Day #37 of my Temporarily Suspended Search for a Soulmate, Things I learned from Piero Barone of Il Volo and Prepping for the Great Unknown

Well, the love … er, I mean, the infatuation … of my life … er, I mean, the year …  is now back in Italy, after (woo-hooo!) confessing to being in (unrequited) love with another celebrity who is the same age I am.  So, maybe I’m not too old for him after all.  And boy, did he just cheer me right up with that news!  Then he answered a question posed to him in a telephone interview in preparation for the South American tour with, “John Paul Gaultier.  I wear it all the time.”  Woo-hooo Number Two!!

I had a serious longing to know what he smelled like, and now I know the cologne he wears.  I do know WHY I longed to know - I remember what people smell like more readily than what they look like, strange as that sounds - I just wasn’t expecting to find out so soon.  I was actually anticipating having to ask him myself.  Apparently, another fan from South America had the same need to know what he smelled like.  But I wasn’t kidding about the olfactory memory.  I can still remember the scent of my very first love without even having the actual cologne in front of me.

So, John Paul Gaultier.  As soon as I sniffed Piero’s personal choice in male cologne, I knew I had someone else in my past who smelled like this – if not this fragrance exactly, then something very similar; this was introduced in 1995, and I think my memory goes back further than that.  I see a brown tweedy sports jacket when I smell this … I see a hand with a school ring … I just can’t remember the face!  It will come to me, though, probably when I least expect it.  It’s a very pleasant association, whatever it is.

I have no idea how the fragrance is marketed and packaged in Italy – probably in a nice, functional bottle.  Here in the U.S., it arrived in a can.  You’re reduced to looking at the can, trying to figure out how to open it, muttering, “What the …?” for five minutes, already undone.  But when you finally get it open … that lovely little green bottle in the photo does not do justice to the real thing –you’re looking at a nude male torso complete with protuberances, the exact nature of which is best left unmentioned.  I’m thinking, “Did he actually envision an entire American continent of girls and women wandering over to the perfume counter to see what he smelled like, and happily fondling this lovely thing with an image of him fixed firmly in their minds when he answered that question?”  If he did, I have an entirely new level of respect and admiration for the self-marketing instincts of the guy.  What a Valentino HE is going to turn out to be!

Oh!  Sorry.  You know me, and my love of perfume descriptions (see “Magickal Moon”):  “warm fresh mint, lavender, orange blossom and woods, manly and warm.”  I don’t know about the fragrance, but the bottle is definitely “manly and warm” – mainly because I’ve been holding it for the last hour, staring at that protuberance.  Mmm.  Love the scent, by the way … it’s delicious.

The other thing I did today out of little more than curiosity was wander around Naro, Italy via Google Earth, looking at the town he grew up in at ground level.  I absolutely love Google Earth for that reason – it’s almost virtual reality, wandering around the streets of Naro, and you’re able to visit places you know you’ll never see in reality.  Streets would go straight up, opening onto vistas of the entire valley below, and then zoom straight down again – and I’m thinking, “NOW I know why he has leg muscles to die for!”  No really.  He really does.  Awesome calf muscles, which I guarantee you he developed, just walking to school every morning.

But the beauty of Google Earth is that it allows you to wander Naro so thoroughly that when you find yourself back at a familiar intersection, you realize, “I know where I am!”, and almost feel that if you went there in reality, you wouldn’t get lost, simply because you’re at least minimally familiar with its paths.  Somewhere you’ve never seen before then becomes part of your internal landscape, and its familiarity is comforting in a way.  So I read graffiti on whitewashed walls, read advertising posters, looked at Venetian lace curtains in windows, looked at the awesome landscape surrounding Naro.  I know it may not impress him as much as it did me - after all, he grew up there - but as I wandered around, all I could think of was, "How beautiful this is!"

Just deleted from my answering machine the message from the office of the surgeon (specializations:  oncology and plastic surgery), reminding me of my appointment.  As though I could forget.

Not that YOU need reminding but I’ll do it anyway:  almost two years ago (29th of April, 2010), I was riding on a bus that was broadsided by a jeep.  BAM!  Was thrown face first into the plastic molded seats in front of me.  Knocked two bones out of my spine.  So far I’ve had physical therapy, spinal fusion surgery, post surgical issues, both of my feet have gone temporarily dead below my knees and now … after I had assumed that the worst was over, the lump on my forehead from the accident had grown from something small and hard to something considerably larger and had then metastasized into something more serious.  Even my doctor thought it was harmless and only realized she was wrong after 20 days of antibiotics failed to have any impact.  I’ve discovered that I am really, REALLY tired of facing one medical disaster after another.  I’m too young for this nonsense. 

On the other hand, friends and co-workers have been telling me they liked my new hairstyle:  “It’s really cute!”  What they don’t know is that the reason I haven’t trimmed my long bangs which cover up my forehead is that they also neatly cover up this ugly looking bump.  Which will be going away relatively soon; I’m just not looking forward to the surgery.

The more I thought about it, the more the obsession made sense.  You find irresistible anything that can bring you comfort or which can take your mind off more frightening possibilities, and in this case, it was Piero Barone’s voice that silenced the anxiety and the fear instantaneously.  I suspect I had not realized how frightened I was until I latched onto his beautiful voice with a passion, and the fear began to lessen.  I am still listening to him throughout most of the day.

Not that I think I’m all that beautiful or anything (unless you’re Piero Barone reading this, and then:  I lied, I’m drop-dead gorgeous and a dead ringer for Angelina Jolie!!) (do you think he believed me?), but I must state for the record that over the years, I’ve grown accustomed, as the song says, to my own face. You look in the mirror every morning, and while there are days when you wish you’d received a few more hours of sleep … your face is still just that:  your face.  It probably shouldn’t be your identity, but of course in many ways it is.

The path forward for this thing is apparently a forced face-lift.  Or, more technically speaking, a forced forehead lift.  What they plan to do is cut the tumor out and then pull facial skin up and over the wound.  And I say “forced” because, while I understand that a lot of girls and women can’t think of anything they’d like MORE than a good face-lift, I’m not one of them.  First, I didn’t need one, and secondly, I don’t have loose skin in the area that would make a facelift an improvement on my appearance, and third, I’ve seen some really bad facelifts that make women look like Batman’s Joker, so believe me when I say:  I know that things can go horribly wrong with them.

A week from now, I may have a new face.  And I’m scared to death.  Watching their appearance in Italy on "Quelli che il calcio" was also comforting:  "Arrendersi mai" - never surrender, never give up.

Speaking of Piero and his unexpected impact on my life – and DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME!  I’M A PROFESSIONAL ON A CLOSED COURSE! – (huh?) –he answered a question one print reporter put to him during the 2011 tour – “where do you get your stylish glasses?”  “Luxottica” was the answer.  Never heard of them so looked them up online and went from there to reading their investors’ information and went from there to buying Luxottica stock, and went from there to saying, “Woo-hoooo!!” for the third time when the stock promptly went straight up.  Thanks, Piero!  And as I said earlier, “DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME …”, I did my due diligence on it, and didn’t just invest because of his choice in eyeware, and … oh, you get the idea.

After getting the really crappy news from the surgeon, I went over to the place where I get MY eyeglasses (cheap and ugly plastic things because I’m allergic to metals, and thank goodness I only wear them while driving and watching TV, so very few people have actually seen me wearing them) – had my annual eye exam and discovered that Luxottica makes Prada frames out of titanium!  I happen to know that I have no problem with titanium as I have titanium plates and screws in my spine … so I did a dance of joy at being able to get some real cool looking glasses and sunglasses.  The Luxottica salesman (also Italian) who happened to be in the store at the time said I looked “ravishing”.  Ravishing!  OK fine, yes I know he was trying to sell the frames, but I choose to believe him without question.  Why would he lie?  He’s ITALIAN!  Hoo boy, do I love Italian men!  Thanks, Piero!  Methinks he made wearing glasses seriously stylish.

Day #36 of my Temporarily Suspended Search for a Soulmate. Il Volo Takes Flight and I Battle my Obsession

Trying to make sense of, face up to, surmount an obsession. The kind of obsession where you find yourself on imaginary scabby knees, praying for deliverance because you know your emotional state has tossed luxuries like sanity aside. It makes no sense, there’s no logic behind it. It is. His age is completely wrong. His personality is completely wrong. It’s his body. It’s his voice. You’re lost. You know you’re lost and you can’t find your way back.

You know now what love at first sight means; except, this isn’t love. Love makes some sense. Love makes you happy. Love doesn’t leave you with yawning chasms in your chest where your heart used to be. Love is reciprocated. This isn't, nor should it be, because of the wrongness of it. It's not his beauty or his personality, although you're mesmerized by those too, as perfect as he is. But that isn't it. It’s his voice.

You focus on that, something outside of your own mind, your own sanity, something you can’t control. He can’t control that either, for the most part; he was born with it, his voice; the voice that vibrates inside of you and makes you stumble in shock when you hear it.

You stop in your tracks and say, “Oh my god, oh my god.” You’re sure it means something important; it has some relevance to your life, your purpose, your destiny, but you find no connection or meaning that makes sense. You don’t want to come to the realization that you are this obsessed to no good purpose, but that probability is looming at you over the speakers. You’re lost. You’re hopelessly lost. You feel … stupid. No worse than that. You feel pathetic.

MAKE IT STOP.

You grow to hate You-Tube, that formerly innocuous medium, now your own lever to push. You’re the caged mouse, seeking water to satiate your thirst, seeking drugs to satiate your ache for pleasure. This is worse. You push the You-Tube lever and it feeds you his voice, your own “personal brand of heroin”, because you can’t go even a full day without it – without him – the voice that coils inside of you, vibrating, vibrating against things which had been dormant, best left dormant, but no, awakening them.

You push the lever. This time it’s “Tous les visages de l’amour", and his voice swells and swells and reaches a note that plunges directly into your heart (2:21 - 2:36), quivering. Or it's "Grenada". He holds that note so long (2:30-2:41) it brings tears to your eyes, although you're sure others have held it as he did, and even longer, it's HIS voice holding the note, and this makes it sacred.






The “love at first sight except it isn't love" moment: Amazon.com sent me an e-mail: “Based on your previous purchases, you might like …” I’ve received e-mails like that before from Amazon.com, and was not expecting much. But I read the e-mail and wondered, “Who or what is ‘Il Volo’?”

I went over to You Tube and hunted for “Il Volo”, finding a link to the video, the same one I embedded in my previous entry – their guest appearance on “American Idol”. Obviously I’d missed it on the night they actually performed – that was sometime last year. I hadn’t watched “American Idol” since Bo Bice appeared in the third season.

From the first opening instrumental notes, I was looking at Piero Barone, on my left and Gianluca's right, who was swaying back and forth in time to the music. I thought, “He's really cute.” And he really was. I would later learn that he was 17 years old at the time, but even so, he initially looked on screen to be almost small and fragile and even younger than 17, so I knew my reaction had dipped into “cougar” territory. (But unless he has a habit of reading American blogs, how was he going to know? If you don't tell him, I sure have no plans to.)

Gianluca Ginoble was the one who sang the first few introductory couple of lines, but, as talented as Gianluca was and is, from the very first note of music, it was always Piero who caught my eye. I wasn't obsessed with him at that point; I just thought he was a cute kid. But the obsession was seconds away. Because then it happened - Piero opened his mouth, and the incredible voice that came out of it knocked me flat.

In the video, there is a reaction shot of the three semi-finalists listening to the opening bars of Il Volo’s performance, and one of them is sitting there in shock with her mouth hanging open at the unexpected power and beauty of his voice. It would have been funny if I hadn’t done the exact same thing. I had gasped, clapped one hand over my heart and was staring at him on the computer screen in astonishment with my jaw dropped. That was the moment when the awe-filled obsession took hold, full-blown, instantaneously. All of a sudden, if I couldn't listen to his voice at least once a day for the rest of my life, I just knew I wouldn't survive. As retarded as that sounds (and believe me, I KNOW how retarded that sounds), that's exactly what it felt like. If he hadn't sung another note, I would have stalked him all the way to Sicily, just to hear him speak a word or two. Just hearing him snarl, "Stop following me, you're getting annoying!" would have been heavenly. Fortunately for the both of us, I didn't have to resort to that. Instead, I was able to stalk his voice on You-Tube, because Il Volo was performing all over the world and still is and probably will be, for decades to come.

Their very first appearance together came about when they were all in their mid-teens, 14 and 15 years old. They were all contestants in an Italian song contest, and hadn't even known each other before the competition, which was something like an "American Idol" for kids. On the fourth episode, the show's producers decided to combine the voices of the "Three Tenors" as they were called on the program, and the very earliest incarnation of "Il Volo" was born. They were asked to sing "O Sole Mio" together and did so, earning themselves a riotous standing ovation. A mere two years later, now close friends instead of mere acquaintances, they appeared on the real "American Idol", singing the same song that had garnered them a standing ovation in Italy. The spectacular changes in their appearance and delivery were partly due to an equally spectacular growth spurt in Piero and Ignazio and a comfort level onstage and with each other and an audience that you hadn't seen two years earlier. Their voices had matured and they had been through two years of voice lessons. Once again, even more spectacular and awe-inspiring than they had been the first time we saw them, they brought the house down.






"American Idol" (no longer available on You Tube) was not their first program in the United States. I never watch daytime television either, so missed their first-ever appearance on American television, on "The Talk". The appearance on "American Idol" hadn't happened yet. Even then, you can still see them all changing, growing, developing. Piero lost a few pounds more between "Talk" and "American Idol" and was becoming more and more irresistably handsome by the minute.

Two things happened in October of last year: I learned what “égrégore” meant, learned a bunch of stuff from Damien Echols and started researching the art of traveling in dreams. At the same time, on the 18th of that month (and unbeknownst to me because AMAZON.com – those slow-moving idiots - hadn’t yet sent me their notice) – my newest obsession - by which I mean the lovely Piero Barone of Italy – had arrived in Boston, performed magnificently for a theater of love-struck girls (not including me, naturally) – and bolted quickly for parts unknown. Not that anyone could blame him. His Boston performance of "Non ti scordare di me" was inspirational.



Time marches on. This month (March of 2012), they returned to the United States to promote a PBS special, but more importantly, to rehearse the South American start of their 2012 tour, and record portions of their new album. More importantly for me, they'll be returning to Boston in September. More importantly for THEM, something had changed, as far as their public was concerned. The time for shock and awe had passed; now was the time for hormone-fueled hysteria. Their appearance at Barnes & Noble in New York had them unexpectedly reacting to a room filled with screaming girls - which began during "Il Mondo" and continued into their signature "O Sole Mio". Their appearance in Los Angeles the following weekend was equally as astonishing in its noise and hysteria levels. The expressions of pleased and startled surprise on all of their faces was touching to watch.


Compare this relaxed and comfortable performance of 'O Sole Mio" to their first performance of the song in Italy in 2009. Il Volo really has taken flight.





The Los Angeles version. Turn the volume waaaaay down, or the screaming will deafen you.



After two weeks, I finally transfered all of my cd’s into my i-Pod. Some of the cd’s went back to the Stone Ages – iTunes didn’t recognize them, that’s how far back they went - but at least they’re all accessible now. Now … what to do with the CD’s themselves, so they don’t take up so much space. Put them in storage? Buy a media tower?

As to why my search is suspended AGAIN … it’s another medical disaster. I’m sure those of you who have read along have some idea as to why I’m bone tired of medical disasters. My First Official Medical Disaster of 2012 is sending me into surgery within the next couple of weeks; my brother is again arriving from out of state to oversee the recovery, and there you go. Word of advice: NEVER take bus rides when you‘re in danger of being broadsided by a jeep. That one accident has darn near killed me.

Meanwhile, until the surgeon waves a scalpel over my unconscious body, I can do little except obsess over … well, who I’m obsessing over goes without saying. Love you, Piero.