I seldom allow myself to get caught up in sappy romanticism, but I continue to watch the unfolding Neal Schon/Michaela Salahi affair in sort of the same attitude as Central Ohio drivers who can’t help but to slow down (or stop entirely) to gawk at the daily freeway carnage. I don’t want to watch- and it makes me feel a bit dirty and voyeuristic doing so- but in a twisted sort of way I can’t help myself.
The fact that Neal Schon is one of my most favorite musicians doesn’t help here. If he were just an aging, mousy little-big-man – who didn’t pretty much write the soundtrack behind most of my life, I wouldn’t care. I normally don’t give a rat’s ass who celebrities are, let alone who celebrities are screwing. I try not to remember that most other people actually get some from time to time. But the story behind this dalliance strikes a chord.
It’s easy to step back and brand Michaela as a “groupie slut” but I identify with her storyline more than I would like to admit. I know what it is to be a largely ignored, unloved wife. I can’t claim to either be attractive or to have as attractive or interesting (or wealthy) past lovers as Neal Schon, but I do admit that if I were given the right offer, hell, if I were shown the least bit of affection, I could see myself doing the same thing. Especially if the offer involved being backstage with Journey and getting warmed up in Neal Schon’s bed every night.
I don’t see the opportunity arising for me, as I have all the sex appeal of a mutant troll. I gave up on all the fairy tale BS back when I was 13. My best friend swore I would die an old maid, and my sister informed me that I might as well resign myself to trolling for dates at the blind school if I ever wanted a man. If I looked like Michaela, I would have more to choose from besides men with either deep appearance, hygiene and/or deep psychological abnormalities. I wouldn’t put up with any shit from a man either. I might actually stand a chance of believing in all that knight in shining armor business, but in order to go fishing you have to have bait, and I’ve already gotten as good as my pathetic bait will ever attract. Jerry does bathe, and he does have hair and teeth. Hygiene (at least personal hygiene) isn’t his major malfunction. Bonus. Now if he weren’t raised by wolves (and if he hadn’t done all those drugs back in the 70’s and 80’s) he might have turned out OK, but I can’t ask for mental or emotional stability and regular bathing. That would be out of my league. Last night’s drunken tirade was regarding how he thought the new shampoo I got him resembled horse jizz and that he wasn’t going to shampoo his hair with jizz. It was mildly funny, but now I have to go back to CVS and get him the two-in-one Pantene he’s used to instead of the “Hair Thickening Formula for Men By L’Oreal,” that apparently is a bit too jizzy for his majesty’s liking. Such is my fate. Some women get Neal Schon playing a special lead solo for their birthday, while I get the horse jizz tirade.
If I did have appropriate bait, or even more humanoid proportions, I might still want to pick one taller than me.(easy enough when you’re only 5’4″,and even Jerry is 5’10”) I think Michaela must be at least 6’6″, so for her, finding a taller man might not be terribly easy to do. It is kind of funny that Neal is only about 5’7″- and her height makes his shortness painfully obvious.
However, I could get past a guy being extremely short if he’s 1. the finest living guitarist in the world, and 2. able to buy me lingerie on Rodeo Drive. I might even tell a few people what I think about their opinions.
I could overlook a LOT if a guy were a non-smoker, non-drinker who could actually pick his own whitey tighties up off the floor, but I know I am asking way too much here.
Admittedly I did feel a twinge of jealousy- not so much over Neal and Michaela – Neal Schon is way, way, way out of my pathetic league, but because no man will ever look at me in that way. Granted, their relationship may be a tempest in a teapot, but it’s a hell of a ride while it lasts. Might as well be happy and let them enjoy it. Anyone who is fortunate to find love, if even for a moment, should be allowed to make the most of it. Those of us who live in the world of, “Is he passed out on the john again?” can only envy you from afar.
I can’t say that I could condemn either one of them. If anything it proves that they’re only human, and nobody really knows the story under the surface. Of course this affair may turn out to be shallow, temporary and sleazy, but whose business is that? Perhaps some of my own jealousy is knowing that Other People have fantasies come true, when I come home only to wonder if Jerry will get drunk and stupid enough to wet the bathroom floor again.
Jerry is consistent though. I know sort of what to expect, so he scores one for predictability.