It's the age-old pop star dilemma: the more famous you get, the younger your fans get—to the point where eventually, you may find yourself legally unable to put your penis in them. How does an unwitting rock and roll Barney deal with this awkward situation? If you're Bret Michaels, you tell yourself that girls young enough to be your illegitimate daughter have been brought to your concerts by your "realness," rather than the fact that you remind them of their negligent father if he wore guyliner. You stick to your guns, play the music you want to play, incorporate more western iconography into your poodle rock and almost two decades later, people watching your Vh1 reality dating show will see what a totally credible bad-ass you are. And so will the
New York Times' Sunday Styles section.
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