...Intimate Converse with Men of Unseen Generations...

There is a great deal of difference between an eager man who wants to read a book and a tired man who wants a book to read. ~G.K. Chesterton

I'm about to pay the biggest---and possibly the most outlandish---tribute to a book in my history of literary praise.

I've loved a lot of books, fallen for a ton of fictional characters. Countless stories have been engraved on my mind and heart.

But in the wake of the recent passing of my son-in-law, something landed on my heart with such a soft, loud touch that I was compelled to share it.

A book. A character. A friend.

I reviewed this novel before, but this mention of it is something different. A proof positive that books really are our friends, like they say.

This week, following the loss of my loved one, I found myself walking in circles, trying without success to focus on something, anything. I didn't feel like writing, but at the end of the day, I craved the pages of a book to escape into.

But which book? I couldn't bear tragic themes but I wasn't ready for happy themes either.

Instinctively, I marched to my room and plucked my copy of Notturno by Z. A. Maxfield from the bookshelf.

By instinctively, I mean there was no other book in my mind to choose. I mean the book, the characters, seemed to stand there on some imaginary sideline, waving me over, inviting me to wrap myself up in them. To comfort me.

I'm not doing a review of the book again. This is not a plug for the book, although it just might accidentally seem to be. LOL.

And I'm not showing you the sumptuous cover to promote the book...

And I'm not including a LINK to the book as a means of pimping the novel, either.

Kenko Yoshida said, To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations - such is a pleasure beyond compare.

And, for me, Notturno is THE book that fits this sentiment for me. Right now, while I'm restless and wondering, this book has BEEN my intimate converse.

The author knows that one of the characters, the beautiful vampire Donte Fedelta, is my favorite fictional being of all time. She does NOT laugh at me when I gush over him, when I tell her I knew him the moment I met him in the story.

Ms. Maxfield knew, as I did, that sometimes fiction really IS a hand reaching to us from not-so-imaginary worlds, a brush with something familiar deep down inside us. Souls connecting by the written word.

So the friendship I sought within the pages of this book---this vampire story to top all vampire stories---because, in my heart, it WAS a friend, an intimate one. And it is only a book. Go figure.

So thank you, Z. A. Maxfield, for creating this world for me. A world that, as you well know, I've enjoyed many times already. But now it holds the distinction of being the only book that became a solace, a literary hug of sorts, when I sought it. Now that is about the highest praise I, personally, can bestow on any collection of written words.

Lord! when you sell a man a book you don't sell just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night - there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book. ~Christopher Morley

A Good Fight...

I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith…

2 Timothy 4:7

Most of you know of my son-in-law, Mike, and his fight agaisnt cancer.

While I don't want to do my usual wordy blog---somehow those words just don't come so easily right now---I do want to let everyone know that Mike passed from this life on February 12.

His transition from this illness into a life free of cancer was peaceful and without pain, a well-deserved rest after such a brave and hard-fought battle.

Although I know with certainty that he would not have wanted those left behind to grieve, it's hard to see your child's name in the same sentence as 'in memory of' in an obituary.
Suddenly the pain you've been able to keep nestled inside floods to the surface and you're forced to acknolwedge they are gone, they aren't going to return, and you do mourn.

But I refuse to mourn for long. Not only because I know he is in a much better place now, but because I choose to dwell on the beauty of having had a son. Even if it was for only the five short years. It doesn't take a lifetime to know someone, to love them.

I can smile in the knowledge that my daughter experienced love, real love. She was one of those fortunate ones who found a soul mate. The marriage wasn't free of trials---no marriage ever is---but it was still perfect in that Mike and Lyndie weathered every storm and always found a clearing.

I won't even say rest in peace, Mike, because---now that I know he's pain-free and healthy once more, I'm rooting for him to have found a lovely fishing hole and is casting for lots of fish and enjoying the sun.

Finally, I found this quote from Victor Hugo on my daughter's Facebook where she shared it after having found it on a plaque in a garden at M.D. Anderson hospital.

Be like the bird who, halfway in his flight on limb too slight, feels it give way beneath him; yet sings, knowing he hath wings.

I love you, Mike. My son.

Mental Starch...

Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch.  ~E.M. Forster

I've put off writing on the subject...and put it off...and put it off. Waiting for a trigger, a sign to tell me, Okay, it's all right to speak it out loud now.

As many of you know, my son-in-law Mike battles cancer. Bravely battles cancer. Has fought it tooth and nail.

You want to see a REAL alpha male in action? Meet Mike. Through brain surgery, one-and-a-half years of chemotherapy, lumbar punctures, needles, needles, needles, nausea, hair loss, weakness, he has never cried. He's much stronger than me, that's for sure.

Oh, he DOES cry. Everytime he talks to me about my daughter and tells me how strong she's been for him...he cries. He gets a teeny bit beta then. When he tells me how much he loves her, he cries. When he thinks--even for a moment--about that unthinkable prospect of ever leaving her behind, he cries.

But I don't strike off marks for THOSE tears. He's still an amazing alpha male. So alpha males really DO exist.

My thoughts today, though, are on other things.

Pain. A pain that is not physical---damn, how I wish it was, because maybe there would be a med to take for it---but of the heart.

During this illness, I've ridden along on the tide of the faith Mike and Lyndie have had. I was weak. But if THEY could be strong, so could I.

But recently, some crisis arose in the course of Mike's journey. New fears, a relapse.

A gripping pain spread through me---the type I've not experienced since my daughter was small, when she would be hurt, crying, sad, scared---when she called me one day to tell me that Mike had had a spell of speech disorientation and temporary vision loss.

This time, my children were both afraid. That faith---Lyndie's famous (and annoying to some..lol) cartwheels and pain, sunshine and rain attitude began to slip.

The agony of seeing fear in your children, in hearing your child slipping in her strength, of hearing the begging in their voice to tell them things ARE going to be okay, aren't they? They're big guys, they're not going to come out and ask that, but you can hear it in their voices. That grasping for a light in the dark.

And the reason I broke down to write about this today is because, once again, my daughter seems to feel the need to aplogize for her optimism, her insisting on being positive.

I have no idea where the need arose, I just know she posted an update to those on her list in apology for NOT posting all the grim details of Mike's disease which she chose not to dwell on. That same old criticism she's suffered all along for being too positive, for being upbeat...for choosing to HOPE, to have FAITH.

So...listen up, people.

I can tell you first hand that Lyndie IS very aware of every grim detail, every morbid possibility, ever reality of this disease. Beneath all those sunny cartwheels beats the heart of one of the strongest, most courageous women I know. A woman who DOES know the truth, but chooses to face this monster in her own way.

The world NEEDS more Lyndies. I need her positive reinforcement, because I'm much more negative than she, and I would worry my son-in-law into a much worse state if not for his strength and faith as well as Lyndie's. So thank heavens for those who DO hold out on hope. They hold the rest of us wimps up.

And what the hell happened to having faith anyway? What's wrong with having faith?

Faith is, contrary to what some may think, is NOT denial. Faith is shining a big, blinding bright light in the face of darkness. Faith is fighting. Faith is tough. And, damn it, it takes a hell of a lot more courage to have faith than it does to settle for defeat. A lot more.

Faith is a big, brawny brute with clenched fists, fighting its way through the grimness that could easily destroy one's strength.

Sherwood Eddy said, Faith is reason grown courageous. 

Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens, says J.R.R. Tolkien.

And my favorite, favorite one of all, from William Wordworth, Faith is a passionate intuition.

So, Mike and Lyndie, continue in your hope, in your faith, in their strength.

And ol' Mom will be right there with you in my heart.

He who has faith has... an inward reservoir of courage, hope, confidence, calmness, and assuring trust that all will come out well - even though to the world it may appear to come out most badly.  ~B.C. Forbes


 

Because If I Didn't, I Would Die...

I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die.    ----Isaac Asimov


 I doubt there is an author out there who can’t say this about their writing—that without it, they would die.

 The populous grumbles about those authors who spit out what seems a hundred books a day, under severe pressure to do so, to stay on the New York Times Bestseller List. I gripe about them, too. Hey, how can they really have a love affair with writing when they’ve turned into a book machine? But you know what? I’d be willing to bet even these authors would more than likely wither and blow away like ashes on a breeze if they could not write.

 Lately I’ve looked inside myself to see just why I write. What’s my motivation? What is my ultimate goal? Money? Fame? Money, fame and a big movie deal? Do I seriously harbor dreams of a movie deal in which Alessandro Gassman or Russell Crowe play my leading man? Oh, sure, in the back of my mind, I have overblown fantasies. Who doesn’t? They’re fun, they sprinkle the adventure of writing with pretty sparkles.

Seriously, though? To show you just how much money didn’t play a part in my decision to try to be published: When I received the contract for my novella, Candy G, I actually did a double take at the section that discussed a payment method. Payment? That’s right! I get paid for this! And that is the truth. Money had really never figured into the equation when I submitted my manuscript. And it still does not. It does not motivate me. Oh, yes, I do feel an obligation as an employee of my publisher to earn money for them, but if left to my own devices, I’d…yes, I’d do it for free.

 But what does drive me?

 As egotistical as it may sound, I want my writing to create characters who live and breathe, who—as so many of my favorite authors’ characters do—stay on your mind long after you close the book.

 I want you to wish you could hang out with my characters. I want you to be attracted to them, I want you to fantasize about them. To get so mad at them that you want to slap them upside the head, but still remember them.

 If you walk away from my book and shake your head, saying you can’t believe my character did this or that—how could they do that, that bastard, that bitch?—then I’m happy.

If you cry, that’s fine, although my goal is not to have a Kleenex rating on my book. I don’t feel I’m only successful if I can bring you to tears. And, on that note, those who know me well are aware that I cringe at the push in authors to see who can evoke the most tears, as though if we can’t reduce you to a sobbing mass we’ve not done our jobs. Baloney.

Okay, so I do want to create memorable characters. But what about me? What do I want for myself? That question leads me to the issue of promotion. Pimping my book. Why do I do any promo? If I claim I’d do it for free, why the promo?

 Ready for the answer? I guess you could chalk it up to ego. Not money but ego. On my characters’ behalves, though, not necessarily all mine. If I do want you to get to know them, to have all the emotions I mentioned earlier, I have to pitch them.

I suppose I could feign modesty, but I’d be lying. The fact of the matters is, yes, I would die if I could not write. But is it me who would die? Or all the characters who live and breathe inside me? It’s them. So I do have to write or that beautiful, powerful force in me would expire. And I could not bear that.

 On the other side of that coin, though, lies another truth.

With that very true, very live entity within me does go pride and the desire to share what is beautiful to me. My characters.

 Should I feel guilty because I’m proud of them, because I want you to get hooked on them? Is that ego? Maybe. But no more than a mother who tingles inside every time a passerby compliments her child. These are my children, these characters.

The trickiest part of this, though, is that other question. So, if your characters could ever really be so powerful, so memorable, are you REALLY not—just a little—wanting to bask in that glory yourself? If I answer ‘no’ to that…well, you’ve heard about Pinocchio and his nose, right?
 The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. ----William Faulkner

Sneak Peek...HONOR C...

I'm at that wonderful point in my WIP--the last stretch---closing in on those elusive words, a chapter or two away from the holy of holies of phrases....THE END.

Since I've been feverishly dedicating all my free time to getting this project completed, I've not had ample room in my brian to blog. Even my spare THOUGHTS are devoted to this manuscript.

So, in my excitement for this upcoming 'event', I wanted to introduce my main characters to you, give you a glimpse into the story.

Without further ado, please welcome----from my soon-to-be-finsihed novel, HONOR C----Honor and Raimundo...(Yes, Hispanic, what did you think?)

Psst....and they are not edited....

* * * * * * * * *

My fantasy had come to life. Alone with Honor Castillo, wrapped in his arms.

But it was in a bathroom in his home with Honor propping up my drunk, limp, oh-so-sick body to hug the toilet bowl. I thought I’d lost all the contents in my stomach long ago on the emergency lane of Interstate 10.


What had I been thinking, drinking so much?


“What was I thinking, Raimundo, by not stopping you?”


Honor’s voice—along with the touch of a cool, damp washcloth to my forehead—coaxed me gently from the swirling center of the green fog in my head.


My fingers clung to the cool porcelain and my words echoed into the deep bowl. “It didn’t…feel…like so much until I…I….” Straining once more to hurl. “Until I stood up.”


“Ay-ay-ay.”


My body, pressed against his, shook with his hushed laughter.


“I think I’m okay now.” Struggling with his help, I shifted into a sitting position.


“This is the guest room and you can sleep here and—”


“No. Really. I’m fine.” I pushed away from him and, bracing on the edge of the toilet, I tried to stand. I must have left my legs back on the interstate, though. “Damn.” I slumped back onto the floor.


“Ah, no, muchacho. I don’t think so.” Honor stood and—in one swift, easy move—pulled me to my feet, holding me in the crook of his arm like a rag doll.


I’d only been on my feet a few seconds before the nausea rolled back to my stomach, full force. Because his hold was so tight, I couldn’t shove away in time to bend over the commode.


If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget Honor’s unaffected reaction to my puking all over him. He merely brushed off my babbling apology with a soft smile, closed the toilet lid and eased me onto it. “See, amigo, what did I tell you?”


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”


“Shhh.” Moving to a clean spot on the plush mat, he knelt before me and his fingers began working to unbutton my shirt. He shook his head, lending a sympathetic grin to the mess which was Raimundo Munoz. “And your beautiful new clothes, too.”


My clothes, my new fancy clothes. “Oh, god.”


He paused unbuttoning to cup my cheek in his palm. “We’ll get them cleaned.”


I just nodded. Even though weak, sick and seeing him as if through a cheap pair of green sunglass lenses, I knew the pleasure of Honor’s touch to my face. I recognized it as the tenderness my body wanted.


“I’m sorry.” I seemed to have no other words in the drunken edition of my mental dictionary.


He ignored me, tugging the shirt off my shoulders and along my arms then laying it on the floor. “Grab me around the neck, Raimundo, so I can help you stand and get your pants off.”


Fortunately, my soused brain was too numb to be fazed or aroused by the fact Honor was undressing me. In my own pickled universe, I only noticed his soiled silk tee shirt which had been so beautiful only a few hours ago.


“I’m so sorry. Your clothes. Your clothes,” I slobbered the words onto his neck.


In a sober stratosphere, I’d have been turned on with the fumbling of his big warm hands at the waistband of my trousers—their gentle touch working the damp fabric down my thighs.


“Step out of them, Raimundo.”


The nausea had faded but after standing a while, everything seemed so light, a sea of fluffy clouds floating through my head. Was I giggling?


Once he’d completely removed my clothes, he maneuvered my boneless body to sit on the side of the bathtub. With one arm holding me upright, he reached to turn on the faucet and held his hand under the water until it heated and steam formed around us.


Here I was. Naked. Pressed against Honor Castillo, just as I’d dreamed so often. But shit-face plastered. This part had not been in my fantasies.


The hot water, once I was immersed in it, stimulated me and I took the washcloth from Honor’s hands and proceeded to bathe myself.


“Can you manage by yourself?” He rose from his post on the side of the tub.


“Yes.” I nodded. “The water’s helping. I don’t feel as…as….” As fucked up?


“I’ll wait outside in the bedroom, then, just in case. You might not be as steady as you think when you try to stand again.”


“Thank you. I…I think I’ll be okay.”


“Nevertheless.” He winked. Tapping his finger on a louvered closet door, he added, “There’s a robe in here.” A gentle laugh. “A little big, but…oh, well, I have nothing in your size.”


“Thank you.” I called out just as he started for the door, “And I really am sorry.”


“Don’t be, Raimundo.” Once more he winked and left the room, closing the door.


After bathing, my legs still wobbled when I stood. The thick fog lingered in my head but I managed to dry off and slide into the humongous terry robe. Collecting my discarded clothes, I folded them as neatly as possible and stacked them on top of a laundry hamper. Hopefully I could wash them in the morning.


I stepped into the bedroom and found him half-sitting, half-reclining, on a love seat before a small fireplace in the corner. His head was propped on his fist and he snored lightly.


As much as I hated waking him—he seemed so peaceful—I figured he’d want to get out of his own filthy clothes.


“Mr. Castillo.” I touched his shoulder.


He stirred and pushed to an upright position. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned. “How do you feel, Raimundo? Much better, eh?”


“Yes. Much better.” I shrugged. “Still pretty numb, but not sick.”


A tired laugh rumbled through his frame and he fell back on the cushions, raking his fingers through his already-ruffled hair. “Ah, just wait until morning, Raimundo. You’ll think tonight was a tea party compared to your hangover.”


I shuffled my bare feet on the cool, silky fibers of the carpet. “You’d better get cleaned up yourself.” In spite of its boozed-up state, my imagination crept to a picture of Honor in the shower—big, magnificent…naked.


“Si, si, si.” Sighing, he scooted to the edge of the cushions, stood and stretched his arms above his head with another deep yawn. “I’ll find you something to sleep in, Raimundo, as soon as—”


“Please.” My hands shot up. “You’ve…you’ve done enough, Mr. Castillo. Really, I—”


“Raimundo.” He held up a finger. “It’s Honor.”


“Sir?”


“Call me Honor. Please.”


“All right.” I heaved a shaky breath. Did he realize how easy it would be for my feelings to be painted into every syllable of his name if I said it out loud? “Honor.”


There he stood, weary but smiling—clothes rumpled and stained with the ruins of my night. I’d wondered earlier if I loved him. At this moment, gazing at him and warming like happy toast under his heat, I knew. I did love him. How or why, I had no clue. I only knew I did.


“Well, I will get cleaned up, if you’re sure you—”


“I’m fine.” Drawing a circle with my toe on the carpet, I shrugged. “Still drunk as a skunk, but….”


He nodded and that odd, now-familiar but still unreadable smile feathered across his lips. Hesitation. “Okay, then.”


As he passed me, heading to the door, I caught a whiff of my own vomit on him. Oh, damn.


When the door shut behind him, I shuffled to the bed. How huge it was, how inviting with its khaki-colored bedcovers and bank of overstuffed pillows. I climbed onto the firm mattress without even slipping under the comforter and tightened the gigantic robe abound my body.


My eyelids fought to stay open and I lay, burrowed in the pillows, studying the bedroom. No paintings on the walls, only large tapestries woven in rich, earth tone colors.


I’d been too sick when I’d been brought through the house earlier to recall its furnishings. Was this room a sample of Honor’s taste? Crisp, clean, natural and—as always—classic. Masculine. Inviting.


I reached to turn off the bedside lamp and allowed the last thing before I drifted to sleep to be the pleasure of knowing somewhere in the house, under the very roof with me, Honor was showering. Naked.


During the night it hit me again. A green, roiling tide of nausea so strong it jerked me awake and sent me stumbling to the bathroom. This time, for some reason, the bout was more violent and I gasped and struggled to breath between each dry heave. I’d never felt so sick. I thought I was dying.


The bathroom door crashed open and, through a dizzying haze, I heard Honor’s voice behind me. “Raimundo! Are you all right?”


He rushed to the sink, grabbed a fresh washcloth and held it under running water. In seconds, he was on his knees beside me, holding my hair back in one hand and swabbing the cool cloth on my forehead with his free hand.


“This is my goddamn fault,” he growled. “I knew you didn’t drink You told me the night I met you that you didn’t drink. I should have stopped you, but—”


“No!” Pulling away from the commode, I tried to shove his hands away. “I’m a grown…man….” I fought to wriggle free of his grasp but didn’t have the energy. “I thought I could…handle it.” I thought I could drink my way out the disappointment of seeing the lovey-dovey crap between you and Jorge.


He let me recline against him, my back melded into his big body, and his fingers gingerly brushed the hair from my face. “Do you think you can go back to bed, Raimundo?”


I just moaned and shook my head. Not yes. Not no. Just let me stay against your body. How long we remained like that, huddled on the bathroom floor, I didn’t know. I might have even fallen asleep.


At some point, I became aware of his arms around me, picking me up. I might as well have been a sack of sugar, he lifted me so effortlessly.


I didn’t even try to wake. Whatever was happening felt too good, too right, and I didn’t want to open my eyes and realize it was a dream. My body nestled into his where it seemed to belong and I whimpered when he bent to place me on the bed.


He moved to straighten but I wrapped my arms about his neck, pulling him nearer. His body, so close, smelled of the freshness of a shower. Clean, touchable, irresistible.


“Don’t leave me alone.” My fingers twined at his nape in a death grip.


I didn’t know—so lost in a sleepy all-white world of clouds and glittering mist—if I wanted to be fucked or just to be held, loved, touched. What goddamn hell it was to know you wanted something so bad you could die from it, and to know who you wanted it from, but not to know what the hell it was.


“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.” With my arms still locked around his neck, he eased his large frame onto the bed beside me.


I arched into his body.


He slid an arm under me, drawing me closer, and circled his other arm around my waist. “Now sleep, bebe.” A funny tone in his voice, as though begging me to be too sick, too tired, to respond to the warm, stiff dick pressing against my body.


Proof positive rested between his powerful thighs, in his labored breathing. He wanted me. Maybe it was only for the moment, nothing more, but it was enough for me. He was hard for me.


Delirious with the fever of hunger for him mixed with alcohol, I buried my face in the softness between his chest and shoulder and mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”


“Shhh.” A shiver tripped through his body into mine and he cupped the back of my head, pressing me harder against him. He might have been able to hide any desire in his face by avoiding my eyes, but the need in his groin had grown stronger. “I told you. Nothing to be sorry about.”


“I won’t lose my job over…getting drunk tonight?”


A slight laugh, shaky. “Ah, Raimundo, if I fired everyone who got drunk, I’d have no employees at all.”


“Honor….” I breathed the word against the downy soft cotton of his shirt.


His name fit so well in my heart, on my tongue.


“Si?” He rested his chin on the top of my head.


“I really don’t drink.” I wriggled nearer but it seemed I’d never be close enough.


Lulled by the strong rise and fall of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, an unexpected yawn escaped me.


“I believe you.” His large hand touched the side of my face, his thumb tracing my temple. He laughed. “I believe you.”


I fought sleep. I didn’t want to sleep, knowing he’d leave my side. But my body and mind sank helplessly into a blissful nothingness, almost a coma, where I could hear him and feel him but couldn’t open my own eyes or speak.


Later—it seemed as though hours later—he stirred and the mattress jiggled slightly with his shifting weight.


Instinctively, afraid he was leaving, I protested by curling closer to his body. I opened my mouth to beg him to stay, to let him know somehow I wasn’t asleep. You promised to stay until I fell asleep. I’m not asleep, I’m not!


Deep, deep, deep, I rode a sleepy tide back into my white oblivion and struggled to be conscious of his presence. Was he still there?


A soft warm palm rested with a touch soft as butterfly wings against my cheek and, somewhere far inside myself, I smiled.


Honor’s voice wafted to my ears on a whisper, one he surely thought I wasn’t awake to hear. “Ah, Raimundo Munoz.” A sigh. “What was I thinking, hiring a man when I knew, I goddamn knew I would end up wanting him so bad it would hurt?”


Silence. Was he really there? Wake the fuck up. Wake up.


The voice—deep but so hushed I wanted to cry with the strain of trying to hear it from my bottomless pit of slumber—spoke again after a delicate chuckle. “You are the tiniest little thing. How huge and clumsy I am next to you. And you are so…so….” Reverent fingers brushed my lips. “Perfect.”


Like one trapped beneath a frozen pond with no escape hole, I clawed on an impenetrable barrier keeping me from rising to the surface of my dream.


Kiss me! Please kiss me! Could he hear me?


The pressure of lips—ever so light like a wisp of sweet breath—touched my forehead.


By the sudden rush of cool air beside me I knew he’d risen. Wrapping my body into a tighter ball to replace his heat, I finally mumbled words that did penetrate my sleepy barrier. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”


My proclamation was met by the soft click of the light being turned off and the bedroom door closing. He hadn’t heard me.

Like Fine Wine...Alessandro Gassman...

I only like two kinds of men, domestic and imported.   --- Mae West


First of all, let me tell you. I've been busy trying to finish up my WIP...titled Honor C, and I'm on the final stretch, crawling toward the finish line to those beautiful, SCARY words---The End.

In this rush to this goal, I've not had time to blog not the energy to think of bloggable (is that a word?) subjects.

So today I'm going to relax and bask in the smile of my very favorite contemporary Italian celebrity...actor Alessandro Gassman, my favorite imported male.

Those who know me are VERY aware that Alessandro has been the inspiration for one of my most beloved characters who is going to be showing his face this year---Enrico Di Paolo.

So...let the buffet of Italian gorgeousness begin...

Ah! Off to a beautiful start as a very young actor, Alessandro is the son of the late legendary Italian actor, Vittorio Gassman.

Beginning to be well-known, getting better looking as time goes by. More rugged, the boyish smoothness giving way to rugged lines. Perfect character. Brooding, dark, gloriously masculine, almost sinister. My kind of man.

In 2001 he'd become so popular, he made the Italian calendar, Maxi. A fabulous, sensual collection of twelve nude photos.

If you never saw him in any of his Italian films, I'll bet you remember him as one of the sexiest villains in filmdom, Gianni Chellini in the American film, Transporter II. Deliciously wicked with the sexy accent to boot.

Okay, Alessandro, you can stop growing more and more beautiful now! My heart can't take much more of your beauty! The above photo was the one which inspired the persona for Enico DiPaolo. The picture is from his stage role in the Italian version of Twelve Angry Men.

And he even obliges by being cast in noir roles. What more can a woman ask?

And now? Just look at him. The smile. From that brooding, cloudy astmosphere of man shines this bright sun. And better looking than ever.

What can I say? Ay-ay-ay!

And, last but not least--because I love putting the rich baritone voice to this gorgeous man, treat yourself to this video. He sings. And damn well, too.

Enoy.

Wonder if he appreciates what I do for him? Sigh.

Ti Amo, Alessandro.....

Like Fine Wine...Rudolph Valentino...

Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.  --- Rudolph Valentino


Although Rudolph Valentino never lived long enough to age into his autumn years or beyond, I thought--browsing through photos of him taken throughout his life--he really did mature just as beautifully as a fine wine.

Most of us know THE Valentino of film glory. The first screen lover to break the mold of the wholesome boy next door the public had become accustomed to in early film. He was the first Latin Lover. To most--inlcuding this girl--he still, to this day, is the only Latin Lover and cannot be usurped from his position of celluloid sexuality.

But for those who aren't familiar with his life--with the stages which show a remarkable maturing and, more importantly, a very obvious growth in elegance and style--I wanted to spotlight him as my Like Fine Wine subject.

Would you believe this photo was the future Love God, the screen legend, the sachem of hearts? Yes, this is Valentino in 1913 on his way to America. Only here he was not Rudolph Valentino (later to be his screen name), but was Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina D'Antonguolla. Try saying THAT three times fast. Whew.

He was a kid alone in a big, new country. Scared. But he worked his way through life with any job he could get his hands on. Even gardening. He dreamed of having his own vineyard.

Young Taxi Dancer Rudolpho.



Utilizing his dark---and very foreign----good looks, the young man began work as a taxi dancer. Dancing for money. Wooing women. Different accounts report he did many other things for money during this period, but it remains to be proven.

With the sleepiest bedroom eyes in the world, how could he have missed fame? To this day, one of the most incredibly sensual men to have ever lived.

Valentino wanted to be in movies--the bright, shiny new penny of indutries--and hung around motion picture studios, taking work as an extra and small roles whenever he could.

Beginning to show more refinement. Still the exotic beauty.

And then---and then---his life became the stuff dreams are made of.

Screenwriter June Mathis, one of the most powerful women in the industry, spotted young Rudy in a nondescript role in a film. She was overwhelmedw with his dark beauty and used her influence to push for him as the lead in the anxiously awaited motion picture The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. This was a film even the top stars of motion pictures vied for. But Mathis knew her man, she knew what would make the film work. And she was right.

Valentino was cast---a virtual unknown---as Julio Desnoyers. Mathis' gut feeling paid off. A star was born.

 

Rudy in his famous tango scene from The Four Horsemen...The role that put his sopt on the map forever as the Love God.

He went on to make more films, all memorable. In all of them, he stole the scenes...

He was SO believable on screen, SO handsome, even the famous Nazivoma had him deleted from her famous death scene because his charismatic presence would steal her thunder.

He married a woman with a name as exotic as his own, Natacha Rambova.

The role for which he is perhaps most famous. The Sheik. Sweeping onto the screen as the hero of Edith Maude Hull's famous erotic novel, he took the world by storm...again. Women craved to be taken by their very own desert sheik, men hated him.

He played opposite THE Gloria Swanson in Beyond the Rocks. The public adored the pairing of their two screen darlings. But it was their only chance to co-star.

Blood and Sand as the fated Juan Gallardo. Getting more and more handsome by the minute.

While the public knew him mostly as the man behind the heavy actor's makeup, the real man--the Valentino on the street--was a suave, toned-down shadow of the screen's smoldering heartthrob. But still as handsome, if not more so.

A goatee. New look, started a craze in men's fashion. The sleek hair and goatee. Barbers protested, as more and more men started to go for this look and they lost business.

The real man loved to work on cars, and loved to buy elite foreign automobiles. And was quite the dangerous driver, as it's told he refused to wear glasses for his poor vision.

His last role, The Son of the Sheik, a sequel to The Sheik. He died the year this film was released.

Valentino died while on a trip to New York to promote his last film. Only thirty one years old.

Although he never had the chance to reach old age, he still matured through his short years and left the world with an unforgettable image of true beauty, potent sensuality and unmistakable class.

He died so very young, yet that brief life was just long enough to create a household name that still whispers romance and sets pulses racing...Rudolph Valentino.

This photo says it all.