Y’all…. Things are gonna get weird. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Apparently, there is now a Hairstyle Appreciation Day.

Because somewhere along the way, humanity decided hair needed recognition. Not surviving adulthood. Not paying bills on time. Hair.

Which naturally raises the question: what does Bobby D do on Hairstyle Appreciation Day?

He wears a du-rag.

That’s right. On the one day specifically dedicated to appreciating hairstyles, Bobby chose to cover his entirely. It’s like entering a car show and refusing to open the hood. Bold strategy.

At this point, Bobby’s hair has become less of a hairstyle and more of a conspiracy theory. Nobody really knows what’s under there. Could be flowing rockstar locks straight out of 1987. Could be a shaved head polished enough to reflect the studio lights. Could be the final surviving remains of a hairspray-fueled glam metal perm refusing to die.

And honestly, the mystery has become part of the legend.

While everybody else is out here showing off fades, mohawks, mullets, and bangs they’ll regret in six months, Bobby’s playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers. You can’t judge the hairstyle if you can’t see it.

And that, somehow, feels like the most rock-and-roll move possible.

**I might have put a picture down at the bottom of the newsletter that reveals the mystery**

There are musical theories, and then there are the kinds of theories that hit you at 2 a.m. and suddenly make way too much sense. This one starts with Stacy's Mom — because everybody knows Stacy’s mom. She’s probably the most recognizable fictional mother in rock history. She lives down the street, she’s got it going on, and for some reason we all just accepted that as a perfectly normal song premise in the early 2000s.

But nobody talks about the family tree.

Because if you really follow the trail, Stacy’s mom isn’t just Stacy’s mom. She’s connected to one of the greatest emotional meltdowns in rock history: Jessie's Girl.

Think about it. Back in 1981, Rick Springfield spent an entire hit song spiraling over his best friend Jessie’s girlfriend. Couldn’t make a move. Couldn’t let it go. Just publicly suffered through it with a guitar and enough angst to fuel four decades of singalongs.

Now fast-forward twenty-two years.

What if Jessie’s girl grew up, settled down, got married, had a daughter named Stacy, and became Stacy’s mom? Suddenly the timeline makes sense. One generation later, another guy is standing outside the same bloodline, hopelessly obsessed and making questionable life choices.

Apparently bad decisions are hereditary.

But it gets worse.

Before she became Stacy’s mom, what if Jessie’s girl had a maiden name?

Jenny.

Not just any Jenny — that Jenny.

867-5309/Jenny.

In 1982, Tommy Tutone gave the world one of the most famous phone numbers in history, written on a bathroom wall and dialed so often that actual phone systems reportedly dealt with waves of prank calls for years. Nobody knew who Jenny was.

Until now.

Jenny was Jessie’s girl before she became Stacy’s mom.

And just when you think the web can’t get stranger, here comes Come On Eileen.

Because Eileen? She had to be there too.

The only logical explanation is that Eileen was Jenny’s roommate — standing in the apartment while the phone rang off the hook, watching this whole mess unfold in real time. Probably wondering why every guy in America suddenly had her roommate’s number.

So the timeline goes like this: Jessie’s girl was Jenny. Jenny grew up and became Stacy’s mom. Eileen was the roommate caught in the blast radius. And Jessie? Somewhere out there, blissfully unaware that his ex became the centerpiece of an accidental three-song cinematic universe.

This is the kind of musical chaos nobody asked for, but now that it exists, it’s impossible to ignore.

And honestly, it makes more sense than half the reboots Hollywood keeps making.

There’s a certain kind of song that Gen X hears differently.

Not because it’s old. Not because it’s nostalgic. But because it means something different when you had to work for your music.

Back then, there was no algorithm handing you songs based on your mood or your shopping habits. No “discover weekly.” No app deciding your entire personality based on three songs and a breakup. You had to find your music.

That meant sitting by the radio waiting for your song to come on, finger hovering over the record button on the cassette deck like you were disarming a bomb, praying the DJ didn’t start talking over the intro like they were auditioning for their own show.

And if you missed it? Tough luck. You waited.

That’s why some songs became more than songs. They became passwords.

If you know every lyric, every guitar hit, every weird little sound buried in the mix, you’re in. You earned it. That song is proof you were there.

Younger generations have access to every song ever recorded and somehow still let an app tell them what to like. Gen X built their taste the hard way — through scratched CDs, borrowed tapes, and finding albums because the cover looked cool.

It wasn’t convenient. But it made the music matter.

And honestly, that’s why those songs still hit harder now than half the stuff made to go viral.

The Gen-X segment. Stacy's Mom. Now look — Fountains of Wayne is not hard rock. I know that. Laura knew that. She texted me before the break — and I'm reading this directly — she said 'you better do the Schlesinger tribute or I'm pulling the segment.' I was already going to do it Laura. I was ALREADY going to do it. I don't need the threat. The threat was unnecessary. The threat was noted.

I did the tribute. She sent a single black heart.

That's the highest honor Laura gives. I've been doing this show long enough to know — the black heart means you got it exactly right.
And then the Jessie's Girl connected universe bit. Jessie's Girl is Stacy's Mom's cousin. Jenny is 867-5309. Eileen was the roommate. Airtight rock mythology built in real time.
My phone lit up like a pinball machine.
Laura was losing her mind. All caps. Multiple texts. 'WHERE DID THAT COME FROM.' 'THE CHAOS ARMY IS GOING CRAZY.' 'DO NOT EVER DO THAT TO ME WITHOUT WARNING.' That last one came with four exclamation points and an emoji I'd never seen before.
That's the thing about producing a show remotely via text. When something unexpected hits, Laura finds out the same time everyone else does. She's sitting in her home studio watching the comments explode in real time with zero warning and zero ability to do anything about it except text me increasingly unhinged reactions.
I cherish those texts.

And the du-rag bit. Hairstyle Appreciation Day. Laura texted one thing before that segment.
'Don't you dare.'
I dared.
Three minutes later: 'I hate you. The comments are amazing.'
That's the dynamic. That's the Rock King Radio Show. Bobby D in the booth swinging for the fence. Laura in her home studio as Rockstar holding the whole operation together via text message, fire emojis, black hearts, and the occasional all-caps freakout.
Nineteen stations. Five countries. One show.
Built by two people and a group text.
Rock King Radio Show. Bobby D. The Rock King. Laura — Rockstar — somewhere out there texting me right now probably.
Long live the chaos.