I’m a Twit

It appears that I am crawling on my hands and knees into another corner of the virtual time-suck of social networking. I’ve had a Twitter account for a while, but haven’t managed to figure out what to do with it, really. It’s like a pet. Sure, there’s initial excitement and interest, but when that wears off, will I still feed it and clean up after it when it defecates in the back yard?

Okay, so perhaps the pet metaphor is a bit overdrawn. In any case, having released myself from the sense of obligation to post daily here starting last month (though I’ve pretty much been doing that anyway), I’ve reconsidered Twitter. The medium is probably completely passé now. Being a chronically late-adopter, I’m accustomed to running into the party just as everyone’s moving on to the next big scene. But I’m twitting now, and having a little fun with it.
I’ve set up my blog updates to be uploaded automatically. I’ll be posting about my writing projects, both in-process and recent uploads. I’ll probably try to restrict my political opinions to Twitter, in order to restrain myself to 140 characters and perhaps not blow a gasket, as I’m prone to do when I froth at the mouth, incensed at social injustice.
I’ve already found a few gems through Twitter that make me happy. The triathalon pic of Chris Cuomo and his ready-for-primetime pecs that I posted yesterday was a Twitter-find. This video of Carter Evans reporting for CNN popped up via a Twitter feed, and as readers of my wrestling fiction know well, I’m a major, huge, let-me-be-your-groupie fanatic of CNN heart throb Carter Evans and his bedroom eyes and deviated septum. The next time we see Carter do a report on swimming pools, though, he really needs to be wearing swimwear to lend credibility to the report.


At the moment, almost no one is following me on Twitter. I’m not surprised, since I’ve been actually using it only recently. But in case you’re a twitterer, look me up. I just showed up to the party, and I’ve found myself standing alone in the corner with drink in hand and no one schmooze with.

More Alpha Dogs

Have you read Joe’s recent post over at Kubla Kong entitled, “My Dear Old Dog?” It’s a fantastic, thoughtful, and eloquent reflection on what a canine companion has to teach us about ourselves and our humanity (and, frankly, theirs as well, I think). My mind keeps wandering back to Joe’s post as my own dog lays her head on my lap and drowses off.

I have to wonder about a man that doesn’t own a dog. It’s not a fatal character flaw to be unconnected to a canine, but it just makes me wonder. Are they just “in between” dogs, still grieving the death of a beloved companion before they open their heart again for a new relationship? Do they travel too much to be capable of proper care of a dog (…get a new job)? Or are they truly flawed, and not drawn to the shared life of the pack?
As I’ve mentioned, having a canine-better-half makes a man exponentially sexier than they otherwise would be. Take for example, Jon Hamm. I know that he makes men and women melt, but for me, I haven’t been entirely sure that he’s lustworthy. He’s been a possibility, but not a certainty for my affections. Then I find pics of him walking his dog, and I have no uncertainty left. He’s a hot, gorgeous man who will be adored.
John Krasinski is another handsome boy that I’ve been on the fence about. I’m immediately drawn to him. He’s one of Squarehippies’ husbands, so clearly his worship worthy. He’s long, lean, hot-yet-cuddly. He has great comedic timing, which I think translates directly to prowess in love-making (just a theory). But is he someone that I can’t help but lust over?
Seeing him playing with his fiesty pup, it convinces me that John is, without a doubt, “my type.”
I’ve been off the fence for quite a while about Ryan Gosling. He’s one of my favorite actors these days, and he’s got an incredible sexual energy about him at all times.
Put a dog at the end of Ryan’s leash, and he’s just hot as hell. Check out the banner pics for this fan site of Ryan’s, and you’ll understand why I say that I’d give my unborn child to trade places with his dog. His depth as an actor, I’m sure, is directly related to his capacity to be loved by his dog. I don’t know the science, but it’s what I know, nonetheless.
On the other hand, I didn’t really think that Bradley Cooper could get any sexier, but seeing him walking a dog does the trick. The fact that Bradley’s beefed up for his role in the new A-Team movie (jury is way out on that one!), doesn’t hurt, either.
Finally, I consider the complex case of Kellan Lutz. He’s quickly carved himself into a musclegod. He’s handsome and hot as hell. And yet… somehow, I’ve not been entirely moved to worship at the feet of his young hardbody. He’s everywhere these days, advertising underwear and showing up in more and more movies. Still, all the pieces haven’t fit for me to recognize him as someone I must lust after.
Then he goes jogging with his dog, and I’m infatuated. In fact, there are photos of Kellan with his dog everywehre. He must be okay.
In response to Joe’s musings on his old dog, I just want to conclude by saying that, as certainly as I know that a man’s comedic timing is directly related to his prowess as a lover, I’m absolutely and unshakably convinced that whatever heaven exists, dogs get to decide who gets in.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)


My posting on the new Calvin Klein underwear ads took me strolling down memory lane. As I thought about the secret joys of my childhood, thumbing through the pages of the underwear ads in catalogs and magazines, it just had to be said: Jim Palmer turned me gay.

I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall of the first pitch Jockey made to future hall of famer, Jim. Today, of course, we see the results of three decades of persistent commodification of the hard male body. In the late 70’s, though, I have to think it was a stretch to convince a professional baseball player to strip to very skimpy briefs and show up nearly naked in most every home and on billboards across the country.
I wonder if it took Jim a second to get what was being done to him. I wonder if he asked if they would want him to model with his baseball glove. Not really, Jim. We only want you for your body.
I imagine the marketing strategy was to identify a man that men wanted to be, who was also a man that women wanted to be with. He needed to have a boy-next-door face, jock bona fides, and a hot-though-not-too-hot naked body. The gay erotica aspect, I have to imagine, was not part of the explicit strategy. Shoving Jim’s barely clad package in the faces of America (nice thought) was certainly a cultural shift, so it had to exploit both the (potentially threatening) sexuality of an athlete’s bare body and the (non-threatening) squeaky clean image of a boy scout.
Enter blue-eyed, 6’3″ Baltimore Oriole pitcher, Jim Palmer. Stack 1970’s Jim up against, say 2010’s Mehcad Brooks, and Jim looks downright average. If 1970’s Jim in jockeys met 2010’s Kellan Lutz in his Calvins in some dark alley somewhere (now we’re talking!), I have to imagine Jim would feel profoundly inadequate and in disbelief that young Kellan is now the standard of male perfection rather than the monstrous muscle god he would have seemed three decades ago.
Jim in a bikini brief, trying to save a modicum of modesty behind his mitt, with that disarming boy scout smile, still turns me on. But just between you and me, I’d sort of like to go back to that dark alley, where Jim meets big-sexy, Kellan. Disparaging words are exchanged. Jim’s pride is injured, and he puffs up his hairy chest to defend his honor. Ten minutes later, he’s flat on his back, schoolboy pinned, with Kellan’s Calvin-clad package pressed against his lips. Time marches on…

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

I don’t quite get Twilight. I’m not proud of it. I’m not trying to convince anyone how cool I am because I’m more evolved than the mass of fans (including more than a few gay ones) wetting themselves in anticipation of the next movie.

The meat selection is entirely decent. Robert Pattinson (painted on abs or not), is a looker. Someone needs to either give him a serious haircut or throw him around by a couple fistfuls of those locks before power slamming him to a wrestling mat (frankly, either option is okay with me), but still, he’s clearly got the hot-if-perhaps-overexposed factor.
Taylor Lautner tips the scales in at gorgeous. His eagerness to display his ever-increasing bulges is sexy, in that way that screams for someone to lay a beat down on him and torture him in the ropes until he screams “I give.”
Kellan Lutz also clearly has all the pieces lined up nicely. Pretty, round pecs and full lips can’t steer you too wrong. And it’s a vampire and werewolf storyline, for God’s sake! I get weak in the knees when I see Alexander Skarsgård’s fangs pop out in True Blood, and Russell Tovey stripping off his shirt just before he does it doggy-style quite literally makes me salivate.

But I just can’t get myself to be seriously into Twilight. John Savage has the Twilight boys mixing it up in the ring in his Arena Island Celebrity Wrestling group, and those matches are hands down hot. But I just can’t generate any genuine passion for the boys of Twilight.

I’m happy to have more shirtless, hottie hunks coming up the ranks as media darlings. Perhaps someday I’ll catch the Twilight bug and awake from this malaise. But for now, for me, I’m leaving the dudes of Forks to the pre-teen girls (and to you). You can enjoy my share.