Excuse Me, But You Are So...

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely. ~Roald Dahl



It was the mid-1980’s. A young woman—no Marilyn Monroe, by any stretch of the imagination, but reasonably attractive—sat with her date in a club. Dressed in a pretty pink blouse and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (I DID say this was the 80’s!), she looked and felt pretty sexy.


But her companion was a bit inattentive, his Rico Suave gaze roaming the place. His attitude shouted loud and clear that he was sure he could do much better than the pretty-ish woman beside him. And he probably could have.


Then something happened. Something so unexpected, so odd, so startling, it changed the woman’s life.


A stranger, a very good-looking man, stood at his table and said goodnight to the waitress as he laid his money on her tray.


Then he walked straight to the lady in the pink blouse and stopped at her table. He addressed the woman’s date first, Excuse me, he said. I’m sorry, man, if I’m out of line, but I’ve just got to say this. Then the handsome stranger turned to the woman and murmured, You are so goddamn beautiful. Before the lady could react, the man smiled at her date, saying, You’re a lucky man.


And, just like that, the mysterious man was gone.


One flash in time, a little basketful of verbal flowers, and the lady in the pink blouse’s inner beauty—which had surely been dormant, as she never knew she even HAD inner beauty—lit up inside her. She glowed that night, smiled, flirted, felt—beautiful.

Her date suddenly saw her through this total stranger’s eyes and, from that point on, became quite the attentive escort.


The lady in the pink blouse? That was me. And the odd thing? I was not, still am not, outstanding in the looks department. Who knows what that stranger saw? Who knows exactly what attracts one person to another? Chemistry? A soul connection? Maybe he just liked pink blouses on brunettes? I’ll never know.


But since that night, and through the years, I’ve been fascinated by human attraction and its uncanny mystery.


For myself, sure, there are the obvious draws that I find attractive in men. It’s no secret I love my dark-haired men. I have exquisite, exotic fantasies of my Italian lovers with their black eyes and full lips, their perfect bodies. Gods in men’s physiques. A charming accent is, without a doubt, irresistible.


But that’s just my fantasy. That is what I like to look at in pictures, to admire in public, to drool over. But it’s not real to me, it doesn’t appeal to me beyond the external, the obvious allure.


There’s a reason this has all hit me today. Earlier this week, I blogged my thoughts about finding soul mates. The thought had been so strong in my mind.


Then, this morning, I accidentally stumbled on a picture of someone who I found, much to my surprise, to be incredibly sexy. So sexy I couldn’t take my eyes from him. And, in truth, he’s sort of lingered in my mind all day.


He was a very young man—what?—no older than his twenties, probably. Skinny as a beanpole, he wore glasses and had bleached blond hair, wild and curly. Not ripped with six pack abs—actually, he didn’t even have a three-pack set of abs. At first glance, very ordinary.


In fact, he would fit perfectly in one of those vintage ads for body building. You know the ones. The buff guy mocking the 98-pound weakling, taunting, Hey, Skinny! Kicking sand in his face. He could be the poster boy for the old Charles Atlas ads…Do you want to look like THIS? He’d BE the 98-pound weakling.


Then his most outstanding feature—his smile—caught my attention. A huge, brilliant, need-sunglasses-to-look-at-it blinding smile. Very toothy. A skinny little scarecrow with huge teeth and glasses.


Somehow, inexplicably, I found myself so attracted to this young man, actually finding him incredibly sexy. No, not lothario sexy—let me bed you, my darling, and wrap you in roses and kisses sexy—just…sexy.


The beauty, the intense beauty, that radiated from this man drew me to him, then caused me to stop, to tarry. From the brilliant, effervescent smile, my gaze moved to see that he had very nice hands…expressive hands. Nice, strong, handsome feet. Light, smooth skin. Details which, when observed as a whole picture, blended to make a very handsome person.


But the personality. This shit-eating, lively, I-love-me-I-love-you-I love-life burst of sunshine from this skinny little person. Made him ten feet tall, transformed him into an Adonis, made him bright as the sun, made him so damn sexy and irresistible this girl can't stop thinking about him.


I knew, deep down, if that smile—that glorious, infectious smile—walked into my life, no matter how skinny, how heavy, how tall, how short, how much hair, how rich, how poor…I’d beg to dance in the light of him.


I noticed that my young, broad-smiled, bespectacled dream man is married, and I—like my own stranger/admirer long ago—thought of his wife, You’re a lucky lady.


To be lucky enough to bask in a smile I loved, to see that sunshine everyday, to be the one to cheer him up when his sun wasn’t shining, to be the one that exceptional smile shined on—what a romantic idea. What a sexy idea. Not the stuff romance novels are made of, but real-life, you-are-my-sunshine, you-are-so-goddamn-beautiful-inside-I-can-hardly-stand-it reality.


Elizabeth Kubler-Ross said, People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.






And I’m pretty sure this was the caliber of beauty I saw this morning in my skinny little dream man. Something so bright, so full of life, so obviously dredged in sweet love—not only surely for his wife but for the world around him—exudes when one has this kind of inner light.






I hope, hope, hope that while being surrounded in the romantic world of fiction by streams of well-built gods in Speedos with their tight abs and powerful chests, I keep my mind open to his alter ego—the man who might not hit the mark of movie-star looks and body-builder physique but who has THE SMILE.






And hold me back. Because, if I do see such blinding sun in person, I’m going to march right up to him and say, Excuse me. But you are so goddamn beautiful.

You Are My Sunshine...

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come. ~Lord Byron



It started with Ed. My quest to listen, to watch for signs, to find…my soul mate.


I stood at the coffee counter in the customer service area of my office. I heard a voice behind me. The beautiful husky tone, the charming Latino accent. I knew that voice intimately. And why not? I invented it. It was the voice I’d imagined my fictional Italian hero, Salvatore, to have.


Slowly I turned toward the voice and there he stood. Salvatore, in the flesh. Gorgeous. Well over six feet, dark-skinned, dark-haired, well built. He wore glasses, which shot my libido into orbit.


In a move completely out of nature for me, I forced myself to speak to…Salvatore, whose name turned out to be Ed. Not much. Just a casual how are you doing? Fine, thanks.


I was in love.


It was a sign. I mean, after all, Salvatore is my quintessential Latino man—not particularly handsome as handsome goes, but gorgeous in his virility. One hundred percent M.A.N. Glasses, accent, coloring, voice, build. Made to order. The man of my dreams. Ed was my soul mate, I was sure.


Ed and I, over the course of time, began to talk on the phone. Long, wonderful, sensual, conversations. Seems he was Puerto Rican, a perfect romantic, every woman’s dream of spicy teasing, the promise of tender lovemaking, the anticipation of being adored in those deep brown eyes. It had all been so magical, I was sure it was meant to be. I was madly in love.


Just like Mrs. Ed. Yes, alas, there was a wife Ed neglected to mention.


To hell with soul mates, then. What a bunch of crock.


No more listening to my inner self, no more tuning my senses, no more opening myself up to finding my ‘mate’—as they do in the shape shifter books.


If only it could BE so convenient. Why, hell, if I’d only been a shape shifter, I would have immediately known Ed was not my soul mate. I’d have realized, by his scent if nothing else, that he was indeed not my destined partner for life.


I’ve encountered a few more soul mates since Ed. And with every case of ‘mistaken soul mate identity’, I find myself less and less hopeful of finding ‘him’.


With every wrong choice—which always began as the perfect choice—I felt more convinced such a thing did not exist. Such perfect mating, perfect love was just fiction. Only happens in the romances. Those damn shape shifter, vampire folks who smell chocolate chip cookies in the air and home in on their life mates. Give me a break. As if.


You want to know something? It sort of hurts. It’s an ache. This unfulfilled quest. This curse of writing romance but not being able to live it.


But.


Yes, there’s a but. And it’s a beautiful pause in my reign as the self-proclaimed Queen of Pity.


The other day, I browsed Facebook and stumbled on the page of a fellow author, Rick Reed. It was Rick’s birthday. One post on his wall jumped out at me.



It was a birthday post from Rick’s partner, Bruce. It was so simple, so sweet—a photo of Rick and their dog, Lily. I don’t remember the exact wordage of the little birthday wish, but I DO remember, with sunshine bright clarity, that, along with the wish, it said, ‘To Rick and Lily. They are my sunshine.’


That little bitty sentiment made me cry when I saw it. For one thing, because I could very well see how Rick—who seems to be a genuinely sweet man—could be the sunshine of someone’s life.


But the main reason it touched me? Because, all the sudden, from that simple but hugely eloquent little statement, came the realization to me that maybe it’s not all about mating, of throwing out your vibes into the unknown of the Universe in hopes of crossing paths with a mate of my soul.


Maybe, just maybe, it’s about just plain ol’ walking right into the sunshine of another person, of being their sunshine, of making them smile, making their life a beautiful place in the sun—just by being there.


I knew, then, that my longing is not so much about marriage, the perfect man, me being the perfect woman for that perfect man. Not about romantic Latino men, gorgeous Italians, perfect bodies. Not even about soul mates.


But it’s about being the smile in another person’s life, whether it’s your spouse, your lover, whether it’s opposite sex or same sex. Being a warm, comfortable body to melt into when you wake from a bad dream. To hold you tight when thunder and lightning scare you. Having that hot cup of coffee ready when you come home from a long day at work. That person who will sit beside you while you take a bath and let you gripe about your day. The person who shares the remote. The man or woman who lets you have time to yourself to write, who tolerates your cat, who will vacuum the floor or fill the dishwasher. The person who is allowed to see you without your makeup. Who you’re not embarrassed to brush your teeth in front of.


Maybe I’ve overcomplicated this process of finding the love of my life.


Robert Frost said, Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.


That is very simple. No body scents to have to recognize, nothing fancy.


Tim Robbins said, We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.


And he’s right, I guess. If love is truly like Rick and Bruce and Lily, then all one has to do is be their own sunshine, make their own sun. Fresh-squeezed, beautiful, yellow and bright sunshine.


If it’s meant to be, the love of our lives will walk into that sun, and we will become each other’s sunshine. If it’s not meant to be? Shine on anyway. Sun is good.


You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’ take my sunshine away.

Dear Father...

 A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.  ~Edward de Bono

I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from Jonathan Livingston Seagull right now. Seems appropriate.  

I guess you know today is Father’s Day, Daddy. And, oh God, I still have to remind myself that you aren’t here to celebrate it.

Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army. Before I knew you.  And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am. 

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work the other evening, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a Father’s Day card; and, damn it, I got hit with it—you are gone.  You are gone. No more cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again.  

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card—the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy. 

Hallmark insisted on taking the pure ol’ goodness, the ‘Daddy-ness’ away from you and turning you into an ad for Disneyland. They just didn’t get the reality of you.

I suppose I never realized it at the time, but you were so big and important—so crucial in my life—it went far beyond what any Hallmark poem could ever convey. Somehow, their sentiments seemed silly in light of your practicality, your down-to-earth existence, the humanness of you. And your brand of ‘ordinary-ness’ and steadfastness was so easily taken for granted, because it was SO constant I became to expect it—never realizing it was as essential as air which I also take in stride.

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should.  How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Hell, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all. I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often. 

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we?  

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year—that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of Father’s Day cards, the Holy Grail of greetings. 

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card. I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you.  

Well, I’ve whined enough. Father’s Day is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But—wherever you may be—Happy, happy Father’s Day. I love you.

You Already Knew...

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder




A woman I know--her name is Wendy—had been deaf since she was five years old. A while back, she underwent surgery to retrieve some of hear hearing. She still cannot hear as well as you and I. But, even with the limited world of sound which had been opened up to her, her life became an adventure in discovery. Things that you and I take for granted are awe-inspiring for Wendy.


When I saw Wendy on Wednesday evenings (she served at our church dinners), she would have something new to share about her learning experience. I was touched and immensely humbled by the beauty of ordinary life that, to her, was a new universe, bursting with audio color.


I wanted to share how Wendy’s experience touched me, and the only way I could think to do so was with this humble tribute to…Wendy. These discoveries were just a few of the discoveries that she mentioned.



You Already Knew


You already knew that
A soft drink can hisses when the tab is pulled,
A potato chip bag crinkles really loud when it’s opened,
Forks, spoons and knives clang when you open the silverware drawer,
Food makes a sizzling sound in a frying pan,
Your shoes make noise with every step you take,
Water makes a splashing sound when you pour it in a glass,
A toilet makes a swooshing sound when you flush it,
A door makes a thud when you close it.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
A car makes a noise when you start the engine then
Purrs as it’s running,
An airplane hums as it passes in the sky above,
A lawnmower roars as it glides over the grass,
A hammer pounding echoes loudly as it strikes a nail,
A fan buzzes as its blades turn,
A light switch makes a clicking sound when you flip it,
Scissors make noise as they cut paper,
Windows make noise when you open or close them.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
No two people have the same voice,
Dogs do not sound the same as cats,
Babies don’t sound like grown ups when they talk,
Different species of birds sing different songs or that birds make sounds at all,
Wind makes a soft sound when it blows through trees,
Rain makes a gentle sound when it hits the ground,
Gravel makes a crunching noise under your shoes.
I didn’t.


But the moon, sun and stars don’t make any sound after all.
I didn’t know that. But now I do.

A Hard Man is Good to Find...

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West


It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, and partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides and no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer; but, then, this was one of the things I loved so about him.


Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his narrow wire-rimmed glasses.


I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the type of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.


Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”


“This is Antonio.”


Craggly cocked a brow and nodded, studying us. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”


Antonio didn’t return the greeting.


The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After coughing once more, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”


Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.
* * *

First of all, Antonio is NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference. So there.


But I can see you’re still snorting. So let me tell YOU what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for YOU the reasons my darling Antonio happens to be a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

1) How many men would actually let you NAME them? You love Italians as I do? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I was in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name could quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.


2) How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did so? The freedom for your work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made VERY possible with Antonio.


3) How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?


4) How many men do YOU know that can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer; and I find this handy feature quite valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would NEVER intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making a noise while he’s being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!


5) Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.


6) Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.


7) Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He does not even eat.


8) On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion, though. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he does not eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.


9) Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but he does not return the attention. A faithful sort, he is.


10) Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushiony comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.


11) There are never any disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.


12) Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.


13) Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.


14) Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.


15) I think Antonio’s only disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He IS, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. One must be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Oh, sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in so many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really CAN be quite a sensible solution to companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he is actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the overrated blow-up doll.

I’ve not convinced Dr. Craggly that Antonio is not an outward sign that I’m a few wings short of an airplane. But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

Happy Birthday, Valentino!

Ah. I knew some excuse would come along for me to write about one of my most beloved fantasy men. My favorite actor. One of the handsomest men in my world’s menagerie of gorgeous hunks.


Rudolph Valentino. The original gorgeous hunk. The original heart throb. The man who put the word Latin in Latin Lover. The sleek, brooding panther who invented “bedroom eyes”. The young film idol who rode onto the screen in 1921 and put the word “sheik” into the world’s vocabulary, making the word an icon that symbolized exotic passion and smoldering eyes. The first Great Lover of the Silver Screen.


Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Piero Filiberto Guglielmi was born on this day, in 1895, in Castellaneta, Italy. Today is his 116th birthday. So—Happy Birthday, Valentino!


I’m not going to go into a lengthy biography. I only want to dedicate a birthday card to the man who came to the United States in 1913, as a kid of 18. The kid who, by the age of 26 became the biggest male sex symbol in history by shocking the world with his exotic, erotic tango scene in Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.


The story behind this legendary role was the stuff dreams were made of—a proverbial but true “rags to riches” story.


A powerful screen writer, June Mathis, by chance spotted him in a miniscule role in a film and knew she’d found “her” man for the role of Juan Gallardo in the much-anticipated production of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the role that every big-name movie star vied for, including Douglas Fairbanks. She used her weight to get the unknown, dark-skinned kid in the lead role for the film; her hunch paid off. Rudolph went to bed the night of the premier as a nobody immigrant kid from Italy—a bit part player, usually cast as a “heavy” because of his dark coloring—and woke up a sensation with the face that would launch women’s hearts to romantic depths until this very day.


The primo celebrità of all time was born.


When he played the role of Ahmed Ben Hassan in The Sheik, bringing to life the sweltering sexuality of Edith Hull’s novel of the same name, he only cemented his standing as the greatest screen lover of all time. A position which, in my mind, has never been usurped.


Rudolph Valentino. You might have never seen one of his films. But very few can hear the name and not immediately summon a vision of romance. Even if you can’t place his face, you know when you hear the name Valentino that it means romance, it means sensuality, seduction. You just know it. Your mind is immediately swept to black lace and tangos, blacker than black hair, hypnotic eyes, kisses on the palms of hands, romance under the desert stars, lips speaking silent words of passion, tuxedoes, swank grace, feline masculinity.


Behind the bigger than life veneer, though, stood a man who actually was very simple and very much in awe of his sex symbol status. A man who loved good books and owned an extensive library. A man who loved poetry (even had a book of beautiful poems published, titled Daydreams, which you can buy here), good music, art, and who knew several languages. An extremely educated man. He loved animals. He loved to work on cars. He fenced, rode horseback with the skill of a seasoned equestrian (did most of his own riding in his films, even the dangerous scenes). He loved to cook, especially for friends in his own home. He was a man whose real life was a far cry from the sizzling persona on the screen—a sweet, decent, loving man. A man who wanted desperately to shake his “sheik” image and find serious roles—he was, in fact, a very good actor.


He separated from his wife, Natacha Rambova, in 1925. Their parting at the train station was a highly publicized event—a photo journalist feeding frenzy. Photos still remain of their parting kiss as she stood on the train steps. They were to never meet again in life.


On August 15, 1926, during a stop in New York City for a promotional tour for his final film (tragically, no one could know it was indeed to be his last film), The Son of the Sheik, Valentino was stricken with an attack caused by a perforated ulcer. He was hospitalized in New York and lingered until August 23, then succumbed to complications of this condition.


His passing affected the public in a way unlike anything the world had ever seen. Public pandemonium ensued. At only 31 years old, The Great Lover was dead. Over 100,000 mourners packed the streets in New York where his body lay in state. His body was returned to California to be interred, where it still remains, in Hollywood Forever Cemetery.


I’m not sure why I’m doing this tribute to him. I have nothing to add that isn’t already common knowledge. I suppose I do so, wishing that those who only think they know who Rudolph Valentino is would stop for a moment to know him. Watch a silent film. You’d be surprised how beautiful his films are—how really interesting silent films are in general. A world of art that should be explored, where treasures of the senses wait, ready to delight.


So, happy birthday, Rudolph Valentino. You would have been 116 years old today. My, my. But, as tragic as your too-early death was, it served to forever stamp the picture of your youth, at the height of your beautiful life, forever in my mind.

Do Men Who Wear Glasses...?

When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons

What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question. 

I mean, when Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern in spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!

Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.

But what about men who wear glasses? 

Speaking for myself, I’ll tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure? 

I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his glasses.

Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass.  A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames. 

If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him. 

Oh, I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome.  You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that. Or is it?  

You just might be right. 

I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!

So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.

But still. I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy.  Bill. Tom, my husband.

To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with YOU as the target.

But wait.

He pauses to pull off his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.

Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy?  He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming. 

Oh, I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in second grade. But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me. 

So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will. 

I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and NOT wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? IS he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.

To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.

So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!