The Dale Bozzio Story

I was in pop-rock combo in the early 90's which opened for Missing Persons one night in Chicago. It was actually Ms. Dale and some music-shoppe hacks gathered from LA personals, prolly. Dale, at this time, was sporting a bright pink Susan Powter flat-top and generally behaving like a Selfish Prat on a Nostalgia Tour. Her manager/beau/possible cousin (a very beefy Tim Robbins-type) was skulking and scowling and generally trying to seem in control of the situation (what situation?, we asked ourselves between healthy sucks of then-exotic Leinenkugel). The band I was in at the time was trying to resurrect an ABC/Roxy look, although a) the Chicago Reader helpfully pointed out that "their suits[come off as] more Wall Street than Milan [in point of fact, they were more a combination of Episcopal rummage sale & Mens' Wearhouse, with one green Morris Day-style Oaktree (!)two-piece, but, as ever, I digress]" and b.) we were pretty pathetic. After the show, Skulky McBeauMinder came tearing through the dressing room telling us that someone had "stolen" his suit jacket, which, of course, no one had. Still, it made for a good story: the Night We Stole the Missing Persons Asshole's Jacket.

Right now, of course, Dale is serving time for having animal cruelty for leaving cats untended, and some to die, in a house in Connecticut.

I understand more than I can say having already been a bitter has-been who went on a nostalgia tour. Well, a never-was who did, maybe.

But did she have to take it out on the poor animals?