Come No Further, for Death Awaits Ye, With Big, Nasty, Pointy Teeth

Not really. But I thought that a little of Tim the Enchanter would be a good lead in for a disclaimer to this type of post.

So, sooner or later some the real me had to seep into this public posting. That's why you are all bound by a code of honor and blood not to reveal my true identity. (All 1.5 of you who read this thing).

But writing is an inspired, if not inspiring, pursuit. Id est, one writes when one finds inspiration, often/mostly disregarding whether that point is of any interest to anyone else.

And so, the things that inspire me. . .

Again, if you are uncomfortable in your male heterosexuality, disinterested in beautiful things, non-desirous of knowing my desires, or already bored, READ NO FURTHER. Many will think I put this up for my family. HA! They don't read this thing. My sister might. But she's just as tweested as me. Wonder where she picked that up. . .

Anyhoodle, here's the juice. I don't consider myself a superficial person. I don't consider myself a connoisseur of beefcake or cheesechake. And yet, when the OCCASIONAL person catches me fancy, I guess I'm just as base as the next fellow. There's a whole meditation on attraction, tragedy, blah blah psychobabblecakes. THIS IS NOT THAT POST. This is post about The Pretty.

I offer on the altar of beauty Jimmy Spader. James, to you plebes. Most of you know him, and probably think of him in this way:

                                        

Proto-yuppie asshole, snorting coke, sabotaging his friends, and having the most fabulous 80's hair outside of any pop band at the time. There is something fecund and slightly effeminate about this era Spader. Surely some of it is the Pink Polo nightmare that was Preppie Hell, but some of it is Jimmy. There's a sensuality to the mouth, the slight sunburned aspect of the oddly turned nose. And here, of course, is also the bloom of cherubic youth. The gaze is arresting, but deceptive. Do we trust the angel's lips or the judge's eyes?



Ah, here he is again. Groomed and coiffed. Truly great hair. Again we have an almost Baroque or Rococo embellishment of the lips. And yet, something of Michelangelo in the eyes, and the piquant nose---not a feminized nose, but carrying something that hints of both the regal and the quirky. Think I'm being unctuous and excessive? Maybe. But look at this and tell me there is no fearful symmetry:

 Goodness, that's an awful lot of pretty. Pretty not a term I usually associate with men I find attractive. But day-um. If Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Van Rijn all got drunk and did a sketch, I'm thinking it might look a lot like the above.

Or maybe like this:


You'll have to forgive me, but I'm fascinated by my own fascination with this visage. There are so many things here that Are Not My Type. And yet. . . there is something so compelling about it. Which takes us from obsequious prose to the aforewarned perversion.


Jimmy has this quality. The French probably have a word for it, because they have words for all the uncomfortable things we don't like to say. Germans, too, but German usually have 72 letters in their words. Whereas the French will have a lovely word like deja vu, or  jolie-laide: someone who is pretty in their ugliness. Aesthetically out of joint, but compelling or attractive nonetheless. The quality I am trying to desribe is the compelling and disturbing attribute of looking enticing in a battered state.

Look, I'm not condoning anything here. I'm not saying you should go out and bitch slap James Spader. I'm just saying that he has the unfortunate gift of looking lovely when a little bruised. It reminds me of a Japanese style of pot throwing, wherein the glaze is baked on almost to the end of the piece, but a jagged and uneven edge is left, exposing the natural and flawed clay. The idea, as I was told, is that the little intentional flaws highlight the perfection of the rest of the piece.

Or maybe I'm just a sicko who gets rocks off on beaten up people. Only Judge Wapner can decide. Anyhoo, James wears his bruises well.

Which brings me to the other psychologically disturbing and revealing part of this--the appeal of Crazy!Spader. Sure, he can look all charm and sneezy goofiness in a shaggy turn for Stargate. But Kurt Russell better watch his crew cut azz, cuz Spader is batshit insane:



Quoi? He asks. Por moi? To which I respond, Oui, monsieur. Remember how you body-sniffed Michelle Pfeiffer from crotch to sternum in this scene?

Ah yes, I see that you do recall that scene. You crazy, loathsome, homicidal, sexy beast, you.

And as disturbing as this whole thing has been for you, here is the most shameful part for me. While JSpade wears many looks well, a look he sports quite stunningly is nothing at all:

I know, you are thinking "So what? I've seen 300. It takes more than that." To which I reply:

EGADS MAN! WHAT KIND OF HAVOC ARE YE TRYING TO WREAK? Look at that hip to shoulder ratio. Is that even possible? Look at those lats. He's got freaking wings, he can freaking fly! I have to stop looking at it, because it actually makes my brain malfunction. I think Angela Bassett is in this photo too. BUT WHO FRIGGIN CARES? She a fine woman, but the thing with the pants and the shirt and the delts and those are really big biceps you have grandmamama....afesoifhe09f0efhaewovhr8y948r7q932r1382

Okay. Sorry about that. I'm not going to bore you further with sonnets about his dulcet tones or odes to the subtle nuances of his facial expressions. (Just barely, I'm really restraining myself here). 

Summary: One James Spader. Too pretty by a half. But saved from banal and vapid attractiveness by good hair, crazy eyes, and an alarming combination of simultaneous psychosis, vulnerability, suavity, and something disturbingly angelic. Though your mileage may vary.