Mistaken for My Celebrity Doppelgänger, Again

The other day, a lady on the street mistook me for Billy Joel. I told her I get that all the time, to which she replied, “Thank God, I didn’t want you to think I was flirting with you.” My initial amusement immediately gave way to crushing disappointment.

Having been mistaken for the Grammy Award-winning musician more times than I care to admit, I can recall two particularly memorable encounters.

The first occurred at a bar, where a tall blonde bought me a drink, convinced I was him. After I cleared up the misunderstanding, she stayed, and we enjoyed a few more drinks together.

Somehow, our conversation drifted from music and life to a rather peculiar revelation. She had a deep dent in her skull and, I kid you not, wanted me to put my finger in her divot. Needless to say, I retreated hastily.

The only time a man mistook me for Mr. Joel was on a subway platform. A Black fellow kept circling me, staring intently. Expecting the worst, I was getting ready to throw down.

After walking around me three times, he finally approached with a broad smile, extended his hand, and asked if I was Billy Joel.

Relieved, I shook his hand and jokingly replied, “No, we White guys all look alike.” He burst out laughing.

Personally, I always fancied myself a more rugged, better-looking version of Bruce Willis or Jason Statham, but who would have guessed the Piano Man was such a babe magnet?

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 4th, Feast of San Carlo Borromeo

Requiem Mass at St. Margaret's Church in the Bronx, New York

A Pilgrimage Postponed: Sant’Uberto and the Casina Vanvitelliana

Michael Martin's Mythologies of the Wild
God, resting on the tanned hide of
a deer hunted by my father

Orion rises with the fall of the dark
For this is the season of the hunt
And when the moon is quite full
All the forest is washed white with her milk
And the crisp air kisses the skin
Delicate as a faerie’s wing.
~ Michael Martin, “The Huntsman,” Mythologies of the Wild God

Knowing my devotion to Sant’Uberto di Liège and Sant’Eustachio, the patron saints of hunters, a friend had generously promised to take me to the magnificent Casina Vanvitelliana on November 3rd, the feast of Sant’Uberto. Built in 1782 by Carlo Vanvitelli at the behest of King Ferdinando IV di Borbone, this exquisite Rococo hunting lodge stands on a tiny islet in Lake Fusaro, near Bacoli, connected to the shore by a wooden bridge.

The visit was intended as a pilgrimage of sorts, an opportunity to honor the memory of my forefathers, who were avid hunters, and reflect upon a tradition that has long held both spiritual and ancestral significance for me. Alas, with my trip to Napoli canceled, this excursion, too, has been postponed.

Though I couldn't make the journey, I still devoted time to prayer and meditation, accompanied by Michael Martin’s Mythologies of the Wild God (Angelico Press, 2024), a collection of poetry I had originally packed for the trip. While the pilgrimage must wait, prayer, remembrance, and the obligations we owe our ancestors need not. Evviva Sant’Uberto!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 3rd, Feast of Sant'Uberto di Liège

Name Day of the Grand Master

HRH, Prince Charles of Bourbon-Two Sicilies

We wish our Grand Master, His Royal Highness Prince Charles of Bourbon-Two Sicilies a blessed and happy Name Day. Buon onomastico, Altezza Reale!

Ant. Domine, salvum fac principem nostrum Carolum: et exaudi nos in die, qua invocaverimus te.

Oremus

Protende Domine famulo tuo Carolo supremo ordinis nostri magistro dexteram caelestis auxilii, ut tua protectione munitus, perpetuo sit justus, fortis, pius, providus ac indefessus hujus sacri ordinis rector, infidelium expugnator, justitiae cultor, meritorum, et demeritorum remunerator: Ecclesiae tuae sanctae et catholicae fidei defensor ad decus, et laudem tui nominis gloriosi, et post diuturnam felicitatem in terris, aeterna beatitudine, te largiente perfruatur in caelis. Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti, Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.

Requiem Mass at St. Catherine Laboure Church in Middletown, New Jersey

A Reflection on the Day of the Legitimate Monarchy

Reading Riccardo Pasqualin’s article, Prepariamoci per il Giorno della Monarchia Legittima (Let Us Prepare for the Day of the Legitimate Monarchy), on Ernesto il Disingannato introduced me to a Carlist observance previously unknown to me. I was intrigued to learn that November 4, the Feast of St. Charles Borromeo, is also a day when Carlists honor their legitimate dynasty.

Pasqualin draws a sharp contrast between the Carlist commemoration and the Italian Republic’s Day of National Unity and the Armed Forces. While the republic celebrates the military victory of 1918 and the ideal of national unity, Carlists reaffirm their fidelity to the legitimate monarchy. For Pasqualin, these observances represent two opposing worldviews, “one founded upon usurpation, the other upon fidelity.” His argument challenges the notion that political legitimacy can be established through popular approval, military victory, or the mere possession of power.

Especially compelling is his insistence that “the true conflict is not between one set of borders and another, nor does it concern the fetish of nations and nationalisms.” Rather, “the struggle is, and will remain, between legitimacy and usurpation.” It is a distinction too often lost on those who mistake traditionalism for nationalism.

The article finds its most powerful expression in the declaration, “We celebrate fidelity.” As Pasqualin reminds us, “legitimacy is neither acquired through a plebiscite nor lost through defeat.” These words affirm a principle that transcends the fortunes of any particular dynasty or political regime.

Having discovered this meaningful tradition, I shall join the Carlists in spirit this November 4, honoring the legitimate monarchy and remembering the struggle against usurpation.

Viva Cristo Re! Viva la Monarchia Legittima!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 3rd, Feasts of Sant’Uberto di Liegi and St. Winfred

My Encounter With the Not-So-Abominable Snowman

On this Election Day, I thought I would share a curious encounter I had recently, which turned into an unexpected lesson in the hidden workings of our world.

While enjoying a romantic getaway up north with my lady friend, Livia, I went out to the shed to fetch some firewood for our hearth. As I rummaged through the woodpile, a large log came tumbling down and struck me squarely on the head.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I vaguely remember being lifted off the ground and carried back to the cabin.

I cannot say how long I was unconscious, but when I awoke on the sofa, Livia was leaning over me, gently wiping my forehead with a cold, damp towel. Behind her stood a hulking brute, covered from head to toe in surprisingly well-groomed, long brown fur.

Noticing the astonishment on my face, Livia calmly explained, “This is Cecil. He’s a friend.”

I must be dreaming, I thought.

“He brought you inside,” she added.

In perfect English, the creature politely inquired whether I was feeling better. Still bewildered, I managed to thank him.

The fire was roaring in the hearth, suggesting I had been unconscious for some time. Apparently, Cecil had also been kind enough to bring in the firewood. Livia poured me a steaming cup of tisane, a restorative infusion of roots and herbs Cecil had gathered in the forest.

I sat upright, still a little woozy, though the pain had begun to subside. Naturally, I had a million questions.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“I’m an interdimensional being,” he replied casually. “My people have been visiting your world for thousands of years, but we’ve been hunted to near extinction here since the Last Glacial Maximum. Our pelts were highly prized, and our organs were harvested for medicinal remedies and virility potions. These days, we mostly remain in our own dimension, though occasionally we venture into your plane of existence on a lark, seeking amusement or adventure.”

He paused, sniffing the fragrant stew simmering over the fire.

“Besides, we rather enjoy Italian food.” Pressing his index finger to his cheek and twisting it back and forth, he added, "The aroma of Livia's coniglio alla cacciatora is what drew me to you."

“Why did you help me?” I asked.

“We’re not Reptilians,” he replied, as though that explained everything. “I saw someone in trouble and simply came to his aid.”

I nodded, immediately regretting the movement as the room began to spin.

“Reptilians?” I repeated.

“Yes, the humanoid shapeshifters who secretly govern human society,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Not to be confused with the Morlocks or the savage mole men, of course. The latter are descendants of the ancient Lemurians, survivors of the great cataclysm, only to be enslaved by the Sumerians. The Reptilians are your run-of-the-mill democratic elites, international financiers, and European Union bureaucrats.”

His pleasant expression suddenly darkened.

“They control your governments, banks, and militaries. Nearly every institution of consequence is under their influence, from finance and warfare to information.”

“But why?” I asked. “What could they possibly want?”

“They are descendants of the Nephilim, the monstrous offspring of the Egrḗgoroi, the Fallen Angels known as the Watchers. Driven by an ancient hatred of mankind, they have waged war against the Children of God ever since.”

I stared at him, uncertain whether the throbbing in my skull had anything to do with the surreal nature of what I was hearing. “Aren’t you concerned I’ll expose your existence?”

Cecil smiled, revealing an impressive set of teeth.

“Not particularly. Who would believe you?”

Before I could respond, the room began to dissolve into a haze. Cecil’s enormous silhouette blurred, the firelight flickered, and everything went black.

When I awoke, he was gone.

Livia was sitting beside me, holding a cold compress against my forehead.

I looked toward the hearth. The fire was still burning, and beside it sat a neatly stacked pile of fresh firewood.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 2nd, Il Giorno dei Morti

A Change of Plans: The Siren City Will Have to Wait

The embossed leather dust jacket for my
new journal, adorned with the Three Graces

Well, it seems my return to Napoli was not meant to be, at least not this time. The trip was canceled at the last minute, but thankfully, nothing serious was amiss; it was merely an unexpected change of plans.

So my hopes of strolling down Via Toledo once again, paying homage to Virgil and invoking my Muse at his tomb, will have to wait. I had also looked forward to indulging in a little people-watching over coffee at the legendary Gran Caffè Gambrinus. I imagined myself sitting in that magnificent nineteenth-century Belle Époque café with my new journal, surrounded by the ghosts of the literary and artistic greats who had passed through its doors before me.

Disappointing, of course, but Napoli has waited for me before, and I suspect she will again. The siren’s call has not grown any fainter. Only my return has been postponed.

Vespers for the Dead at Good Shepherd Parish in Hopelawn, New Jersey

The Siren Calls: Returning to Parthenope

Me beneath the statue of the Holy Roman
Emperor Federico II di Svevia, sculpted
by Emanuele Caggiano, in a niche on
the western façade of the Palazzo
Reale di Napoli, in 2007

This time for work, I’m off to Napoli for just a few days. My writing and correspondence may slow down a bit while I’m away, but I hope to find some time between obligations to wander its ancient streets and revisit a few familiar places.

Still the capital in my heart, Napoli remains a city of extraordinary beauty and history. From its Greek foundations to the splendor of the Bourbon monarchy, its past is never far from view. Beneath the bustle of modern life, the old city still bears the unmistakable character of a place that has witnessed centuries of triumph and tragedy.

There is never enough time in Napoli, but I intend to make the most of whatever time I have.

Ce verimmo!

Photo of the Week: Satyr Playing the Flute, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Feast of St. Charles Borremeo at the Metropolitan Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption in San Francisco, California

Requiem Mass at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in New Rochelle, New York

Unbowed

To Arms! (1888), Edmund Blair Leighton

I had an interesting encounter the other day with an annoying little fellow, a self-important blowhard who loves the sound of his own voice. I would hardly call him a friend, though our paths frequently cross because we move in some of the same circles.

While arguing with someone else, he turned to me and blithely asked, “Wouldn’t you agree that all people over fifty become more inactive and unreliable?”

I shot him down immediately. “I am over fifty, and I am on a mission. Never in my life have I been more inspired, determined, or driven. I possess a lust for life I only wish I had known in my thirties and forties.”

Granted, I am not as physically strong as I once was, but what I have lost in strength I have more than made up for in resolve. I work harder, demand more of myself, and refuse to surrender whatever time remains to idleness or resignation.

Perhaps it is the fear of death, the specter of failure, or the burden of unfinished business. Maybe it is guilt over wasted years and squandered opportunities. Whatever the reason, I am a man possessed. There are books to read, battles to fight, places to see, and things to build. My ambitions have only grown as my time has diminished. I do not have enough years left to accomplish everything I intend to do, and that realization has made me more militant, not less.

This is not to say I don’t recognize the sort of people he was describing. I know plenty of older men who have surrendered their ambitions, grown complacent, or simply withdrawn from the struggle. But I also know young men who have accomplished nothing and are content to keep it that way.

What I suspect my tiresome acquaintance really meant was that fewer people are willing to answer his calls to action. In my estimation, the problem is not their age but his failure to inspire them. People eventually tire of fighting the same battles, listening to the same speeches, and repeating the same empty gestures without witnessing any meaningful results. A broken record is not a battle cry.

I, too, have withdrawn from certain activities and causes that once commanded my attention. Not because I have grown indifferent or unreliable, but because I have become more disciplined about where I direct my energies. I no longer allow myself to be sidetracked or dragged into another man’s quarrels at the expense of my own. My time is too precious, my objectives too numerous, and my determination too fierce to squander what remains on fruitless endeavors.

There is a profound difference between abandoning the fight and choosing one’s battles. I have not laid down my arms. I have merely stopped marching under every banner waved in my direction.

If anything, the advancing years have sharpened my sense of purpose. I have no intention of growing old quietly, retreating into comfortable irrelevance, or apologizing for ambitions that others have long since abandoned. Let others resign themselves to decline, make peace with mediocrity, and surrender their convictions. I have work to do, and I am not finished yet.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 31st, All Hallows' Eve

All Souls' Day at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

All Souls' Day at the Oratory of St. Josaphat in Bayside, Queens

A Brilliant Darkness: Tea With Naglowska (A Halloween Tale)

"La Sophiale de Montparnasse"

The dream is the small, hidden door in the deepest, most intimate sanctum of the soul. ~ Carl Jung

I had the most surreal dream the other night.

After her talk on Joanna I of Naples, Maria de Naglowska crossed the crowded marble floor of the opulent banquet hall and slipped into my half-circle booth. She wore sheer black lace and sat composed, almost statuesque. I lit her cigarette, and the smoke curled around her shoulders, softening the boundary between body and air. At her nod, I poured strong black tea into a glass nestled in an ornate podstakannik. Grey Osetra caviar waited between us, uneaten. Its briny perfume was sharp and distinctly Caspian.

As though continuing a conversation from another lifetime (or another dream), we spoke of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. She echoed my own reaction when I first saw it at the Uffizi. Prints and online reproductions do it no justice, and its reputation only becomes intelligible in person. Strangely, her voice sounded a lot like Natasha Fatale, the lanky Transylvanian femme fatale from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. What surprised me more was not the resemblance, but her familiarity with the internet.

Behind a heavy velvet drape, a hidden choral ensemble unfurled the dissonant madrigals of Carlo Gesualdo da Venosa, voices colliding and parting, beautiful and wrong. The Stile Floreale room breathed luxury, with mirrors threaded with gold veins, and cigarette haze thick as felt. It was a cultural crossroads crowded with artists, intellectuals, and nobility, though I could not say why I had been admitted.

"The Temptress of St. Tropez"

The evening honored a newly discovered painting of the Queen of Naples, long shadowed by rumor, unveiled here for the first time. As dreams are wont to do, the image changed its likeness. Instead of an early Renaissance portrait by an unknown hand, the painting looked uncannily like the pin-up of a young Brigitte Bardot I once kept in my high-school locker.

Touching my neck with her satin-gloved hand, Maria leaned closer and murmured, "Let’s get out of here, darling," languid and indulgent, her tone now pure Zsa Zsa Gabor.

The incongruity finally roused me. I was at my desk. My study was dark save for the green glow of the antique Emeraldite lamp. Gesualdo's madrigals still played, my playlist caught on repeat. Beneath my hand lay an old copy of Mystical Symbolism: The Salon de la Rose+Croix in Paris, 1892-1897. Loose tea leaves clung to the bottom of my cup of Russian Caravan. For a moment, before the room fully settled into itself, I could still smell smoke and brine and feel the faint brush of satin fingers on the back of my shaven pate.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 30th, Feast of Sant'Angelo d'Acri

Also see:
• The Toll of the Corbies (A Halloween Tale)

Claesz’s Vanitas: A Meditation on Death

Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill, 1628, oil on wood, Pieter Claesz

Among the many treasures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I repeatedly return to Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill (1628) by the Dutch master Pieter Claesz, currently on view as part of Layered Narratives: The Northern Renaissance Gallery. Somber and haunting, the composition depicts a gap-toothed skull, an overturned glass, a writing quill, and an oil lamp whose dying flame evokes the inevitable extinguishing of life. Rendered in muted grays and earthy browns, these humble objects possess an unsettling beauty.

A striking example of the European vanitas tradition, the painting embodies the ancient admonition memento mori, “remember that you must die.” Far more than a morbid fascination with death, such works served as solemn reminders of the futility of worldly pursuits, the fleeting nature of earthly pleasures, and the certainty of divine judgment.

As Hallowtide begins, with its ancient associations with death and the departed, the painting seems particularly fitting. Beneath its macabre imagery lies a profound spiritual truth. No wealth, beauty, or worldly achievement can spare us from the grave. Yet to remember death is also to remember how one ought to live. Happy Halloween!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 30th, Feast of Sant’Angelo D’Acri

All Souls at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

Why This Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fan Refuses to Watch Sci-Fi/Fantasy

No, I’m not making this up. This is an actual promo for The Rings of Power, season three, showing the teenage children of Prince Durin and Princess Disa

“If you are such a big science fiction and fantasy fan, why didn’t you watch Watchmen,* Lanterns, or The Boys?” For precisely the same reason I didn’t watch Peacemaker, Supergirl, or The Odyssey: I’m a big science fiction and fantasy fan.

I respect the lore and the genre, and expect high-quality storytelling. I also have enough self-respect and brains to reject the ideological slop Hollywood churns out to ridicule, humiliate, and alienate the very fanbase that made these properties valuable in the first place.

Generally, I refuse to knowingly subject myself to this garbage, though in recent years I have made a couple of exceptions for Red Sonja and The Rings of Power because Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien are my absolute favorites. While the chain-bikini-clad iteration of Red Sonja is technically not a Howard character, she inhabits his Hyborian Age, and I grew up reading Roy Thomas' stories.

Controversial among my friends, and a point we argue incessantly, I would even go so far as to say I slightly prefer Howard to Tolkien. So, when Netflix’s plan for a live-action Conan the Barbarian series was abandoned back in 2020, we didn’t realize how lucky we were. As I wrote in The Witcher and Elric of Melniboné, I’m now genuinely relieved they skipped this opportunity to drag Howard's masterful creations through the mud.

Professor Tolkien, unfortunately, was not so lucky. His Middle-earth did not escape the clutches of these fell fiends. No exaggeration, The Rings of Power may be my most hated television series of all time, and I watched Briganti.

With season three scheduled for release this November, I can’t wait to argue again with the dullards in my office who actually like the show. Hard to believe, I know, but fans of this garbage do exist. Alas, the weirdos and mattoids we encounter on social media are all too real.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 29th, Feast of San Gaetano Errico

* I actually liked the Watchmen (2009) movie, but had absolutely no interest in the 2019 TV series.

Spooky-Scary!

Waffles and Sammy

Famous for its spectacular “Dyker Lights” Christmas displays, Dyker Heights is also home to the lesser-known “Dyker Frights” Halloween decorations. Though admittedly a little less elaborate than in years past, plenty of houses are still decked out for the occasion, ready to welcome all the little ghouls and goblins roaming the neighborhood in search of treats.

Among the more memorable sights, at least for me, were what I believe to be Sammy the Crab from The Mighty Boosh and the ghost of Waffles, the ferocious Hound of Doom. Best of all, after a hiatus of several years, the legendary 79th Street House of Horror, between 11th and 12th Avenues, has returned! Though considerably scaled back from its former glory, it’s good to see this neighborhood favorite back from the dead.

As always, I look forward to handing out candy and seeing which costume proves most popular this year. Wishing you all a happy, safe, and frightfully fun Halloween! ~ Giovanni

(Above & below) The 79th Street House of Horror has risen!

Remembering Joseph-Louis Guérin

Portrait of the "little Zouave," Joseph-Louis Guérin, circa 1860

“Blood is necessary to appease the anger of God; I will give mine” *

In memory of Joseph-Louis Guérin (b. 5 April, 1838 — d. 30 October 1860), Papal Zouave who died defending the Papacy from the Piedmontese at the Battle of Castelfidardo in le Marche, we pray for the happy repose of his soul.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

* Quoted from Papal Zouave History

Also see:

• The Papal Zouave Saint? The Story of Joseph-Louis Guérin

Feast of All Saints at Our Lady of Sorrows in Jersey City, New Jersey

A Prayer for Toledo

Virgen del Sagrario, ora pro nobis

Our thoughts and prayers go out to the victims of the tragic train collision in the province of Toledo, Spain, and to their grieving families and loved ones. We are deeply saddened by the loss of life, the suffering, and the devastation. May San Ildefonso, Santa Leocadia de Toledo, Santa Casilda de Toledo, and the Virgen del Sagrario intercede for all those affected by this tragedy and bring them comfort and peace.

Heavenly Father, You are our refuge and our strength, our light in times of darkness. In this hour of sorrow and suffering, we humbly ask that You grant us peace through Your boundless love and divine guidance. Help us bear our grief with faith and courage, and never allow us to lose hope. Remind us that even amid tragedy, You remain with us, as You always have. In our darkest moments, Lord, may Your presence comfort the afflicted, strengthen the suffering, and console those who mourn. For Your infinite mercy and enduring love, we give You thanks.

In Search of Aleister Crowley in Cefalù with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato

As Halloween approaches, In Search of… with the Ghost of the Count of Sciancato ventures into the strange, the macabre, and the uncanny, exploring mysteries where history and legend blur and conjecture begins. What follows suggests possible explanations, though not the only ones.

Aleister Crowley in Cefalù: The Abbey of Thelema

On the northern coast of Sicily, where the Tyrrhenian washes the shore, and the great rock of Cefalù rises like an antediluvian altar, an Englishman once declared himself the herald of the Aeon of Horus. His name was Aleister Crowley, poet, mountaineer, occultist, and, to some, the wickedest man in the world.

Aleister Crowley, 1934

In 1920, Crowley established what he called the Abbey of Thelema in Cefalù, a crumbling villa that he transformed into a communal magical laboratory. There, he and his followers pursued ritual magic, esoteric study, and what Crowley termed True Will. Walls were adorned with lurid murals and arcane symbols drawn from ancient Egypt and modern imagination alike.

Neighbors whispered, newspapers sensationalized, and stories spread of strange rites, nocturnal ceremonies, and moral transgression. When a young English follower, Raoul Loveday, died of a fever in 1923 after a brief illness, scandal hardened into outrage. Crowley was accused of ritual depravity and dark influence.

In 1923, Benito Mussolini’s government expelled him from Italy, and the Abbey was eventually abandoned. Locals soon whitewashed the murals, and the building stood empty for decades.

Crowley died in England in 1947, far from the Sicilian coast that briefly held his grandest experiment. Yet the Abbey, weathered and scarred, lingers in cultural memory, a place where modern occultism sought Mediterranean rebirth.

Did the self-proclaimed Beast find illumination on that rocky shore?

Or did Cefalù simply absorb him, as Sicily has absorbed conquerors, mystics, and madmen before, folding his legend into its long, sun-struck history?

……………………………………

Sebastiano III, Conte di Sciancato, a minor prince of forgotten Lucania, was said to have loved his wife more than his soul. When his beloved bride, Donna Lucrezia di Nerafiora, died in a tragic accident, he could not accept the will of fate. In his grief, he turned to ancient books and desperate learning, searching for a way to restore her to the world of the living. The attempt cost him his life. The ruins of his torre lie hidden, and when the earth trembles, some whisper he still searches for her.