This One Goes Out to the Ladies

When I was a tot, my pals and I would gather in my garage, set up some pots and pans as if they were a drum-kit and wield some tennis rackets like stratocasters. We'd pop Def Leppard's freshly minted Pyromania into the Fisher Price tape deck and crank that puppy up to its fattest arrows. We'd charge the neighborhood gang a nickel a head to watch us lip-synch and strum the nylon to Billy's Got a Gun. Rock and roll, friends. Rock and roll.

Flash-forward about five or six years. I'd pop some...