Why a Preacher’s Daughter has Kid Rock on the top of her Celebrity DO list

“Your first CD was Devil Without a Cause… Remember this”

It’s not often that a smoke filled stadium ever means more to me than 7 dollar beers, red lip stick & a torn AC/DC shirt worn with ridiculously inappropriate high heels that could hold their own in any Pearl Jam mosh pit. Usually the tickets are bought last minute, the greatest hits are given a run though in the shower and I spend most of my time applying fake eyelashes as opposed to listening to “the new stuff”. It’s always a good time. You leave without a voice and a ringing in your ears and 50,000 new friends who you have something in common with.

Once in a Blue Moon though, a concert rolls around that you HAVE to go and see. You simply MUST go see it. In fact, if you DON’T see it, you will surely DIE. And no, you can’t wear an AC/DC t-shirt because you are NOT going to see AC/DC and that would be disrespectful and no, you can’t just listen to the number ones because that would be depreciating the artist who spent years and years fighting and creating hundreds of masterpieces that are all worth their weight in gold, and NO! You can’t just bring anybody because anybody wouldn’t freaking APPRECIATE the freaking art! Would they? WOULD THEY!?!?

Enter: Kid Rock

I know, right? What the hell would a debatably-respectable girl like me be doing filling my ears with crap like “skinny models? You can keep those. I like big, corn fed, mid-western Ho’s”. But seriously, no joke, he is the Bull God. No, you ain’t never met a Mother Fucker quite like him. He’s a Cowboy, you can call him Tex. An American Bad Ass. Sometimes he feels like Jackson, Mississippi. He is Georgia. He is Memphis, Tennessee. He is everything Hollywood wants to be. He’s been down that lonely road of faith. Bawidabaw. Born Free. WHATEVER. I love everything that he stands for and he makes me tingle from my toes up.

Yes, I know, if you look at the profile pictures of all of my ex boyfriends on Facebook you can see the pattern. I like rough-necks, OK? But could it be, perhaps, that this isn’t because I’m drawn to make-work projects and fixer-uppers? Could it be, perhaps that this isn’t because I have such low self-esteem that I need someone to make me feel good about myself? Could it be, perhaps, that this isn’t because I’m such a goody-two-shoes that I need other people to make mistakes on my behalf? Could it maybe, just maybe, be that these men – despite being a little “rough around the edges” actually have what it takes to satisfy me?

You see, as much as my Father wants me to end up with a Lawyer or a Doctor or someone who can sit through a five-star, five-course family meal and continuously manage to use the right fork, maintain eye contact and small talk at the same time, and nonchalantly quote Hemingway in the most suitable of circumstances I have yet to find one of these men who actually does it for me. Usually, because they’re boring as hell.

Enter: Kid Rock

I’ve become a big fan of “what you see is what you get” lately.  I like it all up front.  I don’t want to dig around to find out that you’re a serial cheater or a closet piccolo player or a chronic nose-blower.  I want to know immediately.  And not because I’ve asked the right questions either, but because you’ve straight up said “listen here, girl.  I play the piccolo, I blow my nose a lot and I cheat on all my girlfriends- but I want you to give me a chance.”  Bingo, bango, bongo, Luongo.  It’s now a take it or leave it situation and chances are, if you take it, at least you won’t be disappointed.

So when Kid Rock says that he likes to [blank] hot [blank] until it’s [blank], I’m going to take his word for it.  When he straight up tells me that his plans for the summer are to buy a yacht that be chillin’ the most and he wants to rock that bitch up and down the coast, I’m gonna say hey, ok, those are you’re plans, we’ll make it work.  When he tells me he’s cocky, but it don’t matter cause he can back it up (he gets more ass than Mark McGrath, remember?) I’m going to have to say fair enough and when he says that he takes strippers out to breakfast and that he’s got kids he’s never seen and them mama’s 17 and his best friend’s in a gun rack I am just going to throw my arms up and say praise you, Rock ‘n Roll Jesus, Praise you.  Because now I know what the heck I’m getting myself into.

If I have to spend one more second with a grown man who doesn’t know how to make up his own mind, who’s too scared to just say what he’s thinking and who seriously thinks that “All summer long” is the best Kid Rock song I’m going to go ballistic.

So I went with my nearest and dearest loves.  The boys who drink whiskey on the rocks, yell “fuck” a little too loudly, and have seriously heated conversations about how much ammunition costs these days.   The girls who aren’t afraid to have a beer (or 4), who aren’t too self-conscious to get a little rowdy and who can hold there own in a group of boys talking about ammunition.  & I haven’t felt more like myself in ages.

So we turned the class down for a night, who cares?  At least we got real.

xo & yw