All I want is to be...

next to him.

Stewart and The Boys* played their last concert, likely ever, last night at Madison Square Garden.

*That's my vernacular for The Police, my favorite band of all time. In case you were wondering...

Here are some clips. God Bless YouTube.

This is the opening number, a cover of Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love". Notice the vantage point from where it's shot. I'm in heaven, spontaneously combusting. Don't call me -- I'll call you.



"Message in a Bottle," featuring the NYPD band. Policemen playing with Policeman. Too cool. (Again, if you want a front stage shot, you'll have to look up your own video. I'm too busy grooving on Stewart. I love him, you know.)



OK, here's one from the front. "Roxanne." I love the singing of the dude filming it. Nice touch.



The final finale: "Next to You."


Thanks for a grand ride this past 18 months, gentlemen. Loved you then. Love you now. Love you always.

Stewart -- call me! Baby, I'm yours!

This Just In...

Jon Bon Jovi...

... is prettier than I am. Even now.

... sings higher than I do. I'm blasting some Bon Jovi now and trying to sing along with the part after the modulation in "Living on a Prayer" killed my voice. While he soared on and on.

... has a mighty hot hairy chest. And some serious abs.

Yeah. That's incredibly shallow. But I had to console myself somehow.

Sigh.

Afternoon Delight

I haven't wanted to spend time alone with a magazine since Donny and the Keane Brothers and Tony DeFranco were on the cover of Tiger Beat.

But that changed today when I opened my mailbox and found this:
And how was your afternoon?

Gratuitous Photo of the Day

I'm just gonna let this one speak for itself.

Oh. My. And yee-haw.

Koo-Koo-Ka-Choo

Benjamin: Oh my god.
Mrs. Robinson: Pardon?
Benjamin: Oh no, Mrs. Robinson. Oh no.
Mrs. Robinson: What's wrong?
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you didn't... I mean, you didn't expect...
Mrs. Robinson: What?
Benjamin: I mean, you didn't really think I'd do something like *that*.
Mrs. Robinson: Like what?
Benjamin: What do you think?
Mrs. Robinson: Well, I don't know.
Benjamin: For god's sake, Mrs. Robinson. Here we are. You got me into your house. You give me a drink. You... put on music. Now you start opening up your personal life to me and tell me your husband won't be home for hours.
Mrs. Robinson: So?
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me.
Mrs. Robinson: [laughs throatily]
Benjamin: Aren't you?

She's back. With a slightly new name. But the same sensibility.

My alter ego: Mrs. CJ Robinson.

She's still sitting on a barstool, with a cigarette holder in one hand (for dramatic effect only) and a Grey Goose & Tonic (with lots of lime) in the other, slightly smeared lipstick adorning her mouth. The shade? Probably MAC Cyber.

She and her friend, who is nursing a scotch rocks, are once again gossiping and making slightly inappropriate comments about the young men who frequent the watering hole. Periodically she throws a glance towards one of the gentlemen and gives a knowing smile.

If Vivien Leigh had a Roman Spring, then I'm definitely having a Florida Spring.

Here's one big reason why... this guy:
American Idol contestant Michael Johns.

My cyberpal Marissa and I think of him as our Love Kangaroo.

Hop. Hop. Hippity hop.


Hide in the hiding place where no one ever goes.
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret just the Robinsons' affair.
Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids.

Sure, I'm being mega-shallow. And rather contradictory to my recent and deeply-held protestations that my biggest erogenous zone is my mind. But sometimes, the hormones want what the hormones want. And who am I to argue.

Honestly, I'm old enough to be his... favorite aunt. But that really doesn't matter when I'm staring at him from the confines of my living room, debating on whether my affection runs deep enough for me to actually pick up the phone and vote for him.

Last night, it did not. But honestly, I don't think my Love Kangaroo is in any danger of leaving my TV screen anytime soon.

Hot damn for that.

The PTA, Mrs. Robinson,
Won't okay the way you do your thing
Ding ding ding.
And you'll get yours, Mrs. Robinson,
Foolin' with that young stuff like you do
Boo hoo hoo, woo woo woo.
(an alternate verse from Frank Sinatra’s cover of Mrs. Robinson, found on his 1969 album My Way).

By the way, let me also introduce you to one of the contestants for the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars:

Christian De La Fuente.


It's going to be a good spring for Mrs. CJ Robinson. Oh yeah. A very good spring.

Hairy Proof

Sigh. I'm still on my chest hair kick...

Here's a picture of me (Shut. Up. I know the glasses are awful, but they were trendy at the time. Why I didn't have my contacts in is beyond me... and check out my curly version of the Pat Benetar crop...) circa 1982 in my dorm room at the University of Florida. Notice Big Tom on the closet door behind me. Not as hairy-chest-centric as I remembered, but probably good enough for my 18-year-old self.

I think my parents and brother were up visiting for a football game when this was taken -- the fact that such a picture even exists and me wearing my sorority jersey are the tell-tale signs.

Good times, good times.

And good chest hair.

Hairy Disclaimer

My pal thombeau over on Planet Fabulon bravely came clean about his teenage crush on Gino Vanelli.


My analysis: While he does have the chest hair thing going on, that head of hair totally negates all my lustful feelings.

Totally. Completely. No chance in hell.

*shudder*

Perhaps I do have some standards after all.

Ode to Hirsute Pursuits

We all had them.

C'mon. Get happy and admit it.

Childhood crushes. Hearts and flowers and names written in girlish hand intertwined on notebook covers. Innocent yet oh-so-serious.

Slightly older boys who we saw on TV or heard on the radio. Boys who we stared at dreamily on an album cover or on the pages of a magazine. Boys who we "kissed" in the hidden safety of our bedrooms, smushing our untarnished lips into our pillows which served as surrogates for the objects of our affection.

David Cassidy.

Shawn Cassidy.

Bobby Sherman (whose 45 single I procured from the back of a box of cereal).

Donny Osmond. Oh, how I loved Donny. You do know he sang "Puppy Love" just for me, don't you?

Those boys were safe. Non-threatening. Cuddly, even.

And then, one fine day, our tastes changed. We grew up. My, did we grow up.

Personally speaking, I went from this...


...to this
...in the blink of an eye.

Oh. Yeah.

What was the changing point that sent me from youthful affection to adolescent yearning?

I discovered chest hair.

Loved it. Still love it today -- even more now than I did then, if that's possible.

It all started with Andy Gibb. I was so entranced by the chest hair that it took me a while to even acknowledge anything going on below the torso (and there obviously was a lot going on there...)

Moved on to Harrison Ford.
Who, in addition to the requisite chest stuff, wore some mighty tight pants in his Han Solo days (never ever gave Mark Hamill a second look after Harrison swaggered onto the screen in the first Star Wars/Number IV/whatever the hell number was released in 1977.)

After Harrison, I discovered my two most enduring objects of lust -- the ones that would carry me through high school and into college.

I give you Baltimore Orioles Hall of Fame pitcher and Jockey Underwear model Jim Palmer:


Didn't get enough? Here's another view:

The large poster is an exact duplicate of one that hung over my desk in my high school yearbook office. For all four years I was on staff. Still not sure how I got away with that -- the fact that the yearbook advisors were both women might have had something to do with it.

Jim Palmer was my total idea of The Sex as a teenager. Because of that hairy chest. So masculine. Alpha male. Sexy.

Lest you think though that I was a one-lust-object kinda girl, let me allay your fears... I also had hormonal yearnings well into my college years for this...

Please excuse me -- I'm overwhelmed and entranced by His Hirsute Self, Mr. Tom Selleck and need to take just a moment.

OK -- I'm back. Is that a chest or what? Seriously.


Damn. Damn. Hot damn.


Now I had friends who were more appreciative of this look. And I can totally understand that.

That's one hell of an inverted triangle. And six pack. Dude's totally ready for action.





And old Mitch over there on the left isn't so bad himself. It was all I could do, though, not to drop this photo into my editing software to draw in some chest hair on his torso -- just to see what it might look like. But I showed some restraint. For the moment, anyway.




However, as I've so happily illustrated, it was all about the chest hair for me. My one real physical weakness when it comes to men -- that and a nice tight tuchus. Usually I'm more cerebral when it comes to my attraction to the opposite sex -- but I have made allowances for a hairy chest before... albeit only brief ones -- monosyllabic pillow talk can only hold my attention for so long.

So there you are. My hot button, so to speak. Feel free to share yours, if you're so inclined. There's lots of room down here in the shallow end of the pool. BYOB, though. Unless you want to drink Grey Goose with me.

Feel free to insert your own "jane, you ignorant slut" comment here.

Coming Once Again from the Shallow End...

It's hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell today. And I'm bored.

So... I thought I would treat myself to piccies of my OTHER sports boyfriend: swimming stud Ian Thorpe.

I could try to describe these photos, but I'm not gonna bother. They pretty much speak for themselves. Damn. Do they ever.









That's enough for now. *fans self*

Swimming in the Shallow End of the Pool

I have a new sports boyfriend: German tennis stud Tommy Haas.

Boy is smokin' hot. Smokin'.

And while I'm only old enough to be his favorite aunt, I still feel a bit Mrs. Robinson-esque about this.







I may be old. But I'm not dead. Rowr.