Anyone who knows me knows I love my men. I love my Valentino, my Gene Kelly, my Alessandro Gassman and Russell Crowe. Hey, I’m just human. I’m a red blooded woman who appreciates a handsome face and physique like the rest of you.
But what do I really like? What do I really dream about? Nah, not what you think. I don’t really want to lollygag around in 120 degree heat with sand in my hair with a Sheik like Rudolph Valentino. If I have to dance my feet off to keep up with Gene Kelly—well, enough said.
What do I want in real life? For everyday? For the real me? Ah. That’s easy. Victor McGlaglen. Remember him? Big, lovable, strong, flashing smile, just a hint of naughtiness who always played the lug who lost out to the main star of the film.
Oh, he’s just an icon for the real men like him, just a movie star. I realize that. But still a symbol of what the perfect man, in my mind, is.
In real life, who needs smoldering bedroom eyes when I’ve had a bad day at work? Who feels like waltzing around the room to the soundtrack of “An American in Paris” when all I want to do is sit and watch a movie? Mmm. Watching a movie with a Herculean form like Victor. Now that’s the perfect evening for me.
And yet—-and yet…….
Alas. Seems he likes a different sort of woman. And here’s a little tidbit I wrote once in protest of his poor taste.
The wind howls like a hundred moaning women. Not that I’ve ever actually heard a hundred moaning women.
Something hits the windows. Tree limbs, I hope. Just tree limbs. In my imagination, which has now grown to monstrous proportions, the raps at the window are the fingers of the hundred moaning women. Only now they’ve multiplied into the fingers of two hundred moaning women.
The classic film station is on television and I’m watching it desperately, knowing very soon the electricity is going to be lost. I’m watching Victor McGlaglen. What the heck is the film? What is this film? Oh, who cares?
Victor McGlaglen. Wouldn’t it be nice to have him here now? I mean, look at him! Look at him. A mountain of a man!
Oh, look. Shirley Temple.
Now why in tar nation is a magnificent bulwark of strength like Victor McGlaglen being wasted on a scrap of a girl like Shirley Temple? When there is a typhoon at my door and I’m alone? Go get someone your own size, Temple. She’s just a snort of a kid and she gets all the good guys! Not fair.
You know, I’m really beginning to loathe you, Shirley.
The two hundred moaning women are now legion. And they’re not
moaning any more. They’re screeching.
Even though McGlaglen is wearing a kilt, he’s still very sexy and—big. If his sheer size didn’t send the screeching women running, his brilliant smile certainly would.He’s too nice for you, Temple, you pint sized vixen. I really don’t like you, Shirley!. Very soon the electricity will be gone and her chubby little dimpled face will disappear from the screen with a silent flash. Her and Victor. But it serves him right, for falling for her wee willie winkie performance. By the way, what IS a wee willie—-oh, never mind.
The more I watch this film, the more I really resent Shirley Temple. Oh, she’s so phony. But Victor falls for her schmaltzy act anyway.
Just keep it up, you annoying little curly topped snippet.
The screeching women are really, really kind of scary. A monsoon is carrying out a horror scene right outside my windows and yet Shirley and Victor are smiling and—oh, wait, no. Victor is smiling. Shirley is crying. Good. Serves you right, old girl. Whatever is troubling dear Shirley, I’m quite sure she deserves.
Why do I hate Temple? Because if Victor was here with me, those howling banshees outside in the cyclone force winds wouldn’t bother me. Everything would be hunky dory. I’d feel safe. And, heck. Even if I did get swooped away in a twister’s fury like Dorothy’s house, at least I’d go with a smile on my face because Victor was with me. And because Shirley Temple would be mad. For once.