The Real Me
by
Steven Hunley
First of all I want to finish this biography, and to do that I have to make it as ‘friendly', that’s what they call it these days, ‘friendly’ and alluring as possible at the same time. I finish wiping the crumbs from the crumb donuts off the table with a sweep of my hand and supply the cockroaches on the floor with manna from heaven, Heavenly Donuts anyway.
So I take a look, and it looks pretty finished to me.
“Plenty of Fish doesn’t get many of these, I’ll wager.”
I give it a read, and imagine I’m a woman, a lonely woman. Let’s see, here’s part of the bio.
Hobbies- I can't pass these off as just hobbies, because I have formal training. Photography- I'm good at it. Real good, if I can post pictures here you'll see.
Writing- I'm good at writing short stories. I need to shop them around and learn the process of selling them. I've had 6 or 7 stories placed in e-magazines, one in print. I don't do just one genre, but write across the board. Romance, mystery, adventure, literary stuff, you name it. If I can post one here I'll give an example. So my goal is to make the writing pay, and use the money to travel.
Every man on here is a millionaire, that’s what I notice, every single one of them is as handsome as a movie star, and every single one is so good in bed he wrote the Kama Sutra. That's why he got on this site, to share himself with all the other women not lucky enough to be in his stable.
I try to keep it more real than that. I mean what's the point? Why get caught lying later and ruin what might have been the beginning of something quite special?
I decided to post a link here to a writing site I use for workshops. If you copy and paste this link you'll have a copy of California phone Call, a story about a couple that have met on an internet dating site, but never in person. But now it's time for their first date, and their meeting at a neutral spot.
http://www.online-literature.com/for...nia-Phone-Call
Last of all I watch U-tube and raid it for good lines, since song lyrics are poetic and therefore provocative. Sometimes I write about the music itself like this:
Flesh for Fantasy
I used to think Billy Idol was a flash in the pan, and had no more talent than the ability to twist his lips into a sneer, and had to admit even then, it was a better sneer than Elvis.
Now he’s been around some time, and I perceive his genius. His on-stage persona is well thought out theatrically. This particular song was inspired by an old movie Flesh and Fantasy, with Charles Boyer.
As raw as this song seems there are references and undercurrents here too. He hopes you feel his sex attack. Why attack? Because some women and men are 'irresistible'? A female in film from the late 20's to 30's like Theda Barra was a 'Vamp". Valentino was supposed to demonstrate 'sexual menace'. Even I love Lucy threatened Tennessee Ernie Ford, "I'm a gonna vamp you" and that was in the fifties. There seems to be a lot of references to violence. How exactly does that work, and why? And what does that say about us and our society?
And you can see, at the start, where he does a sort of strip job with his jacket, and what I call “the rope-pulling routine” that he’s smiling. He’s not serious, and even Billy Idol isn't so much a God that he can’t laugh at his own posing. It's a stage folks, a stage, get me? Now he's got your attention, let's see what he does with it.
Steve Steven’s guitar work is superb and much of the song’s strength is derived from his skill. The song itself varies between driving rhythm sections and melodic interludes that are so pretty they almost defy description. Rather like the sex act itself, an ephemeral experience that alternates between frenzied activity and periods of relaxation and reflection. Sex is like a sentence of strength and passion divided by commas and spaces. Rather than interrupting the mood, the punctuation controls the pace and makes the mood even more sustainable and enduring.
The drummer never misses a beat, or a drumstick, even though he bounces it up to the ceiling. The words are evocative as all get-out, and suggestive. Not mildly suggestive mind you, but suggestive in the same way a French bugle call suggests a Napoleonic battle.
There’s an entire U-tube selection where he talks about the piece and what led to it being written. After seeing it, and watching the live set, I’ve decided never to ignore Billy again or dismiss him as a simple “flash in the pan” guy with a sneer like Elvis.
He’s a Grand Canyon deeper than that.
http://youtu.be/OegaW3e01EE Billy Idol Flesh for Fantasy
That's not to imply I'm all about sex, it's just a song I recently discovered. I listen to all sorts of music, and this piece is a section from the short story Dubrovnik- about a couple in the seventies who go behind the Iron Curtain to smuggle Levi's blue jeans and make immense profit. There's an earthquake, and Eddie and Pamela are separated and end up at different hospitals.
Eddie, totally conscious now, surveyed his surroundings. There was a row of beds against either wall, cast-iron old-school hospital beds painted white. The ceiling was high, and on his side there was nothing but walls with lights attached at intervals and fixtures for dividing curtains. But on the opposite wall there were windows, and the short nurse was opening them now, starting at one end, and working her way to the other. She would set up a stool, climb up, and crank open each window. Now the blinds were drawn, Eddie could see a flower garden, an open area for the patients. There were a few already there, taking walks, some on crutches, and even one feeding scruffy pigeons. On the far side was a building. It must have been a music conservatory, because he could barely hear music, orchestral music, from its direction.
An old bearded gentleman in the next bed said, “Hear that? It’s Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto and second movement, if I’m not mistaken."
Eddie heard it more distinctly now, perhaps the direction of the wind changed, and it may have, the curtains were moving.
“Is that it?” said Eddie, “I think I’ve heard it before.”
“I’m sure of it,” he answered, “It’s one of my favorite pieces.” The man grew reflective. “People here think musicians that speak Croat, like Haydn for instance, can only be the best composers. But it is my considered opinion that even a Russian can possess a great soul and understanding. Rimsky Korsakov and Rachmaninoff are my proof.”
“And you are from here?”
“Yes, born in Zagreb! A patriot too! But I also possess a clear head. Music, my friend, is bigger than theories and politics and petty political parties. They only cause divisions among men. Music unties, it’s just the opposite. It cuts across all borders, but never threatens, instead, it persuades. It favors no particular language, and speaks to every one of us equally. Just listen to this piece; even an American from thousands of miles away can understand it.”
http://youtu.be/21z-K5ChWbE Rachmaninoff
So I can write, and take pictures, I'm observant and a good listener. It's all too obvious I want a woman. Yet I may prove to be a jerk. Take a chance, play roulette with love. It may end up being a win-win situation for both of us.
“Well, it’s pretty sappy, but I’m happy with it. Happy-sappy, that’s me. Now what about this describing the first date bit? How’s it look now? They always look worse after they’ve sat awhile, Hemingway used to put his stuff aside for weeks before re-writes. When you first write something it’s like you’re a mother who just birthed a baby. No matter how ugly it is, you love it.
Let’s check it out, the description of the perfect first date.”
First Date
Let's divide this up, the casual date and the more formal date. The first one is just coffee and getting to know you.
We meet at a nearby coffee shop. You're already sitting there when I come in. The first thing you notice is how tall I am, and the first thing I notice is your smile. We're nervous at first. That's to be expected. When we start to talk, the first thing I do is put you at ease. I decide you're much better looking than in your pictures. I like your voice and good manners. We talk of things that are commonplace, but there are moments when we talk of things that matter. The degree of rapport we reach within minutes astounds you. The afternoon drifts by with an almost dream-like quality, leaving you feel that you might wake up any minute, and not remember a thing.
When we finally leave, I pull back your chair and open the door for you on the way out. Eventually we part, one of those Shakespeare sweet partings, and when you're alone, and the room is empty, you sigh. The meeting was better than expected, and you know for once there's potential. You are certain of it, not in an intellectual way, but more like a undeniably primitive feeling. When you remember how it was, later that night, just before you fall asleep, it occurs to you that the whole meeting was just a taste romantic, just a taste mind you, and it's left you hungry for more.
That's just the casual first date after the meet and greet. The thing about learning about someone is that as you know more about them, it's easier to know what pleases them. What things they value, what's important and what's not. It's a process. The trouble with me is that I'm impulsive and I'm not sure exactly why, maybe it was the formal art training, maybe it was the quality of women I'd managed to ensnare in the past, but I'm magnetically attracted to good-looking women. It's beyond explaining. but part of it is the old chivalry bit. A knight was supposed to serve someone he admired, someone admirable.
If you're lucky enough to find a woman with admirable traits, a good heart, a certain mix of softness and strength, you admire her. You can't pedestal her, most don't like the balance they have to keep between Earth Mother and Celestial Mistress. So you can't pedestal her. No Carrera marble stand is necessary, a woman's flesh is divine enough without making her a museum piece.
Uh-oh, I'm getting too romance-like, too poetic and evocative.
I better shut up while I'm ahead.
In the meantime I'll be thinking about you, whoever you are. http://youtu.be/Eq6tW6792ss London Beat
“Let’s see now, I have music, both classical and rock, and thanks to Billy Idol, an oblique reference to sex. Thanks Billy, I needed that. Then I covered the romantic bases as carefully as possible. I may have a winner here and when it gets down to the ‘What do you do on a typical Friday night?’ I answer,
“Nothing, it’s pathetic.” No truth was better said.
Now the rough draft was done, but I needed a photograph.
“Well, that’s about it. Time to get Fast Eddie Felson on the phone to get pictures to post with the words.”
I call up Fast Eddie, who I know has a rich brother-in-law.
“Eddie, you still taking care of your brother-in-law's shack on Mount Soledad?”
“Yeah, he’s in Puerto Vallarta with my sister and the kids.”
“Come by and pick me up will ya? I need some pictures.”
Fast Eddie Felson rolls by and picks me up and we scoot down Mission Valley on highway eighty until we reach the beach and head north. Then we wind up Mount Soledad and pull off next to their gate. I’m willing to take the pictures there, with the San Diego skyline in the background but he says no.
“They won’t be back for a week, come on in and have a drink.”
He opens the gate and we loop around the gravel driveway. What a view. On the south side you overlook the southern beaches all the way to Mexico. San Diego, Mission Bay, the harbor, Mt. San Miguel in the background. On the northern view you see Scripp’s pier jutting out into the Pacific and the rugged sand cliffs coast line stretching north. There’s only a veil of mist over the shoreline and I feel like a second-hand Arthur gazing at Avalon.
And parked there, silent witness to this grand view, is my old gull-winged Mercedes 300 SL.
“Remember this?” says Eddie, and pats it affectionately on the hood. My brother in law stole it from you.”
“He didn’t steal it. I gave him a super deal. Let’s take those pictures and get it over with.”
“I was with you when you got it. Remember? You were in the pocket. Still dealing dope then weren’t you?”
“Yeah, of course. Bling was part of the job, the car was…..was an accessory to my crime. It added cache."
“But then you got busted. That was back in the good old days.”
“The good old days, yeah.”
Eddie slides open the sliding glass door into the patio, grabs a couple of beers. I hang around outside for the view. On the south side are the few glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown, and you can see the bridge in Coronado curving over the harbor. Coronado is upscale. Clinton stayed there once with friends. I remember reading that although they had three kinds of bread he sent their butler or maid or the Mexican guy that cut the lawn to the market to get Chelsey her favorite kind of bread for toast.
The rich? They got it made. Street people? We hustle for a living and eat scraps. America, home of the brave and hungry. I love it.
The beer tastes bitter.
“This view pisses me off. Let’s take a picture, chug these brews. and get while the getting’s good. I don't wanna get infected."
“OK, what do you want in the shot?”
“Just me, sitting here, with the city in the background. That way the out-of-towners will recognize San Diego.”
He fiddled with the camera a bit, then looked at me, then past me to the panorama, and told me to smile. I hate it when photographers tell you to smile. They don’t know what they’re asking for. For me, artificial smiles don’t come easy. I need real reasons for my smile.
He pushed the button and got what he wanted. If it was what I wanted it would have been a miracle. Then he got funny.
“For nostalgia’s sake, sit on the fender of the Gullwing. Just for nostalgia’s sake, get me?”
I went along with it. He snaps me, the patio, the foo-foo dog that he’s been charged to feed and walk every day, separately, together, you name it. He tries to trip the light fantastic when it comes to camera shutters. Thinks he’s a budding artist and all, another Cartier-Bresson or Ansel Adams. Finally we leave.
On the way home we pass Old Town and Presidio Park. It looks like an old Spanish mission but it’s a museum.
“What kind of women do you get on a spot like Plenty of Fish,” he asked me. “Rejects and Nuns?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Nun rejects.”
He does a laugh that would make a hyena proud.
“I bet none of them are good-lookin’."
“Well, you’d be wrong. In fact the oddest thing is there are some that are just the opposite. You always wonder when you see them how they ended up there. I suppose good-looking women have as many problems as the rest of us when it comes to relationships.”
“But even so, some of them are gold-diggers, aren’t they? You know, looking for Sugar Daddies.”
“Maybe, I can’t say. Not much sugar on this daddy anyway. I don’t have to worry.”
“I suppose not.”
He drops me off and later that evening I decide to go over the bio again, and to make sure I don’t end up being misconstrued, where it says income I put ‘Hand-to-Mouth’.
“If this is any good, in a couple of days people, women people, will start showing up on my “want to meet me" list. I may even get some e-mails.”
It’s late and I’m getting sleepy. Only the photos are left. It’s a pain in the butt though, as the program I’m using is showing me little teeny-tiny fingernail, and I mean baby-fingernail previews of the intended photos. Eddie took way too many for me to sort through. I try and try over again to find the one I want. Finally I do, and minutes later I’m sawing logs in a deep dreamless sleep.
The next morning I’m brewing a cup of Java and eating a crumb donut and trying to wake up. I turn on the computer and check my mail. Something is wrong. My e-mail is filled to capacity. A note attached by Google explains about how sorry they were and cautions me that whatever I’m saying or selling is overloading and heating up their main frames, whatever a main frame is.
I open my mail and see over five-thousand four-hundred and fifty-one e-mails.
“You got mail, you got lots and lots of mail,” it says.
I find out they’re all from Plenty of Fish. When I go to Plenty of Fish I see I have people on the “I want to meet you’ list. One hundred and twenty thousand females want to meet me, and eight thousand two hundred and six want to be “friends.” Two thousand sixteen “Flirts” are listed too.
I stagger, I reel, I collapse on the kitchen chair. I re-read the bio and all the rest of the stuff. There’s no explanation forthcoming. Finally I look at the picture.
It isn’t the photo I intended. It’s from a different angle. In this one I’m still sitting on the Gull Wing’s fender and San Diego is still behind me. It’s a very similar picture.
But then I notice what’s different. The expensive foo-foo dog in over there in one corner. On the table in the patio if you look closely enough you see a box of Cuban Cigars. In the trash in the distance his bother in law tossed the remains of a party. They left champagne bottles, Chateaux-la Fit Rothchilds as a matter of fact, sticking out so far you can read the labels. And I’m sitting there on the fender of an exotic car, and in the fricken widows, due to the angle, the magnificent house is reflected. There wasn't just lonely women on Plenty of Fish. There were Spygirls.
“Well,” I said, and swept off a few more crumbs for the roaches. "Times are hard. Girls gotta do what girls gotta do.”
©StevenHunley 2014
http://youtu.be/R5z0MuKxfZc The Real Me The Who
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
