TIK-TOK AND STEVEN TYLER

Steven Tyler - of Aerosmith fame - texted me Sunday morning and fell in love with me before sunset. A talking dog reeled me into the Tik-Tok realm, a rock star held me captive, and some fried chicken put an end to it all. As a single businesswoman living in Dallas, Texas, with only Demo, my dachshund, the Grand Quarantine introduced me to an app called Tik-Tok. An endless stream of videos - 15 seconds long, hypnotized me. I guess someone invented it to distract us while sheltered in place during a pandemic or to force us outside to protest. 

And what a find it is! Moon Pie, a talking dachshund wearing pink lipstick, launched my addiction. I watched Tik-Tok four hours nonstop the first day. And the second day. And the third. That night I swore it off and the next morning was right back at it. Celebrities started popping up so I searched for my favorite, Steven Tyler. I found Steven Tallarico (his original surname) with a video of Steven, wearing a flowing animal print house robe, long hair pulled up under a large brown hat, sporting four tired feathers, aiming north, east, south and west. Bedazzled boots in hand, socks and slippers on his feet, he clops up a stairway singing the song from The Wizard of Oz: “Oh We Oh”. It had to be the real deal.

Viewers had sent in the expected comments. “You were my first concert.”, “I’ve been to every concert.” and “You look like my grandmother.” Not wanting to sound like another crazed groupie, I typed what bubbled up from my heart, “I love you.” 

Controlling my habit the rest of the week, I monitored Moon Pie’s new videos and checked for new Steven videos and found none. Lead singers are busier than dachshunds.

Disinfecting my phone first thing that Sunday morning, words crossed the screen. “You have a Tik-Tok message from Steven Tallarico.” And the message read, “Love you too.”

“What? Oh my gosh. I can’t believe this.” I yelled over the phone to my sister. The whole family has enjoyed my fondness for Steven. The year I bought Aerosmith T-shirts for the family Christmas photo, everyone from my 90-year-old mom to our dogs wore them and smiled in the photo.

“Are you kidding me?” I wrote to Steven. “Since Easter ranks first, this is the second best Sunday in history.” And then I put lots of exclamation points. He liked that comment. 

Now having direct access to him, I offered to send him the world’s best screenplay. It had won some acclaim and now needed an Aerosmith soundtrack. Then I provided my phone number - on Tik-Tok.

A text arrived to my publicized phone number around 8 p.m. that evening.

“Hello Susan. This is Steven. How did your day go?”

“Steven who?" and then I added, "Quick, before I faint.”

“Steven Tyler.”

I set the phone down and backed away from it. Then I blasted a screen shot to friends and asked if this could be possible?   I got “No.”, “Maybe.”, “Why not?” and “Well, who else would it be?”

           A copy of his New York's driver’s license to allay all doubt appeared. His request for my picture sent me scrambling. Why didn’t I have a folder of photos labeled “Send to Famous Musicians”? He complimented my youthful appearance, natural beauty, and declared his love for me, about 60 minutes in. We traded our hopes and dreams. I described my career, my 28-year-old son, and my dachshund. 

Friends called. “What is he writing you?” they asked. “Is he still writing you?” And “Wherever he takes you, I get to go too.”

Eager to hear that voice, I wanted him to call. "Impossible." he texted. His management watched him at all times, with cameras all over his Maui home. “They’re worried I’ll book a gig without their knowledge.” he complained. What? Someone told Steven Tyler what to do?

He continued, “Will you be retiring soon? If we end up together, where would you like to live?” Before I could say “Maui’s good,” photos of a home filled the screen. He thought we should buy this house together, a fresh start for us, as a couple, in Florida. I wondered when rock stars started retiring in Florida.

The next photo, of his Bank of America statement, showed over $100 million in his accounts. He sent his username and password and urged me to sign in. I did not. His management had not kept all eyes on Steven.

“Baby, our new house in Florida costs $3 million. I’ll cover most of it. Can you put in a million?” Steven Tyler is not cheap. I stopped typing. 

His last words of the evening - “Will you allow your son call me dad?” – hinted this guy may not have penned the lyrics to “Dream On.”

My critical thinking skills, focused on losing 10 pounds before his private jet arrived, now counted red flags. I googled Tik-Tok fraud, fake celebrity accounts, and the effect of long term isolation on brain function. 

Monday morning messages from Steven greeted me. Aerial photos of three of his current homes, similar to the ones Google Earth provides. Okay, the exact ones Google Earth provides. Busy alerting credit bureaus, I didn’t pick up when he started calling. I even resisted the video calls. He insisted I answer faster and panicked our relationship might not be as strong as he thought. I almost blocked his number then, as I’ve been down that high-maintenance road before. 

But I don’t get good copy like this every day. And hope does spring eternal.

What if it really was my Steven? COVID-19 changed the world and all normal behavior. I gave it one last shot and suggested a selfie, with a piece of paper showing the date. A photo of his dinner popped up instead: a four-piece combo of fried chicken, cole slaw, and Texas toast in a plastic container. And it all came crashing down. That did it. I knew Steven Tyler couldn’t eat like that and still run across the stage in concerts. 

But I could and I hadn’t eaten since my Tik-Tok fling began. Broken hearted, I deleted apps, changed passwords, suited up in quarantine mask and gloves, and headed my Mazda to Popeye’s drive through lane. I’ve got plenty of time to diet before an Aerosmith jet rolls in at Dallas Love Field.