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
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