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Allow me, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.

At the ripe age of four, I had given up childish things, namely my She-ra sword and Teddy Ruxpin, for pursuits of a more visceral and heady nature.  My mother got cable and I got my first taste of MTV. Oh my little saplings, it was GOOD.  I would sit mere inches away from the television as my tiny eyes struggled to take in everything that magical gateway had to offer.  Leather, spandex, wildly urban dance moves the likes of which this little Arkansas philly had never seen, and tragically hip VJs led the way to my rock-n-roll education.  By the grace of MTV (fuck you, Jesus, mass media is my God), I first saw and fell in love with Joan Jett.

She was my first girl-crush, style icon, and role model.  Everything about her was everything I wanted to be: the piercing eyes, the “I’ll-cut-a-bitch” attitude, the whiskey-soaked voice, the dramatic pale skin and black hair, the masculine and feminine clothing accents in perfect balance, the studded belts, the… mullet.

::swoon::

Allow me to expound on my love of the mullet, and, no, I am not speaking of the dreaded hipster mullet you see so often nowadays.  Business in the front, party in the back just ain’t the makings of a good rock-n-roll mullet.  If I could set a formula for this hairstyle, it would be equal parts punk rock, Aquanet, cocaine bender (substitute three RedBulls in quick succession, if you absolutely must), and flat-iron.  There is no place in this world for a casual mullet, and I cry every time I see one.  If you do not intend to spike the holy-living-fuck-what-have-I-done-I-think-I’m-gonna-be-sick out of the front of that shit, then get a haircut you can properly style, you lazy slag, and get out of my face.  David Bowie and the beautiful Joan Jett…now those bitches had a mullet worth envying.

THIS is where the shit is.

I digress…

One look at Ms. Jett, and I knew I had to take my cues from her.  I would throw an ungodly hissy fit every time my mother dressed me in her favorite, lamb-covered, pink jumper and, invariably, demanded to wear at least one black article of clothing per day.  Almost every Halloween, I’d wear studded belts, spandex, boots, and as much makeup as my chubby face could support.  My hair was, from then on, to be blowdried straight and, when I got a chance, I attempted to cut my own mullet and received a spanking the likes of which would make a grown woman piddle her knickers.

In 1987, Hollywood practically gift-wrapped and addressed a beautiful gift to me: Light of Day was released in theaters.  For those Philistines that have not marveled in awe at this most wondrous bit of celluloid magic, allow me to illuminate you.  Light of Day is the touching story of a brother and sister rock duo struggling to make it in this cruel world despite familial dysfunction and the magnetic draw of the rock-n-roll lifestyle.  The cast included Michael J. Fox and Joan Jett as the lead characters and other notable names such as Gena Rowlands and Michael McKean in supporting roles.  I watched this movie every day and meticulously studied Ms. Jett’s role until I could perform it by heart.   My love was true and my obsession would have most certainly been off-putting, to put it mildly, had I not been so young.

I <3 the 80s.

As I grew older, the obsession dissipated, but the effects lingered.  I kept my rock-n-roll chic sensibilities, but let my affections naturally drift over to other badass chicks that exemplified the standards Joan had set.  Ani DiFranco and PJ Harvey were natural substitutions and some less direct comparisons were Bjork and Tori Amos.  These women were strength embodied.  They were able to speak their minds, ruffle feathers, create their own style, and, most importantly, thrive in a male-dominated field (world?).  My rock-n-roll icons have effectively provided me the basis for a strong, feminist sensibility and a DIY attitude.

As a fan of all things JJ (that’s what I call her in my own head, we’re tight like that), I am mostly thrilled to learn of the production of what is described as a “coming-of-age biopic about The Runaways” set to be released in 2010.  Written and directed by Floria Sigismondi, one of my favorite artists and filmmakers, this is sure to be a beautifully shot and poignant movie starring…KRISTEN STEWART?!?

Say it ain’t so.

...meh.

Oh, it’s so.  Anyone who has seen her lackluster and awkward performance in Twilight will surely agree that, while she may have the genetics to play Joan, she most definitely lacks the edge and skill.  I hate to be a naysayer, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to throw my own feces at the screen when I see it in theaters.   God help the woman that makes a mockery of JJ.

God help her.  Long live Joan.

Long live Joan.

This post is brought to you by the letter “restraining order.”