A proposal

Somebody posted a picture of Harrison Ford in Witness today on some movie blog and it occurred to me that this is the sexiest man in the sexiest movie there ever was or ever will be.

Even when he's covered in corn dust:

Or wearing this hat, and this expression:

Exhibit A as in okAAAAAAy:

Exhibit B as in Beefcake:

Those were essentially the same photo, one with background lumber and one with chains, but whatever. Exhibit C as in Case Closed:

+ You know who else is in this movie? Loops with the #1 worst haircut that ever has been or ever will be. Wow.

That's all I've got. That's the whole post! Now you know what blogs are for.

You want a piece of my heart

Look at these two beautiful, hairy bozos in what the internet tells me is 1992, a year (decade) in which I also had a lot of hair (still do btw). I like to think of them as a bumbling comedy duo called Spanx! who solve cute, wholesome crimes to pay the bills, like The Case of the Missing Bowling Shoes, or The Great Pancake Breakfast Caper.

And this is Spanx! at the Beacon Theatre last Friday night, which I spent at the opera/hotel bar area instead, drinking biers and crying, even though this "conversation" happened right here in my neighborhood. New York City has taught me a lot of lessons about loss and the importance of not double-booking one's own personal calendar, that's for sure.

Not so hairy now, are we fellas?

Mandatory Patrick Stewart

I like to browse the latest GQ when I'm at the beauty parlor so I can see what the gents are wearing lately (tight pants, bomber jackets), but I didn't realize I had read the same issue two months in a row until I got to this Patrick Stewart fashion spread, which made me happy both times. (Sorry, Tom Hiddleston, yr just not 4 me). Now I'd like to see anyone other than Patrick Stewart try to pull off this ensemble, but mostly I want to give him a high five for being so jolly. Wouldn't you like to hike around Brooklyn with Patrick Stewart as your tour guide? You wouldn't even care whether or not he knew what he was talking about. It wouldn't even occur to you to ask. He could probably lead you straight into some canal and you'd still go away saying, "Thanks Patrick Stewart, it got wet for a while there but I truly learned how to live."

Mandatory Tom Hanks

CV and I were faxing to & fro last night about this & that and I mentioned she should go see Sully—as should everyone, it’s a wonderfully restrained picture for grownups and people who need pharmaceutical-free “mood lifters”—and we both agreed Tom Hanks is the best (she used the emoji of many hearts and I just typed “hubba hubba”).

Tom Hanks, winner of multiple Oscars. Tom Hanks, proprietor of the “gimme five” lost-glove Instagram. Tom Hanks, inventor of the elegant typewriter app. (“Is it necessary? No, not really. Is it enjoyable to use and well-made? Well, yes.”) Tom Hanks. Hanx! I like to think Nora Ephron would approve.

I’m not of the mind that all men get better looking as they age, any more than all women do—we all just become more of ourselves, I think—but Tom Hanks is at the top of the list of men about whom this myth is 100% accurate. (I’ll pay $1 billion to anyone willing to diagram that last sentence.) I am no stranger to the man’s aspect: I was there for Bosom Buddies, and Joe vs the Volcano and Turner and Hooch and Splash and Big, etc., etc., and this is definitely one joker well served by a little weight gain and a little hair loss. Would that we could all be so lucky! Would that we could all be Tom Hanks!

p.s. You know what else is a good movie starring Tom Hanks? A Hologram for the King. My stylist and I both agreed on that on Sunday.

Get strong, stay healthy

This weekend: SarahB and I rented a couple of Citibikes early Saturday morning and took a trek through the park and also (briefly) on an actual city street. Since I am both a nervous Nellie and a pathetic cautious Cathy I have long dreaded/avoided this scenario, not because I'm lazy (although I am) but because I am anti-death. (Not that I believe death should be abolished, although, you know, fingers crossed.) I can't quite square the terror I feel at the idea of traveling on an actual road along with actual cars with the reality, which is that riding a bike in the city is perfectly safe, and the fact that more than one person I know has been struck by a car while simply crossing the street IN A CROSSWALK. Of course it's also possible to be struck by falling air conditioners, falling cranes, exploding manhole covers, exploding gas lines, etc., ad infinitum, so pick your poison, I guess. There's no shortage of ways to die in this city; I should probably worry more about being stabbed by an umbrella. But since I'm currently in the market for (a) new ways to sweat and (b) any way to turn an hour-long commute back into what it should be, which is 20 goddamn minutes, Citibike seems like an easy, cheap option that bears further investigation. Stay tuned.

This fella: Holy smokin' jesus, batman, look at this picture of my ideal man, Harrison Ford, wearing my ideal costume. The navy stripes, the crewneck, the collar askew, the whiskers, the clipped cut, the look of semi-confusion mixed with irritation. I appreciate how he's turned into such an irascible crank as he's gotten older, since he now reminds me of myself. Perhaps it bodes ill for future prospects that my ideal man is basically a man version of me? Also TBD.

Related: If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend ("If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your apartment would redecorate itself in only the finest and most luxurious of fabrics. The predominant colors would be Nantucket blue, slate grey, and the color of the sea before a storm." "If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, Nora Ephron would still be alive somehow. She would have dinner with the two of you at least three nights a week.")

This book: Quirk by Hannah Holmes will give you a new appreciation for your prefrontal cortex (what Holmes calls the CEO of the brain), oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, science, evolution, and even mice and rats. For the love of god, mice and rats! Not to mention monkeys and prairie voles.

On the reason women have evolved to be more naturally cooperative than men:

The female mammal, whether rat, vole, or human, is compelled to stay near her infants so they can nurse. So that's one layer of cooperation she needs. That bondage means the female must neglect her food foraging when she's nursing and must leave her young unprotected when she's foraging. But if she's able to tolerate a female sister or neighbor, the two can share child care and reduce their risk. That's a second layer of cooperation. 

This song: Gotta love the Junkies.

Mandatory Steve McQueen

Was Steve McQueen a great actor? I don't know. Do you? Does it matter? He's been dead a long time (1980). I picture him as the kind of guy who wouldn't have much use for silverware. Not a neanderthal or anything, just too cool for shrimp forks. Or the kind of guy who would find shirts with collars a real pain in the ass—a step too far, neck-wise. I can relate: just toss me a ham bone and an ironic tee, chop chop! I love him in Love with the Proper Stranger, co-starring Natalie Wood and Mr. C. from Happy Days, which looks way more carefree and larky than it actually is, and maybe that's enough. Maybe it's enough that I judge the whole of Steve McQueen based on a single film performance that's so weird and off-kilter I can't even decide whether it's any good or not but love just for the fact of it existing. Maybe not jumping to conclusions vis-a-vis subjective, non-verifiable creative metrics is just part of my growth experience. But man oh man, the man sure could wear a sweater. (I'd say lose the cigar, Steve, but they didn't know things back in the 60s; I recently learned that from Mad Men. Nobody knew anything until about 1985, I guess. Now we're all geniuses.)

Introvert cool

Instagramm'd from NY Mag: Rob Greig/Camera Press/Redux

Instagramm'd from NY Mag: Rob Greig/Camera Press/Redux

I consider Bill Nighy a thinking girl's crumpet, even though it's gauche to describe another human being as a toasted cake and I'm not technically "a girl," ie "female child" (or, let's face it, "a thinker"). I saw him having dinner alone once at Cafe Fiorello, back when he was starring in The Vertical Hour on Broadway, a play that bored me out of my gourd and set off a long spell of Julianne Moore-hating. I don't know why I blamed her, when the whole thing was terrible and everyone involved equally culpable, but as the most famous cast member she became the focus of my ire. Eventually I got over it. Life is too short for one-sided showbiz grudges, especially when you are not personally involved in showbiz. It's like being angry at air, or frisbees.

The cafe sighting was exciting, though, and it's what established the crumpet angle for me, since eating dinner alone in some sturdy, non-posh Lincoln Center staple remains one of my top cool cat moves for grownups: it's such a signal that you're okay with your life and your choices and your own company, and there's nothing in the world sexier than that. It's not a heroic exploit or anything, I won't start giving out awards for it, but on a sliding scale of sophisticated, morally neutral acts it ranks pretty high. "Dedicated blog post" high at any rate. Plus Fiorello's is one of those places you pass in the dark that glows all warm and orange inside, and it features just the sort of private but not totally concealed booth you'd want to slide into if you were a solo performer far from home who'd grown weary of dining in your extended stay hotel room night after night and craved, say, a simple seafood risotto or veal chop Milanese in the midst of other culture-minded individuals. As in, separate but not in a snobbish way, a part of yet still apart from the whole milieu, and appropriate for certain theatrical or British levels of fame. Hence a textbook lone eatery for good ol' Bill Nighy. (Note that I have seen Renée Fleming and Patti LuPone and others at this same restaurant, so it's hardly an unknown hideaway, but they were both dining with parties, which requires zero effort or nerve.)

The good news is that Bill Nighy is back on Broadway right now in Skylight, with Carey Mulligan, which I saw last night and loved, not least because it continued his tradition of wearing coats really well, to the point where coat-wearing became a minor narrative theme. Maybe that's a plot thread they should've looked into for Spider-Man! Turn off the Dark! Just have him doff/don his coat all the time and bitch about the climate. Maybe it would've saved millions of dollars in embarrassment and frivolous lawsuits.

But the best news of all is that according to New York magazine, Bill Nighy is currently still eating alone at stylish yet sedate Upper West Side establishments and then prowling around Central Park, counting trees, which I guess is what I might do too if I had most of my days free. Cool cat moves there, crumpet! Look out for the raccoons.

Source: http://www.vulture.com/2015/03/bill-nighy-...