And I mean luvvv. With Donny Osmond it was merely a crush. An “expensive” crush my mom would say after a trip to Rexall’s for the latest fan magazines. I’d play One Bad Apple and Go Away Little Girl so much that once my dad hid the records in the clothes hamper.
I thought Donny was it.
But one day a crisp, new copy of Life Magazine arrived in the mail, smelling that soft waxy Crayola smell. When I pulled it out of the mailbox, the cover revealed a young man in a rhinestone-studded jumpsuit, low cut to his waist. His hair was shaggish and sweaty; his lips gorgeous.
All of a sudden the clean-cut Mormon thing for Donny ceased to appeal to me. “Go away little boy. I can’t get no satisfaction from you,” I sang to Donny as I ripped him from my walls.
Mick was really it.
Mick was a Bad Boy. My Bad Apple. I conned my dad into letting me wash the car and rake leaves so I could buy all the Stones’ albums. In the eighth grade talent show where Tina Miller played “Color My World” on the guitar, I dressed up in a makeshift jumpsuit, and to the horror of our school principal, pranced around the stage lip synching Jumpin' Jack Flash.
At night, when I thought of Mick something stirred in me. I’d lie in bed fantasizing that I saved him from drugs and Latin women. That Keith, the guitarist, wanted me too and that the riff between them almost broke up the band. I dreamed that I was the love of Mick’s life, and he mine.
So when Painter Friend invited me to participate in a poetry reading (yes, this Hippie's a published poet) at the opening of his exhibit on love, all I could think to write about was Mick’s lips.
Because really, what the hell is love?
I didn't have a clue. The only thing coming into my head were song lyrics.
Love is Real. Real is love.
Whoooaa. Can’t you see. Love is the Drug gonna set me free….
A Hunka, Hunka of Burning Love...
With just a day before the opening, I locked myself in my office and In a Harried With Children State--children banging on the door, children begging for Rice Krispie treats, children calling one another “Big, Fat Butthead,” children begging to use the toilet, I somehow wrote a series of poems anyway: The Dream Love of My Life, The Real Love of My Life, The True Love of My Life.
One the day of the show I’m not even concerned that folks won’t like my work. I figure if they don’t get it, they’ll think it’s because it’s over their heads.
That’s the beauty of poetry.
What I am concerned about is what to wear.
Shit. I need something artsy. But subtle artsy. Not neon artsy. Mature woman artsy. Not 20-year-old artsy. I need Batik artsy. Not thrift store artsy. Streamlined artsy. Not oversized artsy. Celtic artsy. Not army boot artsy. Hand woven artsy. Not Lycra artsy.
I had 17 different shades of eyeliner but no mature-woman-batiky-streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes.
So I wear a black skirt and black blouse. This could, after all, be my funeral.
I arrive at the gallery early—a good five minutes before the reading.
Immediately I see Buddhist Buddy checking out the paintings about love. She looks marvelous in her mature-woman-batiky -streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes.
Three women from my book group that I rallied at the last minute are at the hors d’oeuvre table. I head, where else, for the food.
“The guacamole is to die for,” Book Group Friend 1 says, nodding a hello.
“The hummos, too,” Book Group Friend 2 says, taking a bite of pita.
“Um. Try the grape leaves.” Book Group 3 piles three more on her plate.
“The hummos, too,” Book Group Friend 2 says, taking a bite of pita.
“Um. Try the grape leaves.” Book Group 3 piles three more on her plate.
“I knew there was a reason I came,” says my Spousal Unit.
Just then Painter Friend walks up to me and grabs the matted poems from my hand. “I’m so glad you made it. Everything going all right?"
"Sure," I shrug.
“Great,” he points. “Because you’re first up.”
And there, just seven feet away, I see a video camera the size of Rhode Island.
Stayed Tuned for Part II in which my love causes confusion to all around me
**************************************
23 comments:
Am in suspense. Cannot fathom an intellegent, mature-woman-batiky-streamlined-Celitic-hand-woven artsy sort falling for puffy lips and concave chest. Must study to understand strange erotic lure of Mick as there is no obvious magnetism. Must have been the overdose on Donny. Has been known to occur.
Do not fear. Breath deeply. Chew crackers with slow tempo grinding. Flex toes. Moment shall pass. Sanity due to return.
Brave. Brave! Public readings can be grim, evil affairs. Let us know how it turned out!
Mia - Puffy lips? I'd say luscious.
Chris - Yes, you're right. But apparently I don't get enough attention at home. Hence the readings, and the blog.
damn hippie..
The first time I was aware, really aware, of the Stones, was the odd and unfortunate 80s period. Doing a little research, since I heard those boys had been around a bit, I discovered hey, I think I would have definitely been all about that Mick fella.
Sadly, Shawn Cassidy glazed over my mind during what could have been a younger, more impressionable time.
You left me hanging. I'm on the edge of my seat over here. Although I am not a personal fan of Mick, I have always found his lips strangely hypnotic.
I used to work with a guy that looked just like Mick Jagger. We'd all call him Mick. Never his real name, always Mick.
Sadly, there was no Keith.
Nooter - Yep. I wear that badge proudly. Some would say too proudly.
FADKOG - I've been a Stones fan all my life. Took Teen to see them a few years ago on their recent tour and they were fabulous.
Chas - Woman seem to go for lips, eyebrows and hands. Guys are lucky that way.
Grant Miller - Hello. I had a thing for Keith, too. But fortunately I moved on from drug addicts. Except Jeff Tweedy. But he had migraines, so drugs were perfectly acceptable.
You see, it comes back to TWEEDY.
Oooh... captured for posterity. As all great art should be.
I hope you'll include a streaming video in Part II.
Okay, what happened next?
The Stones, I love them... In about 1966, my uncle (who more like an older brother) had "Satisfaction" on a 45 rpm (that's a record for you youngins). I can still see him on the bed with a broom/guitar, singing as he wore out that record!
Any chance you'd show us what mature-woman-batiky -streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes look like? You've really got me curious!
TwoBusy - Not a chance in hell.
Sage - I think "Satisfaction" is the first song these yougins learn on the guitar.
Ora - To be truthful, I've gone back to army boot artsy
attire. It's those old ladies that wear those Celtic skirts.
How about Pornstar artsy?
What do i know? I still call my wife my girlfriend..oh the shame.
Spousal Unit sounds more appropriate.
I can't wait to hear how this turns out! And I think you were wise to swap Mick for Donny.
Self-D Man - Well, I did win a Rocky Horror Picture Show dress-up contest once. Really.
Deb - I haven't been the same since.
(Types as she is wearing mature-woman-batiky-streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes) Paul McCartney was WAY better than Mick.
Or maybe I am thinking of that guy from the Monkees... Peter [something].
As for my attire... well, allI can say is, its comfortable. As are my shoes.
I'll be waiting for part deux... some lovely writing in part one, by the way. :) You might not get told that often enough-- so figured it was necessary to mention!! :)
I'd better see some Jagger prose on your next post and some video footage as well... or I'm unsubscribing my ass.
KayFour - Peter Tork. He waited on me once in Santa Monica.
Jenn- Thanks so much. Coming for you, that IS a compliment.
Jeff - OMG...the pressure!
I'm amazed by the number of women who grew up crushing on Mick (and some still do to this day).
I often wonder if that dream becomes a nightmare when someone mentions about how back in the 70s, his wife at the time found him naked and in bed with David Bowie.
Changing topics: I hope the reading went well though.
You HAVE to read HYPOCRITE IN A POUFFY WHITE DRESS.
Seriously.
You MUST.
That's all I'm sayin'.
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