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The first couple of times I wrote stuff for "Blurty," I knew I was trying too hard. Not that it wasn’t genuine, but that it was stylized—kinda like the Eddie Bauer picture I would post on my profile if I could just bring myself to be so duplicitous. But what would be the point, ya know? I studied that Eddie Bauer picture for a long time, and I came to the conclusion that I’m not that far from it…just like I’m not that far from matching the women whose profiles I find attractive as I browse the personals and let the machine do the sorting. Yeah, I studied the man in the picture, thinking for a moment, "Oh, my God! What if he’s gay?" But this guy never should intrude into real life. He projects ruggedness, self-confidence; I doubt he’s at home with danger, but he projects the illusion that he feels pretty at-home with himself, and he sure as hell looks at home on the range. That’s not bad. I like the shirt; and, although I drained all the color from the picture, I liked the color scheme—gray denim shirt over a yellow tee-shirt. Nice contrast of both colors and textures—as if any self-respecting guy oughta know that stuff. Then, after dabbling with questions about the discrepancy between image and substance, I realized that, beyond the model’s striking resemblance to the real me, we gotta ask the question, "Can that sucker write?" I suppose some wise-ass is gonna ask the same question about me, but I have my answer ready; I imported it directly from Ketchum, Idaho. "I’m still learning to write." It’s a life-long enterprise, and no one ever should trust anyone who claims that he or she knows how to make the magic appear all day, every day. I will say that I feel totally and completely determined to keep learning and trying, because I think the difference between pro’s and amateurs lives in that determination; I feel pretty sure that lots of amateurs have at least as much or more raw talent as the professionals, but the professionals regard it as I do—as natural and as essential as breathing; and if I don’t do it every day, I will suffocate. Not skill or technique, but sheer pit-bull determination about it. I will learn to write, damn it. I will. Does the Eddie Bauer guy, so rugged and nicely dressed, feel anything like that determination? About anything? So, let’s face it: No one ever will drop dead from my gorgeousness. I doubt that anyone even will have her breath taken by my compelling good looks. I do believe, however, that Jaymie put the nail right on the hammer when she answered my ingenuous question about my looks: "Are you kidding?" her eyes flew open wide, "You are adorable!" I can live with adorable. Jaymie showed obvious surprise that I even would wonder; but you’ve probably noticed that the advertisers don’t recruit "adorable" to push their products. I can’t persuade citified little slickers that they need rugged shirts like mine; they wanna look rough and bad-ass and all, and the best I can offer is a faint promise that, if they wear what I’m wearing, they’ll look pretty damn cute. It’s probably the same thing as the difference between the guy the girls want to bed and the guy who qualifies as "boyfriend material." I always rang-up "boyfriend material" on their Richter scales, and I got put on-hold until they had used-up all the bad boys. Of course, I can’t hide or hide from the Truth: I am boyfriend material. Although I have abandoned Romance as a way of life, I haven’t abandoned loving or passion or adoration. I still got the turbo-charged passion thing goin’. Yeah, it’s idling, waiting for the right time and opportunity; but it’s still well-timed and well-tuned. Not exactly stuck in traffic; not exactly stuck in first gear; more like stuck in…umm, umm, umm…the driveway. Why would anyone want a woman to drop dead from his gorgeous? Even swooning seems a little silly. Given my choice, I’d want a woman stone-cold sober to gaze right into my eyes and tell me that, yes, I am adorable—not because I am so damn cute, but because I genuinely have grown worthy of adoration. I don’t think I’m gonna make the top ten lists today. I don’t think I’ve done much more than scratch the surface of all that’s irritating, annoying, bullyragging, and menacing my tender little psyche. But "Blurty" got my fingers movin’ across the "qwerty" again—see, trying too hard—and that, all by itself, counts for a helluva lot. Of course, more tomorrow, because I feel pit-bull determined that I will learn to write. Post a comment in response: |
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