With one exception, magazine subscriptions have died off in our household.

While we have succumbed to ‘consuming’ other periodicals digitally, in the single case that simply will not do.  For one thing, the paper stock Metropolis is printed on is very supple, which makes leafing through it a pleasure.  And frankly, I think any little ‘fetish’ thought you may be ascribing is just beneath you…

Honestly?  The ‘ivory tower’ aspect of some of the content occasionally gives me the pip, but the design and layout are really impeccable.

Like a number of other magazines, a kind of after dinner mint appears on the very last page of each issue, in this case called ‘Noteworthy’.  The illustration caught my eye and the idea/info is interesting, yes?  Click to read.

As to the matter of ‘mate choice’ mentioned in this piece, my hubby’s ability to just snatch up a scrap of paper and sketch something fully realized was a ‘fitness indicator’ for me all those years ago.

Here is a note I copied before it left the house attached to cookies bound for a neighbor, and a quick doodle for something he was working on about ‘tooting your own horn’.  Click to enlarge.

 

Here is a ‘vintage’ Polaroid of myself and the famous Tommy A, mentioned in the previous post.  Pardon my Eighties helmet ‘do’; I have never been burdened with existential quandary: I was placed on this earth to grow hair.

I’d made a fitful search for this photo in anticipation of that previous post, but to no avail.  Then, rather like (but probably not at all like) that term meaning ‘the predicament of thinking of the perfect reply too late’, it turned up.

I wonder if you have noticed that I refer to persons with first name and an initial, and sometimes full first and last.  I know asking this question is like imagining that your doctor has assigned a full-time employee to sit and wonder day after day if you are alright.

The answer is that the living get an initial, the departed, full name.

John Gilbert, the ‘insulter’ chronicled in the previous post, is – unlike myself – no longer with us.  I should at my age, and in these ‘Covid’ times, be more circumspect about frivolous references to death, but frankly, if I were any more circumspect than I am, I’d start twitching and sparking like an android.

Remember those photos I posted a while back, a naked young man clinging to various New York City settings?

Here he is, on the right, clothed, with our friend Tommy A.

(Photo credit: Barbara McKenzie, once our friend, then landlord, then neither; lesson learned.)

The very rarest boy, Tommy was one of the go-go dancers at the first public performance by The B52s, Valentine’s Day 1977.  He wore a hand muff, like the one pictured here, on his head, teased and hairsprayed into a bouffant.  It was inspired.

In the day, Tommy drove an enormous vintage road-yacht of a convertible.  I once detailed to him the automobile of one of my mother’s neighbors, a turquoise 1962 Chrysler Imperial convertible.  This was a cruel mistake, as I fear that a microscopic longing for that car may still be tucked away somewhere in his psyche even today.

I’m reminded of another automobile from my youth, not ‘voluptuous’ like this one, but glaringly ‘wrong’ in the landscape of my hometown.  It was a Rolls Royce driven by my optometrist, Randolph Gilbert.

Doctor Gilbert had a handlebar mustache, a fairly sober one as those go, and wore hand tailored suits; I think optometry just gave him something to fill his time.  I recall that the first note of his laugh was conventional enough, but almost instantly became a kind of giggle.

His son John was a friend of my best friend for a couple of years in high school, Tony.  Tony told me that John once asked him why he (Tony) was friends with me (David) as he (John) found me to be the most ‘insipid’ person he’d ever met.  Well, there you have it.

Do you think I’m insipid?  I’d go for ‘canny’ in your reply…

Much in the news these days, this is a teargas canister.

The paint job is mine — ‘candy flake cranberry’ — poorly applied on a whim some time after receiving it as a gift.  Just now it is displayed on a lovely Chinese Chippendale napkin table (which I’m taking with me when I leave Stephen) as part of a rotating retinue of other curio.

I mention the table only as a matter of pride — ‘pride’ in the sense of the Southern expression scornfully delivered when observing a display of ostentation: ‘Well, aren’t they proud!’.

At the end of my two years at the NSA in Washington DC, which coincided with the second half of my Air Force enlistment in 1969 and 1970, I was given a sendoff luncheon that might have appeared to the odd observer more appropriate for someone’s retirement.  To say I was very touched sounds like I don’t mean it.

At that luncheon, I received as a gag gift this teargas canister, an artifact of the 1968 SDS riots in Dupont Circle in Washington.  

The giver was a young woman with whom I had shared a group office at NSA.  This was a person of such core elegance and soignée that it was incumbent upon me to address her with a faux formality, which she returned (Miss ‘E’… Mr. ‘H’…) with mutual enjoyment.

The striking Miss ‘E’ was actually my contemporary, and my boss told me more than once, ‘You should ask her out!’.  Enough on that.

Miss ‘E’ explained that she had picked up the teargas canister on the street nearby her apartment, post-riot, thereby inadvertently adding to her ‘resume’: a Dupont Circle address.

I wonder what became of her.  In some bizarre way, I miss her, but if I’m not careful, I’ll start sounding like Holden Caulfield:

‘Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.’

My friend Johnny cuts my hair.  Over winter, we decided to let my hair ‘go’ longer.

Okay.  Then, the Corona lockdown came about.  Since my last snip, my locks have not seen scissors for twelve weeks.

We weren’t even aiming for ‘David Byrne’, but here we are at ‘David Lynch’.

Help.

I know what you’re thinking, but this is actually a type font you can buy from Linotype, FontShop, or Adobe.

I think it’s called ‘Halfwit’…

Today is the hub’s birthday; he is sixty-nine, or as I like to express it, he has begun ‘participation’ in his seventieth year of life.

I am about to retell the ‘duration’ part — again! — so, if you want to bail out of this post, now’s your chance.  Some time between our first date on April Fool’s Day forty-three years ago and his birthday, we were a done deal.

This Corona lockdown has made us wonder if that was a wise decision…

Here is a photo taken a Winter or so ago by our photographer friend who teaches in California.  He sent it this morning with birthday wishes.  In this photo I look exactly like my older brother: genes will out.

I hope everyone is doing well.  And that lockdown remark I made an instant ago, I didn’t really mean it.

Well, I sorta meant it, but it’s his birthday, so…

My very good and very longtime friend Will W from NY sent me this.

Stanley Tucci is the most adorable man.  And Will is very nice, too…

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/celebrity/latest/a32225544/stanley-tucci-negroni-video-tweets/

We watched the movie ‘1917’ last week.

I found myself considerably weepy throughout, but I’ve been considerably weepy all year.  I don’t know if I’ve always been this way (I don’t think so), but you would not want to watch me watch a movie these days.  Within my own physical space, I’m very ‘active’ with what’s being offered on the screen; it’s probably a little pitiful.

The movie is quite an experience, but age has taught me that recommendations are a fool’s errands.  Or, something like that.  Constructed as one continuous take, as someone who was professionally on the periphery of cinematic craft, I made an effort to not be on the lookout for the sleight of hand involved.

What did trip me up was being marginally distracted by the actor Mark Strong in a small ‘anchor’ of a role.  His brief interaction with the main character, dialog and performance, is an oasis.

In the process of mining this photo, I came across another of Mark Strong, with Stanley Tucci.

Not the best photo of either, I’ve always been crazy about Stanley Tucci, pictured below on the cover of his not-just celebrity cookbook.  Photos clickable.

The widest possible shoulders available on a gentleman, here he is in a Levi’s 501 jeans commercial from the Eighties.  And, in addition to the ‘vivid’ brief on the cover of the cookbook, a ‘saucy’ exchange with Graham Norton follows.

Am I forgiven for yesterday’s post?

 

For my semi-monthly-ish contribution to this remnant of a blog, I had in mind something frivolous, like a photo of myself with no fresh haircut, and no hope of one for the foreseeable future.

Then along came this article in the New York Times today about where the lost Bernie Sanders supporters are trending.  Click the photo for the caption.

Whatever implication/insinuation/accusation this may have about the intelligence of the rest of the human race, I think at this point it’s time to hand off the globe to the whales.

Absolutely serious, I’m afraid.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but in October 2016, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas, as my old friend Susan once said: ‘Compulsion is a cruel master’.

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