While Pedro Pascal has already proven he knows how to rock a red coat, it’s nice to see he can rock a pair of red swim trunks equally as well. In these beach shots, he’s also displaying all his shirtless glory, and if you’re a fan you should check out his crowning as Dazzler of the Day here. It looks like he’s reading ‘Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead’ by Olga Tokarczuk, which is described as “a deeply satisfying thriller cum fairy tale…” and I am all in for that right now.
Maybe we should stop relying on algorithms to dictate our choices and simply engage with all the varied things that interest us. And maybe the algorithms should allow us to do that.
Love and lunacy on full display in the winter sky – this is Venus making motions to kiss the moon on an early February evening. Winter has always held its enchanting delights if you know where and when to look for them. I’m not so well-informed, so this was a happy catch that I didn’t realize I made until after the fact. The Cowboy Junkies wrote a song about this scene for their album ‘Pale Sun, Crescent Moon’.
Lunacy and love, and years past have already swirled beneath our life bridge, long carried away by currents we caused and currents we could not control. Knowing moon, winking Venus, and the power and might of a winter’s night. Whatever bit of warmth that remains from a memory, whatever sees you through the dark, these are little prayers to which we cling.
Oh crescent moon, how we long for you to cradle us right now, lifting us up from this wretched planet if only for a night of comfort. Humans are reckless and relentless in their torment. What a lovely predicament to be as constant and removed from us as a heavenly body. Do you watch us from your lofty vantage point or are you wisely and sensibly tuned-out to all our awfulness? I wouldn’t blame you for either – I feel torn myself.
My days of champagne time are long over, and to be honest I was never really a fan of the bubbly. (The pics here are of some black raspberry seltzer shaded by a few drops of black raspberry syrup. Rock out with your mocktail out!) Still, I enjoy the aesthetic of something sparkling in a fancy glass, and twenty years ago I was all about the champagne time, especially if it came with a rekindled glimpse into ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’ and its effervescent theme song.
There was something innocent and transporting about ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’, and the way my family would settle in for an early evening of shared television time. It offered light-hearted amusement, and they always sent us kids off to bed with a good-night/sleep-tight song that promised pleasant dreams.
If I focus, and block out the noise from this crazy world of plane crashes and encroaching fascism, I can escape to the chiffon-shrouded world of Lawrence Welk, flying along on a cloud of accordion comfort, and finding momentary respite in the flight of fantasy…
“A free press is fundamental to human rights, democracy, and the rule of law.” – Antonio Guterres
Way back when Hilary Clinton was running against the orange blob in 2016, I saw the press do its ‘both sides’ bullshit, and obsess over her e-mails in an attempt to equalize the monster who was already breaking the law. The New York Times has already been proven to have given lopsided coverage to those candidates then, and it only got worse in the ensuing years. Giving any sort of normalized leeway to a man who has been repeatedly shown, and convicted, of breaking the law seems a questionable stance, even and especially if you’re reporting solely on facts.
Cut to the current moment, after the press helped Trump to a win in the last election. (All the talk about a President’s age dissipated when they finally coerced Biden out of the election, all the wondering of a President’s competence disappeared when there was a black woman running against him, etc.) Now the press offices of the New York Times, NPR, Politico and NBC are being ‘rotated’ out of the Pentagon to make room for OANN and Breitbart. LOL!
Happy FAFO to the Free Press, which is now suffering greatly in print and television form, so congrats to them on aiding in their own deterioration.
Returning to the forefront of certain circles, David Beckham’s latest underwear foray brings us back decades to the days when he could often be seen strutting about in his boxer briefs, and it’s a welcome whiff of nostalgia. On that theme, here’s our weekly blog recap with a brief look-back…
Sex in the greenhouse, where life begins.
Our lone Dazzler of the Day was Richard Morris.
Broadway bound for the 2025 theatrical season.
Watch this FAFO space, there will be more to come.
A snippet of conversation with an old friend.
The coconut: is it a nut or not?
Amuse-bouche: beautiful dreamer.
Sunday night, in the dark of mid-winter, light seemingly still glowing from the snow, though I know that could never be. Moonlight, perhaps, the kind that brings out a certain wildness, that would have us dancing naked beneath its glow if it were just a smidge warmer. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
If I’m up beyond three these days, it’s not from the overwrought excitement from a night of dancing – quite the opposite. My nights are more restless than usual, my sleep not unfettered from bother and worry. Middle-age, I suppose, and so far from the carefree slumber of youth. Sunday nights aren’t supposed to feel sadder the older we get, are they?
A swan’s beauty and grace is matched by its brutality in the way of survival. Power and might must be tempered with all that is exquisite; every gift of elegance must be tainted with icy indifference. Nothing is ever perfect, no entity is ever truly divine. That rarely keeps us from trying – to achieve perfection, to achieve divinity, to be something better than we are today.
I’ve said that so many times before…
This dance of the swans sets the scene for any sort of magic that I attempted to conjure twenty years ago. It’s a hint of the dance to come – a dance I hope you will join. We need to dance these days. Dancing may be the only thing to keep us from going mad.
One day, in the spring, I found a pile of gray feathers in the backyard. It looked like a morning dove had exploded, but most likely it was the quick work of a hawk or some other larger bird of prey. I don’t think a land animal could have been as vicious or fast enough to do something so devastating. Creatures of the air are more terrifying that way. Like the swans.
Music without words, emotions without expression, the riotous heart, the soothing sea, and all the feels. Evocative of the beginning of most fairy tales, when the world still seems like it might not change, when the trajectory and irrevocable journey we find ourselves on could still be something of our dreams, we begin every tale with the confusing dust of a fairy beautifully clouding our view.
A siren song sets the scene in motion, and when it’s over the trick of time – cunning and relentless and brutal – does everything it can to take the song away.
Hold onto it in your head, hold onto it in your heart, hold onto it when it feels like there is no melody left to remember. Far too often, we don’t realize when things are beginning, only when they are already in motion and hurtling along at breakneck pace. Those trains don’t stop easily, and the world will completely derail your plans if you’re not careful.
David Beckham should have done an ad like this for his own line of underwear and it might still be in production. Instead, he’s delivering his finest assets for the current line of BOSS Bodywear in the commercial seen below. It’s been far too long since Beckham has been in his skivvies, and this happy renaissance marks a return to fine form. See all the links below for further evidence of his bodacious brilliance.
David Beckham in boxer briefs.
David Beckham basically busting out of his pants.
David Beckham in a basic gratuitous post.
David Beckham in his own scent.
David Beckham in his new underwear.
David Beckham in brief, and briefs.
David Beckham in budgie smugglers.
David Beckham, almost definitively.
David Beckham out of his shirt.
David Beckham giving glimpses of skin.
David Beckham as the Sexiest Man Alive.
David Beckham getting back to basics.
“Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young Prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the Prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind.
But then, one winter’s night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold. Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the Prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman’s ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.
The Prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart. And as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous Beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there.
Ashamed of his monstrous form, the Beast concealed himself inside his castle, with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.
The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his twenty-first year. If he could learn to love another and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a Beast for all time.
As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope
For who could ever learn to love a Beast?”
~ ‘Beauty and the Beast’
It begins with a familiar melody, a dream-like song that calls from a past that we never thought would pass. Something from my childhood, something from my adolescence, something from the most tender portion of a life – a spring day on the way to a music lesson, when white perfumed blossoms hung in the sky and clouds like pink whales swam languidly across the sky…
What an awful month this has been, and so far what an awful year, so there is no love lost and no hesitation in saying goodbye to this particular January. Tomorrow begins a new month – the last full month of winter – and I’m working on a release of a project/tour book that I did twenty years ago. That’s if I find the balls to show off some very questionable pics and poses, which is an empty threat, because of course I will.
As for the final gasp of January, everyone I know is ready to put it to rest, so let’s celebrate the passing of the first full month of winter, all thirty-one days of it, all the awfulness of it, all the trying and terrifying brutality of it…
And starting tomorrow, we will do our best to escape – a flight of fancy fantasy awaits, and a fairy is about to take wing…
