vic fortezza

Romance novelist Brenda Joyce, 49, must write in her sleep. She's had at least 44 novels and novellas published, and there are 14 million copies in print. I just finished Deadly Kisses (2006), the eighth in a series set in Manhattan in the early 1900's, featuring wealthy sleuth Francesca Cahill. Although I'm not a fan of the genre, I enjoyed the story and characters. It was over-written by my taste. Names are constantly used in dialogue, as if the reader were likely to forget who was conversing. In my experience, after greeting someone, I find I don't say the person's name again until the goodbye. Maybe that's just me. Dialogue is "exclaimed" when a simple said would be enough. Characters frequently gasp when speaking, another thing rare in real life but common, I suppose, in such fare. If the novel had been up for review at Pendant Publishing (Seinfeld), Elaine and Mr. Pittman might have had an argument about the use of exclamation points. The sex stops short of explicit. On a scale of five, three. Now I will allow the male chauvinist pig in me to emerge. Joyce, a native New Yorker, may be the foxiest female author ever. Here's a pic:   According to WCBS-TV News, a rally is being held today against Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s proposed ban on super-sized sugary drinks. About 1,000 protesters chanting “Drink Free Or Die” are taking part in the “Million Big Gulp March” in City Hall Park. Finally - a political protest I can believe...

In a profile at IMDb, David Cronenberg is described as "The King of Venereal Horror" and "The Baron of Blood." I first learned of him in the early '80's, intrigued by the exploding heads in Scanners (1981). In Videodrome (1983), Deborah Harry did something creepy with a lit cigarette. That same year he did The Dead Zone, which remains my favorite adaptation of Stephen King. Crash came out in 1996. It featured something I'd never heard of and not sure even exists - characters deriving a sexual thrill from involvement in auto accidents. I don't think it was satire on how far society was willing to take sexuality, as the tone was deadly serious. A lot of my friends loved A History of Violence (2005). Although I found it satisfying viscerally, the protagonist was too much like a super-hero for the film to be taken seriously. Eastern Promises (2007), which focused on gangsters from former Soviet satellites, had an authenticity that gave me the willies. In one scene, the protagonist is vetted by made men, taking off his shirt to reveal elaborate tattoos of his dirty deeds. Last night I watched A Dangerous Method (2011), courtesy of Netflix. It is the story of two pioneers of psychology, Carl Jung and his mentor Sigmund Freud, who are connected by a female patient on the verge of madness, victim of abuse by her father. She eventually becomes a psychologist herself. It is a bold film in that it requires the viewer to listen...

"He punked-out," we used to say in Brooklyn about someone who backed down from a tough task or a fight. That's what I did today regarding the floating bookshop, which I eschewed because of the heat and humidity. Man, am I getting soft. In high school, we had two practice sessions in such weather. When I trained for the marathon, I jogged ten miles in it. If the forecast is right, tomorrow will be the last day of the current heat wave, only 90 degrees - "a mere bag of shells," as Ralph Kramden would say. What will the accu-weather  real-feel be - 95? "Big deal," as Classie Freddie Blassie would say. I had a real ginzo lunch at my sister's: tomato & muhtzarell, fried zucchini, and a thin slice of roast beef. Leftovers have piled up in her fridge since her grand-daughter Danielle arrived earlier in the week, craving delicacies that are hard to get in her neck of Jersey. As I was enjoying the feast, I learned that my eldest niece Isabel was due to fly out to Denver to visit her sister Tanya. She hadn't asked for a ride, feeling bad since I'd been back and forth umpteen times when her kids visited from Italy to say goodbye to their grandpa. The Sicilian in me wouldn't let her spend money on car service. Of course, I will someday ask for something in return, recalling the great line, of the many great ones from The Godfather: "Someday - and...

Some days good things happen in bunches. I set up shop knowing people would be hurrying back to their AC's or backyard swimming pools to beat the heat, although it wasn't nearly as hot today as yesterday. I hadn't seen Morty, a retired salesman closing in on 80, in six weeks. He recently "graduated" from a program of radiation treatments on a growth in his jaw. Although he said he was still feeling a little shaky, he was his usual positive self. Welcome back, sir. A while later a heavy set gentleman who visits about once a month overpaid for two paperbacks, a nice surprise I figured would be my only sale of the day - and I was almost right. As I was about to pack up, a young woman, who two weeks ago said she would return, finally got around to it. She debated whether to purchase A Hitch in Twilight or January Valentine's Love Dreams. January, who went by Victoria until she self-published the romance novel through her own Water Forest Press, sent me two copies about a month ago. She has published two of my novels: Adjustments & Killing, and twelve of my short stories in her magazines and anthologies. I was happy to try to sell her book. I feel I owe her. I was thrilled the young woman chose LD. I just sent January a payment through paypal. I can't wait to see her reaction. Thanks, folks. As I was taking care of that customer,...

I watched another of the music videos I made, this one circa '95, an eclectic mix of performers. It started on a high note, Bonnie Raitt doing the blues lament Love Me Like a Man, featuring dazzling guitar work that would put many men to shame. She may have used every blues lick ever invented. There was only one cut I had to fast-forward through, something by Sound Garden on SNL. There were several tracks by the Pretenders, all excellent, including their biggest hit, The Night in My Veins. The mis-named Cowboy Junkies did an unusually up tempo piece for them, Common Disaster. All of the other stuff I know by them is quiet. Bjork did her adorable big band-type song Ssssh! on The Tonight Show. During this period, Fox ran a show against SNL called Saturday Night Special that spotlighted rising music acts. Bush (not George) rocked out on Machinehead ("There's no sex in violence") and Tracy Bonham, whom I have not heard from since, did Mother Mother, a song about a struggling artist trying to keep the truth from her mom during a phone conversation, which I certainly relate to ("Everything's fine!"). Garbage did I'm Only Happy When It Rains, a terrific look into a warped mind ("Pour your misery down on me"). And Alice in Chains ended the run of SNS tunes with Again, which features a five-word alliteration ("help her heal her heart") that would attract any writer. The Sex Pistols, promoting their Filthy Lucre tour, sans original...