Be my groupie, please

When I was younger, I imagined myself a bit of a rocker — meaning I’d stand before the full-length mirror in my bedroom wearing my hip-hugger bell-bottoms and tightest, low-cut top, cupping a highlighter pen in my hand as if it were a mic and singing along to Joni Mitchell’s “See You Sometime” or some other ’70s emo song:

Where are you now
Are you in some hotel room
Does it have a view?
Are you caught in a crowd
Or holding some honey
Who came on to you?

It was a nice dream, but my guitar-playing wasn’t quite up to par and, besides, Joni Mitchell, one of my favorite musicians back then, wasn’t even a rocker! You weren’t going to see men ripping off their Hanes and throwing them at her (actually, I wouldn’t
want to see that; I know what guy’s undies look
like after they’re worn. It’s not pretty). 

Men don’t do that anyway; if you’re going to be a groupie and fling your unmentionables on stage, you pretty much have to be a gal.

So that made it easier to give up my rock ‘n’ roll chick fantasies; I was in it for the groupies! Instead,
I decided I’d be a groupie. First, I look good in black (even when screaming hysterically), second, I always wear thongs (they look nice on and thrown casually on stage) and third (and the only thing that matters if you’re a rocker, I suppose), I don’t have any hook-up hang-ups. Not to mention that you don’t need any talent (well, except, you know …)

The problem back then was that I was, well, chicken. I just didn’t have it in me to go up to the
hot lead singer and ask him, “What are you doing later?” I was afraid he’d say, “Banging that blonde over there, little girl,” and by then, the bass player and guitarist would be spoken for and only the overweight, sweaty drummer with the bad haircut would be left. Or the roadies.

When I finally got my sexual mojo, I was married and then, when I got divorced, I was already middle-aged and you can’t — and certainly shouldn’t — be a middle-aged groupie. Even the Stones’ No. 1 groupie Marianne Faithfull (who
once said, “My first move was to get a Rolling Stone
as a boyfriend. I slept with three and decided the lead singer was the best”) knew when to give it up.

So, I missed my calling as a rocker and as a groupie. What’s left?

A Facebook fan page.

I know, I know — I’m cringing, too. When I got invites from a few of the bloggers I follow — Dad’s House and Single Mom Says — to fan them on Facebook I thought, what, is being a Facebook friend suddenly chopped liver?

Asking someone to be your “fan” seems a bit presumptuous, especially if you don’t “do” anything. Well, I blog, but so do about, what, 50 million other people, sometimes intelligently and other times with meaningless “disgorgement of the bowels,” as someone once observed. I sure hope I’m in the former category!

But, is any of that preventing me from creating a Facebook fan page anyway? Noooo …

And, it’s not like being a fan of Walmart or something like that (although, granted, I’m not offering you discounts; but, who knows what the future holds?)

So, if you like what I write here, please “fan” me; it’s the next best thing to my rocker chick/groupie fantasy.

Plus, you get to keep your undies.

Photo © Roman Makhmutov – Fotolia.com