This week rocker, actor and all-around heartthrob Jon Bon Jovi takes your questions.
Welcome to the latest installment of “Superstar RADvice,” our advice column written by a superstar. This week rocker, actor and all-around heartthrob Jon Bon Jovi takes your questions.
For close to 40 years I’ve been repping my native and much-maligned New Jersey, trying to show the world the inherent nobility, romance and grace of its working-class inhabitants. And then I turn on the television the other day and I see these douchelords on Jersey Shore ... have I been wrong all these years? Was all my effort for nothing? – B. Springsteen
Well, I have a soft spot for the Jersey Shore cast. They’re almost family to me! I’ll bet you anything that back in the late ’80s, two horny teenagers were bonin’ in the back of an IROC-Z while listening to Slippery When Wet , and nine months later, out popped “Snooki.” But you know what? In all honesty, I hate New Jersey. It’s not the armpit of America, it’s the festering anal pustule of America. Every day I shake my fists at the heavens for choosing it as the place of my birth. But I decided real early on that if my career ever fell into the shitter, I was better off having at least one place—the place I came from—that still loved me and supported me. Last I checked, there’s about nine million people in New Jersey. I figured that if even five percent of ’em kept buying my albums and my T-shirts and kept coming to my shows, I’d be one well-taken-care-of mofo. You think Mellencamp ever pays for a meal or car repair in Indiana? So I always just sucked it up, painful as it was sometimes, and showed that “Jersey pride.” I didn’t count on becoming a mega-rich global superstar, though, so now I’m stuck flying the flag for that Garden State shithole until the day I die. Oh well. Maybe it’s not too late for you to find a new state to rep. I hear Rhode Island is pretty cool.
I used to be in a hair-metal band that topped the charts. Now I play state fairs and I’m a walking punchline best known for being on schlocky reality TV dating shows. How can I get my career back on track? – B. Michaels
I’m not sure what to tell you. Some of us are blessed with stunning good looks, perfect hair and teeth, the voice of an angel, songwriting genius, Oscar-caliber acting abilities, a saintly aura for all of the charitable work we do, and the good sense to change musical styles when it goes out of fashion, all of which helps us maintain our richly deserved success and godlike standing in the world. Others of us just aren’t as blessed—they’re desperate, no-talent hacks who look more and more like Fergie the more plastic surgery they get. And I’m afraid that once you’re washed-up, there’s simply no coming back. Sorry, man.
I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that I’m losing my hair and I can’t hide it anymore with weird combing techniques and other optical illusions. Do you think I should get a hairpiece, or maybe try Rogaine? Or should I just shave my head? – D. Trump
Wow, your question just sent chills up and up my spine. Look, you do whatever you have to do to keep your hair! If you have to fly to a European clinic for a promising experimental treatment, or to some South American jungle where a shaman will spread a mix of tree bark and frog intestines on your scalp to keep your hair healthy and flowing, you do it. Take it from me—not only do I have a different stylist for each strand of my hair, I have a team of doctors, researchers and Nobel-winning astrophysicists tending to the top of my head at least 18 hours a day. Sensor alarms go off when so much as one hair falls out from where it shouldn’t. The day my hair goes is the day my career goes. Better to have the same ’do as one of Richie Sambora’s girlfriends than no hair at all. Whatever you do, my friend, do not give up. Hair equals life.
Wed., March 24, 7:30pm. $12-$500. Wachovia Center, 3601 S. Broad St. 800.298.4200. wachoviacenter.com
You know when I sleep? From 1 a.m. to 1:15 a.m. You know what I did this morning? I bench-pressed 500 pounds for three hours. Then I wrote 12 poems. Are they any good? Fuck no. But I did it.
I’m a performing artist who can’t help putting my foot in my mouth almost every time I’m in front of the cameras or the microphones. I don’t always mean to say dumb things, but sometimes it just happens. It’s a real problem. What should I do?
Floetry’s Philadelphia story