My Rock Star Boyfriend

Meet Dave.

Dave says "Hi everyone."

Ah, Dave: genius behind the Foo Fighters, tattoo-marked, shaggy-haired, sexy in his waif-like/starving artist frame. Dave: My Rock Star Boyfriend.

Yes, I said "rock star boyfriend." We all have one, or have had one. The rock star boyfriend, of course, is nowhere near the same as a movie star boyfriend. The rock star boyfriend is that special brand of bad boy that is always safe in his unattainability. And while some melt over Eddie Van Halen and others over Justin Timberlake, I have always been partial to Dave.

I don't know what it is. Is it his sense of humor (have you seen the Foo Fighters' music videos, folks)? The gruffness in his voice when he's ripping out an acoustic "Everlong"? The way his greasy hair falls in his face? His ability to play any and every instrument which defines the rock star? I don't know. He's a bit odd-looking, to be sure. Not a pretty boy at all. But he has that extra something that for whatever reason has allowed me to engage in a mature, adult, committed, one-sided rock star relationship. Don't worry, in this rock star relationship there are no posters on my walls or false fantasies of Dave writing a song for me one day. There is merely a deep appreciation for everything he does...and that he is male and I am female. Yes, Dave and I, were we to ever meet, would certainly have chemistry.

Dave says "Ah, honey, that's sweet of you!"

Anytime, Dave. Anytime.

So what about you. Who is your rock star boyfriend? And why?

Oh, and, don't tell Dave, but that deep appreciation can only exist because of his safe distance. See, I once dated a wanna-be rock star. He seemed as close as I would get to my dangerous rock star dreams: shady past, his bed was the floor of his barren apartment located in the scary part of town, a whopping two t-shirts to his name, calloused fingers, the sweep of hair in his face. It all felt so ALTERNATIVE, so DANGEROUS, so MYSTERIOUS. One session of him playing a pitiful acoustic version of the great Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" (directed, of course, at me, and yes it was as uncomfortable as you might think it would be and yes, I did manage to hold a straight face with much concentration) and the image was gone. Poof. That's all it took. Just like that my dreams of dating an edgy, starving musician disappeared. He became just one more dorky, awkward guy with a guitar. And the bad boy reputation: not so attractive up close.