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thing is preferable to them. These people probably love photocopies of photocopies. My interest in spending “A Night at the Rock Show” was twofold: (1) woo a D-list celebrity and (2) witness what people were like in there. I was genuinely curious. What’s the scene like at a show of cover songs played by an American Idol reject? Who goes to “A Night at the Rock Show” earnestly and unironically? For me, going to that concert was like visiting Red Lobster or the Olive Garden—hark, who goes there? Who is actually inside this type of place?
    So I rented a car, driving the streets of New York City for the first time in my life, and Heidi and I journeyed out to Teaneck, New Jersey, where “A Night at the Rock Show” was happening in a performance venue slash Mexican restaurant . Yes, a place where you can enjoy a subpar live show while you munch on soggy burritos. The D-list-ness of it all just kept getting better.
    Heidi and I carefully planned my outfit—hot stuff, but not trying too hard and certainly not a Constantine Maroulis fan like everybody else at the show. We assembled an outfit that clearly communicated, “I’m just a hot blonde with a head of award-winning hair 15 who you’d probably want to pick up in a bar, but instead I’m here at your concert. But I’m not here because I’m a ‘fan,’ let’s get that straight. Quite the contrary. I’m here because I’m hot and so are you, so you should fall for me so that I can then give you the Heisman.” 16 This message was communicated via tight jean capris, wedge-heel espadrilles with long laces that tied up my calves, a blue tank top, and big gold earrings.
    Heidi and I made our way across the George Washington Bridge and over to a land that I’d previously only seen in the opening credits of The Sopranos : New Jersey. We found MexiCali Live (the infamous Mexican restaurant/performance space) through the sweltering summertime heat and parked the rented midsize sedan across the street.
    “Wait—this is it? That nondescript building we almost drove right by! That’s it?” Heidi remarked incredulously. It didn’t look like much from the outside, and I suppose that I didn’t expect much.
    “Yup, this is it. I mean, this is effectively a cover band concert on a Wednesday night in the suburbs. I guess this is what you get.” I laughed.
    We walked from the glaring late-day sunshine into the darkened venue, paid the twenty-dollar cover (I paid for both of us since I was, again, dragging Heidi along to be my wing woman), and received bracelets whose color indicated that we hadn’t purchased tickets to sit down and eat Mexican food while we watched the show. Yes, that was an option. “A Night at the Rock Show” is like a glorified dinner theater, apparently. Going from the bright sunshine outdoors into the near pitch-black, over-air-conditioned venue felt like that scene from Varsity Blues when they stumble out of a strip club and walk into glaring daylight. Only in reverse. There was a small stage toward the front of the venue (with an adjoining “green room” that would have been the size of a telephone booth, if those things still existed), a bar in the back, tables in between the bar and stage, and a small area for people to stand and dance. Or rather, as it was used for this concert, a small area for women to stand and sway while grinning creepily.
    The place was packed with women who were either creepy-old to be there or creepy-young to be there. The “creepy-old to be there” contingent looked like the Twitter ladies who followed Constantine, and thus, they enthralled me. They had big hair, outdated fashion sense, and gargantuan, dumpy purses.
    “I bet they’re going to tweet about how hard this show ‘rawked,’ ” I joked to Heidi. The assembled ladies scoped one another out, as if on a tacky reality TV dating show. Much like the fat, gay nudist in season one of Survivor 17 and every girl who has ever been ostracized on The Bachelor