Pheromone Dreams and the bedpost test: Forrest Evers touts a sexual attractor

                        From the opening of Silverstone (aka Spin)

Panaguian look alike

                       Panaguian, Chantal's Director of Marketing, leaned towards me and spread his hands on his glass desk, pink buffed nails, long narrow fingers and heavy, glossy black hair shading his pale skin.  His face had a sheen of aftershave and gave off a scent of animals and flowers.  "What I want," he said with a French accent, "is to make you the most sexually attractive man in the world." 

 He smiled a carpet dealer's reassurance at me while his eyes roamed the room.  He was dressed with the heavy expense of the modern French executive; tousled razor cut, jeans, a casual  jacket over a black silk shirt.  Behind him, on glass shelves, lit from underneath so that they glowed with light, were the crystal bottles of the fabulously expensive perfumes that made Parfums Chantal rich.  FIX, (`Just This Once,' the advertising said).  LUXU (`Purely Primitive').  CALM (`Before the Storm').  CLIMAX (`The End.  And the Beginning.') and of course the classic CHANTAL (`The Essence of Success').  Small monuments to the power of marketing and packaging.  Bottled dreams.  Icons of wealth and desire. 

    . 

               "Do you know what pheromones are, how they work?  Never mind.  Just take it on board that this sexual attractor is a very important new product for us."

              Obviously it was important.  They had flown me from London on their corporate jet, given me a suite at the George V.  The least I could do, I thought, was hear him out.  Paying attention, is getting harder these days.  The world burns and men in suits still talk of marketing.  He was still talking.

               "So we don't want it macho.  What it has to be is new, contemporary, a kind of high-tech secret weapon," -- his voice lowered to the level of a secret briefing -- "unnoticeable, unavoidable, and absolutely irresistible to women.'

              "Is it?" I said. 

   

             "Is it what?"

 

              "Absolutely irresistible."

             "Legally what we can say is that it is `attractive.  It is definitely attractive." No doubt you've already guessed what it is."

                 I shrugged. 

                He held his hands up in surrender to the power of the idea. "We are going to call it, `FORMULA ONE.'

              "What a good name," I said without enthusiasm.  "But it doesn't have anything to do with me.  And I don't have anything to do with Formula One any more.  I don't drive."

                  His face relaxed into the patient smile of a man who has a fully funded corporate retirement plan.  "You are dangerous, Evers.  Controversial, still mildly famous.  You'd be surprised at your recognition profile in the Far East as well as across the US and Europe.  And, thank God, you are single.    And you look, excuse me but it is a phrase that came out of the research, like a walking crag.

             “We need to show that it works.  We don't want someone so handsome like a Pitt or a Cruise he doesn't need it. Please don't make that face.  With a little retouching we can make you quite handsome enough.  But really you are perfect, Evers.  Absolutely perfect.  You have a certain street cred.  A little down on your luck, there is a touch of scandal hanging around you isn't there?”

           "So you want me to walk around wearing this stuff."

           "Do what you like.  Naturally as a company we would prefer you would wear Formula One every day, but that would be your personal choice.  I think you might find your life more interesting.  Personally" he said, waving the thought away, "I don't give a fart whether you wear it or not.

     

         "We have scheduled a global roll out with a sequential 19 country launch timed to feature you in each of the 19 countries on 5 continents during the week of the host country's Grand Prix.  Start in Bahrain in March, finish in Brazil in November.  The month prior to the week of the Bahrain Grand Prix, we will shoot two sixty second commercials  for cinema and TV.  We will also do newspaper and magazine advertising in 48 countries, but the majority of our media mix is allocated to PR.  So we will be asking you to do your share of the PR.  With some of the most desirable women in the world I might add.  You'll love it, believe me.  And them.”

            Evers is marketed as  "involved" with a different beautiful and preferably famous woman in every country.  It's grueling work and as Evers later points out, there’s an ethical dilemma attached to wearing a sexual attractor.  How do you know if a woman is attracted to you or the chemical?  If you spray it on the bedpost, would she prefer the bedpost?”  To be continued.

Forrest Evers does MONZA. The Overture

the view from Castello di Pianoro

(The plot of  Monza, my third book is lifted from Robert Browning's long poem, The Ring and the Book.

        Henry James complained that Browning's poem "ruined the best novel never written."  No doubt Monza will finish off the job.  But then Monza is not really a novel either.  It's much closer to one of those grand old Italian thrillers with music; it's really  an opera. Author's note from Monza)

                Pianoro is a village of small vineyards and fruit farms patching the hillsides and valleys behind Bologna.  At the end of summer the air is clear and fragrant with peaches and apples and fat purple grapes in the vineyards.  Piano like soft.  Oro like gold.  




            The heat that had seemed so strong in London paled in the blaze of light at Bologna’s Aeroporto di Borgo Panigale.  As we stepped down the jet's ramp in the dazzling light, a silver Lancia waited ten yards away.  A syrup of heat waves rising off the tarmac made the car look transparent and floating. The tar was soft and sticky and warmed my feet through my soft Italian loafers.  The driver, a man with a beautifully tailored white suit and a perfect silver haircut knew the way and the air conditioning worked.  We settled back in the soft gray leather seats.   


                We began to climb out of the suburbs of Bologna and up into the hills, the early evening light warming the sides of the old burnt yellow and umber houses, turning them gold.  Ken, the long legs of his six foot seven frame sprawled like a go-kart driver had been silent since the airport.  No doubt rehearsing just how he should phrase it.  “I wish,” he said, turning to me, “you’d try harder.”


               It was a conversation we’d had before.  “He is not an easy man to like,” I said.


              “No,” Ken said, looking out at the scenery again, “he is not an easy man to like.  But Guido does bring quite a bit to the team.”


                Indeed he did.  To Team Arundel, Guido di Santo brought Italian tire, wine, computer and fashion sponsors with their serious budgets and marketing plans.  He bought half a million new fans, members of the Guido di Santo Fan Club formed by his manager and a PR firm when Guido won the Formula 3000 championship the year before.  The press said he brought “a much needed breath of fresh air,” to the team.  He gave us “a new lease on life”; he brought “panache” “daring” and “the kind of commitment we haven’t seen since the young Ayrton Senna showed up on Toleman’s doorstep.”  None of the above endeared him to me.


            But I would try.  For Ken and for the team.  Besides this was Guido’s day.  And as luck would have it , what was going to be a pleasant reception was now going to be a full-bore celebration of Guido’s victory at Spa.  Champagne followed by dinner.  At Guido’s fifteenth-century Castello di Pianoro.  For Guido’s sponsors it would be a chance for their management and sales force and their most important customers to meet the Formula One team that swallowed so much of their cash and gave them so much time and space in the media around the world.  To shake hands with Guido and, uh, whatsisname, the other driver.


            Up into the hills in the summer evening. Where the air was cooler and the colors even more golden.  We rounded a corner, turned left, and drove through the immense and rusting wrought iron gates, the fat tires of the Lancia crunching freshly spread stone in the driveway, the car’s shadow flicking in and out of the tall cedars that lined both sides of the drive.  We pulled up by the front door and got out in the warm evening air, the castello rising behind a flotilla of the big corporate Alfas, and Lancias, with a scattering of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis and Jaguars for the high rollers.  The yellow stone castle had the slightly run-down, been-in-the-family-forever look so loved by the Italians and the British.  And I had to admit, it was beautiful.

the north side of the castle

          
  The castle stood out on a promontory, commanding the valley.  In the honeyed light, its tower and Gothic windows were half hiding behind thick dark cedars. 
 Surrounded by orchards and vineyards wit the valley below and the mountains behind, the castello looked like the kind of family ediface that is either handed to you in a will along with the responsibility of being the duke, or you sacrifice a lifetime building an empire in frozen foods or petroleum to achieve.  At twenty-eight, Guido appeared to be doing well.  Even for a Formula One driver.

Castello di Pianoro from the south

            He was standing with his back to us, talking to a group of me dressed in the baby pastels of designer resort wear.  Without looking up, Guido waved us over. 

Virgin Calls: Forrest Evers goes to Hollywood to star with an electric Car.

Juice was the Forrest Evers goes to Hollywood book.  Turned out, as Hollywood does to so many wannabees, to be his last.

(Virgin lookalike on left)

    chapter one

    The telephone stuck its electric finger in my ear.

    After a three more rings my machine went, `I'm sorry Forrest is not in right now.  If you BLEEEEP' and the machine broadcast her famous voice in the dark.

    "Forrest pick up, you asshole.  Come on, you gotta be there.  Whattareyou, in the bathroom?  You should get a phone in the bathroom, Forrest.  Saves time."

    Reluctantly I rolled over and picked up the phone.  "Who is this?"  I said.  My old joke.

    "This is your Star, dummo.  Calling a future star.  What's it like in London?"

    `Heavy darkness.  Raining.  Cold.'  I stretched to look at the clock glowing on the nightstand.  `The way it usually is in December at two in the morning.'

    `How soon can you be here?'

    `We've been through all that.'

    `We haven't been through anything.  Anyway, I'm not calling for me.  I'm calling for a friend, Mel Tietjens.  You heard of Mel Tietjens?'

    `Not the Mel Tietjens."

Mel Tietjens lookalike

     `Don't jerk me around, Forrest.  Mel's a very big producer and he's doing a film called JUICE.  I told him you'd be perfect.  How soon can you be in LA?'

    `I can't come to LA. I have commitments here.'  Which was true.  In two weeks I was due to be the guest speaker for the South London Hozuki dealers annual Christmas lunch.  That loomed large on my calendar.

    "Not for me, dummo.  For you.  Listen to me.  I got you a part."

    "A part what?" I said.  I am not at my best in the small hours.

    "WAKE UP Forrest. I mean it's all set, but you gotta meet Mel and you gotta meet my agent.  Have you met David?  You'd know if you did.   


Anyway the film's called JUICE, starring Sam Miles.  PLUS she’s directing.  Can you believe it, Samantha Miles is directing?  PLUS she's starring with Sean Finlay.  Sean is hotter than Tom Cruise now.  Listen, the screening's Sunday.'

                      (Samantha Miles lookalike, right.)                            
    `Sunday is tomorrow.'

    `Right tomorrow.  No big deal just the first dailies but it's the only time there's a chance to meet Mel and Sam maybe before they start shooting again. Sean I don't know if Sean is going to be there, but David definitely.   David talked to your agent, what's his name, Ed Victor.  Victor is all for it.  Isn't that great?  Aren't you really glad to hear from me?"

      "It's a treat to hear from you Virgin."  I turned on the light.  "How are you?"

    "You have somebody there, in bed?  I AM THE GREATEST BONK OF ALL TIME.  ASK FORREST.  HE KNOWS!  There, did she hear that?"

    "She's in Paris, Virgin.'  Or Rome.  Or The Seychelles.  The cards had stopped coming.  `Are you in it?"

    "Nah, not me.  Just my money.  David George, don't tell me you haven't heard of David George.'  There was a pause.
 
    "You must have heard of him.  David put that whole buyout deal for like two billion with Hozuki and Olympic Films.  So this is his first package with the New Olympic studio.  I'll tell you about it when you get here.  Anyway, David is my agent and as a favour he let me in for a piece of the gross on JUICE so I have a little pull.  And when they lost their driver, there's a lot of driving, I suggested you because you're comfortable driving 200 miles an hour and they want to meet you which is as good as ok."              
          (David George lookalke, right)

     "I'm not comfortable at 200 miles an hour unless I'm on an airplane, Virgin.  What do you mean a part?  I can't do it, but as long as you woke me up you might as well tell me about it."

    "Hey, wait a minute here.  Don't bullshit me, Forrest.  I checked it out. It is cold, miserable, wet and dark in London and the sun is shining a zillion watts here.  We're talking a single light source eighty million miles away shining down on you in Southern California giving you a deep tan as a background for your white teeth as in big wide smile.  You are in a rut Forrest and you are too stubborn to recognize it.  Tell me this.  Where else can you re-invent yourself overnight except in the movies?'

    `I don't want to re-invent myself, Virgin.'

    `You don't have to.  There's people here who can do it for you.  Come on.  A couple of weeks, Forrest.  Billing.  Ok, not top, but there, on the sheet.  A lot of money.  But forget the money.  This could be a breakthrough for you.'

    `Virgin . . .' I said trying to get a word in.

    `Listen to me.  Will you just listen?  I mean I know I told you, but I know you could be a star.  Like a tiger I fought for you.  You could be major, Forrest; a major, major star.  Yes.  OK, it's not a featured part, but it is a part.  You'll be great."

    "I appreciate your confidence, Virg, but I don't think they could afford me. I'm looking for six million."

    "Well good luck.  I don't think they are gonna go six million.  You buying a house?"


    "I'm looking for sponsorship for Formula One and it is a full time, boring, tedious and repetitious job. I appreciate the offer, Virgin, but I can't afford the time.'

    "Hey, Forrest, wait a minute.  Slow down.  This is a 75 million dollar production.  Plus the promotion is budgeted 35 million.  Guaranteed distribution in 127 countries.  Plus video sales AND rentals.  And a tie-in with a major international automotive introduction from Hozuki with the world's first practical electric car.  Hey, maybe we could work a deal, something like you appear in the movie and they put JUICE on the side of your car for the International Distributors.  How's that sound?  You get your sponsorship, they get international exposure.  Let me do this, Forrest. 

The real Ed Victor

Let me have David call your agent what's his name, Ed Victor."

Interview with Forrest Evers

(Veteran's Day is a holiday and the blog is taking the day off, sort of.  Digging through my files I found an interview I did with my fictional character, Forrest Evers, years ago.  Hope it makes you smile too.)

    Forrest in the Rain

    Rain break in the Barcelona Press room and Forrest Evers is staring out at the steaming track.  Forrest is looking good.  At six one he is as tall as Berger and broader than Mansell across the shoulders.  His “leatherbeaten” face the same  craggy setting for those intense, blue eyes that nail you from those mildly obscene ads for “Formula One, the pheromone ‘attractor’.” 

BJ:  So you had a frustrating year.

Evers: Yeah, you bet. Everybody that wasn’t holding a steering wheel that said Williams had a frustrating year.  But next year with the new Judd power . . . . 

BJ: There was one bright spot.  You were voted number one sex symbol.

Evers: (laughing) In Indonesia, yeah.  Match that, Nigel.  Look, racing is in my blood and if I am not running in front I am not relaxed.  This year the only running in front was from a pack of women in Estoril.  You think being a sex symbol is fun, try it  some time.  It sure wasn’t my idea, I don’t deserve it and please, if you are female and feel the urge to ring me, don’t.   Yeah, it has been hard.

BJ: How did your talks go with Eddie Jordan?

 Evers: Talk, not talks.  As in Eddie talking.  And what he said, after you sorted through the charm, the stories, the compliments and the promises, was no.

BJ: But you’d be perfect.  You are only thirty four, you’ve won five Grand Prix and you have ten years experience in Formula One.

Evers:  Yeah, there’s no question in my mind that I am faster than Nigel now.  I respect what he’s done.  He was the world champion and they don’t give that away.  On the other hand Christian Fittipaldi, Alex Zanardi, Gil DeFerran, Al Unser Jr., hey, Bobby Rahal is faster than Nigel now.

BJ:  They’re all Indycar drivers.

Evers: Exactly.  Johnny Herbert is way faster than Nigel now, no question.  But Eddie isn’t hiring Nigel for his speed, he’s hiring Nigel for his marketing.  Nigel draws crowds and sponsors.  So on that level, I don’t blame Eddie for picking Nigel over me.   If you want to win in Formula One, money comes first. 

BJ: But that’s always been true.

Evers:  Sure, the equation has always been there, but there is so much money now that it outweighs everything.  They slow the cars down with rinky dink second gear corners on narrow little mickey mouse tracks so the TV cameras can lock on the logos when what you’d like as a driver is a balls out, wide open, flat out screaming track like Monza, like Spa.  Like Silverstone used to be.

BJ:  But drivers died.

Evers:  Drivers died.  Make all the safety changes you want, and I’ll be glad for them.  But you won’t change the nature of the beast which is who gets closest to the edge without getting cut. 
            Listen, at Estoril, you know that bumpy uphill little straight where you drive into the sun and Micheal Schumacher slipped right by me?  And then coming out of that little 2nd gear corner, we are going up through the gears and I am locked onto the back of Schumacher as he’s in fifth turning right into the Senna Corner; my car goes light and doesn’t want to turn in but I like the tow and think maybe if I can stay tight all the way around I can hitch a tow down the main straight.  

Also I want to get in tight, avoid that wavy patch and suddenly Jacques (Villeneuve) is alongside me out of nowhere on the wavy patch,  170 mph, turning in.  You know Jacques sits low in the car and I don’t think he saw Michael until he got alongside me.  He wanted to get back in on the line but Michael was there so Jacques was forced to go around him.  And he did.  He could have backed off, played it safe, tucked in behind me.  But he didn’t.  I mean that is racing.  The rest of it is marketing.  Best moment of the year. 

BJ: From an Indycar driver.

Evers:  From a Canadian.  Canadians are like Scots.  They huddle on the border, cling to their history and drive like the thieves of God.

BJ:  Thieves of God?

Evers:  They steal scraps of time, pieces of track nobody else wants.  Keep your eye on Coultard next year.  If McLaren gets ever gives him a car that will go around a corner, he’ll be there with Jacques and Michael.

BJ:  Wait a minute, Forrest.  You’re saying Villeneuve passed Schumacher at Estoril because you were in the way?  I looked at those tapes and I didn’t see you.

Evers: You media turkeys only see the first three or four cars on the track.  Like the rest of us are see-through.  If you are in the middle of the pack, it doesn’t matter how brilliant you are, nobody gives you credit.  I made a mistake at Monaco, admitted it and everybody said, ‘idiot.’  Michael makes the same mistake, admits it, and everybody says ‘what a great guy.’  Well Michael is a great guy, but you guys could take your blinders off.

BJ: Are you saying you are as fast as Michael Schumacher?

Evers: Wait till next year.  You are in for some surprises.

BJ: Seriously, Forrest, you think you have a shot at the world championship?

Evers: Absolutely.

BJ: But you are a fictional character.  Ink on a page.

Evers: Sure, but I’m still faster than Nigel.

New Age Western Man Meets a Real Cowboy

From our department of great beginnings. 

I'd sold plenty of books in Europe and the Far East. Phoenix was meant to open up the American market.  It was based on the fatal car bombing of an investigative reporter in Phoenix named Don Bolles.  

We probably sold a dozen copies in North America.  But I always liked the opening; Forrest Evers lands in Phoenix, not so fresh from London, to retire to the ranch his mother left him in her will.

  
    We are talking Big Boots here.  Really BIGTIME Boots.   

    These are BIG, STUD, COWBOY BOOTS, standing wide as The Pecos in the desert sand.  In the lee of the great volcanic caldera.  The big man stands with his eight hundred dollar each Tony Lama Full Quill Ostrich cowboy boots on the rocks of an old foundation in the Arizona desert sand.  This is MAJORLEAGUE.  SERIOUS STUFF.  We are not fuckin' around here.  Damn straight.  

           The big man is wearing a red check Royal environmentally conscious Robbins flannel shirt.  An authentic dimestore neckerchief, also red, is knotted correctly in front of his soon to be suntanned neck.  And he is wearing sun-faded levi bluejeans, and them Bigtime Boots with them little bumps all over to signify authentic, real expensive Ostrich skin.  Full Quill Ostrich Skin.  Money no object.  He wears the whole truly cowboy outfit and if you had the outfit you might be a cowboy.  But he is not.

             I am not.  It's not working.  I squint into the sun looking out at the Arizona mountains in the morning sun and I have to admit, I am not at home on the range.  Even if it is my range.

          Riding in on the big silver bird from Denver, (from New York, from London seven eye-ball aching time zones away) just after dawn, I had the feeling that I just might pass.  Just an ol' cowhand coming in from the sky.  Or what the hell, a guy with a ranch on his hands.  Man that busts his own broncs.  You know, tough but fair.  A man that is at home in the saddle and carries a heavy credit card in his hip pocket.  A New Age Western Man. 

         The feeling didn't last past the first real cowboy in the luggage hall of the Phoenix airport.  He was bleary-eye hungover, with a face like an old saddlebag, wearing a sweat stained Army t-shirt, missing teeth, needing a shave.  He was hoisting a dirty canvas bag off the conveyer belt when he caught sight of my brand new, bumpy skin ostrich cowboy boots.  "Shine them fuckers with Clearasil?" he asked without moving his jaw, moving off out the door without looking back. 

           There ought to be, somewhere, hanging in a closet, a suit of clothes an ex-racing driver can put on without feeling like he is from another planet.  Something he could wear so that wherever he goes he doesn't get the feeling that everybody is speaking another language and doing whatever they do at half speed

How to Begin A Novel. Part One.

            I've been friends with Howard Junker since we were schoolboys in Chappaqua. So I'm happy to report Howard  has a fine review of  Jonathan Franzen's new blockbuster Freedom. 
              In this morning's blog, Zyzzyva Speaks, Junker says  Freedom is "unreadable"  Starting, he says, with the opening paragraph.
              "The news about Walter Berglund wasn't picked up locally—he and Patty had moved away to Washington two years earlier and meant nothing to St. Paul now—but the urban gentry of Ramsey Hill were not so loyal to their city as not to read the New York Times."
              I contributed a memoir to Howard's litmag, Zyzzyva, a couple of years ago.  So I've worked with Howard and I know he's a fearless, ferocious and superb editor.  One of the very best.  
              Howard is happy to head butt The New York Times which ended its plodding review of Freedom.  "in creating conflicted, contrarian individuals capable of choosing their own fates, Mr. Franzen has written his most deeply felt novel yet — a novel that turns out to be both a compelling biography of a dysfunctional family and an indelible portrait of our times."
               No one ever accused me of writing "an indelible portrait of our times."  Although I took a shot with a story of a teenage Native American Ohlone Indian and his black girlfriend. The wannabe gangstas and their two friends hold a wealthy suburban family hostage for ransom, wear the suburban kids clothes as camouflage  and begin to take on suburban personalities.

               Here's my opening to Family Values, with the boy and the girl lying across the hall from each other  in a hospital:


                Out of all their dreamy laws of life and the universe, remember two.  Remembering is a dream, they said.   All dreams, they said,  are real.  


Remembering is a dream as real as the night buzz of fluorescent lights in a hospital corridor.  As real as the squeak of nurses white shoes coming and going, dragging shadows past a boy's open door.  The boy waiting for their squeak, squeak, squeak to fade and disappear.
  
As real as the pain stabbing through the drowsy curtain of drugs when he rolled out of the bed, unable to stand for a while.  Drowsy as an old man from the drugs they gave him, the nurses faces shocked and concerned;  a little boy with broken  ribs, kicked in the face like that.   


When he crossed the river of linoleum to see her, the girl was hunched over on her side, knees drawn up and head down.  She didn't move when he stood inches from her face, her eyes open but not looking at him, not even turning away.  She was too tired to move; the only thing moving in her was the wondering what he was going to do to her.  Like she was curious but she didn't care.  She didn't care at all.  What she was feeling was dirty, used and empty as a cup nobody wash.  


He knew she was awake, he'd heard her crying across the hall.  He lifted up the sheet and covers, climbed into her hospital bed behind her.  He lay still, not touching her.  Listening to her breathe.   


First thing he said was, "way back in like the beginning of the world there was no light.  Nothin.  Not even a spark."


She could relate to that.