It's not fair for punks to pick on him--rock Hollywood has spawned worse corruption, after all, and his band is a lot tougher and cooler than the Stranglers ever were. But he doesn't do himself a lot of favors, either. He didn't have to include a poster of all the hotels he's trashed. He didn't have to repeat the phrase "Kill my wife" for the umpteenth time (someone tell Brit it was all a joke). He didn't have to invoke passion as a universal solvent like some surly asshole at a bar where all the women have been taken. He didn't have to bury "Oh God, I Really Wish I Was Home Tonight" on an album nobody will remember a year and a half after it goes platinum. He implores his sweetheart to save her best bits for him on a naughty postcard. But I remember the young stud who was good enough for "Maggie May." C