Sometimes I scare myself.  For reasons which will become clear shortly, I was scouting about for something happy to focus on, and what did I discover but that Jerome Zerbe's birthday was this past Tuesday, and of course, in 1904!  He hailed from Euclid, Ohio, but that's a story for another time.  Anyway, then I received a very disturbing message from J. who informed me that Margaret B-W [see yesterday] was nothing like I'd imagined, that as a matter of fact he felt certain "a terror" better described her, considering what she'd got up to with Henry Luce, not to mention the misery she'd put Erskine Caldwell through, and furthermore, a film had been made of her life, "Double Exposure" starring Farrah Fawcett.

You can imagine my horror.  It changed everything.  Like Joan and Faye, you cannot put asunder what Fate and Hollywood have joined together.  It can't be undone.  Whatever plans I had for M B-W -- dashed by an unfortunate association I would, alas, never be able to shake.  I had to move on. 

Luckily, I have Jerome, and I'll get to him shortly.  As J. must know, the extensive collection of Zerbe's photographs and his scrapbooks are currently in the hands of a private collector.  Meanwhile, I had been planning something else, on a lighter note:

 

You see, I'd received a very kind message from Didier which lifted me out of the doldrums I'd drifted into yesterday (can you drift out of doldrums?  Can you get lifted from them? Pleasant to think so, isn't it.)  "You are being too sad," he wrote, "with the dead talk.  You should have come to Paris, because now we have drive south..."

 

I have never been to the Chateau de Pampelonne, near St. Tropez, where D is currently staying with his friend, but it sounds very nice, and then I was reminded of this Gordon Merrick novel, which takes place in St. Tropez circa 1938 during "That Season of Love" (back jacket copy).  Didier says he also ran into some other friends on their boat ["la plage des Jumeaux est l'une des plus familiales de Pampelonne, mais maintenant un mur de yachts barre l'horizon."]  Apparently this is the time of year to be there.  "Your friend is also they say wrong about Ibiza," he adds, somewhat incorrectly referencing a previous post.  "It is not so bad the drug busts."

But wait, there's more: World Class Stupid (see Links above) had written the other day about developing a writing style from extensive study and analysis of porn, and I remembered how we used to read Gordon Merrick novels aloud as a form of light entertainment on rainy days, on long drives or to accompany that pitcher of vodka martinis [invented by Jerome Zerbe! True story!].  And then Didier's message and photographs (which I promised not to post)... 

So here's just a little taste of Perfect Freedom, selected at random.  The protagonist, young Robbie, is on the family yacht, about to be seduced by Rico, one of the deckhands:

"Rico dropped down over him, straddling him on his knees, and pulled his hips up to him.  'No,' he [Robbie] gasped as he felt a nudge of entry.  He tried to twist his hips away but he was held in a powerful grip.  He clamped his teeth onto his arm to suppress a scream and prepared for the claw of pain.  Rico seemed to become enormous as he slid deeper... A flash of pain seared him... Rico was tearing him apart... For an instant's pause, he thought Rico had reached his limit and then he made another lunge into him.  Rockets seemed to burst in his brain.  Pain was bliss. He hovered on the outer edge of ecstasy... Rico chuckled contentedly without breaking the rhythm of his masterful drive for conquest..."

That Rico.  It's your first time and he has to chuckle.